Bob became an excellent shearer, chosen by everyone who wished to take a prized specimen to be exhibited at a show. His talent was passed on to his son, and in due course to his son’s son, who later traveled to the other side of the globe, to New Zealand, to practice his craft.
But shearing time was not for everyone. Indeed, it was a detestable time for William, who was confused by the mess of makeshift pens in the farmyard, the barred gates which hindered him. He was bothered by the braying and the endless to-ing and fro-ing of so many people. He’d lose his way and lose his temper.
Of course, the disorder of shearing day was nothing compared to the anarchy of snow. William would lose his way in any layer of white. Unable to feel the free movement of his feet, the echo of his footstep muffled by snow, he often got lost.
Once, on his way toward the farmhouse, he was caught in heavy snow and got lost. There was no sign of him. We searched every field and path all the way to Maesglasau, shouting his name, whistling, called out to him again and again. Our voices echoed throughout the cwm.
Finally, Bob chanced to look toward the mountain, and he was spotted. From the midst of snow-covered bracken a red-gloved hand was seen waving; we knew it belonged to William. We listened and heard his voice. He was calling for help.
It’s a mystery how he got there, high on the flanks of our snow-banked mountain.
William never ventured out at night—not for his own protection, but for ours. After all, night and day were one to him. He stayed indoors because he knew that if he got lost in the dark we wouldn’t find him. With eyes wide open, we’d be blinder than him.
Indeed, we often took advantage of his “other” sight when we needed to escort the children at night from my parents’ new bungalow at the foot of the mountain, back up to the farmhouse.
Rarely did William lose his way during his peregrinations around the farm’s pathways. He was an extraordinary figure in his dark, full-length coat and oversized Wellingtons. His head aslant, he listened for the slightest sound. His points of orientation were unchanging: the feel of the ground under his feet; the sound of the running stream; the whisper of hazel leaves in the copse by the lower field; the certainty of the gatepost and the click of the latch as the gate closed.
It took a whole day for him to find his bearings again when he returned to Tynybraich after his occasional outings. It was painful to watch his errors of step, as he walked into posts and trapped himself in corners. He’d rub his eyes with his knuckles. But we were obliged to let him err, for he followed the singular trail of his acute senses. His hearing was a form of sight: he’d strike posts and walls, and trace the echo.
A change in surroundings could cause confusion. Obstacles in his path. We’d bruise his dignity through lack of thought.
It was William’s job every Friday afternoon to fetch bread from Tynybraich and take it down to our parents’ bungalow. Every week he took three loaves. By habit he put one loaf in a bag which he carried in one hand, with the second loaf in a similar bag in his other hand and the third tucked tightly underneath an arm. Thus he would walk from Tynybraich toward the bungalow. But one particular Friday a bundle of hay was left unwittingly in his pathway. William fell, then rolled downward, all the way to the bottom of the hill. We rushed to his aid. He continued to lie, supine, in the grass, his shock slowly turning to rage. But the loaves of bread were still held tight in his hands, and the third stayed fast under his arm.
That was a measure of his devotion to the paths and responsibilities of life.
It was in this careful and dutiful way that he completed all his tasks on the farm. It was William, for instance, who turned the handle of the churn at buttermaking. He’d sit there patiently rotating the handle until the butter was made. After churning he’d carry the leftover buttermilk in a pail, along the uneven path to Mother, without spilling a single drop.
Moreover, he had his own work, as copyist and editor of braille texts for the R.N.I.B. Like Lewis his younger brother, William was an excellent linguist who could work in twelve different languages, including Hebrew, Russian and Greek. He’d be at his desk for hours on end, reading and copying; the heavy tip-tapping of his braille machine, together with the tinkle of the bell at the end of each line, a regular and constant sound.
After completing each text he asked us to do the final check before the item was sent to the R.N.I.B. in London. Usually I or Mother undertook this task. Only we had the patience.
We’d sit with William for hours, the braille typescripts spread out. He would read through the text, comparing it against the original. When his soft fingers encountered an error he would instruct us to “delete” or “strengthen” one of the six braille dots as required:
“Delete top left.”
“Delete bottom right.”
Our task then was to rub out the molehill of a dot with a knitting needle until the paper was smooth again, thus changing and correcting the letter. It was a laborious process. We could be at it for hours “deleting” with a knitting needle.
The finished typescripts were placed in gray boxes and sent to the R.N.I.B. in London. William would intone the address in his rather grand English—“Two Hundred and Twenty Four, Great Portland Street, London”—while one of us filled in the labels as rapidly as we could.
Every time he stuck the labels to the boxes I was amazed at the way he did it. First, he held the label to his lips to find the glued side—the side which stuck to his mouth. Then he’d grasp the label by its upper corners, carefully, and start to lick the glue. For William, even that simple act required care. He’d push his tongue out in a genteel way and proceed to wet the label, moving in an orderly way from left to right. On reaching the end of each swathe he would retract his tongue and then start on the next bit of gum. And so the very tip of his tongue would shuttle to and fro, from left to right, until the label had been thoroughly licked.
More than once I heard my father murmur that William’s fastidiousness was his only handicap. For me, William was one of the great wonders of the cwm.
Every day had to run like clockwork, with breakfast at eight, a cup of tea at ten, lunch at noon, tea at four and supper at seven. If he woke up late he’d be out of sorts for the rest of the day.
Even his meals followed a set pattern. At teatime he’d eat two and a half slices of buttered bread with jam. He’d eat a slice and a half initially, using a spoon to collect any bits of jam on his plate until every morsel was gone. Then he’d quickly drink a cup of tea. After that he’d eat the remaining slice of bread and butter. Then a slice of cake, followed by a second cup of tea, also drunk quickly. And lastly he’d pop a mint imperial in his mouth to end the meal.
He’d shuffle from his own room to the kitchen in a pair of leather slippers. For his meal he’d change into another pair, made of tweedy twill. For his trips outside he’d change into Wellington boots. No matter how many times a day he was obliged to change his footwear, he stuck to this arrangement.
In the same manner, he would think nothing of spending an entire afternoon unpicking knots in a piece of string, untying each entanglement until he held, victoriously, a straight, smooth cord in front of him.
My brother William was a kind man, sociable and sympathetic. In contrast to his three brothers he got no pleasure from debating, and on many occasions I saw him return to his adversary to apologize.
More than anything he loved a chat, and since he’d read widely he had an amazing store of knowledge on many subjects. When I cut his hair his head would move in concurrence with his conversation, which made me nervous with the scissors. He listened avidly to the radio, to the operas of Gilbert and Sullivan, and to his favorite football and cricket commentators. He knew the names of every player in every team.
His radio was his lifelong friend and companion. Indeed, by means of his radio William knew more about the world beyond Cwm Maesglasau than the rest of us put together.
Sometimes this was made evident in unexpected ways. There was an occasion when a petit
ion was circulated in Dinas Mawddwy opposing a proposal to let pubs open their doors on Sundays. It was signed by the vast majority of local residents, and the teetotallers of Tynybraich were no exception. The relevant sheet of paper was taken to William and its message made known to him. But to the astonishment of his abstinent relatives, he refused to sign it. Despite many prompts by his family he held his ground, though alcohol had never passed his lips.
“I don’t know what’s got into him, I really don’t.” Mother was shocked.
It was through the medium of radio that William also learned about the latest technological advances. He was the first to tell us, for example, about the video machine which would enable people to tape programs on the television and watch them a second time. This technology was useless to him, but he expressed a keen interest in it. He also revealed that a new type of oven would use “microwave” technology to heat food (without becoming hot itself). We scorned such ideas, until they came to fruition years later.
William was our chief link with Gruffydd in Herefordshire. He wrote a weekly braille letter to his brother, sending him all the latest news from Tynybraich. He’d type it with great dedication every Thursday morning. Likewise, Gruffydd’s weekly letter arrived regularly every Saturday. The brothers began their letters using the same formula every week. William always opened by saying: “Well, here I am again …” Gruffydd always with the words, “Very many thanks for Bill’s letter …”
At the beginning of the thirties Bob married Katie, daughter of a farming family from Tyddyn Rhys y Gader at Aberdyfi. My parents and William moved to a new bungalow, as tradition dictated, to make way for Bob and Katie to set up home in the farmhouse. I stayed at the farmhouse with them: that was my workplace as seamstress.
The birth of their first son in 1936 was a great joy to everyone. Like his grandfather, and his grandfather’s grandfather, he, too, was named Evan. I was given the comfort of helping to bring up the first child of the next generation.
William often kept me company in this. He’d sing a lullaby to the baby, and rock the cradle. We were delighted—William more than anyone, perhaps—when we heard a year or so later that a second child was on the way.
Perhaps William was feeling low that day I heard him wondering out loud to Katie about why he’d been put on this Earth: blind, and of no use to anyone. She put her arm around him and reminded him how fond little Evan was of his uncle. Could he not feel the affection in the tight clasp of the little hand around his finger?
Weeks later, at the birth of her second child, Katie died at the hospital in Liverpool. Bob became a young widower with two small children; the elder, Evan, was eighteen months; the younger, Kate, a few hours old.
I will never forget walking into the kitchen at Tynybraich on the dark day that Katie was buried. What I saw in front of me was William, nursing the newborn baby. I recalled the sad question he had posed only weeks before, to a woman who now lay dead. His answer was there: a babe in his arms.
The old Tynybraich farmhouse
Though she was approaching her sixtieth year, Mother became a “mother” to Evan and Kate. There was a reversal: my parents moved back to the farmhouse at Tynybraich, and the new bungalow rented to a man called Gruffydd Elis. For the first time, my father had a companion in Maesglasau valley. In those days he was never happier than when wandering the fields with his companion; together they’d take a step forward, pause, then chat. In their mouths a medley of pithy country lore and tobacco plugs, which were then spat out in a tight bullet onto the green grass.
Evan and little Kate were adorable. What a delight it was to watch them playing, as Bob and I had played in the past. Playing bows and arrows in the lower field. Playing house in the roots of the old tree. And playing also on the old cart, with Blodwen the hen still alive in our memories.
Kate delighted in brushing my hair and pretending to paint my nails; Evan’s mischief made me laugh into my handkerchief. His indignation at having to attend chapel on Sunday was memorably expressed one morning, as I washed breakfast dishes.
“Why do we have to go to that old chapel again?” he complained to his grandmother.
“Shush, now, Evan bach, that’s not the way to talk about chapel.”
“Why?”
“It is God’s house.”
“I’ve never seen him there.”
A heavy sigh from my mother. And then a patient explanation:
“We don’t see the Great Lord, we feel him.”
“I’ve never felt him either.”
A long pause—Mother had no reply to this. And the little boy’s logical mind persisted:
“And anyway, why does he need three houses in Dinas?”
William reveled in the company of children, but when they got under his feet, or left toys underfoot, they provoked his anger. One of their favorite tricks was to put bits of grit on the open pages of his braille book, and then watch his dexterous fingers approaching the extra dots; touching them; pausing; getting confused; re-reading the bogus letter; hesitating, and then realizing …
“Botheration!”
Despite this mischief they respected their blind uncle and were astonished by his supernatural abilities. Often they’d imitate him at the dinner table, attempting to clear their plates with their eyes shut (though woe betide them if they were spotted).
When it was difficult to settle Evan and Kate at bedtime, it was William who was sent to lie with them. Only he had the patience. He could lie silent and still until they were fast asleep.
Then, gently, William would inch toward the edge of the bed. He’d put his feet on the floor without a sound. Painfully slowly, he’d walk toward the door and place his hand on the latch, turning it gradually. With a sigh of relief, he’d step from the room …
“Where are you going, Will?” would come Evan’s cry from the dark.
One day we were visited by two men in suits: government employees bringing us gasmasks. There were only two small windows for the eyes. An air-filter covered the nose and mouth. Through those masks we heard nothing but the noise of our own breathing.
It was thus that the Second World War reached Maesglasau valley.
And for why did they meet in anger, those mighty creatures? The mountains were big enow for them both in our eyes, their sad encounter had no need.
Hugh Jones
Bob joined the Home Guard. William was taken to work at a mechanical factory at Machynlleth. And I put away my sewing machine and went to work on the land, taking on the role of a man.
We received the latest news every evening on the radio, and from friends who lived beyond the defending walls of the cwm. We heard about the evacuees coming from Birmingham. Also about the German Junker 88 aircraft which came down in Montgomeryshire, and whose injured pilot spoke such excellent English that the Welsh-speaking locals who helped him failed to realize he was the enemy. We heard too about the American B17 Flying Fortress which came down for no apparent reason in the hills of Meirionnydd, killing eight of its crew on the Berwyn mountains; another eight were killed on Arenig Fawr. And we heard about the bombing in London, while thinking always about our brother, the blind vicar, in its midst.
Gruff was allowed to leave the dangers of England’s capital city before the firestorms created by the V1 and V2 bombs in the latter years of the war. But we knew about them, because of what happened to Evelyn King.
A cousin of my grandmother—a woman called Sarah—lived in Pimlico. During the afternoon of July 8, 1944, she was visiting relatives of her husband, Harry King, when the sirens started to wail.
The house she was in was hit directly. They were all killed.
That evening Sarah’s daughter, Evelyn, went from work to her aunts’ house to accompany her mother home. She rounded the corner and found neither house nor relatives. Smoke rose from the debris, as if from a hellish altar. Black dust rained down.
Evelyn, our orphaned second cousin, came to live with us at Tynybraich, so that she might recover from the sh
ock. She shared a bed with me, suffering nightmares which made her cry out at night. We gave her as much love as we could, but she rarely spoke. Her eyes seemed dead. After the war, Evelyn returned to London to pick up the threads of her lonely life. She never fully recovered from the shock of the blitz.
Many a lowly servant, in summertime, when the day is long and the weather hot, oft yearns in his heart of hearts for the shadows of eventide and the setting of the sun, so that he might rest from his labors.
We met the enemy in flesh and blood in Cwm Maesglasau as in many another valley of rural Wales. In the summer of 1942 an Italian prisoner of war came to us, the first of four visitors from a world we knew nothing of.
Angelo arrived dressed in a uniform which seemed gray against his olive complexion. He stepped from the vehicle and stared at the green valley around him. He gazed with equal surprise at the row of “enemies” awaiting him by the door of the farmhouse: Bob and I as black-haired as he was; Evan and Kate sheltering behind their father’s legs.
Bob freed himself from the grasp of his little footmen and stepped toward the Italian to shake his hand.
“Bore da.”
“Buongiorno.”
And with that brief interchange, Angelo came into our world.
Soon he was part of everyday life on the farm. He gave thanks every morning for his escape from the calamity of war. And despite suffering prolonged bouts of longing for his wife and children, he gave thanks too for being allowed to spend his internment on a farm. He slept in the small room at the back of the house, and kept a picture of his family, framed in wood, by his bedside. His wife, Susanna, was slim and attractive, with every hair in place; his son and daughter were about the same age as Evan and Kate. He’d call them his “bambini,” his voice full of emotion.
He worked and ate alongside the family at Tynybraich. Indeed, he and Bob became friends of sorts, as one learned Italian words and the other Welsh ones, communicating happily in the no man’s land between languages.
Our own bambini learned to count from one to ten in the soft Italian language. And they’d mimic Angelo with his declarations of awe at the cwm’s beauty:
The Life of Rebecca Jones Page 6