Heartbreak in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  Heartbreak in the Valleys

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A Letter From Francesca

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Heartbreak in the Valleys

  Francesca Capaldi

  To the mine workers of the Welsh valleys and their families, particularly those in World War One who dug out that ‘good steam coal’ for the war effort. And to my family, the Morgans, the Joneses and the Jenkinses, who were part of that.

  Prologue

  3rd August 1914: The day before war is declared

  Anwen Rhys stopped by the railings, overlooking Whitmore Bay on Barry Island. The beach held a throng of day-trippers, taking advantage of the blue skies and warm air of the bank holiday. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

  ‘You all right, cariad?’ said her fiancé, Idris Hughes. His arm, tucked around her narrow shoulders, gathered her in a little closer.

  She looked up at him, towering above her. He was smiling. His eyes, the colour of dark chocolate, crinkled with pleasure. How lucky she felt, with her kind, handsome man beside her, his coal-black hair shining in the sun.

  ‘I’m more than all right,’ she told him, returning the smile.

  ‘How about going on the Figure Eight roller coaster?’ He looked inland, at the huge scaffolding-like edifice of the newest addition to the resort. ‘Looks exciting.’

  ‘Looks frightening to me,’ she laughed. ‘Didn’t you hear people screaming as we walked past it?’

  ‘Just excitement, that is.’

  ‘The Switchback railway is more to my liking.’ She looked behind in the other direction, past the buildings, at the undulating rail of the fairground ride.

  ‘That’s very tame. I bet Sara and Jenkin would go on the Figure Eight with me,’ he teased.

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt. As quiet as she is, Sara likes a bit of excitement. Pity they’ve gone off for a cup of tea with our parents. Perhaps you could take them on when we meet up again.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that…Is your mam all right? She seemed a bit down on the train coming.’

  ‘She and Da had a bit of an argument before coming out, that’s probably it.’

  More like a blazing row. It was over the money he’d left her short of this week, as usual. He’d threatened not to come on the trip, relenting when Mam had told him, ‘Fine, we’ll have a better time without you.’ At least he was better behaved with Meg and Isaiah Hughes around. She wondered how long it would be before he proposed a trip to the public house with the other men, leaving the women and Jenkin to their own devices.

  Idris didn’t comment on her reply. She knew he’d heard them arguing before so was unlikely to be surprised.

  ‘So what’s it to be then? A walk to Friars Point?’ He nodded his head west.

  ‘What, so you can watch the ladies bathing in the pool there?’ She put on a mock scowl.

  He went bright red and stuttered, ‘N-no, I didn’t even think of it. Only of the view over the coast.’ When she giggled he said, ‘Oh, you’re pulling my leg. Perhaps you’d rather go the other way, to Nell’s Point, where the men are bathing?’

  She pushed him playfully. ’I only have eyes for you, Idris Hughes, always have done.

  ‘And I for you. Just think, under a year now until we’re married.’

  Her heart gave a leap of joy. ‘We’ve waited long enough, thanks to our parents.’

  ‘I suppose they only want what’s best for us.’ He pointed to the beach, where several donkeys were being led across the sand. ‘Let’s have a ride, eh?’

  ‘Yes, I do love a donkey ride. Then maybe go on the Switchback afterwards?’ she looked hopeful.

  ‘Of course, cariad, anything you want to do. We’ve got plenty of time before the grand band competition on Nell’s Point.’

  ‘One moment, while I adjust my hat.’ She pulled away from him to pluck out the pin and relocate it. ‘There!’ She linked her arm through his and they set off towards the sand. A warm stream of contentment flowed from her head to her toes. She was the luckiest girl alive.

  Chapter One

  5th November 1915

  Anwen Rhys pushed open the door of the newsagent’s on James Street and stepped in. The pungent aroma of tobacco was mingled with the treacly scent of sweets, for the shop also served as a tobacconist and confectioner’s.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Davies.’

  ‘Hello Anwen. Just finished your shift, have you?’

  ‘I have.’ She rubbed her back, irritated as it was with the gritty coal from the sorting machines.

  ‘Your father’s paper as usual is it?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Looking around at the sweets on the shelf, noting the depleted jars, she wondered if she should get some for her sister as a treat. No, there wasn’t money for that today.

  Mrs Davies placed the paper on the counter and Anwen dropped some coppers next to it.

  ‘I guess the men will be out from the early shift soon and dropping in here for their baccy.’

  ‘Yes, the first cages were coming up as I came out of the gate.’ She picked up the paper and left.

  Looking down the hill towards the pit, she saw the men start to tramp through the gate, tin boxes and bottles tucked under their arms. They were chatting and laughing, no doubt relieved to be in the light and the clean air once more. Anwen paused a while, imagining Idris among them. They’d often walked up Station Road and Jubilee Green together after the shift, arm in arm, even though Idris had been teased by the other men for it.

  She was due another letter from him, for he tended to write once a week. It must be eight or nine days since she’d heard from him. The last three or four letters had become ever shorter. Normally he was full of humorous observations about the jumped-up little sergeant in charge and the funny mishaps he and his friends had suffered. She loved it best when he recalled the wonderful times they’d spent together, making it clear how much he missed her. The dwindling content of the letters might well indicate how hard they were training now, as the time of their departure grew ever closer.

  She set off once more, rounding the corner onto Jubilee Green, envisaging Idris next to her. She fancied she could almost hear his voice, its deep, lilting rhythm, soothing her after the exhausting hours of work.

  The illusion was broken as she came face to face with her oldest friend, Violet Jones, who’d just exited Schenck’s bookshop on the corner. She was carrying Benjamin in one arm while balancing a basket in the other. Beside her was little Clarice.

  ‘You look busy,’ said Anwen.

  ‘Thought I’d see if Mr Schenck had a nice second-hand book for Benjy. He’s been a bit tearful. Reckon he’s missing his da.’ She pinched her lips together.
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  Anwen knew exactly what she was thinking. Why had Charlie enlisted in the war when he didn’t need to? She’d thought the same thing, over and over again, about Idris. But at least they weren’t married with two little kiddies.

  ‘Now I’ve got to call at the greengrocer’s,’ said Violet.

  ‘Would you like some help?’

  ‘No, I’ll let you get home. Your father’s just coming up Station Road.’

  Anwen looked down. Sure enough, Madog Rhys was striding up, gesticulating wildly as he spoke to a work mate.

  ‘Yes, I’d better. I’ll see you at chapel on Sunday.’

  As they parted and Anwen carried on up the hill, she wished more than ever that Idris was here beside her. The war hadn’t been over by Christmas 1914, as had been predicted. Idris had enlisted, with a group of other Dorcalon men, in March this year. They were still at the training camp but it couldn’t be long now before they’d be sent off to France. Or further.

  Reaching the top of the village, she stopped in front of the Workmen’s Institute. The road here split into two: left onto Alexandra Street and right onto Edward Street. It would have been where she and Idris would have parted, at least until one of them visited the other’s house. She recalled their various activities over the five years of their courtship; the visits to the picture house, the plays, musical shows and talks at the Workmen’s Institute. They’d sung in the choir together. Every remembered moment was now precious to her. Would they ever happen again?

  She wrapped an arm around her waist, holding in the pain. She couldn’t bear the idea of him in mortal danger.

  Perhaps the war would be over by this Christmas. She pictured him returning to her, marching up the road with his mates, each of them peeling off in turn to their own homes and loved ones. He’d spot her and come running up, throwing his arms around her. The image in her head brought a warm glow, blocking out the bone-cold chill of November.

  ‘What you standing round for, you daft bint?’ Her father stood on the pavement next to her, his hands on his hips and his eyes narrowed.

  So taken had she been by her own imagination, she hadn’t realised how long she’d been standing there.

  ‘Sorry Da, just trying to remember something.’ It was the best she could come up with.

  ‘What you need to remember is to get home sharp, like, to help that halfwit of a sister of yours get my dinner ready. Been looking forward to that bit of mutton. Working bloody ’ard all morning, I’ve been.’

  An old woman passed them in the road, tutting at Madog’s bad language. He ignored her.

  ‘Now run along before my boot helps you along.’

  She didn’t need telling twice. Lifting her skirt a little, she headed right down Edward Street and home.

  * * *

  Anwen dragged herself across the garden with the bowl of potato peelings. She’d been in a despondent mood since her walk home, unable to shake off the feeling that the war would not end well for Idris. She reached the compost heap and emptied the potato peelings absent-mindedly onto it, observing the slope of Twyn Gobaith, where it rose up steeply beyond her garden, the grass a deep green from the recent rain. A sigh from deep within signalled her reluctance to return to the stifling house, despite the icy breeze.

  She’d taken but two steps backwards when she was brought to a halt by the sight of a figure trudging over the brow of the hill. She squinted, shielding her eyes against the sun. The knapsack slung across his back gave the unusually tall carrier a pronounced stoop. It could only be a soldier on leave. Her heart raced. Normally a few of them came together from the Rhondda Pals, the battalion the young men here, in Dorcalon, had joined.

  The figure stopped to lower his load, straightening his back and stretching. It couldn’t be, could it? No, it couldn’t be Idris; it was her vivid imagination, sparked by having him so much on her mind today.

  A voice, just audible from where she stood, hollered from the scullery. ‘What the hell is it you’re doin’, girl!’ Her father. ‘Get in here now.’

  She ignored the voice. It was Idris, her sweetheart, home on leave.

  Anwen threw open the gate and struggled with the long skirt up the wet grassland. Idris leant down to pick the knapsack up again. Her voice, calling his name, was blown away by a whistling wind. He started tramping through the grass once more, staring straight ahead. She was only a few yards from him when she called again. ‘Idris, Idris! Are you on leave? Are you being sent to the war soon?’

  He did now perceive her, his eyes widening, and not, she feared, with the pleasure of seeing her.

  She came to a halt beside him. ‘Idris, bach, what’s wrong? You didn’t write to say you were coming. Where are the others?’

  ‘Anwen.’ He looked like he was about to step forward, but instead looked down at his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I need to get home to sleep.’

  She was stunned when he tramped on past her, not even stopping to kiss her, his trousers flapping around his legs. It was then that she noticed how thin he’d become. She followed him, two paces behind.

  ‘Is it ill you are, cariad? You’re so pale.’

  He came to a sudden stop. Removing the cap, he pushed his fingers through his hair, disrupting the centre parting.

  His deep brown eyes were hollowed, the surrounding skin dark, as though bruised. A shudder went through her. ‘Idris, what on earth has happened?’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. It appeared strangely large. ‘I’ll explain – later.’

  Her heart stirred for her intended, who bore an air of defeat. She leaned towards him, stroking his sleeve. ‘How long on leave are you?’

  He rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes tight shut. ‘Not now.’ He set off once again, his steps more purposeful.

  ‘Idris? When shall I see you then?’

  He took several strides away from her before half turning round to face her. ‘I dunno,’ he replied, before carrying on across the hillside.

  * * *

  Madog was sitting at the table, his arms crossed, when Anwen slipped through the kitchen door.

  ‘You took your bloody time, girl.’

  ‘I was talking to Idris, Da. He’s just arrived on leave.’ The worry of his cold reception coursed through her once again. Maybe he’d call round later, when he’d had a sleep.

  She checked the pot over the fire to make sure the meal wasn’t burning. Her father had performed a small miracle in getting hold of the mutton, which he’d brought home yesterday night. Her fifteen-year-old sister, Sara, had added potatoes, onions, carrots, leeks and stock to make a cawl.

  ‘So that streak of bacon’s back, is he? Don’t see him and the others enlisting has made any bloody difference to the war.’

  She offered no opinion. Where there should have been warmth in her heart at the prospect of seeing her beloved, there was a frosty anxiety.

  Sara came through the door from the front room, her long hair, the colour of a hazelnut, loose. She was less pale today, her increased energy confirmed by the amount of housework she’d achieved that morning.

  ‘Did you say Idris is on leave?’ Sara placed the feather duster into a brass box on the floor and looked up, wide-eyed, at Anwen. Her dark brown eyes were stark against her fair complexion.

  ‘Yes.’ Anwen glanced at her father, but he was scrutinising the newspaper she’d picked up for him.

  ‘When are you seeing him, then?’

  ‘Oh I dunno. I’ll let the poor lad have a good rest first. He looked fair worn out.’

  Madog flicked the paper to straighten it. ‘He should have been down the pit as many years as I have, then he’d be fair warn out.’

  Anwen checked the simmering pot once more. ‘The cawl’s ready. Sara, would you take some up to Mam, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ She took the offered bowl and left the room.

  Madog folded the paper noisily, slamming it on the other side of the table. ‘About bloody time.’

  Anwen served her f
ather first. When Sara returned, the sisters sat together. Madog sat at the opposite end of the table and was already eating. There was no saying Grace before meals in Madog Rhys’s house these days.

  ‘Does Mam want any help?’ asked Anwen.

  ‘No. She insisted she could manage fine.’

  Madog ignored the conversation, slurping at the stew before barking, ‘Where’s the bread?’

  Anwen sprang up. Heading towards the larder in the scullery she said, ‘There’s only a bit left. I was hoping to make it stretch till Friday, when I can afford the sixpence it now costs.’

  ‘A bit’s all I want.’

  She brought it back with a serrated knife and wooden board, putting it down in front of him.

  ‘Where’s the margarine?’

  ‘It’s finished, Da.’

  ‘Then buy some more.’

  ‘Mrs Brace at the grocer’s had run out, Da,’ Sara said.

  He grunted, tearing off half the bread in a chunk. He dunked it in the stew, shoved it through his lips and chewed it with his mouth half open.

  ‘Ych a fi!’ he shouted, spitting bits everywhere, throwing the remainder towards the fire. The bread was consumed by the flames.

  Anwen wanted to protest about the wasted bread, but she knew better. ‘It’s dry Da, that’s all. There’s not enough bread now to buy it every day.’

  Madog emitted a deep rumble in reply. ‘It’s about time you got a job,’ her father bellowed, pointing his spoon at Sara, mouth bulging with cawl. ‘Your sister’s been workin’ since she were fourteen. Seven year she been workin’.’

  That hadn’t been Anwen’s choice. She’d wanted to continue at school, maybe train for teaching. Not that she could have taught once she’d married Idris, but there had to be something useful she could do.

  ‘Well? Cat got your tongue?’

  Sara swallowed the food she’d been eating. ‘I’ll go down the village, see if there’s some work in the shops.’

  ‘There’s plenty of work at the mine, sorting coal.’

  ‘Da, that’s not—’ Anwen started.