And this is what was on the stone. A picture of two hands, holding each other and shaking hands. And underneath them:
IN LOVING MEMORY
of
GRUFFYDD EVANS
12 ERYRI TERRACE, BRAICH
who died September 24, 1915
aged 55 years
In the midst of life we are in death
You haven’t spelt his name right, said Moi. Griffith Evans was his name.
No, my boy, said John Morris. I never spell anyone’s name wrong. Everyone called him Griffith Evans, you know, but Gruffydd Evans was his real name.
Uncle Owen used to call him Griff Braich, said Moi.
Yes, your Uncle Owen and he were great friends.
Is that a Bible verse at the bottom? I said.
Yes, it comes from the Bible, said John Morris.
But anyway, the Memorial was the greatest piece of work John Morris ever did, and he was there at the unveiling in his Sunday best and he had a seat at the front with all the important people. They sang Lead Kindly Light first. Dew, I want to cry every time I sing that:
Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead thou me on
The night is dark and I am far from home
Lead thou me on
And I think about a little light like that one over there just starting to appear between the clouds in Nant Ycha.
Huw and me both had a new suit for the unveiling, and we’d both got long trousers for the first time.
Moi would be in long trousers today if he been allowed to live, said Huw, as we stood behind the people, singing with a hymn book between us. We weren’t in the Choir because our voices were starting to break.
He would too, boy, I said.
Everyone was thinking about dead people that day, especially after the sermon Hughes the Parson gave after the unveiling.
This is a sad day in our history, said Hughes the Parson in his sermon. But it is also a day on which we should be proud. A day of sorrow and of joy. Sorrow for the loved ones who have been taken from us; sorrow for the empty homes; sorrow for the children and the grandchildren who have not come home; sorrow in the profound yearning we feel for those who have been taken from us in the full bloom of their youth.
And all the women had their hankies out and were crying quietly, and some of them were saying Our Father as well, loud enough for everyone to hear them. And all the men had their heads bowed and looked sad.
And Huw and me weren’t saying anything, we were just thinking about poor Moi in the Graveyard.
And then Hughes the Parson carried on, with the wind blowing his white hair all over his head.
But of pride too, he said. Pride for our sons’ sacrifice; for their readiness to offer up their lives on the altar of freedom and to defend their country against violence and oppression.
And not only of pride, said Hughes the Parson, beginning to raise his voice and almost sing his words. Not only of pride, but also of joy. Joy for the victory we have achieved through their sacrifice; joy for the certainty we have through Christ that we shall see them all again in a day yet to come, all robed in white and in new bodies like our Lord coming glorious from the grave.
By this time, most of the women had stopped crying, and everyone was standing up and singing together:
If I must render back to thee
The finest gift e’er giv’n to me
This shall I say and cheerfully
Thy will be done
And because there were a lot of English people there, we sang Abide With Me to finish the service.
But I was talking about the Choir from the South who were singing on the side of the Braich over there the following Sunday night. Everyone had been having another look at the Memorial and a lot of fresh flowers had been placed around it. And Huw and me had been looking at it, too, and reading the cards that were with the flowers when we’d been for a walk up by Stables Bridge and come up to here to hear the Choir from the South.
Aw, poor things, it’s a shame for them, you know, said Huw.
They’re on strike, aren’t they? I said.
Yes. Their wives and children are starving in the South, and they’re going round raising money to buy food for them.
Where are they staying?
They haven’t got anywhere to stay. They arrived here today and the people in the village are giving them beds. Two of them are coming to stay with us tonight.
Dew, it’s a pity we haven’t got any room at home. I’m sure Mam would let them come to stay with us.
And the Choir was singing:
As we remember the garden, his crying out loud
And his sweat run like droplets of blood,
A back once so beautiful now cruelly ploughed
And struck down by His own Father’s sword
And His journey to Calvary hi-i-i-ll
Where though dying, no sorrow he felt
Which tongue can be about this be sti-ill
Which heart is so hard ’twill not melt
Jesus, they’re good singers, said Huw. They’re far better than our Temperance Choir. Do you know why?
No, I don’t know.
It’s the coal dust that gets in their throats. That’s what gives them good voices.
Give over, you fool.
It’s true. That’s what my Dad says anyway.
But Quarry dust gets in the men’s throats in the Temperance Choir too. That’s what Mam was telling me. That’s why some of them drink so much, the old rascals, Mam says.
Yes, but coal dust must be better than Quarry dust for making people good singers.
By this time, more people than ever had come up to join us, and everyone had crowded together around the South Choir, so that Huw and me were stuck in the middle of them. The people who had stopped to listen on Post Lane had come in through the gate, so that the side of the Braich over there was black with people. The whole Village was there, very nearly.
Dew, it was a lovely light night too, not a moonlit night like tonight, because it was September then, and the sun hadn’t gone down and it was still shining on the little rocks on the side of the Braich. And someone had been making a gorse fire on top of the Braich, and the smell of it was coming towards us, carried on the wind.
In Eden’s land shall I recall
then the Choir sang:
I blessings countless lost them all
No crown of life I wo-ore
But victory of Calvary-y-y
Won salvation back for me-e
I shall sing forevermo-o-ore
And all the people listened quietly, as though they were in Church or Chapel, until the Choir came to the last verse:
Faith there’s the place and there’s the Tree
Where Heaven’s Prince was nailed for me
Truly took he my blame.
The dragon bruised by God in man
Two lay wounded, one had won
And Jesus was his name.
Suddenly, David Evans and a group of men from the Temperance Choir who were standing with him at the front, close to the South Choir, struck up the song:
The dragon bruised by God in man
Two lay wounded, one had won
And before they came to the last line, the man who was conducting the South Choir, who had his back to us conducting his choir, turned round to face us and raised his arms and started conducting David Evans and the others, who were singing at the top of their voices:
And Jesus was his name.
Then the conductor raised his hand and told us all to sing, and turned to the South Choir to tell them to sing, then turned round to the people, until Huw and me and all the people around us were singing our hearts out, and our voices were being carried on the wind up and down the Valley until people must have been able to hear us from the end of Lôn Newydd to the end of Black Lake, if there was anyone there listening.
The dragon bruised by God in man
Two lay wounded, one had won
&nbs
p; And Jesus was his name.
Streuth, there was no end to it. And Huw and me were beginning to think that we’d never stop singing, when the conductor put his hand up to tell us to be silent. And when, at last, we were silent, he turned round to his choir and raised his hand to one of the men who was standing on the left-hand side. And he began to sing a solo on his own, and the conductor turned back round to face us, and stood with his arms down listening just like us. Dew, he was a good tenor that chap, as well:
The One who then was crucified
For a sinful man like me
Who drained the cup completely
Himself on Calvary
When he said Calvary the conductor lifted his arms suddenly to tell us to come in, and everyone began to sing at the top of their voice:
The source of Everlasting Love
The peaceful home all minds do crave
Takes me to that covenant
Ne’r broke by death nor broke by grave
Things got even worse then, and even when the conductor raised his hand to tell us to be silent, the people didn’t stop singing. Huw and me weren’t sure whether we were singing or crying. I had a big lump in my throat, anyway, and Huw had put his arm round my shoulders, and I could tell by his voice that he had a big lump in his throat, too. Dew, and ever since then, I get a lump in my throat every time I sing those words:
… peaceful home all minds do crave
Takes me to that covenant
Ne’er broke by death nor broke by grave
But things got stranger than ever after the people stopped singing. It was as though the silence was pressing in on us until we couldn’t stand it anymore. The sun had gone down behind the Braich and it was beginning to get dark. And a cold wind began to blow through the trees all around us and make an eerie sound in the leaves, and it drove a cold shiver through us, as though the place was full of ghosts. And on the other side of Post Lane, on the right over there, the slates were shifting on the old Quarry tip, and making a noise like they are now. But at the time, Huw and me thought it was the voices of the all the people singing that was disturbing them. But, apart from the sound of the wind in the leaves and the noise of the slate shifting on the tip, there wasn’t the slightest sound from anyone. The people just stared like young calves at the man conducting the South Choir, and everyone had a strange look on their face as though they were waiting and waiting for something but they didn’t know what.
Suddenly we saw David Evans at the front beside the South Choir raising his hand to the people.
Let us all join together in prayer, he said.
And without anyone saying a word to them, everyone fell on their knees on the grass, Huw and me with them, and everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes. And David Evans’ voice was praying. But no one knew what he was saying because the wind was carrying his voice away. But everyone was praying on their own, because we heard some of them near us mumbling to themselves. We only knew one proper prayer, apart from Our Father, and that was one they’d taught us when Huw and me were confirmed. And that was the one we said then. I still remember it, too:
May the fear of your Holiness be upon me, Ο blessed Lord, to keep me safe in this world. And may your love be the object of my life and a comfort to me in the hour of my death. For thy mercy’s sake, Amen.
But it was too short a prayer to last all the time the people were on their knees, and when I’d finished it I had nothing to say to myself. And I couldn’t think of anything. I just listened to the sound of the wind in the leaves and the noise of the slates on the Quarry tip and David Evans’ voice being carried away on the wind. And when I heard David Evans saying something about dying, I started thinking about Moi in the Graveyard, and about Elwyn Top Row in France, and about Moi’s Uncle Owen hanging on a rope, and about Em, Little Owen the Coal’s Brother in his coffin on the sofa, and a lot of other people I knew who had died.
Dew, I’d like them to sing In the great waters and the waves, I said to myself. There is none to hold my head. And I thought about Little Ivor being carried down the River flat on his back after the big flood and Elwyn saving him.
But Huw had a weird look about him when I opened my eyes and looked at him. His face was white as chalk and his eyes were closed and he must have been crying quietly, because there were tears on his cheeks like there were on the day of Moi’s funeral. And I remembered Moi asking me in School how Price the School could cry with his eyes closed, that day he got the news about Bob Price being killed.
Are you alright, Huw? I said quietly.
Dew, where are we? said Huw, opening his eyes and wiping them with his coat sleeve. Yes, boy, I’m okay.
When David Evans had stopped praying, and when we’d been quiet for a long time afterwards with everybody still on their knees, we saw the conductor of the South Choir stand up and raise his hand to the people.
Let us now sing, he said, talking just like Johnny South. Everyone stay on their knees. And we’ll sing, as a tribute to the lads whose names are on your Memorial, a well-known hymn by Evan Glan Geirionydd, Those faithful with blessings deserved. Now then. And he began conducting, and everyone was on their knees, singing.
Those faithful with blessings deserv-ed
Who from us, the living, go on,
Their names be forever preserv-ed,
Such peace is there now for each one.
After all their sore grievous affliction
Lie they now quietly far from the rave,
Far from noise of this world and its friction
without pain in the dust of the grave
That’s how we were singing, nice and quietly, without anyone getting worked up or anyone singing at the top of his voice, like we were a little while ago. The slates had stopped making a noise on the Quarry tip too, and the wind had stopped making a noise in the leaves. It was as though a lot of friendly ghosts had come out of the woods and were walking through the people and putting their hands on everyone’s forehead and soothing them. But if those ghosts did come, they must have walked straight past some of the people without putting a hand on their foreheads, because there were a few raising their voices a bit afterwards as they sang the last verse:
Come no more voice of the tyrant
To wake them to weeping again,
No cross nor no cruel tribulation
For they shall no longer know pain.
It was just about dark by this time, and everybody stood up and started chatting to each other. And two of the South Choir went round with their caps to collect money.
Do you want to give something, Huw? I said. I’ve got tuppence. I’m going to give a penny.
Me too. Do you see that one who’s coming this way? He’s one of the two who are coming to stay with us.
How are you, young ’un? the man said, beaming at Huw.
Fine thanks, said Huw, and put a penny in his cap.
And I did the same.
Dew, I feel ill, boy, said Huw when he’d gone. I want to throw up. Let’s go home through Lôn Goed instead of along Post Lane.
Alright then.
And when we came to the wood, out of sight of the other people, Huw started to throw up.
Ate too much at dinnertime, he said when he’d finished. Dew, I feel better now. That was the best singing I’ve ever heard, boy. Do you know what I’d like?
No.
To be a parson.
And me too, boy.
And do nothing but sing and pray all day long.
You’d have to stop swearing.
Dew, I’ll never swear again.
And stop smoking.
But Hughes the Parson smokes.
Yes, but he shouldn’t, by rights.
I’ve stopped swearing. And I’m never going to smoke any more either.
Me neither.
Do you think they’ll laugh at us in School?
I don’t care about them. And I’ll be going to work in the Quarry next year.
There’s a lot of good men
working in the Quarry. Men like David Evans.
Yes. And like Will Starch Collar.
Yes. But he’s a real Godly man. He was converted.
We might have been converted too, you know. But I don’t want to be Godly. I just want to be good.
And me too.
And there we were making all kinds of resolutions, until we came out of the wood at the end of Lôn Newydd.
Good night now, said Huw. The two men from the South Choir will have arrived at the house by the time I get home. See you in School tomorrow.
Good night, Huw.
There was no one on Lôn Pen Bryn on the way home, and everyone must have arrived home from the side of the Braich because there were lights in the windows of the houses on both sides of the lane. I could still hear the voices of the South Choir and the people singing in my ears, and I was thinking about myself grown up, a parson, and preaching from the pulpit every Sunday, and telling the Church people all kinds of things about God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. And Huw was the warden in the Church with me, and everybody was saying what a good man he was. Dew, I was feeling fine, and in a great mood, and saying that I wanted to be more good than anyone else. It was exactly as if I’d been converted. And I was hurrying home to tell Mam.
And when I opened the door and went in, I was going to say: I’ve been converted, Mam. But when I saw her face, the words stuck in my throat. And I stopped in my tracks and just looked at her. She was sitting in the rocking chair and she looked as though she’d been crying. And her face was white as chalk.
I’d seen her like that once before. And that was when she’d got out of bed after being ill for three months, when Gran was with us. When I was going to School that morning, I didn’t know that Doctor Pritchard had let her get up. But when I came home from School, there she was, sitting in the rocking chair looking into the fire, and I only saw the side of her head as I came through the door.
And that time too, when I saw her in the chair I was going to say: Hurray, Mam’s up. And the words were on the tip of my tongue when she turned her head to look at me. But the words stuck in my throat. Because her face wasn’t the same as it was before she was ill. Or even the same as it was when she was lying in bed in her room. Her face was white as chalk, like a face in a coffin, except her eyes were open, and they were shining black like blackcurrants and when she looked at me, they went through me like steel pins. Dew, I was frightened when I saw her that time. But then she laughed at me and I wasn’t frightened any more.
One Moonlit Night Page 13