‘Maud made us some beauties,’ Haydn gloated, hooking his arm around his sister’s shoulders. ‘Little chocolate ones in sponge cake nests.’
‘Lucky you,’ Glan grumbled. ‘Mam thinks chocolate eggs are a lot of nonsense. All I managed to scrounge was one of the hard boiled eggs left over from those our Pat and Jean painted for their kids. And being Pat and Jean they used red paint that went through the shell and dyed the whites pink.’
‘Different,’ Haydn said pleasantly. ‘Talking about your Mam, where is she?’
‘Went down early to help lay out the tables in the hall ready for the chapel tea.’
‘Some people are gluttons for punishment,’ Eddie grumbled mutinously, straightening an old crumpled tie of Evan’s that he wore at the neck of his only collar.
‘You’ll eat the tea this afternoon, same as everyone else,’ Maud rebuked. ‘And if we don’t step on it, we’ll be late for the service.’
‘Mustn’t upset Uncle John Joseph,’ Eddie cautioned.
‘Sooner we get there, sooner we’ll be back.’ Haydn pulled his cap over his face, and offered Bethan his other arm.
‘That doesn’t apply to chapel. Sooner we get there, longer we’ll sit on hard benches, and the number our bums will be,’ Eddie said crudely, trying to wind Maud up.
Maud refused to be wound up. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day,’ she said as they walked, glancing coquettishly at Glan from under her eyelids.
‘And you’re too young to be doing what you’re doing,’ Haydn admonished, pulling her away from Glan.
‘How am I ever going to learn how to flirt if you get in the way every time I try to practise?’ Maud protested.
‘Practise all you like,’ Glan offered with a sly look at Bethan, ‘I don’t mind little kids.’
‘I’m not a little kid,’ Maud complained furiously.
‘Boxing tomorrow?’ Glan asked Eddie, looking at Maud in a new light.
‘Thought I might visit the booth in the Rattle Fair,’ Eddie murmured.
‘That’s a mug’s game if ever there was one,’ said Haydn, very much the big brother.
‘Uncle Joe’s going to collapse when he sees us all walking in together.’ Maud changed the subject, trying to smile at Glan behind Haydn’s back.
‘He’d only do that if Dad walked into chapel,’ Eddie said.
‘Communists don’t go to chapel,’ Maud commented primly.
‘I think Dad would, if anyone other than Uncle Joe was the minister,’ Eddie observed.
‘What about your father, Glan?’ Haydn asked. ‘He’s not a communist but he doesn’t go to chapel’
‘He’s not much of anything except a drinker.’ Glan glanced over his shoulder in case someone was eavesdropping. ‘He says time’s too precious to waste sitting about in chapel listening to preachers who’ve never got off their arses to do a day’s work in their lives.’
‘Bethan, Maud!’ Diana shouted to them as they rounded the corner by the Graig Hotel. She was wearing a light green and white flower sprigged dress and a white straw hat. William had on a new three piece suit.
‘I wish I had a mother who was an agent for Leslie’s,’ Glan said enviously, thinking, but not daring to voice his mother’s opinion that Megan and her children made more out of her relationship with Harry Griffiths than she did from her agency.
‘Bad case of jealousy?’ Bethan asked.
‘Nice suit,’ Glan conceded to William, staring at the grey and blue wool cloth pinstripe.
‘I’d sell it to you if I thought that taking it in a yard or two at the shoulders and a foot or two on the trouser bottoms wouldn’t spoil the cut.’
‘You’re barely an inch taller than me,’ Glan protested.
‘But what an inch.’
‘You …’
‘Easter. Goodwill to all men,’ Bethan interrupted, sensing a fight brewing.
‘That’s Christmas.’ Eddie halted in front of the chapel. The reedy strains of the organ floated out into the street along with a heady mixture of Evening in Paris, camphor and mothballs. ‘As this was your idea, Beth, after you.’
Aunt Hetty was playing the organ as usual, the music resounding to the arched roof of the fifty year old building. Bethan led the way into the back pew, pushing Maud next to the wall so she could keep an eye on her. Haydn followed, with Eddie next to him and Glan on the end of the bench. The pew in front of the pulpit was packed with sober suited deacons. Her mother had taken her place in the second row, alongside the deacons’ wives, an honorary position granted to her in accordance with her status as John Joseph’s niece, and only living relative after his wife.
A thud followed by a chorus of subdued titters came from the gallery overhead, traditionally the province of the children.
Bethan had happy memories of sitting up there, chewing ends of sweet tobacco and the “sweepings” that Haydn used to bring back from the stalls on the market. Even as small boys he and Eddie had haunted the place, begging for odd jobs, carrying parcels for heavily laden customers, laying out gimcracks on the displays, gathering up the rubbish that accumulated around the traders’ feet. Once the stallholders realised that they could trust the boys, they paid them in halfpennies, sweepings (whatever they could glean from the rubbish) and spoiled and leftover goods.
The halfpennies had been hoarded, the hard goods traded or swapped and the edibles devoured in the chapel on Sunday mornings, out of sight and reach of Elizabeth.
The music became vibrant, the vestry door to the right of the pulpit opened and John Joseph Bull, resplendent in white wing collar, dark suit and black bow tie, entered the chapel and climbed on to the rostrum to the pulpit. He pointed to the board that carried the hymn numbers and the congregation rose to the opening bars of “There Is A Green Hill Far Away.”
The only part of chapel that Bethan really enjoyed was the singing, particularly when it was bolstered, as it was now, by the full choir. Clear waves of pure music echoed down from the rafters, breaking into crescendos that carried with them the swell of absolute emotion. And croaking along with the tide of sweet voices were the discordant, hoarse, gravelly chants of the old men John Joseph’s foremost amongst them.
As a child Bethan had never understood the see saw arrangement of chapel services. The upside of the singing which lightened people’s spirits was invariably followed by a depressing down side, when her uncle began his own particular brand of hell fire sermonising. Today, after the prayers and a second hymn he laid his hand written notes on the pulpit and stared down at the assembled men, women and children, each curled into their seat, desperately trying to appear small and inconspicuous as his powerful voice began to recite a catalogue of dire, red hot torments the devil kept in readiness for those who transgressed from the straight and narrow.
His bony index finger sought and pointed, and even tough hardened miners shuddered, closing their eyes and knotting their hands into fists, as guilt coursed swiftly through their veins.
‘You. Yes, you there, Robert Jones!’ The full force of his wrath descended on a hapless miner sitting in the pew opposite Bethan’s. ‘You know what you’ve done! So does God. And I know.’ He appealed to the deacons’ wives in the second pew. ‘He took his pay. His three day pay. Money which his wife needed to keep his children’s bodies and souls together. And what did he do with it?’
He whirled, a dervish in a flapping black coat. ‘He drank it. Every penny! And while he lay retching in the gutter his wife was forced to beg shopkeepers for food for her crying babies. He drank the devil’s brew, and let his family starve.’
In the shocked and absolute silence Robert stared down at his feet, too mortified to move or attempt to reply. A child tittered out of sheer nervousness and John Joseph’s hawk like eyes scanned the hushed crowd searching out the culprit.
‘Well might you laugh, Freddy Martin,’ he shouted. ‘I know and God knows what you stole from the market last Saturday. He sees into the black and sinful hearts of boys who slide sugar plums from the
edge of sweet stalls into their pockets. Crumbs that aren’t theirs to take. And you,’ he turned on two unemployed boys who’d been fined for playing cards in the street, moved on to a wife who’d quarrelled publicly with her neighbours – no one in the congregation was safe from his prying, self-righteous condemnation.
Anniversary of the Resurrection it might be, but for all that, John Joseph’s anger remained harsh and unabated. He’d never made any allowances for the weaknesses of his fellow man, and he wasn’t about to begin now. His voice rose to a fever pitch of indignation as he shouted out the names of those who had sinned, followed by details of their transgressions. Bethan stared down at her gloved hands. She found it difficult to meet her uncle’s eyes over the tea table in the back kitchen of Graig Avenue, let alone when he was preaching.
She glanced surreptitiously around the pews, lowering her lashes whenever anyone caught her eye. The deacons’ wives had decorated the chapel with vases of daffodils and catkins, but the clothes of the congregation alone would have testified to the season.
Everyone had made an effort, no matter how little they had. Even old Mrs George, who’d worn the same rusty black, cotton dress to chapel for as long as Bethan could remember, had taken the trouble to wash, press and trim it with a two penny lace collar.
All the men’s collars were stiff with starch and gleaming white. In some cases whiter than the shirts they topped. Best shirts generally lay wrapped in tissue paper in drawers between one Sunday and another. Even the hats that the women wore, and the men held in their hands had been brushed until the felt had piled into balls.
Studying her neighbours’ clothes was infinitely more diverting than listening to her uncle. Shutting her ears to the sound of his voice Bethan picked out the women from Leyshon Street. She’d met most of them in Megan’s house. Betty Morgan who had six children, and whose husband was on short time like her father, was wearing a smart, white trimmed navy crepe de chine dress. Her next door neighbour Judith Jones was dressed either in green silk or the best imitation of it that Bethan had seen, and all six
Morgan children were wearing new white socks and sandals.
Little wonder that William and Diana could afford new clothes. Megan’s business must be booming, though heaven only knew how her customers were affording it.
A crash rocked the pulpit and jolted her sharply back to awareness. Her uncle appeared to be staring straight at her although it was difficult to be sure as his eyes were deep set, half hidden beneath bushy grey brows. The blood rushed to her face, burning her skin. The tension in the atmosphere grew bitter, almost tangible, unbearable in its intensity. Slowly, ever so slowly, John Joseph uncurled his fingers from the edge of the wooden lectern.
He lifted his hand, pointed and spoke the one word dreaded above all others by the women in his flock.
‘Harlot.’
Every eye in the chapel focused on the hapless victim. Phyllis Harry, shoulders hunched, head lowered beneath the brim of her cheap straw hat, cowered in the corner of her pew.
‘Scarlet woman, follower of the devil’s ways. She carries the child of sin within her. God knows and it is by His will that we are no longer deceived by a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’
John Joseph’s eyes focused on Phyllis as he stepped backwards out of the pulpit on to the rostrum. ‘We must, all of us,’ his eyes scanned the silent expectant congregation. ‘Follow God’s law.’ His voice echoed booming with a strength that matched that of the organ. ‘If thy right eye offends thee, pluck it out.’ His hand moved up to his eye and a collective gasp rippled through the assembly. ‘If thy right arm offends thee, cut it off,’ he decreed, slashing the flat of his hand towards his shoulder, ‘If thy son or daughter walks hand in hand with the devil, shun them. If thy brother or sister ceases to follow in the steps of the Master then …’ He paused and waited expectantly for his sentence to be finished. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘Cast them out!’
The cry was taken up by those sitting in the front pew, and people further back who wished for a place on the privileged benches.
‘Cast them out.’ John Joseph echoed the words softly, thoughtfully, as he gazed into the mesmerised faces. ‘It is not a step we take lightly. But didn’t the Lord Himself overturn the tables of the Pharisees in the temple? Pharisee!’
He homed in on Phyllis. ‘Neglected, her sin will spread like a cancer.’ He stepped down from the rostrum and moved into the central aisle. ‘We dare not be complacent,’ he thundered. ‘Its seed lies within us all.’ He bore down on to the rows of silent people. ‘You,’ he pointed to Jimmy, the porter from the Homes. ‘And you …’ this time it was a deacon’s wife. ‘But you, good people, fight to suppress your baser instincts. As does every decent man and woman. We must be ever vigilant. We must strive every day, every hour of our lives. We must fight with every inch of strength we possess. Fight though it costs us our last breath. And even as we fight the devil lies in wait. He sits there …’ he stretched out his hand to Phyllis. ‘Fat, complacent, licking his lips as he leads the weak into hell. He sits in God’s House, masquerading as the meek. Shun him. Root him out. Destroy him and all his works. As he bows to no pity, neither shall we.’
He lowered his voice to a whisper that carried to every dusty corner. ‘Should we fail, should we show mercy, the rot that lies within will contaminate us all. It will contaminate you.’ He turned to Mrs Richards, Glan’s mother who sat in the centre of the middle pew, the layers of her well-covered body quivering. ‘And you …’ He clamped his hand on Mrs Evans who lived above the fish and chip shop. ‘Should we turn our backs and ignore the cancer, it will grow. Feed upon our fragile hearts of godliness. We must be strong.’ He paused for breath, allowing the full effect of his words to sink in. ‘The Lord taught that there are times when to be merciful is to be weak. There is only one path open to us. We must cast out the devil that is among us. Cast out …’
‘Cast out …’ the deacons and their wives took up the chant. Soft at first, it built into a deafening crescendo.
‘Out! Out! Out! Out! Out! Out!’
Maud gripped Bethan’s arm, pinching her flesh until it burned. Casting fallen women out of chapel was a rare feature of John Joseph’s ministry. As far as Bethan knew it had only happened twice before for the simple reason that John Joseph flanked by a full complement of deacons generally visited the miserable girls in their homes as soon as the news broke, before they had time to set foot in chapel.
But infrequency didn’t make these occasions any the less dreaded by most of the women in the congregation. Even now the only ones who seemed to be enjoying the proceedings were John Joseph, his deacons and the privileged women in the second pew.
Bethan grit her teeth and held Maud’s hand, the object of her uncle’s scorn was trapped in the centre of a pew four rows in front of them. Her heart went out to the pathetic creature.
Phyllis Harry, the Phyllis who lived with Rhiannon Pugh.
Bethan turned to Haydn, and saw shock etched on his face. The same thought was in both their minds. Phyllis was in her late thirties, and plain. She’d never done any harm. In fact there probably wasn’t a child on the Graig she hadn’t been kind to at some time or another. Turning a blind eye when they’d smuggled baby brothers and sisters into the White Palace under coats, or in through toilet windows. Handing out boiled sweets in the intermission to those who didn’t have the halfpennies to buy ice-cream cornets.
A buzz hummed around those who weren’t chanting. Only one word was intelligible above the noise. A word that voiced the question uppermost in Bethan and Haydn’s minds.
‘Who?’
‘Who could the father possibly be?
Coat billowing, John Joseph sailed down the aisle with the deacons following, a tide of grim-faced lieutenants in his wake. He halted alongside the pew in front of the one where Phyllis sat, white-faced and immobilised by terror.
It emptied as if by magic, the occupants melting into the aisles on either side as the
y tried to lose themselves amongst their fellows.
John Joseph walked into the wooden pen and halted in front of Phyllis. Only the back of the pew stood between them. He leaned over and jabbed his forefinger into her chest. She shrank from him, hitting her spine on the pew. Wincing, her eyes fogged by tears, she edged sideways in a futile attempt to escape.
‘Only the devil would have the gall to sit here, in His house. You …’ He lunged after her, stepping out of his pew before she could reach the end of hers. ‘You are not fit to walk the same earth that our Lord trod.’
Eddie rose to his feet. Haydn, realising what was in his brother’s mind, grabbed hold of Eddie’s coat.
Crouching on hands and knees Phyllis slid out of the pew backwards, trying to edge around John Joseph. Then, as the chanting increased in intensity, the first stone was thrown, hitting Phyllis high on her left cheekbone, drawing blood.
Neither Bethan nor Haydn saw where it came from.
Afterwards Bethan realised that her uncle must have primed the deacons for them to have carried stones into the chapel. Phyllis screamed, more from fear than pain. The congregation, whipped into frenzy, surged towards the back of the chapel – and Phyllis.
She struggled upright but the crowd hemmed her in on every side. One of the deacons’ wives spat on her, the spittle trickling, down the sleeve of her yellow and green print dress. Another tore off Phyllis’s hat, threw it to the floor and pulled Phyllis’s hair. Sickened, Bethan turned away, holding Maud close to her.
‘Eddie!’
She heard Haydn’s cry and saw her younger brother, fists flying, fight his way towards Phyllis. But before he could reach her John Joseph fell silent. He held up his hand and the crowd parted, allowing the chocking, sobbing woman to stumble towards the doors at the back of the chapel.
Eddie clambered over their pew, forced his way through and reached the doors before Phyllis. He wrenched them open and in the only gesture of sympathy he was able to make smiled at her. She didn’t even see him. Tripping over the worn door mat she fell, grazing her knees on the pavement outside. Eddie tried to go after her, but a bellow from John Joseph froze him in his tracks.
Pontypridd 01 - Hearts of Gold Page 17