Heartbreak in the Valleys

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Heartbreak in the Valleys Page 4

by Francesca Capaldi


  ‘Yes Mama.’

  Anwen felt a flutter of excitement. She had long desired to explore this house.

  The two older women led the way back into the hall, opening another door to enter a larger room. As the tour began, Mrs Meredith gave her the specifics of her job. Anwen concentrated hard in order to remember the details so she wouldn’t need to ask too many times.

  The room Mrs Meredith referred to as the drawing room, possessed yellow wallpaper with embossed flowers. At the windows the curtains, luxuriously draped, were a plain yellow. There were two settees, both cream velvet Chesterfields, plus a leather, buttoned, winged armchair. There were paintings on the walls and photographs on the mantelpiece and occasional table.

  On the ground floor there was also Mr Meredith’s study, with a sturdy oak desk and bookshelves filled with many volumes. The bedrooms all contained beds with honey-coloured inlaid wooden headboards and deep, silk quilts, along with well-polished dressing tables and solid wardrobes. Her own house possessed only chests of drawers, handed down through several generations. The rugs all over McKenzie House were colourful and thick on the gleaming wooden floors.

  Having peered briefly into the master bedroom, Miss Meredith’s room and the guest room, they came to a fourth door. Mrs Meredith knocked on it.

  ‘Yes?’ a male voice within called.

  ‘I’m coming in, Tom, to show the possible new housemaid.’

  ‘All right.’

  Mrs Meredith opened the door to reveal a handsome man, around Anwen’s age, propped up on the bed, a book in hand. His hair was a rich, dark auburn, as was his short moustache.

  ‘Come in.’ Tom beamed widely at Anwen as she followed his mother inside, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘So this young lady might be replacing Jenny?’ His accent betrayed no evidence of his Welsh roots.

  Mrs Meredith didn’t reply, saying instead: ‘You may find this room a little more of a challenge than the others.’ She frowned at Tom.

  The floor was strewn with clothes while the bedside cabinet, dresser and drawer top were covered with books, papers, cufflinks and other odds and ends.

  ‘Mother, you know that we creative people are untidy,’ he said, following it with a chuckle. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anwen Rhys, sir.’

  ‘Welcome to McKenzie House, Anwen Rhys.’

  ‘She hasn’t got the position yet,’ said Mrs Meredith.

  ‘Of course she has. No one else is going to come forward. Too busy doing more essential work, which is better paid.’

  ‘Tom!’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘You know it’s true, Lizzie.’

  His mother tutted, gesturing for them to leave. ‘Please clear up before Jenny reaches your room to clean.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Tom leapt from the bed, stretching. She didn’t see what he did next as Mrs Meredith shut the door.

  Where was Jenny? It was she who’d mentioned at the chapel that there was a position going. They were the same age and had gone through school together, though she’d never been as good a friend as Violet and Gwen. She was marrying the minister’s son, Joseph. Lucky her.

  Just before they reached the stairs, Jenny emerged from the door they hadn’t yet entered. The water closet was a proper one with a wooden seat, not like the one her family had in the garden.

  ‘All finished in the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Jenny dipped her knee a little.

  ‘Good. Then you can explain to Miss Rhys what needs to be done in there.’

  * * *

  Back in the dining room once more, Mrs Meredith sat down. Anwen stood opposite her, having not been invited to take a seat this time.

  ‘During the morning cleaning you would have a short break,’ Mrs Meredith began. ‘There will be half an hour for lunch, before you start on the afternoon duties.’

  Lunch. What she called dinner.

  ‘In the afternoons, there will be outdoor cleaning and seasonal jobs. Often you will change into a black dress I will provide, and put on an apron. You will then be tidy to run errands for me and answer the door when people call.’

  That didn’t sound so bad. It all depended now on what wage would be offered. If it really was what Jenny had indicated, it would keep her father happy and provide her with enough money.

  ‘Your wage per week would be…’ She glanced at the sheet. ‘Um, thirteen shillings—’

  Anwen’s heart sank.

  ‘Eighteen, Mama. Father said we’d have to compete with the wage for screening coal.’

  The older woman put her spectacles on. ‘Oh, yes, eighteen shillings per week.’

  Eighteen shillings! She was getting sixteen from the mine. Her father surely couldn’t object now.

  ‘If you wish to take the position, of course,’ Mrs Meredith added. ‘Initially on a month’s trial.’

  She wanted to exclaim her excitement, but suppressed the outburst. She wanted to appear calm and refined. ‘Yes please.’

  ‘I require you to begin next Monday, as Jenny is getting married on Saturday. Very inconvenient, as she has been an excellent maid and I don’t suppose I’ll find better this side of the war.’

  ‘I’m sure we should give Miss Rhys a chance to prove otherwise before we make such statements, Mama,’ Elizabeth said.

  Those small words of encouragement transformed a moment of disheartenment for Anwen into a determination to show how good she could be. Yes, she’d be even better than Jenny. ‘I will do my very best, Mrs Meredith. Thank you.’

  Mrs Meredith glanced up at Anwen, lips pursed. ‘I will require you to refer to me as madam, and to Mr Meredith as sir.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ She gave a little curtsy, as she’d seen Jenny do.

  ‘I have a meeting now with the other ladies of the Prisoners of War Fund committee. We’re arranging a concert with a first class programme of music recitals. Lady Felicity Rees-Thomas is our chairwoman you know, a personal friend, of course.’

  Anwen nodded and smiled, for she was sure the name was meant to impress her.

  Margaret finished by saying, ‘That will be all. My daughter will show you out.’

  Elizabeth led her down the hall to the front door. She opened it and waited for Anwen to catch up. ‘Welcome to McKenzie House.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Meredith.’ She dipped a knee again.

  ‘Elizabeth. And you don’t need to curtsy to me. I know Mother won’t approve so call me Miss Elizabeth when she’s around, but otherwise… Honestly, you’re only a bit younger than me so it’s ridiculous.’ She took Anwen’s hand and shook it. ‘It’s nice to meet you. I’ve seen you at chapel, of course. I hope you’ll be happy working here.’

  ‘Thank you – Elizabeth.’ She remembered something she had meant to ask Mrs Meredith. ‘I was wondering. Are there any other jobs going here at the moment? Scullery maid or some such?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We keep only one housemaid, a cook and the washer-woman. Do you know someone in need of a job?’

  ‘It’s my sister, Sara. She’s fifteen. Left school in the summer.’

  ‘If I hear of anything, I will let you know.’

  Outside once more, Anwen surveyed the view. A gust of wind blew the loose strands of her hair around her face. From the front path she observed the pit to the right, Dyffryn Gwyrdd Farm in the middle and the terraced houses of the workers on the far hill. They looked grim in the dim light of the leaden sky, like a symbol of the bleak lives of their inhabitants. She turned instead to view the valley, the green patchwork of the slopes and dips, the evergreen woods beyond the path. Places she’d walked with Idris. They’d been a salve to the grime of the pit. Now it was simply a place of remembrance and regret.

  As she started off on the path that rounded the pit on its way to the houses, her wayward tears soon turned to choking sobs.

  * * *

  Idris passed the Workmen’s Institute, coming around the top of Jubilee Green next to the greengrocer’s and onto the road that led down to the pit’s entrance.
The sky was still pitch black and would be for another couple of hours. His way was lit by the electric light from the houses, provided by the pit, as people started their long day. It was a five-minute trek from his door to the colliery, one he hadn’t expected to take again for a long while. Rather, he’d thought he’d soon be hidden underground in a trench in France, wearing an army uniform. Instead he was back in his old moleskin trousers, singlet, flannel shirt, the worn waistcoat and jacket, his oldest cap and a shabby scarf – a uniform of sorts.

  From this vantage point he examined the dark valley, with only pinpricks of light visible from the buildings of the pit. He sighed, each step of his bulky boots stomping on his self-esteem.

  From behind there came an unexpected voice. ‘Hey, Idris, is that you, bach?’

  Idris twisted round, ripped from his self-indulgent musings. Running towards him was Gwilym, his loose jacket flying out behind him. His best friend, before Idris had signed up. Gwilym fell into an easy step next to him, like Idris had never been away. Coming up quickly behind were the other men of the morning shift, their tin boxes and bottles rattling as they marched. Gwilym had called him an idiot for signing up, for jumping into the fray. A bloody fool’s war, you mark my words. A hot shame engulfed Idris as he recalled his reply: You’re a coward, Gwilym Owen.

  The other men remained several paces behind. Further back still came the women, chatting in muted voices, their shawls wrapped tightly round their heads and shoulders.

  ‘Haven’t seen you since you got back,’ said Gwilym, hands in pockets, his tins tucked under his arm.

  ‘Only been back four days.’

  They passed the book shop, continuing down past the McKenzie Arms onto Station Road, with its scant five houses. Men joined their procession as they went, from James Street, Owain Street and West Road. On they marched, like soldiers on parade, the others chatting, him and Gwilym silent.

  They’d entered the yard before Gwilym said, ‘How are you, then?’

  Idris had no idea how to condense a complex answer into a short reply and as luck, or bad fortune, would have it, he didn’t need to. There, leaning against his office door was the under-manager, Edgar Williams. His thin lips were drawn into a smug smile under a ginger moustache that contrasted with his pale brown hair. His suit was too new for the job, given that he spent time underground at some point every day.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our very own hero, Idris Hughes, back at Number One pit. What, beaten the Hun already, have you, boyo?’

  Idris came to a halt five yards from him, Gwilym dropping in by his side. ‘Don’t rise to it, Idris,’ he whispered.

  ‘No?’ said Williams, the word climbing the scale. ‘So you’ve come crawling back, tail between your legs.’

  Idris carried on towards the lamp room, catching Williams’ right arm with his own as he passed.

  ‘Here, watch it! I’ll be getting reports from the deputies and checking up on your work. I’ve got my eye on you, Hughes.’

  * * *

  There was silence as the eight miners were lowered down in the cramped, wooden cage. Idris hunched his shoulders, dreading the descent, the eight hours of hewing coal ahead of him. Yet ten years ago he’d gladly taken a position here, behind his mother’s back. She’d been furious, but her arguments about him getting a clerical job had not swayed him. His friends would be working and he’d wanted to be like them. He’d started as a trapper, opening and shutting a small door for ventilation. Later he’d been a putter, placing the trams for the pit ponies. At nineteen he’d become a hewer, earlier than boys normally did, on account of his height and broad shoulders. As time had passed he’d started to struggle a little, but always managed to fill a good number of trams. He’d wanted to prove he was as good as any of them.

  The cage rattled to a halt. Idris got out in front of the others. Already, the oppression of the dusty air and surrounding mass of rock pressed down on him. His lamp was checked by the deputy, who nodded and returned it to him, locked. He retrieved a pickaxe, following Cornishman Jory Damerell, the man he’d work next to and who would be his butty. The roof lowered as he went along. Idris bent his back, crouching, his lamp held out in front of him. After around two hundred yards he reached his spot, hanging the lamp on a hook in the wooden prop. He undressed, folding his jacket, waistcoat, shirt and vest on the ground. In the tunnel ahead he could see the odd dot of light from the lamps. Beyond them was an abyss.

  He took a deep breath, which did nothing to still his nerves. At least there’d have been fresh air in the trenches, not this sooty stench. As he dug the point of the pickaxe into the coal he grunted his frustration. What would his friends in the 114th Brigade think of him, back in the relative safety of the village?

  Not only had the army discharged him, they’d written a final humiliating sentence on his record that he’d told no one about.

  Not likely to become an efficient soldier.

  Chapter Four

  It wasn’t until they were eating their supper that night, leftover potatoes, bacon and rabbit with a bit of winter green, that Idris’s family gathered together. Isaiah entered the kitchen and picked up the cup of tea Meg served him, drinking it down in one.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. Why didn’t you wait for me this morning, son?’

  Idris shrugged. ‘Just wanted to get it over with, going back in there.’

  ‘You’re not still upset at having to leave the army, are you?’ said Meg.

  He raised his eyes briefly, saying nothing.

  She put down the cutlery she’d just lifted. ‘Why would anyone want to risk getting killed, when they already have a job contributing to the war, along with a lovely wife-to-be?’

  His mother had conveniently left out the deaths on their doorstep, like those sixteen men killed in the explosion of 1902. People still talked about it now.

  ‘I’ve broken it off with Anwen.’ There. He’d said it.

  ‘You’ve done what?’ said his father. ‘You don’t know when you’re well off.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenkin. ‘Anwen’s pretty and lots of the men like her.’

  ‘Hush your noise now, Jenkin,’ said Meg. ‘This is grown-up talk.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Idris.

  ‘It’s not going away just because you don’t want to talk about it,’ said Isaiah. ‘Do you think Anwen will consider you less a man because of being discharged?’

  Idris was rapidly losing his appetite. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’ Yet it had everything to do with it. Anwen would surely prefer a fit husband, a hero, like Owain Glyndwr or Llewelyn the Great, fighting for what was right.

  ‘You’re a good catch, son,’ said Meg. ‘You could get a clerical job, not dirtying your hands…’

  It was a well-worn lecture he’d stopped listening to years ago.

  ‘… and if you’re unfit for military duty, well that’s just—’

  Idris bolted up, knocking his chair over. ‘That’s enough, Mam.’

  Isaiah rose from the chair slowly. ‘Sit down, boy, and don’t you talk to your mother like that.’

  ‘I’m not a boy anymore. None of you understand!’ He picked up his coat and made for the scullery.

  ‘Sit down, boy!’

  He ignored his father’s command, striding to the back door and into the garden. He immediately regretted his rudeness to his parents, but it was done now. Better to sneak off to the park on Jubilee Green, sit among the trees and just… think.

  * * *

  It was dark when Idris got back to the house. His mother was sitting at the table in the kitchen, darning a sock. His escape had done nothing to alleviate the ache inside his head.

  ‘We could do with more coal for the fire.’ Meg’s gaze remained on the needle.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ He collected the scuttle from the fireplace. ‘Then I’m going to bed.’

  She didn’t respond.

  * * *

  When Idris arrived at work next day it was still raining, a
dismal grey shawl over the dreary outbuildings. Ahead of him was Gwilym, on his way to the lamp room, the artificial light glinting off the reddish curls. He was about to follow on when he found Edgar Williams standing in his way.

  ‘I hear you weren’t up to soldiering, Hughes.’

  Idris tried to dodge him but Williams blocked his way.

  ‘Excuse me sir, I need to get my lamp.’

  ‘I’ve been told you have a bad heart.’

  ‘It just beats a little faster than it should. It’s nothing.’

  ‘I was thinking, maybe we should give you an easier job, with the women, screening the coal.’ He treated Idris to a lop-sided smirk.

  Idris clenched his hands behind his back. He’d be paid a lot less as a screener. The only other men who worked sorting the coal were the old ones. ‘I can do the job.’ He managed to skirt past Williams, on his way to the lamp room.

  Behind, Edgar’s voice called, ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ said Gwilym as Idris came up beside him.

  ‘Oh, you know, Williams shouting his mouth off as usual.’

  ‘Will you walk up the hill with me after the shift today? Not skulk behind.’

  Idris didn’t want to have the inevitable conversation with Gwilym, yet he couldn’t avoid him forever. ‘Of course.’

  Gwilym collected his lamp first. ‘My da’s off to a memorial this afternoon, second cousin’s boy, killed at the Dardanelles, only twenty-six. They’ll be a band playing and rifles firing and all that. Quite a send-off, poor bloody sod.’

  Idris said nothing as he stepped up next to collect his lamp, glad he was soon to be swallowed up by the inky chasm.

  * * *

 

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