A small voice in her brain followed on with more’s the pity. She was awash with shame. However awful he was, he was their father, and he had been a better man once.
‘When he wakes up, he’ll remember what you did and he might really hurt you, Anwen.’
‘How often does he wake in the morning not even remembering how he got home?’
‘But if he wakes up on the floor like this, with a sore head, he might.’
Anwen pondered the problem for some moments. ‘Take some stew up to Mam. If she’s heard the noise and asks about it, tell her Da came in drunk, fell over and broke a bowl.’
‘Then what are we going to do?’
‘You stay upstairs with Mam. I’ll run down and fetch Uncle Hywel.’ She went to the stove, ladling stew into a second bowl, giving it to Sara with another tea towel and a spoon. ‘Go on, quickly. Stay with Mam and keep quiet. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Out of the house, Anwen ran to Lloyd Street, a road parallel to her own. Knocking quite loudly on number five soon brought Mrs Price to the door.
‘Hello Anwen, what can I do for you, fach?’
‘Is my uncle in, Mrs Price?’
‘Hy-wel!’ she called. ‘Hold on.’ She was going towards the kitchen door when he appeared.
‘What’s up, Anwen? Is it Enid?’ He rushed to the door.
‘No, it’s Da. We need your help.’
Hywel’s face darkened. ‘What’s he been up to now?’ he whispered, then said louder, ‘I’m going out, Mrs Price, I’ll be back later.’
‘All right, bach.’
As they hurried up to Anwen’s house, she told him the truth, adding the story of the jobs and how Da had insisted Sara get work.
‘Enid should have kicked him out years ago. When your brothers died, Enid indulged his grief while trying to cope with her own. The drink’s got to him.’ His step became quicker, as if his body was fuelled by anger.
‘We couldn’t cope without him now, with Mam laid up.’
‘Perhaps she wouldn’t be laid up if he’d not been there.’
‘What do you mean?’ He’d overtaken her now and she was having difficulty keeping up.
‘Nothing… He made her do too much. She probably fell trying to do it all. If she’d kicked him out, I’d have come to live there and made sure you were all fine for money, you know that.’
‘I asked him about you boarding with us, but he wouldn’t have it.’
‘I doubt it would be a good idea anyway, him and me in the same space.’
Back at the house now she ran to the kitchen, relieved to see her father hadn’t moved. Hywel bent down to examine him.
‘There you are,’ said Sara, hurrying into the room. ‘Should we go and fetch the doctor?’
‘No,’ said Hywel, rising. ‘He’s fine, breathing away. Anwen, if you could help me, we’ll put him in a chair, a bit of food in front of him like he was eating and fell asleep. He’s got a bump formed already, so he’ll want to know where it came from. Tell him he came in and fell, banging his head, but seemed all right. When he sat to eat he fell asleep and you didn’t want to disturb him.’
‘We never do,’ said Sara. ‘It’s more than our lives are worth.’
‘You shouldn’t be living with this. Anwen, are you and Idris coming here when you marry? I don’t like the idea of my sister and Sara being left alone with him. And maybe Idris being here—’
‘I’m not marrying Idris.’
His frown lines deepened. ‘Why?’
‘Not now.’
‘No, all right… Let’s get things sorted out here. Sara, you go and sit with your Mam, read to her or something.’
Sara nodded. She scurried back to the hall, stopping in the doorway to emit a chesty cough. She was soon off again, but still wheezing.
‘Has she been coughing again recently?’ asked Hywel.
‘A bit. But she’s been much perkier, with more colour in her cheeks, in the last few weeks.’
‘What’s that over there?’ He went to the flour-sack bag Madog had dumped by the other side of the table. Hywel opened it, pulling out a bottle. There were several in the bag.
‘What the devil are these?’
‘It says whisky.’
‘I can see that. Did Madog bring them in?’ Hywel regarded his brother-in-law with resentment.
‘Yes. He often brings stuff home, puts it in the larder at the bottom and tells us to mind our own business.’
‘Does he now? Buying off those profiteers, is he?’
‘We’d better leave it where it was, otherwise he’ll kick up merry hell.’
He put the bag down. ‘Come on, let’s get this cleared up and your father shifted.’
* * *
‘So what happened the next morning, then?’ Violet leant forward in her old wooden armchair, cradling her sleeping toddler, Benjamin. His sister, three-year-old Clarice, was at the table with a small metal paintbox, a brush and a jar of water.
On the other side of the fire sat Anwen, swaying slightly in the rocking chair. Already the burden of Monday night was easing with confiding in her good friends. On a dining chair twisted round from the table sat Gwen, pushing back the blonde tendrils from her face in an effort to tidy her hair. She had another new blouse on today, making Anwen feel quite dowdy. That was the advantage of working at the munitions factory, earning four pounds a week. Not like Anwen’s sixteen shillings for sorting coal. She didn’t resent Gwen her money; she’d heard terrible stories of women dying in agony, their throats burnt by the black powder of the shells in the munitions. She and Violet had tried to persuade her not to work there, six months ago when she’d started, but she wouldn’t be swayed.
‘Da woke up when I came down in the morning to do the grate and start the fire. Like Uncle Hywel predicted, he didn’t remember a thing. Said it was our fault, of course, that we must have left a chair out for him to trip over.’
‘Hywel is right, though,’ said Gwen. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with his nonsense. I certainly wouldn’t. Couldn’t you report him to the police?’
‘What are they going to do?’ Anwen said. ‘They’ll just say it’s a family matter. Then Da’ll be even worse. And with Mam being—’ The swift growing fullness behind her eyes sprang abruptly as tears down her face.
Gwen got up immediately, enfolding Anwen in her arms. ‘There, there. I know it’s hard for you. When your mam was well she could handle your father’s nonsense.’
‘I’m glad Idris is back,’ said Violet, rocking Benjamin gently. ‘The quicker you two get up that aisle, the better.’
That was the problem with keeping your sorrow buried. She’d been too distressed to tell them when it first happened.
‘What’s up, cariad?’ said Gwen, stepping back.
‘Last – last Sunday, after chapel, I went for a walk with Idris.’
‘Yes, we saw you. You came running back past the chapel and ignored Violet and me.’
‘I’m sorry, but it was with good reason.’
‘You’re not in the family way, are you?’ Violet said.
Anwen’s head flew up. ‘Of course not!’
‘He was on leave in July, so it wouldn’t be impossible,’ said Violet. ‘Not everyone shows by four months.’
‘Idris doesn’t want to marry me anymore!’
‘Get away with you!’ said Gwen. ‘He’s been following you around like a lost puppy ever since you were knee-high to a mangle.’
Anwen’s insides squirmed. Several images from over the years passed through her mind. They’d started courting unofficially when he was eighteen and she was fifteen but hadn’t admitted it to their families until a year later. If they’d had their own way they’d probably have married there and then. Their families had said they weren’t old enough, that they had to save and wait until her majority at twenty-one. She’d reached that last April – three weeks after Idris enlisted. Not that she’d done any saving.
‘He’s changed since he signed up. He’s
very… grim, and well, not hisself.’
‘It’ll be this illness, whatever it is,’ said Violet. ‘He’ll recover and realise he’s made a mistake.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s it. He told me that he didn’t—’ more tears sprang from her eyes and the words choked her ‘—doesn’t love me anymore.’
Gwen took hold of her once more. ‘Oh cariad, I’m so sorry. There there, now.’
She kept hold of Anwen as the moan softened into a series of strangled sobs.
‘What am I going to do without him?’ she wailed.
She wept on for another couple of minutes, during which time she heard Clarice’s little voice pipe up, ‘What wrong with Aunty Anwen? She got tummy ache like I did yesterday?’
‘That was last week, lovey,’ said Violet. ‘Aunty Anwen doesn’t feel well, that’s all.’
‘Poor Aunty Anwen. I draw a pit-cher of her. And Aunty Gwenny.’
Anwen, all out of sobs for now, straightened herself and blew her nose. ‘Right, that’s enough of my self-pity. Sit yourself down, Gwen.’ It was time to rebury the hurt until she was alone. ‘Have you heard from Charlie, Violet?’
‘A short letter two weeks back. He’s never been much of a writer. Thinks he’ll be off soon.’ She rocked Benjamin again, although he hadn’t stirred. ‘Don’t really know why Charlie signed up. Off he went to enlist, not a word to me first. At least Idris told you.’
‘Did he?’ Gwen looked at Anwen. ‘My brother didn’t say a word before he went to the recruitment office.’
‘Yes, he told me.’ Anwen had heard this complaint from Violet before. ‘Not that I had any more choice in the end. He called in one Saturday evening to announce it, all pleased with hisself. I asked him not to go, to wait and see if they got called up. But he’d made up his mind.’
‘They all had,’ said Gwen. ‘Henry was impressed by Mr Lloyd George’s speech, about putting a Welsh army in the field, and how they should be helping to defend the small nations like Belgium and Serbia, and other little five-feet-five nations.’
‘I’m afraid I laughed when Idris told me that,’ said Anwen. ‘What with him nearing six foot.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s bad enough that Henry’s gone.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I do miss him. Never thought I would, the way he always used to tease me.’
Violet rose gently, carrying Benjamin over to the chaise longue and lying him down on it, covering him with the small blanket that had been draped over a dining chair. ‘Another cup of tea?’ She went to the teapot keeping warm on the stove, topping it up with hot water from the kettle.
Anwen nodded. ‘I read in Da’s paper this morning that there’s been another ship sunk. The Anglia, a hospital ship. Just off Dover.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like for the families,’ said Gwen. ‘Do you think the Germans’ll get round here, to Wales?’
‘What for?’ said Violet. ‘What’s here?’
‘What’s here?’ Gwen’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Why, the ports at Newport, Cardiff and Swansea, the munitions where I work, the mines. And they got to Ireland to sink the Lusitania last May, didn’t they?’
Violet handed them a cup each. ‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t go to the war, it comes to you, one way or another. I wonder how many of our men will come back to Dorcalon?’
‘Don’t Violet, please,’ said Gwen. Violet had been in this dark frame of mind for a few weeks and it wasn’t the first time their friend had sought to silence her.
‘How are you coping on your own?’ said Anwen.
‘The separation allowance doesn’t give as much money as Charlie was bringing home from the mine, but at least I get to keep it all. Charlie can’t hold back what he called his “spending money”, for the public house and the football.’
‘It’s a shame there’s less to buy with it then,’ said Anwen, who suspected some of Charlie’s money went on gambling.
Gwen fished in her handbag and fetched out a pot of geranium stain for her lips. ‘And there’ll be less still if our navy doesn’t get rid of them U-Boats prowling round our shores.’
‘Don’t know what’ll happen when Clarice and Benjamin need bigger clothes again. Growing like weeds, they are.’
‘Mrs Bowen buys second-hand clothes as well as selling them,’ Gwen said. ‘You could take the babbies’ clothes and get a bit for them, then put it towards bigger clothes.’
‘What if I need little clothes in the future?’
‘You’re not going to need them any time soon, with Charlie being away. Unless you know something you haven’t told us.’
‘No. And that’s one blessing at least,’ Violet said quietly.
‘What I was thinking,’ said Anwen, ‘was that Uncle Hywel will need new lodgings soon. Da won’t have him with us. You could take him in, Violet, get rent. And Uncle Hywel is handy round the place.’
‘I dunno. Charlie might not approve. And people might talk.’
‘Get away with you!’ said Gwen. ‘Hywel’s almost old enough to be your da. And loads of people have lodgers. Mrs White was widowed two year back, and she has four lodgers. You don’t think she’s playing around with all four of them, do you?’ She giggled, almost spilling her tea.
‘Gweneth Austin!’ said Violet. ‘Don’t be so naughty. Mind, it would be useful to have extra money. I’ll think about it.’
‘I finish the pit-chers.’ Clarice hopped down from the chair to bring them over. ‘That’s for you, Aunty Anwen.’
Anwen took the offered piece of newspaper, the picture of her in bold brush strokes just visible over the print. Her face was a wonky light bronze circle, reflecting her olive complexion, the brown hair sticking out at angles.
‘Thank you, Clarice. You are a clever girl.’
Clarice beamed, showing two rows of tiny milk teeth. She took the other sheet to Gwen, presenting it proudly. Gwen was silent for a few seconds, finally saying, ‘Goodness, Clarice, you could be an artist.’
Something about her expression made Anwen lean over to inspect the drawing. She’d given Gwen yellow skin. Anwen glanced at her friend’s hands, holding the picture up. They’d got used to her changing complexion, but Anwen was reminded how unnatural it was, persuading her further that the munitions was an unhealthy place to work.
‘Now why don’t you draw a nice picture of your baby brother?’ said Violet.
‘It’s Clarice’s fourth birthday on December first, isn’t it?’ asked Anwen.
‘That’s right,’ said Violet.
‘I’ve seen some painting books in Mr Schenck’s shop.’ She’d scrape together a few pennies to buy one for her.
‘The pity is, I’ve been saving a bit of money during the year for their birthdays and Christmas,’ said Violet, leaning her head on her hand, ‘and now there are hardly any toys left to buy.’
There was a strident knock at the door and Violet went to answer it. Anwen heard her thanking someone, before she came back to the kitchen with a letter.
‘It was Mrs White next door. Said she found this on her door mat but it’s for me.’ Violet stared at the letter, unblinking.
Anwen joined her and viewed the address. It was Charlie’s writing. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ When letters had arrived to her from Idris, she’d almost torn the envelopes apart in her eagerness to hear his news.
Violet lifted the flap open slowly. Anwen sat back down, not wanting to pry. Violet pulled out the letter, her eyes moving quickly as she read the lines.
Placing the note on the table, Violet said, ‘Has your family had a letter from Henry today, Gwen?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Only they’re coming home tomorrow, on leave for thirty-six hours, all of them, according to Charlie. Before they… you know.’
Gwen’s hand gripped the front of her blouse. ‘Go to war.’ The three words hung in the air like a fatal verdict. She sprang up, hurrying to the door. ‘I’m going to see if we’ve had a letter,’ she
said, before disappearing into the hall.
Chapter Seven
Idris had been leaving chapel on Sunday, spilling out with the rest of the congregation, when he’d spotted them: healthy young men in uniform, straight-backed and rhythmic of step, striding out as if with their battalion.
On the chapel steps people stopped and pointed up Gabriel Street. Even from that distance he spotted Charlie Jones and Henry Austin. Someone alerted Violet and Gwen as they appeared through the door. The two of them lifted their skirts a little to run off down the road, leaving Anwen staring after them. When she peered down at him their eyes locked for a moment. Her expression could have been of pity or shame.
His split-second urge to bolt up the back alleys to his house two streets up was checked by his mother, clutching hold of his arm. ‘Come on, bach, let’s stroll down and wave to your friends. For who knows when we’ll see them again?’
Some of his old Rhondda Pals – the 114th Brigade of the 38th Division, as Evan Owen had rightly pointed out they’d become – greeted him in turn. The handshakes and good-natured slaps on the back, the pointless greetings were endless. Time and again he was asked how he was and responded, Fine, fine. Nothing of any substance was uttered.
When the last one waved a farewell, Idris’s legs had almost buckled with relief.
* * *
For two days Idris had gone over the scene, his friends’ high spirits, even laughter. Had it been the prospect of seeing their loved ones, or excitement to get stuck in to the war? He’d skirted around the edge of the village to get home after work yesterday and today to avoid them.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table, trying to escape into a novel, real life caught up with him. At the front door he heard the murmur of voices, then his mother inviting people in. Idris put the book down on its open pages. It was late afternoon, getting dark.
‘Look who’s come to visit you, bach?’
Idris rose to see Charlie Jones, Percy Vaughan, Robert Harris and Maurice Coombes. They were all in uniform, causing a knot of envy to form in his belly. ‘Well, mun, I didn’t expect you lot to put aside any time for me.’
Heartbreak in the Valleys Page 7