‘Good, all the more for me then. You’ll do as I tell you, now hurry up and get that rabbit ready for the pot. If you cut its head off first, it wouldn’t be so pretty.’
‘I can’t, Alice,’ I said horrified. ‘I can’t cut if off.’
‘Why not? It’s only a stupid rabbit!’
‘Please cut if off for me . . . please.’ I wiped my nose again and she looked at me with disgust.
‘You’ll do as I tell you and if you don’t, I’ll tell my mother and she’ll lock you up again. You don’t want that do you?’
‘Please, Alice. Please don’t tell her. I’ll cut it off, but don’t tell her.’ The fear of being locked in the shed again was worse than cutting off the head of the rabbit. The shed was cold and dark and full of bits of wood, sacking and newspapers waiting to be cut up for the privy. But the worst were the spiders, beetles and rats. The rats came in at night via the gaps and walked over me in the darkness. Some even nibbled at my flesh. If I screamed, no one came, but I screamed nonetheless as I hit out at them.
I lifted the knife and took aim at the rabbit’s neck, but I couldn’t look and closed my eyes as I brought the knife down with as much force as I could. But it was not enough to get through the poor thing’s neck. Some of the blood shot upwards and hit Alice in the face. In a temper, she hit me as I was bringing the knife down again, eyes closed and somehow, Alice hit the knife from my hand and accidentally cut her arm. It was a bad cut and she screamed that I had tried to murder her. Aunty Gladys came running downstairs, saw all the blood, and believed Alice’s story.
I was locked in the shed for two days without food or water and I don’t think they would have cared if I’d died. But Davy did and he slipped me a piece of bread under the door but was caught and put in the shed with me. I was weak from hunger and thirst. I was so glad to have Davy with me, but sad for him. After he’d finished crying at the injustice of being locked in for his kindness, he encouraged me to think of nice things and we sang nursery songs and made up our own about toys and flowers; Davy loved flowers. He always had a good imagination. I don’t know what I would have done without him.
It rained on and off and Davy and I cupped our hands under leaks in the roof and drank the water. It was slow work, but we had nothing else to do. Davy and I grew even closer during this time and he had a maturity beyond his years. I worried that he would not enjoy the rest of his childhood. He was too young to remember much about his life with our mother before she was ill and I was determined those aunts would not destroy him. Also, I was not going to let them destroy me. Each handful of rain, each raindrop I drank, settled in me and turned to steel. I was determined to live and survive this, just to spite them. They were my family and all I had, but I hated them.
I suppose it wasn’t fair on them either. My aunts had lots of children of their own and didn’t have enough money to feed them properly. Aunty Gladys had seven and was pregnant again. Aunty Irene had eight, the last two being twins. Life was hard.
The last thing they wanted was us. But it was expected of them, you looked after your own. If they didn’t, it was the workhouse for Davy and me, and the shame that would bring on the family spurred them on to accept us into their homes, but my aunts and uncles couldn’t gather enough goodwill to show us simple kindness.
When we went to school, Aunty Gladys would kiss all her kids as they went out the door, like a ritual, but she never kissed me. I made like it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered like hell.
I went to school and learned about Boadicea. I cemented that warrior Queen into my soul and her strength kept me strong. Her story of the battles she won against the Romans inspired me. I clung to her image, afraid that if I let go I’d be swept away by my family’s cruelty.
Davy was luckier. Our father must have become aware of our situation and after about a year he managed to find a widow with no children to take in one of us for a fee. But she couldn’t cope with two children, she said. Of course, our dad chose the boy to get the best treatment and Davy went to live with Mrs Dawson. I was left to my relatives.
But that’s not being fair on my father. He did his best and worked hard but I knew he didn’t have the money to pay for both of us. The life of a miner was a poor life. I never stopped loving him. None of this was his fault.
‘How are you Katie, bach?’ he’d ask when we saw each other.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Dad,’ I’d say. Just that. And he accepted it. I didn’t want to worry him or risk complaining. He might stop liking me.
My father met us every Sunday afternoon at Davy’s lodgings. Mrs Dawson always gave us bread and butter and tea, and once a month, we had cake too. Those meetings kept the hope alive in me that I could have a better life, like the one I’d had before. Then, one fateful day over our tea, when I was twelve, my father cleared his throat and directed his voice towards the tablecloth. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ He glanced up at us and then back to the white, clean tablecloth with the yellow roses embroidered onto it. He fixed his eyes on a rose. ‘This is difficult for me to talk about.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I’m not one to talk about my feelings.’ He fiddled with the spoon on his saucer. ‘I know,’ he said, still talking to the rose, ‘you loved your mother very much. I did too. No one can take her place.’
He wiped some tears with the back of his hand. ‘But it’s been four years since she went to that better place in heaven . . . and . . . well . . .’ He cleared his throat again and said, very fast, ‘How would you feel if I got married again and you had a new mother?’ He looked at us then, his eyes pleading. ‘We could all live together again, you know, not like before, nothing can be like before, but well, it would be better than this, don’t you think?’
I felt hope surge through me. Could this really be happening? I could leave the aunties? Davy jumped up and shouted, ‘Yessss! Yes, yes, yes.’ It was so unlike him for he was usually so quiet.
I’d learned that hope is always taken away, so I held myself back, but of course, I wanted it as much as Davy, anything to leave the aunties and live with my father again.
‘Is she nice, Dad? I asked. ‘Who is she? Do we know her?’
‘You don’t know her, cariad, her name is Miss Mason. Miss Anne Mason and she’s from Tonypandy. She’s a very nice woman. Would you like to meet her? We can meet next Sunday afternoon if you like?’
Hope surged in me again. My excitement bubbled over and I laughed. ‘Does she have a family, Dad? Did her husband die?’ I wanted to know everything about this woman who could be my saviour.
‘No, Katie love, she’s never been married before, but she’s looked after her elderly parents for years.’
‘Will they come and live with us too?’ I asked, feeling worried about living with strange old folk.
‘No, they died last year, and then we met and . . . well, liked each other. I hope, well, I hope you will like her too.’
‘Oh, Dad,’ I said, laughing again. ‘If you like her, then so shall we.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Davy agreed, ‘if you like her, so shall we.’
And that’s how it happened. How my life changed from one of misery to one of joy. Aunty Annie, as we called her, was a big, plain woman who had laughing eyes and a bun at the back of her head. Her thick brown hair was her crowning glory and I liked her and grew to love her. I was saved by her and became human again.
CHAPTER THREE
After they married, my father rented a terraced house in a street near his pit, it saved on bus and train fares. The house had running water out the back near the privy, and Aunty Annie emptied the chamber pots. When I offered to do it, eager to be in her good books, she said, ‘You’re too young for such a horrible job, Katie dear, your time will come soon enough when you’ll have to do it and you’ll hate the sight of them.’ I could have kissed her – and did.
She took over the running of the house and refused to let me help with any housework. I think she must have guessed how I was treated because she was always cold
to my relatives. But I wanted to help her and it made me feel wanted. I so desperately wanted to be wanted. She was a wise woman and could see my need and gave me some easy jobs to do. Washing up, sweeping the front and back and making her a nice cup of tea when I came in from school. Minor things, so different from before, but they made me feel useful. Sometimes she’d ask me to help her with something and Davy would jump up and say he’d do it. Bless him. He used to say, ‘You’ve done enough, Kate. I’ll do this.’ He might only have been nine years old, but he had an old head on his shoulders and it was his way of showing me his love. I felt blessed.
We hadn’t been long together when Aunty Annie asked me a question. We were sat at the kitchen table, just the two of us, drinking a cup of tea. ‘Will you come to church with me every Sunday, Kate? I know your father and Davy are not keen on going, but it’s been my life, and I’d like you to have the benefit of the Church behind you.’
‘Oh, yes please, Aunty,’ I said. I was so happy to be included in her life I didn’t care what we did. I began to love Sundays and my time at church. It was a refuge to me, something that took me out of ordinary life and into a promise of something better. The minister told us that God would look after us if we looked after him. If we were good and true, nothing could harm us. I believed it absolutely.
Aunty Annie was a great reader and belonged to the library. One day, as we were drinking some tea, she noticed me glancing towards her books which were piled up on the edge of the table. ‘Do you like books? She asked.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I stammered.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? she asked, softly.
‘Well, I’ve never read one, not a real book I mean. Just the bits of books we read together in school . . . and then . . . well . . .’
She remained silent, waiting.
I took a deep breath, ashamed. ‘I can’t read them very well. I . . . I get lost . . . don’t know how to read some words.’
‘You can’t read?’ Her voice was so soft I hardly heard it.
‘Y . . . yes, I can – a bit – but not as well as some of the others in my class.’
I could see she was horrified and I felt more ashamed and hung my head.
‘Why can’t you read well?’ she asked as she leaned towards me and put her hand over mine. ‘What happened? she asked ever so softly. ‘Don’t you learn at school? You’re twelve now, you should be reading quite well.’
My mouth went dry. ‘I think . . . well . . . I did read well, Aunty, when I was younger. We read together at school and I liked it.’
‘Did you read with your Mam?’
I shook my head. ‘No, my Mam ‘nor Dad never read anything . . . but Mam, well, she used to tell me and Davy lots of stories she made up. We had lots of fun doing that.’
‘Yes, I see,’ she said slowly. Your Mam was a good woman; I can see that, Katie love. And if you read well when you were younger, that means you stopped learning after your mam died, is that right, lovely?’
I thought for a moment and nodded. ‘I suppose so.’ I felt a few tears prick at the back of my eyes.
‘So why do you think that was?’ she asked as she squeezed my hand gently.
I shrugged, and Aunty didn’t say anything, just looked at me kindly. I had to tell her the truth. ‘I . . . I think it was because I was too tired to concentrate. I loved school, I really did, Aunty, but . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about food as my belly rumbled and I was cold an’ tired an’ miserable.’
It was all too much for me, her sympathy and compassion, it was something I was not used to and it tore at my deep inner fears. I couldn’t stop the tears and she moved her chair next to mine and took me in her soft arms and hugged me close.
‘Come and cwtch,’ she said just like my mother used to. ‘Come and cwtch, my lovely, there’s a good girl, let your Aunty Annie take away the pain. I’m bigger than you and very strong, give your sadness to me and I can throw it away. We don’t need it do we?’
I loved her more than I thought possible – almost as much as my mam.
We were silent for a while. ‘I think it’s time to enrol you in the library. Would you like that?’
She was still cwtching me and I had a job to contain the excitement that surged up. I wanted to jump up for joy, but knew I would be disappointed, like always, so I squashed my hopes down. ‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly, looking at the table, embarrassed and uncertain. ‘It’s . . .’ I looked at the table again, afraid to speak.
‘What is it, my lovely?’ she asked, stroking my hair in that reassuring way she had. ‘Tell your aunty.’
My heart was beating hard. ‘Well,’ I forced out, ‘it’s very posh . . . only very clever people go there.’
There was a pause. ‘Who told you that, lovely? That’s not true. Look at me. I belong to the library. And I’m not posh am I?’
‘No, but you were a teacher and you’re very clever,’ I blurted out.
She laughed. ‘Thank you, Katie. It’s true that I was a teacher before I had to look after my parents, but if you think I’m clever then I think you are too. So we’re even. Tell me true now, I don’t want to force you to do things, but would you like to join the library and read books at home? There are lots of different kinds of books . . . different worlds and thoughts, different lives. I’ll help you with your reading. You’ll come on in no time. What do you think?’
I could hardly breathe. ‘Is it possible?’ I whispered.
She smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, of course – if you want it.’
‘Really?’ Tears filled my eyes.
She stroked my hair again. ‘What else is the matter?’
I was so afraid of her answer I breathed deeply to gain courage. ‘The . . . the library building is so posh, the poshest in Ponty . . . can . . . can someone like me really go there?’
Aunty didn’t say anything so I risked a peek at her. She was looking at me in a different way. ‘What did those awful relatives do to you?’ she said, more to herself, than to me. Then her looked changed and she took my face in her hands and smiled at me. ‘Yes, my lovely girl, you more than anyone else in the whole of Ponty deserves to and can join the library. They will welcome you with open arms.’
So, we went to the library; such a simple thing. Aunty filled in the form for me and signed it and I was given three tickets with my name on. I felt very important, but couldn’t take my eyes off the woman behind the counter who looked very severe and wore such good clothes she frightened me. But Aunty Annie told me I was just as good as her and not to worry. We would work on my reading until I was so good, I could enter the library with pride.
We started the reading lessons in the evenings with the books she chose for me. Treasure Island, Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Little Women. Oh, the magic of them. New worlds opened up. They were my escape. I even read about my saviour, Boadicea and confirmed my warrior queen image of myself. But whereas she was strong and confident when under duress, I went quiet and withdrawn. But inside, like her, I was strong. Those aunties had tried to break my spirit, but with the help of Boadicea and Aunty Annie, they wouldn’t succeed. If anything upset me, I’d stab it to death with my sword.
I made great progress in school after this and always had my head in a book. My reading had caught up with the others and I enjoyed school once again. Davy, however, was having trouble. He was an intelligent boy but didn’t seem to be making a lot of progress.
Over breakfast one morning as I ate my bread and dripping, reading my latest book, Dad asked him, ‘Why don’t you read books like Kate does? It might put a smile on your face.’
‘I hate school. I’m not going,’ he grumbled.
‘You’ll go and do as your told,’ dad said in his no-nonsense voice that we knew we had to obey.
But Davy persisted. ‘But why do I have to go? I don’t learn anything.’
Aunty Annie and I looked at each other, but didn’t say anything. ‘What do you mean you don’t learn anything?’ dad asked mor
e gently. ‘Come on now, mun, tell your dad. What’s happening at that school?’
Davy put his head down and nibbled on his bread, looking miserable. Aunty Annie put her hand on our father’s shoulder. ‘Matt,’ she said, ‘I’ll take Davy to school this morning and have a word with his teacher. Maybe we can understand more after that.’
‘No!’ Davy jumped up. ‘No, don’t come with me. I’ll go. I’ll go now. I didn’t mean it. I love school really.’
We looked at each other in amazement as he shot out of the door, picking up his jacket as he flew past us.
‘I’ll go and see his teacher after school,’ Aunty Annie said. ‘There’s something not right.’
‘He’s being bullied,’ dad said. ‘I’ll bet that’s it. Boys will be boys you know. It happened to me too. Tell you what, I’ll teach him to fight. It’s about time he knew how to take care of himself.’
‘Well, let’s just wait, Matt, until I’ve seen his teacher.’
‘What about you, Kate, have you seen him being bullied?’
‘No, Dad, I’d have said something if I had. He’s not popular I know that much, he has one friend he plays with, but Davy’s a quiet boy. He doesn’t mix well.’
‘And how about you, lovely?’ Aunty Annie asked. ‘How do you get on with your clasmates? You always tell me you’re happy at school now.’
‘I am, Aunty,’ I said quickly. ‘I love learning and school. The others call me a swot, and sometimes they tease me, but I stick my tongue out at them and tell them they’re just jealous. They usually leave me alone.’
Dad nodded. ‘Mm, I suppose girls are not as nasty as boys can be.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Aunty Annie said. ‘I was a teacher, remember? Girls can be just as horrible as boys.’ She pulled a face and we all laughed.
‘But seriously, you are all right at school? No one is bullying you?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve got my friends.’ I smiled. ‘I’m fine, Aunty.’
The Rocking Stone Page 3