The Hills and the Valley Page 30

  ‘It’s you I’m worried about. If they find me here you could be shot. I must go.’

  ‘You are not well enough. Not yet. You would not last for any time.’

  And then he remembered in a blinding flash just why it was so urgent for him to get back to England. Never mind these people who were hiding him, never mind the war. He had unfinished business in England. And it concerned Barbara.

  ‘I must.’ He tried to rise, was unable to and fell back on the mattress.

  ‘You are not well enough,’ she said. ‘Later. For now you must stay here. Now,’ she tested the coffee with her little finger, ‘this is cool. Drink some.’

  She lifted the glass, guiding it to his mouth and slowly, painfully, he drank.

  She was right of course. He would not make it out of the barn, never mind out of France. For the moment he was as much a prisoner as if he was in German hands. There was nothing he could do but wait while they nursed him back to health. Never in his life had Huw felt so helpless.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. And felt the drowsiness creeping up on him once more.

  Preparations for the wedding were speeding ahead now. There was so much to be done and in such a short time! But Amy was glad that she had something to take her mind off her anxieties about Huw.

  There had been no word of him since that telephone call which had devastated them all, not the smallest snippet of information as to whether he was alive or dead. Amy kept her hopes pinned on the fact that someone had thought they saw a parachute after his plane was hit and she half expected to hear that he was a prisoner of war, but as the silence stretched on she began to wonder if perhaps that parachute had been just a piece of wishful thinking on the part of Huw’s Number Two. It could take much, longer of course before there was any official notification that he was in enemy hands. Or there was always the possibility that he was being sheltered by some French family. But occupied France was overrun by German patrols and in the Vichy sector those who would be willing to risk their well-being for the sake of a British pilot were few and far between. Collaborators would be only too willing to turn him in in return for being left alone to get on with their lives. The alternatives did not bear thinking about – that Huw had gone down with his crippled plane, or that he had been so badly wounded that he had died anyway – and Amy tried not to allow herself even to consider them. But they were there all the same, dark shadows which took shape in the long hours of the night and rose to haunt her.

  She was glad now that she had given in to Barbara over the wedding for she dreaded to think how Barbara would be taking this interminable wait, the awful uncertainty, without the constant round of activity which the coming wedding created. All very well for her to state confidently that she was sure Huw would be all right. Amy had seen the dark circles beneath her eyes when she got up in the mornings and knew that Barbara’s thoughts were running on much the same lines as her own.

  It was a nightmare, this whole thing, a nightmare from which she was unable to wake, yet they scarcely mentioned it even among themselves. The official family line was: ‘Huw will be all right. Huw will be back.’ To discuss it, even with hope in their hearts, might somehow weaken the defences. If one of them admitted to even a moment’s despair the first crack might appear; the fragile dam would be breached.

  So life – and preparations for the wedding, which was to be the biggest seen in Hillsbridge for many years – went on as if everything was the same as usual and that terrible phone call had never happened.

  For Barbara the crack in the dam appeared the week before the wedding.

  It was a warm evening with the threat of thunder turning the skies into a deep purplish haze above the fields and thick high hedges and she and Marcus had decided to go for a walk. They could not go too far for Marcus’s leg would not allow that and in any case Barbara was tired. It had been a long day with last fittings for her dress and those of her bridesmaids – all family heirlooms which had required alteration by the dressmaker – and when that was over Amy had insisted that she should accompany her to the Denbury Court Hotel where the reception was to be held.

  In spite of the Spindler’s offer of a marquee in the grounds of Hillsbridge House, Amy and Ralph had decided that they should be undisputed hosts for the reception and Denbury Court, a grand country hotel in its own grounds, some six miles out of Hillsbridge, was the only place suitable for accommodating the society guests who had been invited. This had caused a slight panic for there was talk that Denbury Court was to be taken over as a POW camp, but this had not been confirmed and it seemed that the reception suite would be available for the wedding breakfast, although the waitresses and staff were more likely to be women from the nearby village instead of the usual highly trained staff of which Denbury Court boasted. Amy had driven out with Barbara to inspect the suite and make sure there would be a room where Barbara could change into her ‘going away outfit’ – a plain but very chic navy blue dress and jacket which they had bought by pooling every clothing coupon they could lay hands on.

  Barbara was not certain when the depression had begun to descend upon her. Maybe it was as she stood balanced on a chair while the dressmaker, her mouth full of pins, trotted around her making final adjustments to the hem of her dress. It was a beautiful dress, a designer creation in silk and lace which had been worn by Marcus’s mother and Barbara knew that even in times of peace she could never have afforded to buy anything half as good for herself. Irrationally, the thought had annoyed her for she hated to feel inferior, and she had transferred her annoyance to the fussy little dressmaker.

  The feeling had intensified as she drove with Amy to Denbury Court. The setting was perfect, the long drive winding through parkland where, in peacetime, small deer grazed, the trees, weighed down by summer foliage, provided shade, from the strong but fitful sun, the house itself gracious and impressive beyond a broad gravelled turnaround where once carriages had lined up and waited, the horses standing tall and proud in their harness. Barbara had tried to imagine herself and Marcus arriving here next week in their ribbon bedecked bridal car; in her mind’s eye she saw herself sweeping up the steps on his arm, the beautiful gown spreading out behind her in a sweep of handmade lace, and felt the depression descend a little more.

  Why? She gave herself a little shake. This was what she wanted, was it not? A lovely wedding day that would shine out like a bright star in the dark days of the war? Then why was she suddenly entertaining these treacherous thoughts – that if it was Huw she was marrying, she would have been content to slip away somewhere with only the family as witnesses; to wear her ‘going away’dress for the ceremony; to celebrate quietly at home with perhaps the luxury of a bottle of champagne; to slip away somewhere for a stolen twenty-four hours in the heart of the country instead of the week’s honeymoon Marcus had promised her? Months ago, when Huw had told her to forget him, she had vowed to do just that and with Marcus sweeping her off her feet she had thought she was succeeding. But since receiving the news that Huw was missing she was not so sure.

  In spite of all the excitement of the wedding, in spite of having one hundred and one things to do, there was hardly a moment when she had not thought of him, wondering where he was, whether he was dead or alive, wounded or well. Now, overseeing the last minute preparations, it seemed to her that to be thinking about wedding celebrations when Huw was missing was somehow obscene and she could not bear the thought of going through it without him. Yet could she have gone through it if he had been there? Could she have promised to love, honour and obey Marcus with Huw looking on?

  Yes, she thought, her stubborn pride coming to the rescue, yes, I could. I’d have been showing him that even if he did not want me someone else did, someone handsome and brave, someone any girl would be proud to call her husband. And in truth the fact that Huw was missing altered nothing. He did not want her, that was the basic fact she must not lose sight of. He had never thought of her as anything other than the little girl he had grown up with. An
ything else had been in her imagination. And that wonderful stolen day they had shared? It was the one thing she could not explain.

  ‘Babs, are you coming?’ Amy had asked over her shoulder and Barbara had pushed her tumbling thoughts to one side. But still the depression remained within her as the thunderclouds built up to blot out the sun and for once the excitement of the wedding preparations could do nothing to lift it.

  Now, as she and Marcus walked along the lane between the high hedges from which the sultry air was wringing a sweet heavy scent, it was still there – an unbearable weight on her heart.

  Their progress was slow and after a while they stopped in a gateway for Marcus to rest. He leaned heavily against it and Barbara rested her elbows on the top bar looking across the field towards the river. The grass that would soon be winter’s hay was waist deep yet motionless for not even the faintest breeze stirred in the heavy evening air and along the perimeter beneath the hedge a few clumps of poppies grew, scarlet silk with a dusting of soft deep black.

  ‘You’re very quiet, tonight,’ Marcus said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She hesitated, raising a hand to brush a dozey fly away from her face.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just pre-wedding nerves, I expect.’

  He reached out and caught her arm, pulling her across so that she was leaning against him face to face.

  ‘You aren’t about to change your mind, are you?’ His face was brooding yet very handsome and resentment stirred in her. Marcus had everything, expected everything and automatically it was his. She felt a sudden urge to hurt him as she was feeling hurt.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m scared, Marcus. It’s all happened so fast and we’ve scarcely had time to get to know one another. I mean – you don’t know what goes on inside my head and I don’t know what goes on in yours. You have to be very close to someone for years and years before you know that and even then you can be wrong …’ Her throat ached as she said it. A moment more and I’m going to cry, she thought. ‘I’m just afraid we’re making a mistake,’ she added quickly.

  ‘That’s a stupid thing to say.’

  ‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ she said desperately. ‘Marriage is for a very long time – a lifetime! I’m not sure I’ve been thinking of it like that. I’ve been seeing wine and roses and me in a lovely white dress and you in uniform and …’

  ‘Runs in the family, doesn’t it?’ His tone was bitterly sarcastic. ‘Didn’t your cousin jilt his fiancée at the altar?’

  She flushed. ‘Perhaps he was right,’ she retorted, stung. ‘Better a jilted fiancée than a wretched marriage.’

  She saw his face change, whiten.

  ‘Oh God, Barbara, no! Don’t say that, please! For God’s sake don’t leave me! I couldn’t take it – not on top of everything else.’

  With a shock she realised he was suddenly as close to tears as she had been a few moments ago. ‘Marcus …’ she began helplessly.

  His hands gripped her arms convulsively. ‘You’ve been my salvation. You don’t know what it was like – the war I mean. You don’t know what hell it was, losing all my men and knowing that I’d failed them.’

  ‘You didn’t fail them!’ she said, frightened now without really knowing why. ‘Everyone knows that what happened was not your fault. You’re a hero.’

  ‘I don’t feel like a hero, especially in the middle of the night when I wake up and think about them. I feel … there must have been something I could have done. If I’d been sharper, braver … it’s hell on earth thinking that, Barbara. I believe I’d have gone mad if it wasn’t for you. You have been like a ray of sunshine coming back into my life. For the first time since it happened I have had something to plan for, someone to care about. When I was a little boy I used to have a nanny. Funny old stick. Very strict, very old fashioned. But when I had nightmares she’d come and sit with me. She made the nightmares go away. You’ve done the same for me.’

  ‘Oh Marcus …’

  ‘I love you, Barbara,’ he said. ‘If you left me – well, I don’t think I’d want to go on living.’

  ‘Oh Marcus,’ she said again and suddenly she was melting inside, the weight falling away. ‘I won’t leave you.’

  She put her arms around him, holding him tight, and he buried his face in her shoulder. His hair was soft against her chin, his back lean and muscled beneath her hands and she felt a spark of excitement stirring within her, urgent and sweet. She moved against him and as he raised his head she kissed him with all the desire that was suddenly singing in her body. For a moment his lips clung to hers and she pressed even closer, wanting to feel him with every inch of her body. But she felt him stiffen suddenly, pulling away from her as if she were burning him with red hot coals.

  ‘Marcus …?’ She looked at him with surprised hurt and rejection, not understanding the sudden withdrawal when only a moment before they had been so close.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. His voice was odd; she could not recognise the emotion in it. ‘Carry on like that and I shall do something I shall regret.’

  ‘But Marcus – we’re going to be married. Surely …?’

  ‘So isn’t it best that we wait until we are?’ Still that odd, unrecognisable note in his voice.

  ‘Yes, but … I thought you wanted to be sure of me …’

  ‘Not like that,’ he said. ‘Not like that, Barbara.’ He moved suddenly, reaching for his stick. ‘I think we’d better be going. I don’t like the look of the sky. I should think we are in for a storm.’

  She followed him and in spite of his limp she had to almost run to keep up with him. The depression and; the doubts about her own feelings had gone now, but they had been replaced by another shadow, darker and more inexplicable. A shadow she had touched upon herself when she had remarked how little they knew about one another. But Barbara did not stop now to wonder or analyse. One way or another it would all come clear, given time.

  Somewhere over the mountainous black batches the first thunder rumbled.

  The sun shone for their wedding day and it seemed that half Hillsbridge was there to see them come out of church, Marcus, his fair good looks accentuated by the dark morning suit, Barbara a fairytale bride in the white silk and lace, with a veil so long it reached the hem of her skirt and beyond and a trailing bouquet of red roses and lillies of the valley.

  ‘You look lovely, darling. I’m very proud of you,’ Amy whispered, reaching up to adjust the small coronet of orange blossom and pearls that held her veil in place so that the photographer could take a perfect picture, and it was a sentiment that was echoed many times among the groups of people who had gathered beneath the trees that ringed the churchyard to watch.

  But there were those who were less enthusiastic about the grandeur of the ceremony. Eddie Roberts was one of them,

  ‘I suppose our prospective Labour candidate will be there, drinking champagne with the class he’s supposed to be fighting against,’ he said bitterly to Walter Martin, another of the Labour Six on the council, when he called on him to collect his insurance money the day before the wedding. ‘How can he justify himself, I’d like to know? All that waste at a time when we’re supposed to be tightening our belts. Not much belt tightening for the Spindlers, I dare say.’

  ‘People like that will always see themselves right,’ Walter agreed.

  ‘Of course they will. It’s them and us – always has been and always will be until the working class can get themselves organised to do something about it. But that’s what gets my goat. There’s Harry Hall, supposed to be the Miners’ Agent and a Labour candidate pledged to get a fair deal for the ordinary working man, hobnobbing with very ones who try to keep our noses ground down in the dirt. It’s not right.’

  ‘No, I s’pose not. But when it’s his niece that’s getting married he’s bound to be invited,’ Walter said reasonably.

  Eddie snorted. ‘She’s my niece, too, remember but you won’t catch me going anywhere near those Spindlers,’ he said righteously, omitting to men
tion the fact that he had not been asked. ‘He ought to turn the invitation down if he’s genuine and make a stand for what he says he believes in. You can’t run with the hare and chase with the hounds, Walter. It doesn’t work. But will he turn it down? I wouldn’t mind betting my week’s wages he won’t. He’s too much of a one for looking out for his own good. And that’s the way it will be if ever he gets to Parliament, you mark my words. It won’t be our interests Harry Hall will be looking after. It will be his own.’

  ‘Perhaps you’m right, Eddie,’ Walter said. For all that he was a good solid councillor with his heart in the right place he was a simple man and easily swayed by a well-reasoned argument. ‘Perhaps you’m right.’

  ‘I know I am,’ Eddie said, pleased.

  He repeated his allegations as he went on his rounds to anyone who would listen – and there were plenty who would. Eddie had always made it part of his business to be known as a friendly fellow, ready to stop for a cup of tea and a chat and he injected his poison insidiously, embellishing it, where he dared, with the story of how he had found Harry’s evacuees running away because they were so unhappy with him.

  ‘The trouble is that some people like to be seen to be doing good,’ he said darkly. ‘When their own front doors are closed it’s a different story.’

  Heads nodded and tongues flapped. There was a certain amount of jealousy of the Hall family among certain members of the community and Eddie was quick to fasten on and nurture it.

  On the day of the wedding he managed to arrange things so that he was in Hillsbridge when the procession of ribbon bedecked cars passed by, though he would never had admitted that his being there was anything but an accident. Sure enough Harry Hall was in one of the cars with Margaret sitting beside him. Eddie smiled with satisfaction. So he had been right. Harry was hobnobbing. And his wife was just as bad. War or no war she had managed to get herself a new hat for the occasion by the look of it. And she was George Young’s daughter, too. It was enough to make her father turn in his grave.