by Ken Follett
Morgan said: "Are you telling me you're calling a strike?"
"I'm telling you the men will be angry. What they will do I can't predict. But I don't want trouble and you don't want trouble. We're talking about eight houses out of what, eight hundred? I've come here to ask you, is it worth it?"
"The company has made its decision," Morgan said, and Billy felt intuitively that Morgan did not agree with the company.
"Ask the board of directors to reconsider. What harm could that do?"
Billy was impatient with Da's mild words. Surely he should raise his voice, and point his finger, and accuse Morgan of the ruthless cruelty of which the company was obviously guilty? That was what Len Griffiths would have done.
Morgan was unmoved. "I'm here to carry out the board's decisions, not question them."
"So the evictions have already been approved by the board," Da said.
Morgan looked flustered. "I didn't say that."
But he had implied it, Billy thought, thanks to Da's clever questioning. Maybe mildness was not such a bad idea.
Da changed tack. "What if I could find you eight houses where the occupiers are prepared to take in new miners as lodgers?"
"These men have families."
Da said slowly and deliberately: "We could work out a compromise, if you were willing."
"The company must have the power to manage its own affairs."
"Regardless of the consequences to others?"
"This is our coal mine. The company surveyed the land, negotiated with the earl, dug the pit, and bought the machinery, and it built the houses for the miners to live in. We paid for all this and we own it, and we won't be told what to do with it by anyone else."
Da put his cap on. "You didn't put the coal in the earth, though, did you, Maldwyn?" he said. "God did that."
{ III }
Da tried to book the assembly rooms of the town hall for a gathering at seven thirty the following night, but the space was already taken by the Aberowen Amateur Dramatic Club, who were rehearsing Henry IV, Part One, so Da decided the miners would meet at Bethesda Chapel. Billy and Da, with Len and Tommy Griffiths and a few other active union members, went around the town announcing the meeting orally and pinning up handwritten notices in pubs and chapels.
By a quarter past seven next evening the chapel was packed. The widows sat in a row at the front, and everyone else stood. Billy was at the side near the front, where he could see the men's faces. Tommy Griffiths stood beside him.
Billy was proud of his da for his boldness, his cleverness, and the fact that he had put his cap back on before leaving Morgan's office. All the same he wished Da had been more aggressive. He should have talked to Morgan the way he talked to the congregation of Bethesda, predicting hellfire and brimstone for those who refused to see the plain truth.
At exactly seven thirty, Da called for quiet. In his authoritative preaching voice he read out the letter from Perceval Jones to Mrs. Dai Ponies. "The identical letter have been sent to eight widows of men killed in the explosion down the pit six weeks ago."
Several men called out: "Shame!"
"It is our rule that men speak when called upon by the chairman of the meeting, and not otherwise, so that each may be heard in his turn, and I will thank you for observing the rule, even on an occasion such as this when feelings run high."
Someone called out: "It's a bloody disgrace!"
"Now, now, Griff Pritchard, no swearing, please. This is a chapel and, besides, there are ladies present."
Two or three of the men said: "Hear, hear." They pronounced the word to rhyme with "fur."
Griff Pritchard, who had been in the Two Crowns since the shift ended that afternoon, said: "Sorry, Mr. Williams."
"I held a meeting yesterday with the colliery manager, and asked him formally to withdraw the eviction notices, but he refused. He implied that the board of directors had made the decision, and it was not in his power to change it, or even question it. I pressed him to discuss alternatives, but he said the company had the right to manage its affairs without interference. That is all the information I have for you." That was a bit low-key, Billy thought. He wanted Da to call for revolution. But Da just pointed to a man who had his hand up. "John Jones the Shop."
"I've lived in number twenty-three Gordon Terrace all my life," said Jones. "I was born there and I'm still there. But my father died when I was eleven. Very hard it was, too, for my mam, but she was allowed to stay. When I was thirteen I went down the pit, and now I pay the rent. That's how it's always been. No one said anything about throwing us out."
"Thank you, John Jones. Have you got a motion to propose?"
"No, I'm just saying."
"I have a motion," said a new voice. "Strike!"
There was a chorus of agreement.
Billy's father said: "Dai Crybaby."
"Here's how I see it," said the captain of the town's rugby team. "We can't let the company get away with this. If they're allowed to evict widows, none of us can feel that our families have any security. A man could work all his life for Celtic Minerals and die on the job, and two weeks later his family could be out on the street. Dai Union have been to the office and tried to talk sense to Gone-to-Merthyr Morgan, but it haven't done no good, so we got no alternative but to strike."
"Thank you, Dai," said Da. "Should I take that as a formal motion for strike action?"
"Aye."
Billy was surprised that Da had accepted that so quickly. He knew his father wanted to avoid a strike.
"Vote!" someone shouted.
Da said: "Before I put the proposal to a vote, we need to decide when the strike should take place."
Ah, Billy thought, he's not accepting it.
Da went on: "We might consider starting on Monday. Between now and then, while we work on, the threat of a strike might make the directors see sense--and we could get what we want without any loss of earnings."
Da was arguing for postponement as the next best thing, Billy realized.
But Len Griffiths had come to the same conclusion. "May I speak, Mr. Chairman?" he said. Tommy's father had a bald dome with a fringe of black hair, and a black mustache. He stepped forward and stood next to Da, facing the crowd, so that it looked as if the two of them had equal authority. The men went quiet. Len, like Da and Dai Crybaby, was among a handful of people they always heard in respectful silence. "I ask, is it wise to give the company four days' grace? Suppose they don't change their minds--which seems a strong possibility, given how stubborn they have been so far. Then we'll get to Monday with nothing achieved, and the widows will have that much less time left." He raised his voice slightly for rhetorical effect. "I say, comrades: don't give an inch!"
There was a cheer, and Billy joined in.
"Thank you, Len," said Da. "I have two motions on the table, then: Strike tomorrow, or strike Monday. Who else would like to speak?"
Billy watched his father manage the meeting. The next man called was Giuseppe "Joey" Ponti, top soloist with the Aberowen Male Voice Choir, older brother of Billy's schoolmate Johnny. Despite his Italian name, he had been born in Aberowen and spoke with the same accent as every other man in the room. He, too, argued for an immediate strike.
Da then said: "In fairness, may I have a speaker in favor of striking on Monday?"
Billy wondered why Da did not throw his personal authority into the balance. If he argued for Monday he might change their minds. But then, if he failed, he would be in an awkward position, leading a strike that he had argued against. Da was not completely free to say what he felt, Billy realized.
The discussion ranged widely. Coal stocks were high, so the management could hold out; but demand was high too, and they would want to sell while they could. Spring was coming, so miners' families would soon be able to manage without their ration of free coal. The miners' case was well grounded in long-established practise, but the letter of the law was on the management's side.
Da let the discussion run on, and
some of the speeches became tedious. Billy wondered what his father's motivation was, and guessed he was hoping that heads would cool. But in the end he had to put it to the vote.
"First, all those in favor of no strike at all."
A few men raised their hands.
"Next, those in favor of a strike starting Monday."
There was a strong vote for this, but Billy was not sure if it was enough to win. It would depend upon how many men abstained.
"Finally, those in favor of a strike starting tomorrow."
There was a cheer, and a forest of arms waved in the air. There could be no doubt about the result.
"The motion to strike tomorrow is passed," Da said. No one proposed a count.
The meeting broke up. As they went out, Tommy said brightly: "Day off, tomorrow, then."
"Aye," said Billy. "And no money to spend."
{ IV }
The first time Fitz went with a prostitute, he had tried to kiss her--not because he wanted to, but he assumed it was the done thing. "I don't kiss," she had said abruptly in her cockney accent, and after that he had never tried it again. Bing Westhampton said a lot of prostitutes refused to kiss, which was odd, considering what other intimacies they permitted. Perhaps that trivial prohibition preserved a remnant of their dignity.
Girls of Fitz's social class were not supposed to kiss anyone before marriage. They did, of course, but only in rare moments of brief privacy, in a suddenly deserted side room at a ball, or behind a rhododendron bush in a country garden. There was never time for passion to develop.
The only woman Fitz had kissed properly was his wife, Bea. She gave him her body as a cook might present a special cake, fragrant and sugared and beautifully decorated for his enjoyment. She let him do anything, but made no demands. She offered her lips for him to kiss, and opened her mouth to his tongue, but he never felt she was hungry for his touch.
Ethel kissed as if she had one minute left to live.
They stood in the Gardenia Suite, beside the bed covered with its dust sheet, wrapped in each other's arms. She sucked his tongue and bit his lips and licked his throat, and at the same time she stroked his hair, clutched the back of his neck, and thrust her hands under his waistcoat so that she could rub her palms against his chest. When at last they broke apart, out of breath, she put her hands either side of his face, holding his head still, staring at him, and said: "You are so beautiful."
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hands, and she stood in front of him. He knew that some men regularly seduced their servants, but he did not. When he was fifteen he had fallen in love with a parlor maid at the London house: his mother had guessed it within a few days and sacked the girl immediately. His father had smiled and said: "Good choice, though." Since then he had not touched an employee. But he could not resist Ethel.
She said: "Why have you come back? You were expected to stay in London all of May."
"I wanted to see you." He could tell that she found it hard to believe him. "I kept thinking about you, all day, every day, and I just had to come back."
She bent down and kissed him again. Holding the kiss, he slowly fell back on the bed, pulling her with him until she was lying on top of him. She was so slim that she weighed no more than a child. Her hair escaped from its pins and he buried his fingers in her glossy curls.
After a while she rolled off and lay beside him, panting. He leaned on his elbow and looked at her. She had said he was beautiful, but right now she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was mussed, and her red lips were moist and parted. Her dark eyes gazed at him with adoration.
He put his hand on her hip, then stroked her thigh. She covered his hand with her own, holding it still, as if afraid he was going too far. She said: "Why do they call you Fitz? Your name is Edward, isn't it?"
She was talking in an attempt to let their passion cool, he felt sure. "It started at school," he said. "All the boys had nicknames. Then Walter von Ulrich came home with me one vacation, and Maud picked it up from him."
"Before that, what did your parents call you?"
"Teddy."
"Teddy," she said, trying it on her tongue. "I like it better than Fitz."
He started to stroke her thigh again, and this time she let him. Kissing her, he slowly pulled up the long skirt of her black housekeeper's dress. She wore calf-length stockings, and he stroked her bare knees. Above the knee she had long cotton underdrawers. He touched her legs through the cotton, then moved his hand to the fork of her thighs. When he touched her there, she groaned and thrust upward against his hand.
"Take them off," he whispered.
"No!"
He found the drawstring at the waist. It was tied in a bow. He undid the knot with a tug.
She put her hand over his again. "Stop."
"I just want to touch you there."
"I want it more than you do," she said. "But no."
He knelt up on the bed. "We won't do anything you don't want," he said. "I promise." Then he took the waist of her drawers in both hands and ripped the material apart. She gasped with shock, but she did not protest. He lay down again and explored her with his hand. She parted her legs immediately. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing hard, as if she had been running. He guessed that no one had done this to her before, and a faint voice told him he should not take advantage of her innocence, but he was too far gone in desire to listen.
He unbuttoned his trousers and lay on top of her.
"No," she said.
"Please."
"What if I fall for a baby?"
"I'll withdraw before the end."
"Promise?"
"I promise," he said, and he slid inside her.
He felt an obstruction. She was a virgin. His conscience spoke again, and this time its voice was not so faint. He stopped. But now it was she who was too far gone. She grasped his hips and pulled him into her, raising herself slightly at the same time. He felt something break, and she gave a sharp cry of pain, then the obstruction was gone. As he moved in and out, she matched his rhythm eagerly. She opened her eyes and looked at his face. "Oh, Teddy, Teddy," she said, and he saw that she loved him. The thought moved him almost to tears, and at the same time excited him beyond control, and his climax came unexpectedly soon. In desperate haste he withdrew, and spilled his seed on her thigh with a groan of passion mingled with disappointment. She put her hand behind his head and pulled his face to hers, kissing him wildly, then she closed her eyes and gave a small cry that sounded like surprise and pleasure; and then it was over.
I hope I pulled out in time, he thought.
{ V }
Ethel went about her work as usual, but all the time she felt as if she had a secret diamond in her pocket that she could touch from time to time, feeling its slick surfaces and its sharp edges when no one was looking.
In her more sober moments she worried about what this love meant and where it was going, and now and again she was horrified by the thought of what her God-fearing socialist father would think if he found out. But most of the time she just felt as if she was dropping through the air with no way to arrest her fall. She loved the way he walked, the way he smelled, his clothes, his careful good manners, his air of authority. She also loved the way he occasionally looked bewildered. And when he came out of his wife's room with that hurt look on his face, she could cry. She was in love and out of control.
Most days she spoke to him at least once, and they usually managed a few moments alone and a long, yearning kiss. Just kissing him made her wet, and she sometimes had to wash her drawers in the middle of the day. He took other liberties, too, whenever there was a chance, touching her body all over, which made her more excited. Twice more they had been able to meet in the Gardenia Suite and lie on the bed.
One thing puzzled Ethel: both times they had lain together, Fitz had bitten her, quite hard, once on her inner thigh and once on her breast. It had caused her to give a cry of pain, hastily muffled
. The cry seemed to inflame him more. And, although it hurt, at the same time she, too, was aroused by the bite, or at least by the thought that his desire for her was so overwhelming that he was driven to express it that way. She had no idea whether this was normal, and no one she could ask.
But her main worry was that one day Fitz would fail to withdraw at the crucial moment. The tension was so high that it was almost a relief when he and Princess Bea had to go back to London.
Before he went she persuaded him to feed the children of the striking miners. "Not the parents, because you can't be seen to take sides," she said. "Just the little boys and girls. The strike has been on for two weeks now, and they're on starvation rations. It wouldn't cost you much. There would be about five hundred of them, I'd guess. They'd love you for it, Teddy."
"We could put up a marquee on the lawn," he said, lying on the bed in the Gardenia Suite with his trousers unbuttoned and his head in her lap.
"And we can make the food here in the kitchens," Ethel said enthusiastically. "A stew with meat and potatoes in it, and all the bread they can eat."
"And a suet pudding with currants in it, eh?"
Did he love her? she wondered. At that moment, she felt he would have done anything she asked: given her jewels, taken her to Paris, bought her parents a nice house. She did not want any of those things--but what did she want? She did not know, and she refused to let her happiness be blighted by unanswerable questions about the future.
A few days later she stood on the East Lawn at midday on a Saturday, watching the children of Aberowen tuck into their first free dinner. Fitz did not know that this was better food than they got when their fathers were working. Suet pudding with currants, indeed! The parents were not allowed in, but most of the mothers stood outside the gates, watching their lucky offspring. Glancing that way, she saw someone waving at her, and she walked down the drive.
The group at the gate was mostly women: men did not look after children, even during a strike. They gathered around Ethel, looking agitated.