by Lesley Parr
She sits up straight. ‘Now, who’s winning?’
‘Me,’ Ronnie says.
‘I’ll make us all some Horlicks,’ Mrs Thomas says. ‘Then a story, then bed. It’s been a long few days.’
She reads us Winnie-the-Pooh. After a few pages, Christopher Robin comes out from behind a green door in a tree.
‘Does he live in there?’ Ronnie asks, pointing to the picture.
‘I suppose he must,’ Mrs Thomas says. ‘Imagine that.’
‘What does he do in there?’
‘The same as we do in a house, I suppose … Now where was I?’
‘Does he have tea and listen to the wireless?’
‘I expect so,’ she says.
‘And play snakes and ladders?’
‘Perhaps.’ She lifts the book a bit higher. ‘If you let me carry on we’ll find out.’
‘What would happen if he died in there? Would anyone find him?’
‘Ronnie!’ I say. It comes out really sharp, and Mrs Thomas looks at me. I take a breath. ‘Don’t talk about death like that.’
Ronnie’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Sorry, Aunty Gwen,’ he whispers.
‘It’s all right,’ she says, running her hand over his cowlick. ‘It’s bound to be on your mind. These are terrible times, with the cave-in and the war.’
Ronnie has that look on his face, the one that says he’s fighting the urge to tell. I can’t let him. Mr Thomas needs to know first, and he needs to hear it from me.
‘I know what will take his mind off it,’ I say, desperate to change the subject. ‘Ronnie can recite his favourite poem. It’s by the same writer.’
Ronnie frowns. ‘Is it?’
‘Don’t you recognise the pictures? They look the same.’
‘Oh yes. All right then.’ Ronnie stands and smooths down his shirt.
I turn to Mrs Thomas. ‘He knows it off by heart.’
He looks right at us and clears his throat, reminding me of Mr Bevan standing in the Miners Institute on our first day here.
‘“A Thought”, by A.A. Milne,’ he says.
The poem is quite silly – which is why he loves it. All about how he’d be six if he was his brother, and not having his own trousers on. He remembers it all.
When he’s finished, Mrs Thomas and me clap quietly so we don’t wake Mr Thomas. Ronnie takes a deep bow, still chuckling. Then she laughs and it starts me off. Ronnie recites the poem again, this time really showing off and putting in actions till we’re all wiping tears of laughter from our faces.
Mrs Thomas tells him to stop when he tries to take his trousers off.
‘Oh, Ronnie Travers, you are a tonic,’ she says.
I take the mugs into the kitchen and turn on the tap. Mrs Thomas appears in the doorway. ‘Leave them to me, bach. You get up that wooden hill after your brother.’
‘My nan says that,’ I say.
She smiles.
We hear soft, slow thuds from the staircase above us. Ronnie’s trying to move quietly. I pull a face. ‘He’s like a baby elephant.’
‘Don’t worry, I expect Alun’s outers by now.’ She slips past me and turns off the tap. ‘Night, Jimmy,’ she says.
I get as far as the living room, stop and look back at her. I go to say it but the words won’t come out.
‘Everything all right, bach?’ she says.
I nod. Just say it, Jimmy, it’s only words. I take a deep breath. ‘Night, Aunty Gwen.’
She gives a little gasp and blinks. Her face scrunches up a bit. She turns away and waves me off with her dishcloth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THERE WERE BONES
Uncle Alun’s in the garden and Aunty Gwen’s taken Ronnie for an after-breakfast push on the swings. It has to be now. When I go out he looks up from the bench; his eyes are dull, like dusty coal, but he smiles.
For a second I think I can’t do it but my feet lead me to the bench. I sit.
‘All right, boy?’ He coughs. It must hurt because he holds his ribs. ‘I’m hoping a bit of fresh air will help clear my lungs.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘I’ll mend. I’m luckier than some.’ He frowns down at the ground. ‘I know why you’re here.’
It feels like there’s no breath in me to speak. Who saw us?
‘You want to know about the cave-in, don’t you?’
I nod, even though it’s not why I’m here.
Uncle Alun carries on. ‘I heard about you all wandering the streets and refusing to go to the shop like you were told.’
‘I wanted to help but no one would let me.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ he says.
‘What was it like … down there?’
‘If I believed in hell I’d say that was it.’ He leans back and closes his eyes. ‘I always knew coal mining was a harsh, dangerous job but I never really felt it. I’d heard men talk but you just can’t imagine it till you’re there, that deep under the ground with no way out.’
‘I don’t like small spaces,’ I admit. ‘They make me feel dizzy.’
‘Don’t be a collier then, boy. Don’t be a collier.’
Uncle Alun opens his eyes, looks down and twists his wedding ring on his finger. ‘I was working a seam – that’s where we dig out the coal – when there was an almighty crash and lots of shouting. The ground above us just gave way, the props didn’t support it and the ceiling was a big pile of rocks at my feet. It was hard to breathe at first due to all the dust and dirt in the air. Then the lamp on my helmet went out. Pitch dark it was. I was scared. And I’m not ashamed to admit it, either. Scared witless.’
‘I was scared when we had to come here,’ I say.
‘And rightly so. Big thing, evacuation is, all the not knowing, everything so new. Can make a boy angry too, especially if his little brother settles really quick.’
My cheeks burn hot. ‘I don’t feel like that any more.’
‘I know. Your Aunty Gwen said you would come around, said all you needed was kindness and patience.’
She has been kind. And patient. I feel a bit rotten.
I pull at a loose thread on my trousers, wrapping it round and round till the end of my finger is dark pink. Do it, Jimmy. Say it. ‘I know where he is.’
‘Where who is?’ Uncle Alun frowns.
I want to say ‘Nye’ but it won’t come.
I reach inside my pocket. I don’t know how I do it but I look him right in the eye and hold out my hand. The tin soldier sits in my palm, shaking as I shake. Uncle Alun looks like I just hit him in the stomach.
He says nothing, just stares and stares. Every second that crawls past feels like forever. He takes a big breath as if he’s going to say something, but it makes him hold his ribs and cough.
When he does speak, his voice is a whisper. ‘Go on then.’
That’s all he says.
‘There were bones …’
He blinks. I carry on.
‘… hidden inside a hollow tree. At first I didn’t know whose they were. I was scared and I ran away, but afterwards I kept going back. Ronnie found out, and then I told Florence.’
He nods, his eyes scrunched up small and tight. I take it as a sign to go on.
‘We’ve been trying to work it all out … what happened … who it is.’ My mouth is so dry. I want to swallow but there’s nothing there. ‘I think … I think … a branch might have hit Nye. It happened to Florence too, at the same tree, only Nye’s branch must have been heavier. I think he must have gone in the tree afterwards – you said he liked small spaces. Dr Jenkins told Florence not to go to sleep in case she had concussion. Maybe Nye just went to sleep.’
‘A branch,’ he whispers.
I twist the loose thread till it snaps off my trousers.
‘Then … then … you told me about Nye and it all made sense. But I had to check, so I went in the hollow and I looked and … I found this.’ I hold up the drummer.
Silence. I don’t know what it means.
‘I k
new I had to tell you and I was going to, honest, but then the cave-in happened.’
‘Where’s the tree?’ he asks quietly.
I describe the way to the wych elm and how it sits on its own in a field near the stream.
He nods slowly. ‘I know it.’
Uncle Alun doesn’t take his eyes off the mountain. ‘I should have looked harder. I went home for tea, Jimmy. I went home for sausage and flaming mash.’
I offer him the tin soldier. ‘It’s not your fault.’
He stares at me, tears making his coal-black eyes shinier than ever. Then he looks down at the soldier and takes it, closing his fingers around it. I put my hand on Uncle Alun’s arm and he puts his over the top, the soldier pressed between us. His hand is so big that mine completely disappears.
I blink back tears. ‘If I lost Ronnie, I don’t know what I’d do.’
‘Then make the most of him now.’
We sit for a while, not saying anything more. Thinking of our little brothers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
YELLOW FLOWERS
Ronnie, Florence and me sit on the gate and look out over the valley. We had no choice but to come out; Uncle Alun told me to take Ronnie and call for Florence so he could talk to Aunty Gwen.
So we’ve come to the tree.
I point at the hedgerow further down the field. ‘Ronnie, why don’t you go and see what flowers are down there? There’s a big patch of yellow – Aunty Gwen might like sunny ones.’
‘You calling her Gwen now?’ Florence says, her mouth twitching into a smile. I shrug. She grins, and turns to Ronnie. ‘I’ll help you pick them.’
I kick her and she gives me a look filled with thunder. Ronnie jumps down and runs off.
‘What was that for?’ she says, rubbing her leg like it wasn’t just a tap.
‘I didn’t want to say in front of him.’ I point at Ronnie, who’s running downhill so fast I think only the hedge will stop him. ‘We might not be here much longer.’
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘Home. London, I mean. Maybe.’
‘For a visit?’
I shake my head. ‘For good. Or until we’re sent somewhere else.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Uncle Alun is telling Aunty Gwen about Nye right now. What if we did the wrong thing? What if they don’t want us any more?’
I tell her about giving Nye’s soldier to Uncle Alun.
‘They won’t send you away, Jimmy. You helped them. You found Nye.’
I feel sick. What if they do send us away? I didn’t want to come here but I can’t stand the thought of starting all over again with different people, perhaps without mountains and definitely without Florence.
She scrapes the heels of her shoes against the gate. ‘Well, he wasn’t cross, was he? Just sad. They won’t send you back, I’m sure they won’t.’ She nudges my arm. ‘Keep calm and carry on, Private Travers.’
Two people are coming towards us. It’s Uncle Alun and Aunty Gwen, their arms around each other’s waists. He’s carrying a sack and they’re looking right at me.
My heart thumps so hard it might burst out of my chest.
This is it.
We’re getting sent away again.
‘Where’s your brother?’ Aunty Gwen asks. She doesn’t sound angry.
‘Down there.’ I point, but Ronnie’s spotted them and is running back up.
I catch Uncle Alun’s eye. He gives a little nod. ‘All right, boy?’ he says, and I know we’re staying. Relief floods through my body like a warm wave.
Ronnie reaches us, a bunch of yellow flowers in his hand. He gives them to Aunty Gwen. She takes them and kisses the top of his head.
‘Show us then,’ Uncle Alun says.
Ronnie takes his hand and Florence grabs Aunty Gwen’s. They follow me through the gate to the mouth of the hollow.
Uncle Alun pulls his spade out of the sack.
‘We’re going to bury him,’ Aunty Gwen says, so quietly I can barely hear her.
Uncle Alun reaches in again. ‘Here, boy.’ It’s the candlewick bedspread. ‘It was Nye’s before it was yours. I need you to put the – wrap him in it while I dig.’
He goes around to the other side of the tree. Mrs Thomas asks Ronnie to show her where the yellow flowers grow. It’s just Florence and me left, and I know this is right. This is what we have to do.
The small space doesn’t bother me at all. I pass each bone slowly back to Florence, counting as I do. She counts too, under her breath, as she lays them on the bedspread.
‘Two hundred and six,’ I whisper, passing the last one to her. They’re all there.
‘Two hundred and six,’ she whispers back.
I shuffle backwards and stand. Florence hands me the bundle. Neither of us says a word. We walk round to the patch of fresh earth behind the wych elm. Aunty Gwen and Ronnie come up to join us.
I offer him the bedspread but Uncle Alun shakes his head. I carefully lower it into the ground. Then we all stare down into the hole. Nye’s new resting place.
The Thomases are holding each other so tight it’s like they’re one person. Ronnie splutters and hides his face in Florence’s side.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispers, putting her arm around him. ‘We’re making Nye safe. That’s all.’
I try not to look at Uncle Alun because I know tears are running down his cheeks. Then we each take some earth and scatter it.
Florence looks up. ‘Should we say some words? Like in a proper funeral?’
Aunty Gwen looks at Uncle Alun, who just nods, his face straining against whatever feelings are rushing around inside him.
Florence lowers her head. ‘Nye, I’m sorry you died. We’ll come here and put flowers all the time. You’ll never really be on your own again.’
Uncle Alun lets out a strangled sort of noise. Ronnie shuffles his feet.
I put my arm around him. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Being here is enough.’
He leans into me.
Then it’s my turn. I clear my throat, my heart pounding like a hammer. But it’s like the words were already there, waiting to be spoken. ‘Nye, I wish I could have known you because, if you’re like your brother, you would have made a good grown-up. I don’t know where you are now. Uncle Alun thinks nothing happens after we die but, even if that’s true, it doesn’t really matter because when you were here you were loved.’
I look at Uncle Alun, right into those coal-black eyes, and he nods his head.
I take a big breath but it doesn’t stop the tears coming. I try to wipe them away before Florence sees, but she just takes my hand and we all stand here together.
No one speaks. Even Ronnie knows to keep quiet now.
After a few minutes, Uncle Alun picks up the spade. ‘This is my job,’ he says, and the rest of us move away. We sit a little bit further down the mountain, Ronnie curled up on Aunty Gwen’s lap.
But before Uncle Alun starts to fill in the grave he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something so small I can hardly see it from here. He kneels and puts it in the ground and I know it’s the toy soldier. He covers the bones and the bedspread and the drummer with earth, then stands, leaning on his spade, his head down.
Aunty Gwen moves Ronnie off her lap and goes to her husband. She crouches and lays the yellow flowers down.
‘Those need water,’ Florence says to me. ‘I’ll bring a jam jar tomorrow.’
Aunty Gwen lets out a sob; Uncle Alun helps her to her feet and pulls her close to him.
I tap Ronnie on the shoulder and give Florence a nod. ‘Let’s go.’
Aunty Gwen and Uncle Alun stay under the tree for ages. Florence and me sit on a big tree stump at the bottom of the field. Ronnie’s on the grass in front of us.
‘I want to pick some flowers for Aunty Gwen to keep,’ he says.
Florence stands. ‘That’s a nice idea. Coming, Jimmy?’
I shake my head.
Aunty Gwen and Uncle Alun walk
down the field. She kisses his cheek, then goes to join Ronnie and Florence, a small smile on her face. They rush to her, hold hands in a circle and spin around. Ronnie loves ring-a-ring o’ roses. He likes being a cow in the meadow.
I move for Uncle Alun to sit on the tree stump with me. ‘Don’t fancy playing then, Jimmy?’
I shrug. ‘Not really.’
‘You can enjoy yourself, you know, here I mean, in Llanbryn. You don’t always have to fight against it.’ He touches his ribs and winces.
‘Are you all right?’
He looks at me, just like he did that first time in the living room when I saw his eyes were like coal. I think a bit of the shine’s come back to them.
‘I will be, boy. Thanks to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’ He lowers his head for a second, then squints into the afternoon sun. ‘You found my brother.’ He twists his wedding ring and sighs. ‘Your Aunty Gwen wasn’t sure about this. You know she’s chapel, and that means she holds store by tradition and God.’
‘Not that much though – she married you.’
He smiles a small smile. ‘True. She thought Nye should have a proper funeral, a coffin, prayers from a minister, that sort of thing. But I said he stays where he is. He’s my brother. By her reckoning – and I’m not saying she’s right, mind you – this is all God’s land, and Nye’s staying put. You found him and kept him safe. That’s good enough for me.’
I feel his large, strong hand on my shoulder.
‘It’s done,’ he says.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THREE IN A ROW
‘He’s gone?’ I ask, chasing a blackberry around my bowl with a spoon. ‘Not just for a visit? Properly gone?’
‘That’s what Phyllis said.’ Aunty Gwen pours the last of the evaporated milk on to Uncle Alun’s pie. He winks at her. ‘Duff and his sister, straight back to London. They were a bad influence on Jack, apparently.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘After what he did to Ronnie,’ Florence says, clanking her spoon against the side of her bowl, ‘it’d serve him right if a bomb landed on him.’