Clarice jumped down, then helped Benjamin. Violet experienced a swell of emotion building in her chest.
‘Come on, quickly, we’re in a hurry.’ She needed to move.
‘Why, Mam?’
‘We just are.’
She took several gulps of the weak tea she’d put on the table for Clarice, to get rid of the sour taste that burnt her throat. Next, she shuffled the children along the hall, taking their hands once they were outside.
‘What that water there for, Mam?’ Clarice pointed to the pavement.
‘Nothing.’
She rushed to Anwen’s as quickly as she could with them, a constant prayer looped in her mind. Please let her be in, Lord, please.
As she approached Anwen’s house on Edward Street, the front door opened. Cadi stood on the step and shook out a mat. When she spotted Violet she waved. ‘Come to see us have you, cariad?’ Her smile slipped as she peered behind Violet. ‘Oh Lord, what does she want now?’
Violet turned to see Esther Williams, the busybody of the village. Her husband, Edgar, was also in gaol for various crimes. They included stealing and profiteering, but worse than that, he’d beaten the scout master, Cadoc Beadle, unconscious, because he blamed him for their son, Christopher, trying to enlist underage. Edgar had been the under manager at the mine, efficient but with a malicious streak that he’d particularly taken out on poor Idris. Violet hoped the judge at the impending court case would have him locked away for a very long time.
‘I’m not after talking to you,’ said Esther, ‘so you can put that face away. It’s the Owens I’m after giving a piece of my tongue. Decided to leave school a year early did Evan and persuaded my Christopher to do the same. Won’t budge on the matter he won’t. If their parents—’
‘As usual, you blame everybody else but your own family,’ said Cadi. ‘You’ll get no sympathy from me and I’m sure you’ll get even less from the Owens. And have you forgotten that they’re still mourning Earnest’s passing?’
Esther clomped on, regardless, her face set hard.
Cadi turned to Violet. ‘Come on, cariad, ignore her.’
‘Why that lady so angry?’ Clarice asked.
‘That’s no lady,’ said Cadi. ‘And she’s always angry.’
Violet took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold with the children.
‘What’s wrong? You’ve got a face on—’ Cadi started.
Violet pulled the telegram from her skirt pocket briefly, before pushing it back.
‘Oh, cariad. Come in here. Anwen’s in the garden. We’ll fetch her, won’t we, children? Then we’ll have a look at the flowers there.’
‘I love flowers,’ said Clarice.
‘Me too,’ said Benjamin.
Talk of flowers and gardens made Violet wonder if she’d imagined the telegram. It was an ordinary day after all. She slipped her hand into her pocket once more. No, the offending piece of paper was still there.
In the kitchen, Hywel looked up from the newspaper in his place by the stove. ‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’ he said to Violet, smiling. It soon melted when he saw her expression.
Hywel removed his injured leg from the stool, placing it on the floor before leaning forward. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Mind your leg.’
‘What’s wrong?’
She held up the telegram as Anwen entered the room.
‘Oh sweet Lord!’ Her friend ran to her side.
Behind her came Elizabeth, clasping her hand to her mouth when she realised what was happening. Not her here, not now.
‘It might be good news, Charlie coming home.’ Violet’s voice quivered and she tried to pull herself together. ‘Could you read it please? I’m too scared.’
‘Shall I leave?’ Hywel went to pull himself up.
‘No, please stay.’
It was Elizabeth she wanted to leave, but Violet wasn’t brave enough at that moment to express her wishes.
Anwen took the telegram and lifted a knife from the table to slit it open. She unfolded it. ‘You want me to read it out loud?’
‘Please.’
‘All right. So… Deeply regret to inform you… 33088 Private C Jones died – died of wounds on July 11th’. Her chin wobbled before she continued. ’The Army Council express their sympathy.’ Anwen placed the telegram on the table and put her fingers to her forehead.
Hywel stood, limping over to the table to look down at the telegram. ‘I’m so sorry, Violet.’
It was true. Charlie was dead.
Elizabeth took one step forward. ‘Oh Violet, how awful. You have my deepest sympathies.’
It was unbearable enough to suffer this with people she knew well. Violet took a deep breath, as if sucking in courage. ‘Please leave, Elizabeth.’
‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry.’ She scuttled out through the door to the scullery, unusually awkward.
Charlie, Charlie. It was unreal, something she was surely dreaming, or seeing on the screen at the picture house. She’d have to send a letter to his parents, or travel to Bargoed to tell them. What would she do for money? She’d heard there was a widow’s pension. How would she tell the children? She felt the acidic burning in her windpipe and knew she was in danger of being sick again. No. She had to be strong.
Anwen touched her arm. ‘Violet?’
At that moment, the front door slammed and rushing feet were heard in the hall. Enid flew into the room, catching her breath.
‘Oh dear Lord, I’ve just heard Farmer Lloyd’s Bryn has been killed – then, as I was coming back, Winnie Price told me Walter Burris from number nineteen’s gone too. And she said George Lewis has been leaving telegrams at lots of doors. O Duw!’
It was only then that she noticed the telegram on the table. She turned to Violet who felt she was hearing the news from a long way away.
‘Oh Violet, not Charlie too?’
‘Yes,’ said Violet. ‘Char – Charlie – t-too.’
It was only then that she started to sob.
* * *
Elizabeth surveyed McKenzie House as she approached it, perched on the side of the hill as it was. They’d lived there six years, ever since her father had become the manager of the McKenzie colliery in Dorcalon. She’d quickly got used to its larger size and elegance. Maybe a little too quickly.
She halted at the gate, grabbing the top of it and leaning over slightly. Poor, poor Violet. The thought of another loss in the village, maybe many more, was tragic. But lurking beneath the sorrow was a disappointment at being sent away by Violet in that manner. She knew she was being selfish – after all, the woman had just lost her husband, but it gave Elizabeth the feeling, once more, that she was impinging on the lives of people who didn’t want her around. The nosy manager’s daughter who should keep to her own class.
‘You are a self-centred body, Elizabeth Meredith,’ she told herself. ‘It’s Violet’s loss, not yours.’
That’s what Mamgu Powell would have said to her. No doubt she’d have wagged a finger too, as her lips disappeared into a thin line, always a sign of her disapproval. How she missed her maternal grandmother, and her warm kitchen full of cuddles as well as the odd scolding.
Pulling herself together, she walked round to the back of the house and entered via the scullery, looking around with a sigh of relief. The washing up from breakfast and lunch had been done. She’d been braced to do it herself but was weary after her stint at the allotments and the bad news. Onner, their washer woman, must have completed the task. Her mother had recently offered her a further four hours a day to help with cleaning, giving Anwen time to help with meals after they’d dismissed their cook, Rose, for stealing food.
Elizabeth removed her muddy boots, leaving them near the back door to clean later. Mother wouldn’t appreciate soil being trampled all through the house.
She carried on to the hall, via the kitchen, wondering where Mama would be. Most likely the drawing room. She’d not had the opportunity to impart Anwen’s news yesterday
. Heading down the hall and around the corner, she peered at the floor. The usually attractive green and terracotta floor tiles were grubby. After she’d spoken to her mother she’d find the mop and bucket in the scullery and boil some water. She was dying to get back to a book on horticulture, but it would have to wait until later. Then there was the dinner to think about.
In the drawing room, Margaret Meredith was sitting on one of the cream velvet Chesterfields, a pot of tea on the table in front of her and a cup and saucer in her hands. She had kept this room clean and tidy herself; the wooden floors waxed, the furnishings polished, the mats shaken out and the yellow damask curtains dusted. Elizabeth hadn’t seen her do this much housework since they’d lived in a terrace in Georgetown, where her father had been a lowly examiner.
‘There you are, Elizabeth. Good heavens! Look at the state of you. I don’t know why you can’t tend the allotments in a skirt like the women of the village do.’
‘Because it’s much easier in trousers, and without corsets.’
Margaret’s eyes popped open. ‘Without corsets? Are you mad?’ Her usual genteel accent, with only a hint of her Welsh heritage, returned for a moment to its Valleys origins. ‘Goodness, how will you ever get a husband looking like that?’
Elizabeth decided it was better not to reply. About to take a seat, she was halted by her mother. ‘Do not dirty my beautiful settees with those clothes. Go and change immediately. And look at your hair. What a mess!’
Elizabeth pulled at a wandering honey-coloured strand self-consciously. ‘I only came in to tell you some news.’
‘I hope it’s about Anwen’s return. I understand all the upheaval they’ve been through but surely they’ll need the money.’ It came out all in a rush, as her words always did when she was stressed.
‘First of all, there’s been a war death in the village. Violet Jones’s husband, Charlie.’
‘That is unfortunate.’ Her brow creased to convey sympathy, though Elizabeth wasn’t sure how genuine it was.
‘It may not be the only one. I spotted the telegram boy in the distance as I was heading back over.’
‘Oh dear.’ Margaret tutted and shook her head. ‘Hopefully not too many.’
‘Also, Anwen told me yesterday that she won’t be returning. Not in the foreseeable future. She and Idris are getting married and she wants to look after him until he’s well again.’
Margaret’s eyes and mouth drooped, along with her posture. ‘How will they manage for money with her father gone?’
‘They’ll be able to manage for now as Cadi, Anwen’s mamgu, earns a bit from sewing, and Enid is looking for a job.’ She didn’t add that they’d found thirty pounds under Madog’s mattress. It was likely garnered from the profiteering he’d been indulging in. Anwen had been keen to give it to the police, but Elizabeth had persuaded her otherwise. After all, who exactly would they return it to? And they deserved it after all they’d been through.
‘I don’t suppose…’ Margaret started.
‘That Enid would come here to work?’
‘Though she has been bedridden until recently, so would she be up to it?’
‘She hasn’t been actually bedridden for a while and seems quite healthy now. It’s certainly worth asking.’
Margaret stood, placing her teacup down. ‘I’ll take this tray to the scullery and wash up the things.’ She bent to pick up the tray. It wobbled initially, until she straightened herself. ‘Then I suppose I’d better start the dinner. Your father will be in soon and will be ready for a meal. That’s if he hasn’t found something else to do in the meantime.’
‘I’ll come and help you when I’ve got changed.’ The mopping of the hall floor would have to wait.
‘Perhaps instead you could take the car and call on Enid Rhys, to ask her about the job. The sooner I get a new maid, or cook, or someone who’ll do a bit of both, the better.’
‘Not just at the moment, as Violet is there.’
‘Violet?’
Did her mother ever listen properly when it didn’t concern her? ‘Violet, who’s just lost her husband?’
‘Oh, her. Of course.’
‘And if Enid doesn’t want the job?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Margaret flicked her hand to signify that was the end of the conversation for now.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth stood upright, glad to give her knees a rest after weeding on the corner of the Edward Street allotment. Men were starting to drift up Bryn Road after the early shift. Five days they’d been back now, since the mine reopened. There was a pervading odour of carbon dust, the absence of which she hadn’t noticed until it returned once more.
It must have gone two o’clock already and she hadn’t been home for lunch. The weather was mild today, if a little overcast, making it easier to work on longer than normal. On the allotment with her were six other women, some with children who were now on their summer holidays. The older children were helping out. She’d had no luck persuading any of the other women to don their husband’s or son’s clothes to do the work. Instead they trailed their long skirts, outdated with the new shorter fashions, through the earth, or the mud when it had been raining.
The last few days she’d seen the men walking home after a shift there hadn’t been any of the usual smiles of relief that they’d displayed before the accident. The relieved expression was something she’d noticed since she was a little girl, living in Georgetown, when her father returned with them, black with soot. News of the deaths of their former colliery pals in the trenches had added to their sorrow. Now they all dragged themselves up from the valley floor, backs bent and faces long. The circles of white skin round their eyes were in sharp contrast to the rest of their skin. They were like walking corpses.
The pit wheels grinding, as they had done for the last five days, seemed to accompany their weary progress, replacing the lively chatter. It seemed louder now than before, though she knew this was only in contrast to the recent silence.
Among the men she spotted Gwilym, lumbering up the incline. He lived at the very last house of Edward Street, at the end of the village, so he’d have to pass her to get home. She walked to the pavement to await his arrival.
‘Gwilym, how are you?’ she called softly when he was a few yards away.
He looked up, surprised. After rubbing his hands forcefully on his trousers, he lifted his cap to rearrange it, revealing the reddish-brown curls that constant haircuts never seemed to tame.
He waited until he reached her before answering. ‘I’m fine, Miss Elizabeth.’
‘Really, I wish you’d stop this “Miss” business, especially when I’m working the allotments.’
‘You’re the manager’s daughter, it’s only proper, like.’ He seemed uncomfortable, shifting his feet several times as if he wanted to be on his way. It was a different reply to the one he’d given last time she’d corrected him, when he’d seemed to accept her request.
‘It was terrible news about Violet’s husband. How is she, do you know?’
‘As you’d expect.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
She looked up, alerted by a sudden sensation of cold. The sky was now obscured by dark clouds. Her time outside might soon be curtailed by a shower.
‘I’m so glad, by the way, that you decided to become one of the allotment leaders.’
Instead of replying, he looked down Bryn Street. She followed his eye line to see four soldiers walking up, in two rows of two. Their posture emulated that of the miners ahead of them, dragging footsteps, faces covered by their caps as they examined the road. On their backs were knapsacks. Their khaki uniforms were grubby, brass buttons and cap badges dull. One of them had a bandage round his eye. As another of them lifted his head, Elizabeth recognised Maurice Coombes, the brother of Polly Coombes whom her family had paid off earlier in the year when she had become pregnant. She’d apparently gone to Surrey to stay with an aunt. Maurice was limping quite noticea
bly.
A murmur went around the women on the allotment and one by one they switched their attention to the straggling band.
‘So they’ve returned.’ Elizabeth knew her words were inadequate to the event.
‘A few. Too few.’ Gwilym’s muttered reply was barely audible. ‘Thirteen of them were killed at Mametz Wood. With Percy and Robert killed earlier, that leaves only fourteen men of the thirty who enlisted. Plus Idris, of course. So, only half of them left.’
Elizabeth considered this appalling statistic with tears in her eyes. And who knew if more would be gone before this unbearable war was over?
Four of the men, including Maurice and Henry Austin, turned onto Lloyd Street.
‘I’m glad to see Gwen’s brother is among those on leave. She’ll be glad to have him return.’
‘Aye, until they send them back again.’ Gwilym stared ahead as he said this.
As the two remaining soldiers got closer, one of the women on the field ran across it, skirt lifted to her calves, shouting, ‘Teilo, oh Teilo!’ Elizabeth saw the tears on her cheeks as she hurtled by, jumping over rows. She met her man three-quarters of the way up the road and they embraced before moving on.
Gwilym stepped into the road, waylaying the remaining soldier, Douglas Ramsay. He had a bandage wound around his head and a patch on his eye.
‘Douglas, are you all home on leave?’
‘Almost all, those of us who survived. Damned blood bath, it was.’ Douglas turned towards Elizabeth and lifted his cap off briefly. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Meredith.’
‘No need for apology. These are desperate times.’
‘Aye, they are that, Miss. Wiped out we were, near enough. They reckon around four thousand of our brigade were killed or wounded.’ Douglas’s chin jutted out. ‘Given us two weeks leave, they have. Elfin Gillam and William Griffin are in hospital still at Devonport. William lost his leg, he did.’
Gwilym shook his head. ‘I’ll stand by what I said when you all signed up, that it’s a fool’s war, but I’m sorry for you all. Sorry to the heart of me.’
‘And you were right, Gwilym bach,’ Douglas said. ‘We should have listened to you. But I’ve heard there’s been tragedy here too, and a dozen killed.’
War in the Valleys Page 3