by Jack Jones
And she went into the pantry under the stairs and got the foodstuff and started to lay the table for a meal and her boys shed their love about her as she moved about laying the table; and though none of them were able to eat much the sitting down together helped to steady them. As they were getting up from the table old Marged, who had been looking after Jane whilst Saran had been down in Senghenydd, walked in and said: ‘I’ll see to everything here if you’ll run up as far as Jane’s, Saran. She’s worrying her heart out up there.’
‘Come on, Ossie,’ said Saran. ‘Stay with Glyn a bit, Harry.’
They all got over it in time, and after people had given what they could to the different funds to aid the dependants of the victims, and after boxers had boxed in aid of the fund, and singers had sung, and the chapels had collected, and the Lord Mayor had declared that his fund was now closed, people began to forget, even as Hugh’s widow managed to forget; and Saran said to Jane, the night they were told about Hugh’s widow getting ready to get married again: ‘It’s wonderful how we do get over things.’ It is.
One grandchild after another came to make up for the loss in family strength through the deaths of Hugh and Idris in the explosion. Saran was not so excited over the new arrivals in Benny’s house and in Sam’s house as she had been over the new arrival in Jane’s house; but she was there to help them into the world. Grandchildren are all right, providing there aren’t too many of them, she was beginning to think. And so were married sons and their wives, if only they weren’t so often running in to ask: ‘You don’t happen to have this, that and the other you could let me have, mother, do you?’ The married boys came to beg their father’s tools, even his boring-machine for which he had paid four pounds ten, and their wives came to beg – well, everything. And Saran was beginning to get tired of her in-laws and their children, and was beginning to dread the day when Meurig and Lewis, who were both courting strong, would be married and running in to see whether there was anything they could relieve their parents of.
That was how her thoughts were running when, all of a sudden, the talk of a war started; and before she knew anything for certain her Benny was at the house asking her to go with him down to his house, where he said Annie was crying her eyes out.
‘What for?’
‘Well, haven’t I been called up?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Oh, have you? I thought you’d finished your time on the reserve.’
‘No; lost a bit of time over that Jo’burg business I told you about.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t sit there saying “Oh” all the time. Come on down to Annie.’
‘You go down and fetch her and the children up here.’
‘But I’ve got to be off by the first available train, I tell you.’
‘An hour or so won’t make any difference, as long as you get there before night.’
‘All right, I’ll chance it.’ And off he ran to fetch them.
Half an hour later he left his tearful Annie and his children with his mother, and off he went to the railway station accompanied by his father, brothers, and Ossie, for it was Bank Holiday, so they were all free to give Benny a good send-off.
CHAPTER 13
OH, OH, OH, IT’S A LUV-ER-LY WAR
‘Sam’s gone and joined up,’ cried Sam’s wife as she ran in with the baby in her arms and her breast in her fist, interrupting the reading aloud by Glyn of the account of how the line was saved at Ypres by the cooks and orderlies and sick men being rushed into the line when the position was grave in the extreme. ‘Granny, didn’t you tell me that they were not going to allow any more colliers to join up?’
‘I only told you what I heard,’ replied Saran. ‘But they were saying that before the last of our boys went. Never mind, gel, you’ll have a ring-paper now same as Annie. Sit down and listen to Glyn reading how the line was saved at Ypres. Go on, read on, Glyn.’
‘I will when I have quiet, and not before,’ said Glyn, with an air of importance.
‘Oh, give the paper to one of these gels to read. You’re not the only one that can read.’
‘All right, take the bloody paper,’ he said, tossing it across to Annie, who was sitting in the corner nearest the door giving her baby the breast.
‘Go on, read for us, Annie,’ said Saran. ‘Your father-in-law’s going out to get drunk on the ’lotment money our Lewis signed for him to have – more fool him.’
‘And I s’pose Meurig wasn’t a fool to sign his hand for twelve shilling a week for you?’ roared Glyn from the doorway.
‘Well, he knows I won’t drink it. Go on, Annie, read for us.’
Glyn grunted and walked out of the house as Annie started reading the account of the battle from where Glyn had left off.
‘H’m, must have been a near thing,’ said Saran. ‘I wonder if our Benny was in it.’
‘I expect he was,’ sighed Annie. ‘And when I hear people wailing and worrying before their husbands are in uniform, it makes me…’
‘I don’t suppose your Benny would have been in uniform were it not that he was called up,’ sniffed Sam’s wife.
‘My Benny…’
‘Now, shut up, the pair of you,’ cried Saran. ‘Whether he would have gone or not is not worth arguin’ about now he’s there. And, now that Sam’s gone and done it, another four of mine’ll be there before long; though Glyn was reading in the paper… was it last night, Jane?’
‘He reads most nights. About what were you thinking?’
‘Of that he read to us about some big man saying that it would most likely be over by Christmas now that we’ve stopped retreating.’
‘I hope it is,’ said Jane, sighing. ‘I expect Ossie’ll start bothering about joining up now Sam’s gone and done it.’
‘Then if he goes that’ll be all the war can take from us – this one, anyway – for my three youngest won’t be ready for this one.’
‘Don’t be so sure, mam,’ said Jane. ‘If it lasts…’
‘Over by Christmas the man said in the paper; anyway, we’ll know for sure when the boys come home for Christmas. Let’s have a cup of tea.’
‘No, nor will it be over by next Christmas,’ said Meurig.
‘Never mind the war – get on with your dinners,’ cried Saran as she bustled about serving; and glad she was to have old Marged’s help that day, for all the boys with the exception of Benny were home for Christmas. What a crowd. Take the soldiers first. Meurig, a corporal; Sam, a private; Lewis, a trooper; Mervyn, a driver. Ossie, the one civilian of military age present, felt out of it as he sat in the midst of khaki-clad brothers-in-law. Then there was Benny’s wife and children; Sam’s wife and children; and Jane and her two children. Then there were Glyn and Uncle Harry. Lastly, old Marged and Saran herself. How many is that all told? Well, counting the children… still, we won’t trouble to count them.
There was a turkey, a leg of pork, a ham, puddings, mince pies and jellies. And taters and cabbage and swedes, of course; and also a drop of drink for Glyn and his son-in-law, Ossie, and for any of the boys who might happen to want it – but not the three youngest boys, the soldier-boys, that’s all. And, to Saran’s great surprise, her four soldier sons started lowering the drink as though they had been drinking all their lives.
‘Hullo,’ cried Glyn, as Meurig refilled with beer the pint glass he had emptied without pausing for breath, ‘I can see you fellers have learnt one thing in the Army. You’ve learnt to neck it as well…’
‘Yes; why don’t you leave it all for your father, my boys,’ Saran sweetly interrupted him to say.
‘“Your father” don’t want it all; and don’t try to be so bloody fly, woman.’
‘Get on with your dinner. Marged, take the biggest of the three puddings out there to the children.’
All the children were seated along the trestle table fixed up for the occasion out in the back kitchen, where old Marged, under Saran’s direction, served them. And what a feed they were having. In the living room th
e women were waiting for the men to finish so that they could sit down to their dinners.
The house seemed to be full of khaki clothing. Khaki overcoats, tunics, breeches and slacks, putties and caps. All the boys were tucking into their dinner with only their cardigans over their greyback shirts. Meurig had brought a cardigan home for his dad, who was wearing it under his ‘Gave a chap two bob for it,’ said Meurig. ‘It’s worth all that,’ said Saran.
‘Now, clear off into the front room out of the way whilst me and Marged and the gels have our bit of dinner,’ cried Saran.
As the men were rising, Meurig shouted: ‘Wait a minute.
Now, whilst we’re all together, let’s drink the health and good fortune of our Benny.’
‘Ay, and all that’s out there with him,’ said Saran.
‘The bloody Germans are out there with him, woman,’ said Glyn.
‘I didn’t mean the Germans,’ said Saran.
‘Why not the Germans?’ said Harry.
‘What a question to ask,’ said Glyn.
‘Here’s to our Benny and the boys out there,’ cried Meurig.
‘Benny and the boys out there.’
And they all drank, the children out in the back kitchen as well, even Uncle Harry supped a drop of water out of the glass in his hand.
Then the men went off into the front room and soon filled it with smoke and talk. The men out of the way, the women sat down to their dinners. ‘I sometimes wonder how we’d manage if we didn’t have a front room,’ said Saran. ‘Lord, what if we still lived in that little house near the bridge. Yet I s’pose we’d manage somehow.’
‘One of our instructors is the champion of the British Army,’ Sam was saying. ‘Champion what?’ asked his father. ‘Boxer.’ ‘At what weight?’ asked Meurig. ‘Middleweight.’ ‘I knew it wasn’t welterweight,’ said Meurig, ‘for the Army champion welterweight is in our lot. He’s in the cookhouse; and if he’s a champion… I had the gloves on with him one night, and do you know what?’ ‘What?’ ‘I planted lefts and rights just as I liked; so after we’d taken the gloves off I said…’ ‘We’ve got a swine of a troop-sergeant, if you like,’ said Lewis. ‘We were showing kit one day, and he…’ ‘Here, steady on with that beer, Meurig,’ cried his father. ‘Maybe others’ll want a drink as well as you.’ ‘Why, I’ve only had…’ ‘Do you go to chapel on Sundays, Mervyn bach?’ Uncle Harry was asking. ‘Got to go unless we’re on guard, of course.’ ‘Always go to chapel, Mervyn bach. And keep away from the old canteen, for…’ ‘Yes, talk to him, Uncle Harry,’ said Meurig, ‘for he spends on beer and hot suppers all his pay.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Well, you don’t send anything home.’ ‘Oh, you needn’t swank because you’ve allotted twelve bob a week to mam, for you get’s that and more back by flogging the troops’ food to the woman you’re in billets with…’ ‘Damn you, are you trying to say that your brother’s a thief?’ cried Glyn. ‘He told me himself that he was in the quartermaster’s stores and that he…’ ‘Shut up…. What about a song, Ossie?’ ‘We’ve got a comic singer in our lot – been on the stage for years before he joined up – who is great.’ ‘I bet you he’s not near as good as a chap we’ve got in our lot.’ ‘Oh, to hell with your lots,’ Glyn shouted. ‘We’re going to have a song from Ossie.’ ‘You’ll excuse me now, won’t you?’ said Uncle Harry. ‘I’m off up to the workhouse to help to hand round the presents that are to be given out after the concert and tea.’ ‘S’long, Uncle Harry.’ ‘S’long, my boys, and may God watch over you all.’ ‘Now that he’s gone let’s have another drink apiece before Ossie gives us a song,’ said Glyn. ‘Why, the damned thing’s empty. Lewis, ask your mother if there’s any more beer to be had. I hope to God there is, for it won’t be open-tap for another hour or more.’ ‘Are the picture houses open tonight?’ asked young Mervyn. ‘Of course they are – only one house, though,’ Lewis informed him. ‘Why don’t you go and ask your mother if she’s got any more beer in the house, Lewis?’ ‘Oh, go and ask her yourself if you want it.’
The ten days’ Christmas leave were soon over, and Lewis and Mervyn, who had arrived home on leave a day before Meurig and Sam, stayed a day over their time so that they could all start back together. The railway station was crowded with the happy soldiers of the borough who were returning to their units, and with jolly parties of friends and relations who were seeing them off on that first Saturday morning of the New Year. Saran didn’t go to the station to see the boys off, for she hated what she called ‘a lot of old show’, but Glyn and Ossie stayed home from the pit that day to see the four happy soldiers of the family ‘as far as the station, anyway’. Meurig was travelling to Rhyl, North Wales; Sam to Bordon Camp; Lewis to somewhere in Ireland; and c to some place on the East Coast of England. Trains crowded with soldiers, singing and shouting as their trains started off from one or other of the four platforms. Kitbags, parcels of food, bottles of beer, cigarettes. Glyn and Ossie first went to number one platform with the four soldiers of the family; then across to number two with three soldiers, and from there back to number one with two soldiers, and lastly to number three with only one soldier.
‘Well, they’re gone, Ossie,’ sighed Glyn.
‘Ay; and Jane can say what she damn well likes, I’m joining up.’
‘There’s plenty there without you; let’s go and have a drink.’
After they’d had a decent drink they went home to their dinners, and the first thing they heard was that Benny had been wounded.
‘Here’s the letter,’ said Jane, who had been reading it to Saran.
Glyn took the letter. ‘Stop your snivelling,’ he shouted at Annie, ‘he says here that it’s nothin’ much.’
‘He might be saying that to…’
‘Now I will join up,’ muttered Ossie.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Jane. ‘Come on up to the house to your dinner.’
‘Call in about an hour’s time, and we’ll go for a bit of a stroll, Ossie,’ Glyn shouted after him. ‘But why not have a bit of dinner here?’
‘Here, I’ve had enough to feed this last fortnight,’ said Saran. ‘You go home with Jane to your dinner, Ossie.’ And he went, and Annie and Sam’s wife took the hint, collected their children, and went also.
Ossie was back down to call Glyn out in less than an hour. ‘I’ve had a hell of a row with Jane,’ he told Glyn as they turned into the Tiger.
‘What over, now again? Two pints, Mrs Lewis.’
‘About joining up. As I told her, she goes with her mother to the recruiting meetings…’
‘Here, drink. Damn, that’s a drop of good stuff. Yes, Saran takes ’em all to the recruiting meetings, I know. It’s as good as going to the theatre for ’em.’
‘That’s right…. And as I told Jane…’
Through the afternoon and well on into the evening they went on drinking in various places where nothing but war was talked about, and it must have been nine o’clock when they both staggered into the non-stop recruiting office in High Street.
‘Me an’ my sonilaw wan’ join up – now,’ Glyn told Sergeant Knight.
‘Well, I don’t know what about your son-in-law; but you’re like myself, a bit on the old side, I’m afraid.’
‘Not a damn bit; the buggers have wounded my Benny, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, and a good many more. So…’
‘So we’re going, sonilaw an’ me. Isn’t that right, Ossie?’
‘Quite right, old man.’
Sergeant Knight carefully attended to Ossie first, then he went through the motions with Glyn before asking him to sign a blank sheet of paper. ‘That’s all. Call here Monday morning and I’ll have you both sworn in.’
‘What about our ’listing money?’ Glyn wanted to know.
‘You’ll have that Monday morning.’
On Monday Ossie was sworn in, and Glyn was sworn at and told to get to hell out of the recruiting office, where men had plenty to do without wasting time on such bald-headed, drunken old
…
Bottomley was late, hours late, and the crowd which had been packed into the huge skating rink was getting restive, but not near as restive and troublesome to the elderly policemen of the borough – who were being called upon to do an awful lot of work now that all the young policemen and the reservists in the force had gone off to war – as was the surging crowd of about five thousand which was swirling around the outside of the rink and trying to force a way in.
‘Lord, I’m melting,’ said Jane, who with Saran had waited hours to get into the building and into the seats they were now occupying near the platform which had only that morning been knocked up. ‘I’m glad I didn’t bring any of the children with me. Oh, hear that lot outside.’
‘Hullo, what’s Mr Chairman trying to say again?’ said Saran as a man rose from where he had been seated behind a small table in the centre of the most representative and distinguished platform party. The chairman himself – a brewer brave was he. There were three doctors, two lawyers, a vicar and a couple of curates, one of whom was in uniform, a couple of nonconformist ministers and a staff captain of the Salvation Army. Then there were three of the greatest ladies of the borough and – well, several more of the cream of the district. Saran knew most of them, but only by name, of course, she had never been privileged to speak to them. Oh, yes, of course, she had many times spoken to one of them, the old doctor, the one who had cut off Harry’s leg that time. But Saran couldn’t, not for the life of her, tell Jane who the man was that stood up at the side of the chairman to lead the singing of ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ and other suitable numbers whilst waiting for Mr Bottomley to arrive.
‘… pleased to say, and I’m sure you’ll all be glad to hear – for you’ve been most patient – that Captain Ellis, recruiting officer for our borough, has just informed me that Mr Bottomley (cheers) is now on his way (loud cheers) here from Dowlais, where he addressed one of the largest and most enthusiastic…’ He was cut off by the loud roar of the crowd outside the building as it hailed the appearance of the Chief Inspirer, from whom they were demanding a speech as he was being escorted into the rink by a picked shock-squad of policemen. But the policemen surrounding him, the Chief Inspirer, forced a way for him through the crowd and into the crowded rink, where he was received with musical honours and with cheers loud and long.