The Rocking Stone

by Jill Rutherford

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  OTHER BOOKS BY JILL RUTHERFORD

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PONTYPRIDD CHRONICLE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  REVIEWS

  THE ROCKING STONE

  Jill Rutherford

  Little Wren Press

  OTHER BOOKS BY JILL RUTHERFORD

  Cherry Blossoms, Sushi and Takarazuka Seven Years in Japan

  Secret Samurai Trilogy

  The Day After I Won the Lottery…and Other Short Stories

  Tama, the Extraordinary Cat

  www.jillrutherford.co.uk

  Published by Little Wren Press 2018

  © Gillian Rutherford 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  Gillian Rutherford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction based on historical fact. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9569679-7-8

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Little Wren Press, 27 Old Gloucester Street,

  London, WC1N 3AX UK

  In memory of my grandparents

  Greatly loved and missed

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With grateful thanks to my critique group:

  Merryn Allingham, Jay Dixon, Clare Flynn, Margaret Kaine

  and to my editor, Jacq Molloy

  PONTYPRIDD CHRONICLE

  23 August, 1973

  BODY FOUND IN WELL

  A skeleton was found this week at the bottom of a disused well on The Graig, Pontypridd. With the remains was a Miners’ Federation Card dated 1934 in the name of Dudley J. Mallow. Anyone who has information about this person is requested to contact the police.

  Kate leans back in her armchair her hand resting on the newspaper. Her mind drifts. How had it come to this?

  CHAPTER ONE

  1906

  I walked down the street to our house. It was hot and I was tired after my day at school and I was dreading seeing Aunty Gladys who would be waiting for me. I couldn’t understand why my lovely, gentle mother had such two awful sisters, and Aunty Gladys was the worst.

  Opening the front door slowly I tried to ignore the staircase rising straight in front of me – and where that led to – and glanced quickly up the dim passageway into our brighter kitchen at the end. It was empty. That was the only room we lived in so I knew my aunty wasn’t here. She’d have been sat at the kitchen table glaring at me through the open door. I sat down at the table and waited. I couldn’t understand it. Either she, or my father if he wasn’t on shift, or my Aunty Irene would always be there to give us our tea when Davy and me came home from school. I’d told them I was old enough to do it, but as Davy was only five, my father insisted on a grown-up being there. But that day, Davy had gone to a friend’s birthday party straight from school.

  As pleased as I was that Aunty Gladys wasn’t there, because she was always nasty to me, I was worried about my mother lying ill upstairs. I knew she was dying because horrible Jane Jones from across the street told me with relish. ‘My mam told me your mam is dying of the consumption’, and she stuck her tongue out at me. She was so spiteful she’d grow up with a wart on the end of her nose. But I wasn’t absolutely certain what dying meant: something about heaven and hell and people disappearing.

  Our dad told us Mam was very ill, but was doing her best to get better and that we should help her all we could. For Davy and me, that meant we had to stay quiet, easier for me than him. I didn’t tell anyone about horrible Jane . . . because, well, maybe my dad didn’t know.

  I sat at the table and took my school book out. We’d been learning about Alfred the Great that afternoon, and I wanted to read more about him, but I could hear my mother coughing and moaning. Where was Aunty? I didn’t like her, but I knew my mother needed her. After about half an hour I decided I had to do something. She was always given her tea when we had ours and she wouldn’t know what was happening. It must be terrible being stuck up there all the time. Me and Davy were not allowed to see her in case we caught the consumption too. I hadn’t seen her for two months and I missed her very much.

  I crept up the narrow staircase, trying not to make too much noise on the bare boards as I knew noise hurt my mother in some way. I was nervous because I hadn’t seen her for so long and I knew I was doing something I shouldn’t. My hand shook as I knocked softly on the bedroom door and waited. I knocked again, louder this time and heard a faint voice. I turned the knob and peeked around to my parents’ bed. It was dark in the room and a horrible, yucky smell hit me. I’d never smelt anything like it before. My mother was propped up on lots of pillows and when she turned her head and looked at me I gasped. Was this my mam? She was so thin and didn’t look pretty anymore. Her lovely long, black hair hung like bits of dirty string. She looked like a ghost and scared me.

  She stared for a while, as if she didn’t recognise me. ‘Kate?’ she whispered. ‘Is that you cariad?’

  ‘Yes, Mam, it’s me.’ My voice shook and it came out as a bit of a squeak, so I took a breath and repeated it. ‘Yes, Mam, it’s me. Would you like a cup of tea?’ Then I added, ‘There’s no one home but me,’ in case she was wondering why I was there.

  There was a pause before she answered and her voice sounded strange, not like my mother’s, and she spoke slowly. ‘Yes, my lovely, and bring one for yourself, let’s have a chat. I haven’t seen you for such a long time.’

  I knew I shouldn’t, but if my mam said it was all right, then it was all right with me. I think she was confused, had forgotten why she didn’t see me and Davy any more, but my mam would never do anything to put me in danger. She loved me more than anything she always told me.

  I made the tea but when I picked up the cups and saucers my hands shook so much I had to put them down again. I was afraid of the woman upstairs who used to be my mother.

  I carried up the cups without their saucers and tip-toed across the floorboards and put them down on the old apple box which was stood on its end next to the bed and used as a table. My mother had made a pretty green cover for it with roses on. She was clever like that. She’d gone to sleep and I stood on the rag rug by the side of the bed and wondered what to do. It was cold in the room, and airless. I looked over at the window wondering whether to open it and saw the curtains tightly closed. I remembered then that light hurt her eyes and because the curtains were so thin, my father had pasted newspaper over the glass to help keep the light out.

  A short while later, her eyes opened and she looked at me with love. I saw my old mother then, the one I knew and loved. ‘Oh, Mam,’ I said.

  She smiled and pulled the bedclothes back, ‘Co
me and cwtch with your mam, Katie love.’

  I climbed into the high bed and tucked myself under my mother’s arm. She didn’t smell too good, like she needed a wash, but I didn’t mind. ‘You know your mother isn’t well right now. I have to speak softly as I haven’t much breath left in my lungs.’

  ‘Yes, Mam, but you’ll get better like I did when I was bad last year. I felt terrible and then I suddenly got better.’

  She chuckled, a small, soft sound. ‘You’re a good girl. You’re probably right. I’ll get better suddenly. But I’m worried about you. Are Dad and Aunty Gladys and Aunty Irene looking after you well?’

  I couldn’t tell her how much I hated her sisters because it would make her worry. ‘Yes, Mam . . . and Davy likes school.’

  ‘That’s good, my lovely, and how are you getting on at school?’

  ‘I like it. That hasn’t changed. I love to learn about new things.’

  ‘Yes, you always were a questioning child,’ she said, smiling.

  I pulled away from her a little and leaned my head against the pillow, turning it so that I could see her face. ‘When you were little, were you good at school?’

  She looked at me, still smiling. ‘Yes, I was. Like you, I loved school. I went until I was eleven.’

  ‘What subject did you like the best?’

  She coughed softly. ‘Reading. I loved books. I used to teach my dad how to read in the evenings. He couldn’t you see, he didn’t have the chance to go to school.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked surprised. ‘Everyone goes to school.’

  ‘Yes, now they do, but then only rich children were taught their lessons. For people like my father . . . well, there were no schools for him to go to.’

  ‘No schools?’ What did they do then? You know, about learning?’

  ‘They didn’t learn, they worked. He had to go out and work in the pit when he was little. She paused and smiled. ‘He used to call me his “miracle girl” because I used to teach him how to read for himself. I taught him until I was fourteen . . . and then everything stopped.’

  I waited for her to continue and then realised she had tears in her eyes. They had looked red and sore before, but now looked even worse. I gave her my hankie and asked, ‘Why did everything stop? Did you live here then?’ I was desperate to know.

  ‘No,’ she sniffed, ‘we lived near the Albion Pit in Cilfynydd, my father worked there you see . . . but it’s almost here isn’t it, only about a twenty minute walk. And our house was just like this one: two rooms up and two down,’ she added in a whisper.

  She started to cough and couldn’t stop. She picked up a bottle with a wide neck and spat into it. It was half full of dark bloody-looking slime and smelt terrible. ‘I’m sorry, Katie love . . . my lungs are full of this awful stuff . . . I have to get it out. It’s horrible I know.’

  Her breathing was strange and I didn’t want her to worry. ‘No. It’s not horrible,’ I said. ‘If it makes you feel better, it’s not horrible.’

  She smiled again. ‘Thank you, lovely, like I said, you’re a good girl.’

  I was desperate for the rest of her story. ‘Think of your pictures, Mam,’ I pointed to the two pictures on the wall opposite the bed. ‘You like those and the sun will make you feel better.’

  She looked over and nodded. ‘I do. I like them very much; and you’re right, they always make me feel better.’

  ‘What country are they again, Mam? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Italy, my lovely,’ she said with a smile. ‘The gardens are in a country called Italy, where the sun always shines.’ She gazed at them for a long time. ‘They’re so beautiful and the sun is so warm looking . . . so different from cold, damp Wales. They belonged to my mother.’

  ‘Where’d she get them from? Can we get more?’

  She chuckled again. ‘I don’t know where she got them, they were always on our wall at home and she gave them to me when I got married. I treasure them.’

  ‘Can we go there, Mam? This . . . Italy . . . you’d get better in all that sun.’

  She smiled. ‘It would be nice wouldn’t it, but it’s not possible right now. Maybe one day you can go. Always have your dreams . . . I had mine. Always have your dreams.’

  I waited as she looked at the pictures, a small smile on her lips. Then, the question I’d been longing to ask, burst out of me. ‘Tell me what happened, why did you stop teaching your dad?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a terrible story. You don’t want to hear about that . . . it’s not for little girls to know.’

  ‘Please, oh please tell me. I’m not so little. I’m eight and a half now.’

  She laughed her soft laugh again, although I couldn’t see why it was so funny. She hesitated and finally said, ‘Well, you will probably marry a collier one day, maybe it is best if you know the worst from your mam.’

  Oh, yes. I wanted to know what the worst was, but I also wanted to stay cwtched up with my mam.

  She looked at me and I could tell she was thinking about it. She asked me to pass her tea and took several small sips before giving the cup back to me. Finally, she said, ‘I think I have enough strength to tell you this story, but I may need to rest from time to time, so you will have to be patient. I’ll whisper, that will help.’

  I nodded and tried not to show my excitement. ‘I don’t mind,’ I said, I just wanted to know the worst, whatever it was.

  She coughed a little and made herself more comfortable. ‘One day,’ she whispered, ‘when I was fourteen, something awful happened in our village. I remember the date very well. It was Saturday 23rd June, 1894, just before four-o’ clock in the afternoon.

  ‘It was stuffy in our front room, so I opened the window to let in some fresh air. While I was standing there taking a few deep breaths, I felt a strange juddering, as if our house was shaking . . . and then . . . there was a huge explosion, and then another straight after.’ She stared into space. I was afraid to say anything or move, so I just waited. ‘It was so powerful, so big and out of place . . . people in the street stopped talking, their babies stopped crying . . . I swear even the birds stopped singing. I couldn’t breathe. I remember that, not being able to draw breath. It must have been only for a few seconds, but seemed endless . . . and then life came back in a mad frenzy with colliers running from their houses. Our street overlooked the pit and the sight I saw will never leave me.’

  She started to breathe in short, shallow breaths. ‘The top . . . the top of the pit . . . had been blown to pieces with bits of it floating in the air . . . as if wood were matchsticks and iron as light as cotton. The men ran pell-mell down our street. Most of them had hob-nail boots on and I can’t get the sound of them out of my mind . . . even now, the sound of hob-nails puts fear into me.’ She breathed noisily and I waited, although it was hard to keep questions from popping out of my mouth. I bit my lip to keep quiet.

  ‘I stood there, unable to move as I watched them. Then the women came rushing out, all running as fast as they could, but I still couldn’t move.’ She stared into space for a long time and I took her hand and squeezed it, she didn’t notice.

  ‘My sisters . . . my sisters came into the room. “Come, we have to get to the pit”, they said. When I didn’t move they pulled me out of the room and I saw my mother standing there, white faced and shocked. I came to my senses then and we all ran out of the house and down the street to the pit trying to avoid others doing the same. For you see . . . you see, cariad,’ she took a shuddering breath, ‘our dad was working in the pit that day.’

  I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent, clutching the bedclothes for support as my mother seemed to be back in that other world I wanted to know so much about.

  ‘It was the silence I remember the most. The pit was covered in coal dust. It was still falling when we got there, like black rain. And the . . . the smell of it turned my stomach . . . a burnt, damp, sludgy smell that I’ll never forget. I still can’t burn small coal, the smell is the same; I’d rather be cold.’
She shivered.

  I couldn’t hold my curiosity in any longer. ‘What happened then? Did you find your dad?’

  She closed her eyes and got lost in that other world again. ‘No,’ she finally said, ‘it was days before we found him . . . it was the worst pit accident anyone had ever known . . . two hundred and ninety men died that day and my dad was one of them.’ She wiped her tears with my hankie.

  ‘What happened then, Mam?’

  ‘Oh, it was awful . . . so many people rushed there we had to be divided up. The relatives were allowed on the pit grounds, near the two shafts –’ she looked down at me and said so quietly I almost didn’t hear – ‘that’s where the men would be brought back up. The rest of the people had to wait outside the fence.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘There was nothing we could do except wait. It was awful, that waiting. People were crying,’ she looked into the space in front of her, breathing short breaths, I waited. ‘We took our lead from our mother and stayed silent. We kept our feelings under control. It was the way my mother coped . . . with things.’

  She wiped her tears as she got lost again in that other world.

  ‘There was a lot of smoke coming up from the shafts – horrible, thick smoke that almost choked us.’ She shook her head from side to side. ‘We had to wait for the smoke to stop before anyone could go down . . . it felt like a lifetime.’

  She wiped her nose slowly and her breathing was noisy. ‘But never mind about that, my lovely, people were very kind and women brought us tea and cake and bread. I remember that . . . the kindness of those women. But we couldn’t eat or drink anything. Finally, a couple of men were brought up and they were alive. A puff of hope went around us, but the men died a short time later. Then a boy was brought up and the doctor said he would live. Another surge of hope went round.’