Moving on, Laura hoisted the string bag slung across her body, and made for the drystone wall and the copse where giant oaks and maples grew in abundance. Years before when he was a boy, her father and his siblings had built a tree house in one of the giant oaks. It had remained intact, and it was Laura’s favourite spot, just as it had been for other young Valiants before her.
Laura was a strong girl for her age, athletic, agile and full of boundless energy. Within seconds she had scrambled up the rope ladder which dropped down from the fork in the branches where the tree house was built.
Scrambling inside the little house, she made herself comfortable in her leafy lair, sat cross-legged, gazing out at the early morning sky. It was six o’clock on this bright and sunny July day and no one else was up, at least not in the house. Tom, the caretaker who ran the farm, was outside one of the red barns near his cottage cleaning a piece of farm machinery. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye as she had run across the lawns a few minutes earlier.
Laura sniffed. Tom had cut the lawns yesterday, and she loved the smell of the newly-mown grass and of new-mown hay. She loved everything about Rhondda Fach, much preferred it to New York, where she lived with her parents and her brother Dylan.
Imperceptibly, Laura’s young face changed as she thought of her parents. Richard, her father, was a well-known composer and conductor; he was usually travelling somewhere to conduct a symphony orchestra and her mother invariably went along with him. ‘Those two are inseparable,’ her grandmother would say, but she said it in such a way it sounded like a criticism; Laura understood that it was. And it was also true that they were hardly ever around. When her mother Maggie wasn’t travelling, she was painting her famous flower pictures in her studio on the West Side. ‘She gets good money for them,’ Grandfather Owen kept saying, making excuses for her mother because he was always kind to everyone.
And so it was that Laura and her brother Dylan, three years younger than she, were frequently left in the care of their grandparents. She loved being with them, they were her favourites, really; she loved her parents, and she was quite close to her father, when he was around to be close to, but most of the time her mother was distant, remote.
Laura thought of the rope ladder which dangled down to the ground, and she moved towards it, intending to pull it up the way her father had shown her, then changed her mind. Nobody was going to invade her private lair. Dylan was too young at four to get much farther than the first few rope rungs, and her friend Claire was afraid to climb up in case she fell. It was true that the ladder was a bit precarious, Laura knew that. She had often offered to help Claire climb up into the tree house, where Claire longed to be, but her friend never had the courage to go beyond the first few steps at the bottom.
Claire was scared of other things even though she was twelve and much more grown up than Laura. She was small, dainty, fragile, and very pretty, with deep green eyes and red hair. ‘A Dresden doll,’ Grandma Megan called her, and it was the most perfect description.
Laura loved Claire. They were the best of best friends even though they were so different. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ Grandpa Owen said about them; Laura didn’t know if she was the chalk or the cheese. Her grandfather encouraged her to be athletic and adventurous; he had taught her to ride a horse, taken her climbing in the hills, given her swimming lessons and instilled in her a confidence in herself. And he had taught her to be unafraid. ‘You must always be brave, Laura, strong of heart and courageous, and you must stand tall.’
The problem for Claire was that she wasn’t at all athletic and she shrank from most physical activity. She couldn’t swim and she was unable to ride, being afraid of water, afraid of horses. And yet they were best friends because they shared so many other things, and Claire, despite her physical fragility, had strong mothering instincts. She was warm and loving with Laura and Dylan, and this was especially meaningful to Laura.
Claire was a master storyteller, inventive and imaginative, always weaving yarns, telling them ghost stories and other fantastical tales. They played charades, wrote plays and acted in them, and they shared a love of films and music and clothes. In certain ways, Laura was in awe of Claire. After all, she was five years older and knew so much more than they did. Dylan, being only four, didn’t know much of anything, and he was very spoilt, in Laura’s opinion.
Pulling the strap of the string bag over her head, Laura fished inside for the plastic bottle of orange juice which Fenice, the housekeeper, left for her in the kitchen every morning. After taking a gulp or two, she put the bottle on a small ledge, took her diary from its secret hiding place and began to write her private thoughts, which she did every day.
Soon it began to grow warmer inside the tree house and several times Laura found her eyelids drooping; finally she put down her diary and pen, rested her head against the wall. And although she tried hard to stay awake, she began to doze.
Laura was not sure how long she had been asleep, but quite suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up with a start. Just now she had heard screams coming from somewhere in the distance. Had she been dreaming?
Then she heard it again, a faint scream, and an even fainter voice calling, ‘Help! Help!’
It had not been a dream; someone was in trouble. Crawling as fast as she could, Laura backed out of the tree house, bottom first, dangled over the edge until she found her footing on the ladder and climbed down swiftly. She was well practised in this descent and soon reached the ground.
The cries were increasingly fainter, and then they stopped altogether. But Laura knew they had emanated from that part of the river which was wide and deep, beyond the drystone wall, near the meadow where all kinds of wild flowers grew. Sensing it was Claire calling for help, Laura ran at breakneck speed, her long legs flying over the grass. It had to be Claire who was in trouble in the river, Laura was certain. Who else would be in the valley?
Coming to a stop when she saw the flower basket, Laura quickly pulled off her sneakers and jeans, and scrambled down the muddy bank just as Claire’s pale face bobbed up above the surface of the water.
‘I’m here, Claire!’ Laura shouted, dived in and swam towards her friend.
Claire’s head went under again, and Laura took several gulps of air and dived once more. At once, she spotted Claire floating underwater.
Swimming to her, Laura grabbed her under the arms and swam them both up to the surface as best she could. She was tall and strong for her age, and she managed somehow. But then when she started swimming them both towards the bank Laura was pulled back along with Claire who was clinging to her.
‘It’s my foot,’ Claire managed to splutter. ‘It’s caught on something.’ Terror etched her stark white face and her eyes were wide with panic.
Laura could only nod. The girl glanced around frantically, wondering what to do. She had to get Claire’s foot free from whatever was holding it underwater. Yet she could not let go of Claire, who would sink if she released her. Laura spotted the branch of a tree a short distance away from them. It was a large limb, half on the bank, half in the water, and she was smart enough to know it was probably too heavy for her to lift. But she decided she must attempt to swivel the part which was in the water towards them. If she was successful, Claire could hang onto it, use it as a raft.
Staring at Claire she said, ‘I’ve got to let go of you, Claire, so that –’
‘No, no, don’t! I’m scared!’ Claire gasped.
‘I’ve got to. I’m going to get that branch over there, so that you can hang onto it. Then I’ll get your foot loose. When I let go of you, start flapping