War in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  Violet’s hands flew to her mouth in joy. ‘You’re getting married!’

  ‘Monday August 21st. We’ve already arranged it with the minister. I really want to be there for Idris while he’s in hospital, but it wouldn’t be seemly for me to go with him if we weren’t married.’

  She was about to get up to hug Anwen where she sat, but Elizabeth beat her to it. ‘That’s wonderful! If there’s anything we can do…’

  Anwen’s expression became serious. ‘Oh dear, Elizabeth, I’m afraid it’s not all good news. I’m going to have to give up my job at McKenzie House for now, not just the three weeks I’ve had so far to look after the family. I know it won’t be easy to get another maid.’

  Elizabeth took Anwen’s hands. ‘Don’t you worry about that. But are you sure you want to? We’re not about to sack you just because you’re getting married. It’s not like you’re a teacher or a nurse. Not that that’s fair either.’

  There she went again, on her soap box, thought Violet, resisting the urge to tut. As if it was any of her business what Anwen decided. She really had no idea how life was for them, being the manager’s daughter.

  ‘I told her that,’ said Enid. ‘And since Idris will be out of action for a while…’

  Anwen huffed out an impatient sigh. ‘Exactly, Mam. And I want to look after him while he recovers. I’ve already explained this to you.’

  Violet got up and headed towards her friend as Elizabeth stepped away. She hugged Anwen. ‘The wedding is wonderful news, especially with all the trouble and sadness we’ve had lately.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the job,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ll talk to my mother. She’ll be disappointed, especially after having to dismiss Rose Pritchard, but you have more important things to deal with now. Did you hear that her father’s taking over the butcher’s shop?’

  ‘Yes. I hope he isn’t as unpleasant as Rose.’

  ‘No, he seems quite reasonable.’

  Violet put her hand in her pocket and felt the letter. Was now a good time to tell them about it? No; nobody would be interested in her bit of news.

  Cadi passed her a cup of tea, then offered the plate with the bakestones. Violet hesitated.

  ‘Go on, cariad,’ said Cadi. ‘I put some flour, margarine and an egg by especially for these. It’s a celebration.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Violet’s mouth watered as she picked one up. She hadn’t had a bakestone in a while.

  Cadi offered them to the children next, who eagerly pounced on the plate to take one each. Poor little loves, thought Violet. They didn’t get many treats these days.

  ‘So, Violet,’ said Enid, ‘has there been any news from Charlie?’

  ‘Well… Since Mrs Rhys had mentioned him, she might as well tell them about the letter. I got this today.’ She pulled it from her skirt pocket. ‘From a Private Dylan Davies, who’s in the Rhondda Pals. It says—’

  ‘Well read it to us then,’ Cadi interrupted.

  ‘Mamgu, it might be private,’ Anwen admonished her grandmother.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Violet. She unfolded the letter and started to read. By the time she’d finished, her eyes were glassy with tears. It had not affected her like that the first time she’d read it.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Hywel. ‘Charlie is a hero indeed. And it sounds like they might all be home on leave soon.’

  Violet realised once more how foolish she’d been to think Hywel was interested in her. Perhaps she just liked the idea of being attractive to someone.

  ‘D’you hear that, cariadon?’ Cadi said to the children. ‘Your da’s a hero, saving people’s lives.’

  The children cheered, though Violet doubted they really understood what that meant.

  ‘I suppose I should pass on the news about the leave to others with men in the Rhondda Pals,’ said Violet. ‘There are a few in the village.’

  ‘Twenty-nine enlisted altogether, including Gwen’s brother Henry and Idris,’ said Anwen. ‘But of course, two have already died, and Daniel Williams has joined the Pals since then, so that leaves twenty-seven still over there. Tell you what: Rhonwen Evans’s son-in-law, Maurice Coombes, is in the Pals. If you tell her it will soon get round to the others.’

  Enid clattered her teacup onto the saucer. ‘Never a truer word.’

  Elizabeth rose from her seat, fiddling with the belt holding up the trousers. ‘I must be getting over to the allotment. It’s such good news about you and Idris getting married.’

  ‘It’s only going to be a small affair at the chapel. You’re all invited, of course. There’ll be a bit of tea afterwards back here.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be lovely. Small and intimate can be good.’ Elizabeth kissed her cheek. ‘Cheerio for now.’

  She exited into the hall to leave by the front door. Violet experienced a stab of jealousy at her easy friendship with Anwen. She didn’t even understand it: Elizabeth was a different class to Anwen, and lived in the Big House on the other side of the village. She knew she was being petty, but she’d been friends with Anwen and Gwen for such a long time. She recalled Anwen moving into the village as a six-year-old, not long before Gwen. They’d got to know each other at school. After, they’d started work sorting coal together. She’d always thought of them as a trio.

  She stood. ‘I’d better get going too. If you’d like help with a dress, or anything like that…’

  ‘I’ll pop over in a day or two, when Gwen’s back from work, and we’ll talk about it.’

  There was a twinge of excitement in Violet’s belly such as she hadn’t felt in a long time. This could be fun. There’d been little enough of that in her life. Since Charlie changed, a small voice at the back of her mind said. For now, she’d better call on Rhonwen Evans to impart her news.

  * * *

  Clarice and Benjamin were pottering in the back garden the next day as Violet worked in the scullery, scrubbing the stone floor. She’d left the door open to keep an eye on them. If only she could have been out there too, or working on the allotment, on this mild day, cool for July but just right for her, with the sky an intense cobalt blue. It was the kind of day that made her heart sing, just as the birds were singing in the bushes on the hill, unseen. Still, the work in the house came first.

  Since the letter had come from Private Davies yesterday, she’d been expecting Charlie to walk through the door any moment, knapsack over his arm. It wouldn’t do for him to come back to a mucky house. Perhaps coming home in the summer, the sun shining and the valley decorated with wild flowers, would put him in a sweeter mood than when he’d returned in November, with the slate clouds and rain creating a gloom around the village. In her imagination she had him framed by the open back door, a smile on his face on seeing her. Next, he dropped the knapsack, ran to her and flung his arms around her small body.

  She’d missed that when he’d come home last time, the warmth and security of his embrace. He hadn’t even held her at night. There certainly wouldn’t be new babbies anytime soon, which was a blessing at least.

  She pulled herself up from the floor, stretching her arms high. A painful twinge ran down from her hip to her foot and she gritted her teeth as she held her leg out to relieve it. Time to get some clean hot water from the pan she’d placed on the stove in the kitchen.

  Since the water hadn’t yet come to the boil, she took a brief rest in the garden, watching the children as they sat inspecting the weeds. She’d had no time to attend to flowers. Strands of her long, black hair were straying over her face, so she took the opportunity to pin them back up.

  It was then she heard it, the air-rending shriek, like someone in agony. It was coming from the direction of James Street or the adjacent Jubilee Gardens, the back yards of which faced hers.

  The children stopped what they were doing and ran to her.

  ‘Mam, someone hurt?’ Clarice’s little voice piped up. She lifted the hem of the white pinafore that covered her shabby blue dress, to fiddle with it.

 
Violet bobbed down to wrap her arms around the two tots, holding them close. ‘Maybe someone’s fallen over and hurt their knee. Let’s go inside for now.’

  She ushered them in, lifting them over the wet floor to the kitchen. She wasn’t convinced by her excuse for the scream. It was more like that of a wife or mother when a miner was killed in the pit. It wasn’t re-opening until Monday, but who knew if some other death had occurred? She sent up a silent prayer for whoever it was. Hopefully not another child with the consumption, pneumonia or the diarrhoea.

  ‘Let’s get your paint box out, Clarice, and you can do me a nice picture. Will you let Benjy use them too?’

  The little girl nodded. ‘I kind to Benjy ’cos he like painting, don’t you, Benjy?’

  He copied her nod, more strident in his head movements. ‘Benjy like paitin.’

  Violet kissed his head. It was hard to believe he’d be two next month.

  She was just fetching the paint box that Anwen had been kind enough to buy for Clarice’s fourth birthday, when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Oh, who’s that now when I need to get on,’ she muttered. ‘I won’t be a moment, cariadon.’ As she approached the door into the hall she wondered if it could be Charlie. No, he’d come the back way and certainly wouldn’t knock.

  Opening the door cautiously she peered round.

  There on the doorstep was young George Lewis, smart in his new telegram boy uniform, the cap and trousers, the long jacket with a belt and brass buttons and a ‘T’ on the collar. Her breath caught in her throat as the bolt of dread shot through her.

  Telegram boy.

  Chapter Two

  The temperature was pleasantly warm as Elizabeth Meredith marched down the road from McKenzie House, on her way to the village of Dorcalon, on the other side of the colliery. The Edward Street allotment, at the top and on the eastern side of the village, was her destination. She could spy the edge of it as she wound her way round the bend and over the tiny bridge of Nantygalon stream. Several people could be spotted at the edge of the field, working on the rows of vegetables for the community allotments.

  Bypassing the village centre, she took a short cut up the ends of the terraces instead, arriving at the plot slightly breathless from her haste. She surveyed the field, breathing in the earthy aroma of the soil from where it was being dug nearby. Yes, there was Gwilym Owen, in the middle. She made her way across the crumbly mud, dry in the July sunshine. The mood was sombre among the men, no doubt still remembering their ill-fated colleagues. She greeted them, aware of their slight frowns at the apparel of their manager’s daughter. She’d pinched yet another pair of her brother Tom’s old trousers, keeping them up with a belt around her waist. Over that she wore a shirt he’d grown out of some years back.

  ‘Gwilym,’ she called, when a few yards away from him.

  Until the pit accident he’d been a cheerful soul. Now his face always wore the same neutral expression. Hardly surprising since his father, Earnest, was one of those killed in the tragedy. Anwen, her fellow allotment organiser as well as her family’s maid, had told her he was having to support his mother and grandfather in their sorrow, along with his fifteen-year-old brother, Evan. Despite that, he was working all the harder on the allotment. She’d done much the same since Tom had enlisted after his recovery from the lingering after-effects of a nasty bout of influenza.

  Gwilym straightened up from his efforts to pull the mature carrots from the earth. ‘Miss Elizabeth. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, not at all. There seem to be a lot more men helping than there were previously.’

  ‘Aye, they’re looking for ways of filling their time until the pit reopens. The repairs don’t produce enough shifts, see. But looks like we’ll be back in a couple of days, so I dare say they’ll drift off again.’

  ‘As long as they’re back at work, that’s the main thing. I notice you’ve been doing sterling work while Idris has been unwell. I’m aware that you’ve taken charge, Gwilym.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Elizabeth. I’m aware of what needs doing, that’s all.’

  ‘The thing is, since Anwen and Idris are standing down for the time being, I’d like you to step in to be one of the organisers, alongside me and Mary Jones.’

  Gwilym frowned, hunkering back down, lifting his face to her. ‘Not sure I’m capable.’

  ‘I understand that the last weeks have been trying and you may not feel up to it. Hopefully Idris’s operation will be a success and both he and Anwen will be available once more. But if you’d rather not, I quite understand.’ She didn’t want to push anyone past their endurance.

  He blew out a long breath. ‘Let me think about it, Miss Elizabeth, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course. And it’s just Elizabeth. The Miss isn’t necessary.’

  ‘As you wish, Elizabeth.’ He touched the peak of his cap and nodded his head very subtly, contradicting the more casual use of her name.

  At that point, two youths ran down the road, calling and waving. One was Idris’s brother, Jenkin, the other Gwilym’s brother, Evan. She recalled the heartache they and a few other underage boys had caused their families by running off to join the war a couple of months back. They’d returned a few days later, hungry and ashamed.

  ‘Gwilym,’ Evan called, as he and Jenkin ran towards them. Coming to a breathless halt he added, ‘At last, we’ve finished school.’

  ‘For the summer at least,’ said Gwilym.

  ‘No, for – for good,’ Evan stuttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t argue now, for you did the same. Will you be at home this evening?’

  ‘I’ll be in for supper,’ said Gwilym. ‘Why? Oh. Of course. You want me there when you tell our parents. Look, I know I left school, but—’

  ‘I won’t change my mind.’ Evan was defiant. ‘And at least it’ll save our parents the bit of money they have to pay for school.’

  ‘If we can’t sign up, we want to be some use to our country,’ said Jenkin. ‘Please don’t be telling Idris till I see him.’

  ‘Well – all right.’ Gwilym looked resigned to the situation.

  Elizabeth thought it a shame that they should give up their education, but it wasn’t her place to say anything.

  Evan became serious. ‘We’re going to visit Mr Beadle in hospital now.’ He turned his attention to Elizabeth. ‘The scout master woke up yesterday.’

  ‘So I heard,’ she said. ‘That’s good news at least.’ But will he ever be the same again, she wondered, after being attacked so viciously by Anwen’s vile father, Madog. The brute was now in police custody, and long may he stay there after what he’d put his family through.

  ‘Hwyl fawr!’ the boys called in turn as they ran off towards Evan’s house at the other end of the village.

  ‘Oh to be fifteen again,’ Elizabeth said with a sigh. ‘Life seemed so much simpler.’

  ‘Unless you’ve just lost your da,’ said Gwilym.

  She could have kicked herself for her crass words. Life had long been simpler for her; her family had not had to think about working all hours for a basic existence for a good number of years. Yet, she had lost precious moments along with that life too, the simpler, more loving times.

  ‘I’m sorry Gwilym, it was a silly thing to say.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sure you meant no harm. I must get on with pulling these carrots.’

  ‘Do please think about what I said, about being in charge.’

  He nodded, before hunkering down once more.

  Now to cross the road and pay a quick visit to dear Anwen. She had a question to ask her about the Alexandra Street allotment to the west of the village, before she went over to work on it.

  * * *

  Violet stared at young George Lewis, standing on the pavement in front of her. As if to confirm her fear, his face was puckered with concern, his lips slightly apart as his arm crept out. In his hand was a cream envelope, the address obscured by his fingers. He s
aid nothing at first.

  If she didn’t take it, whatever was in it wouldn’t be real. She remembered the primal scream she’d heard in the back garden.

  ‘Are you sure that’s for me?’ she said, her voice unsure and husky.

  George pulled the envelope back, doubt in his expression. He read out the address. ‘Mrs V Jones, 5 Bryn Road, Dorcalon.’ He looked at the door number. ‘Aye, missus, I’m sure.’ His hand shot out, his eyes widening in appeal for her to take it.

  When she didn’t move, George gently placed it between her thumb and fingers. No sooner had he done so than he turned on his heel and ran up the road, towards Edward Street.

  The scream. It was a telegram that had caused it. How many had he delivered? How many were there?

  As these thoughts passed through her head, delaying the inevitable, a wave of nausea overtook her. She clutched her stomach and before she could stop herself, she was sick on the pavement.

  A woman coming down the hill crossed over, murmuring something Violet couldn’t hear. Normally she’d have been mortified at losing control like that, but at this moment she couldn’t care less.

  What if it wasn’t what she thought? What if it was news of Charlie’s return?

  But the scream, the scream.

  She shoved the telegram in her pocket as she ran back to the kitchen, leaving the doors open in her wake.

  ‘You get paint box, Mam?’ said Clarice.

  ‘Not now, fach. We’ve got to go out. I’m going to clean the step first.’ She went to the stove, fetching a teacloth off the hook nearby to pick up the saucepan. Through the hall she went with it, tipping its contents onto the step when she reached it. The water and debris flooded into the gutter though some continued down the street. That would have to do for now.

  After the initial shock, she felt immensely calm. The telegram wouldn’t be what she’d thought. She’d take the children to the Rhys’s house to open it there anyway.

  ‘Come along now, we’re going to Aunty Anwen’s.’ She placed the saucepan back on the stove.