‘Now, I’m sure that you promised Mrs Hardy you’d do the best for the little ones. But you heard the doctor the same as me. They need more care than you can give them at present.’
Sali thought rapidly. Lloyd wasn’t one to turn his back on anyone in real need and the house next door was practically fully furnished. If she could persuade him to give it to Mr Hardy, she would make sure that the Hardy children received as much attention, food and medicine as they would in the Infirmary ...
‘You can’t feed all the hungry children in the valley, no more than you can help every destitute family, Mrs Jones.’ Beryl had lifted the blanket and was watching her. ‘I could tell from the expression on your face that you’re thinking of taking in the children. Don’t! Better the parish go broke trying to look after everyone who is living below the breadline. Then management will have to give in to the strikers’ demands. That’s what my Alun says. And once the pit reopens, Mark Hardy will have a wage coming in so he’ll be able to furnish the house and get the children back.’ Beryl set the bowl of warm water she had brought on the floor and unbuttoned Lucy’s nightdress.
‘And who’s going to look after the children while he’s at work?’ Sali took a flannel from the bowl, wrung it out and rubbed soap on to it.
‘Why me, of course. The couple of shillings a widower pays out to have his children cared for can come in handy. I looked after Bert Rees’s two until he decided that, strike or no strike, he was better off back labouring on his father’s farm in Carmarthen.’ She removed the nightdress from the corpse, took the flannel from Sali and began washing Lucy.
‘He left a family farm to become a miner?’ Sali asked in surprise.
‘Tenanted farm. If you ask me he’s a fool. Tenants have even less rights than colliers.’
When Beryl had finished washing the body, Sali replaced the flannel in the tin bowl. She looked around for somewhere dry to put the soap and balanced it on the window sill.
‘Poor thing only has the nightgown she was wearing,’ Beryl commented.
Sali straightened her back. ‘I’ll go up to the house and get a clean one of mine.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I have too many,’ Sali lied.
‘And you haven’t hocked them?’ Beryl asked suspiciously.
‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ Sali moved the curtain aside. Mark was still slumped with his back to the wall; his head buried in his hands. Father Kelly shook his head as she approached, but ignoring the priest’s warning she crouched down beside him. ‘Mr Hardy?’ She touched his hand.
He looked at her and she recoiled from the naked pain in his eyes.
‘I know someone who owns a house. It’s empty and furnished. I could ask if you could have it. You wouldn’t have to pay rent until the strike ends -’
‘No!’ Mark’s features contorted in hatred. ‘You’d like to see me grovel, wouldn’t you, bitch? But I’ll take no bloody charity, not from you, nor from anyone.’ He grabbed one of his small daughters. Terrified by his outburst, she tried to wriggle free but he held her fast. ‘I know who you are. You’re Billy Evans’ housekeeper. He and his cronies organized this bloody strike and this,’ he waved his hand in the direction of the curtain, ‘is the result. Women and children starving to death for his damned politics.’ Tears poured unchecked down Mark’s face but he continued to yell at her. ‘You and that damned priest have done enough charitable deeds here today. Does it make you feel good, dishing out crumbs to the poor? Is it enough to buy you a place in heaven? My poor Lucy didn’t deserve to starve to death, nor did my two babies.’ He broke down and began to sob. ‘Get out!’ He rose clumsily to his feet and pushed her towards the door. ‘I’ll look after my own. And I don’t need help from no bloody priest or do-gooder.’
Sali opened the door and fled across the square as fast as her legs could carry her.
Dressed in a green canvas overall that Mrs Palmer had given her to do the ‘dirty work’, her red-gold curls hidden beneath a matching dust cap, Megan waited for Lena to open the door of a bedroom on the first floor of the lodging house. Lena picked up the two empty slop buckets she’d carried upstairs and walked in, Megan tightened her grip on the brush and dustpan she was holding and prepared to follow, but she halted, overcome by the stench that wafted out to greet them.
Even from the doorway, Megan could see that the chamber pots under the double bed and two singles were full to the point of overflowing; the pillowcases were stained with greasy patches of hair pomade, the sheets smudged with bootblack. Piles of soiled shirts, drawers, combinations and socks cascaded from a laundry bag that hung from a hook on the wall next to the wardrobe. Both washstands were filthy, encrusted with dried soap thick with hairs. The washing bowls were brimming with grey, scummy water. The soap in the dishes had melted into pools of jellied fat. Wet towels were draped over the beds and the floor, spreading water stains on the blankets and floorboards. Books, magazines, playing cards, sock suspenders and, to Megan’s embarrassment, postcards of girls dressed in feathers and beads and not much else, were scattered over every surface.
‘This is disgusting!’ After cleaning up after her uncle and his brothers for almost six years, Megan had no illusions about bachelors’ habits. But no matter how tired, or drunk, they’d been, her uncle and his brothers had always made their way down to the outside ty bach at night and the only chamber pots she’d had to empty had been Daisy’s and Sam’s, and not even Sam’s since his fifth birthday. Picking her way carefully around the mess, she went to the windows and lifted both casements as high as they would go. Glacial air blasted into the room, along with rain, and smuts from the neighbouring chimneys.
‘The worst is when they tip the chamber pots over or throw their clothes into them.’ Lena lifted the lid on the slop pail and emptied a wash bowl into it.
Steeling herself, Megan slid a chamber pot out from beneath a bed and emptied it into the second pail. When the chamber pots and toilet china were empty, she replaced the lids on the slop buckets and helped Lena haul them outside the door.
‘Mrs Palmer and I usually take those straight downstairs and tip them in the outside ty bach before bringing up clean water for the jugs and cleaning,’ Lena said diffidently.
‘I can carry them myself. You make a start on stripping the beds.’
‘Oh no you don’t. Never alone in the bedrooms, Megan, remember.’ Mrs Palmer walked up the stairs towards them.
‘Sorry, I forgot, Mrs Palmer,’ Megan apologized.
‘Don’t again.’ Joyce handed Megan a key. ‘To the linen cupboard. I meant to give it to you before you came up. The soiled linen for the laundry goes in the small storeroom next to the scullery. Lena will show you where it is.’
‘Yes, Mrs Palmer.’ Lena smiled, pleased to be given the responsibility.
‘I overheard you complain about the state of the room.’
‘It’s a disgusting mess, Mrs Palmer,’ Megan reiterated.
Joyce peered around the door. ‘It’s about average. In my experience single men who live in lodging houses fall into three categories: thoughtful, thoughtless and downright filthy. If you stay in the business you’ll find all three in every walk of life. Police officers and colliers may be at odds in Tonypandy now, but I’ve seen men in both jobs who live like pigs and that’s probably an insult to pigs. Here, Lena, you take Megan up and show her where the bed linen and towels are kept while I gather this laundry ready to take downstairs.’
Sali knocked on the door of the hut. Father Kelly opened it and she looked cautiously inside. There was no sign of the children or Mark Hardy.
‘I’ve brought a nightdress for Mrs Hardy.’ She held out a brown paper bag.
‘Come in.’ Father Kelly closed the door behind her and they walked to the stove. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come back but I’m glad you did. You do know that Mr Hardy didn’t mean those dreadful things he said to you?’
‘I know how it feels to lose someone you love.’ Sali thoug
ht of her own father and Harry’s father, Mansel, who had been murdered by Owen Bull before he could marry her. ‘How you can feel so angry and bitter, you want to lash out at the world.’
‘And I’m sure that’s all Mark Hardy was doing, God bless him.’ Father Kelly crossed himself.
‘Have the children gone to the workhouse?’ Sali didn’t want to discuss Mark Hardy’s outburst. She had run from the hut with his shouts ringing in her ears and hadn’t stopped shaking until she’d reached her own kitchen. Glad that no one had been at home to see her, it had taken her half an hour to compose herself and another ten minutes to find the nightdress and brace herself to return.
‘They left a few minutes after you. The doctor sent the ambulance for them. Mrs Richards’ husband, Alun, and a couple of the other men came round and took Mr Hardy off to the Pandy for a wake, although given that none of them have two farthings to rub together it’s anyone’s guess as to what they’ll be drinking. Mrs Richards went to her neighbour’s to feed her twins. I offered to stay in case the undertaker arrives with the coffin before she gets back.’ He took the bag containing the nightdress from Sali. ‘I’ll give this to her.’
‘I could wait.’
‘One of us should be at the soup kitchen.’
‘Then I’ll go.’ Sali took his hint. The priest was telling her to leave as tactfully as he knew how, and she was no more anxious to see Mark Hardy again than, she suspected, he was her.
‘You know how the food stocks have a habit of disappearing if one of us isn’t around to keep a close eye. Not that anyone ever takes more than a handful of vegetables or a few slices of bread. It’s just that the “handfuls” mount up.’
‘I’ll make sure that the food is eaten in the hall, apart from the jugs of soup and slices of bread that are bought by families or sent out to the sick.’
‘I’ll be up as soon as Mrs Richards comes back.’ Father Kelly patted Sali’s arm as he walked her to the door. ‘If you’re needed here again I’ll send for you.’
‘I won’t be,’ she said unequivocally. ‘Mr Hardy is best left with people he knows.’
‘If I can arrange an emergency meeting of the Distress Committee to make sure nothing like this happens again while the strike is on, you’ll come?’
Sali opened the door. ‘I’ll be there.’
The atmosphere in the foyer of the Empire Theatre was electric with tension. Luke Thomas and the men he’d recruited to stop Abel Adams and the Winter brothers from reaching the pithead, had sought out and confronted Billy Evans with their version of the morning’s events. Luke had demanded the strike committee set up an official picket line to stop the men he considered blacklegs from trying to reach the pit again the following morning.
Victor, Lloyd, Ned Morgan and half a dozen members of the committee were standing behind Billy. And although Billy was doing his best to remain calm, Luke wasn’t the only man on the brink of losing his temper.
‘First it was the pit ponies,’ Luke ranted. ‘Management moved the lot of them into the colliery most prone to flooding just to get public sympathy. We offered to go in and bring them up and what do the press report? The miners won’t allow management in to feed the animals, they’d rather see them starve to death.’
‘The ponies are all up now,’ Billy interrupted, ‘so what’s your point, Luke?’
‘The point is, you didn’t see that we got credit for allowing management to bring them up.’ Luke paused for the men standing behind him to nod a noisy agreement. ‘You did sod all while the newspapers painted us as drunken, greedy, callous brutes, who were prepared to let dumb beasts starve to death to get ourselves fatter wage packets to spend on beer.’
‘I can’t control the press, Luke.’
‘You can’t control any bloody thing, Billy!’ Luke exclaimed. ‘You and your strike committee allowed management to bring in men to do “essential maintenance” And look what’s happened? The bastard blacklegs are doing us out of our jobs by cutting coal.’
‘Abel said he was only cutting coal to fuel the engines that drive the pumps.’ Following his father’s example, Victor lowered his voice in an attempt to defuse Luke’s anger.
‘Abel’s a bloody liar,’ bellowed one of Luke’s men.
‘The more we cave in to management’s demands, the more unreasonable they tell the world we are,’ Luke raged. ‘Leonard Llewellyn goes down to feed the horses and rescue a stray cat and he gets hailed as a hero -’
‘We have to keep talking to management and we have to work with them to ensure the pits remain in good condition,’ Billy countered firmly. ‘And that means allowing men in to do essential maintenance.’
‘Why?’ Luke demanded. ‘The more work management’s bloody blackleg lackeys do, the less urgency there’ll be for the owners to negotiate with us. We want an end to this strike. The men are sick of it.’
‘We are all sick of it.’ Lloyd’s patience was at an end, particularly with Joey after hearing Victor’s account of the part he’d played on Luke’s unofficial picket line that morning. ‘But we have to allow overmen and firemen in to do essential maintenance or the pits will flood.’
‘And their idea of essential maintenance is to set the blacklegs to cut coal,’ Luke bit back.
‘I’ll set up another meeting with management -’
‘The time for talking is over, Billy,’ Luke roared, oblivious to the men around him glancing over their shoulders towards the doorway.
‘Joseph James Evans.’
Joey took one look at Sergeant Martin flanked by a dozen constables and didn’t attempt to deny his identity. ‘Yes.’
‘Luke Matthew Thomas?’
‘Who wants to know?’ Luke retorted belligerently.
‘The law,’ Sergeant Martin barked.
‘I’m Luke Thomas, so go on, arrest me,’ Luke challenged. Folding his arms across his chest, he glared defiantly at the sergeant and the officers ranged behind him.
‘All in good time.’ The sergeant turned to Victor.
‘Victor Sebastian Evans?’
Victor cringed as he always did whenever he heard his full name. Grateful, nevertheless, that his father had persuaded his mother to relegate Sebastian to his second name, he answered, ‘Yes.’
‘I am arresting all three of you on the charge of intimidating officials employed by the Glamorgan Colliery with the intent of preventing them from carrying out their lawful employment. If you gentlemen would come with me.’
‘The hell we will,’ Luke shouted to the cheers of his supporters.
The sergeant moved close to Luke and murmured, ‘There are two ways of doing this, Mr Thomas. You can come along quietly and calmly of your own free will, or we can make you.’
Billy nodded to Victor and Joey. ‘Go. I’ll get the Federation solicitor to the police station as soon as I can.’
Lloyd clenched his fists until his finger joints showed white, but he watched impassively while the sergeant and his escort marched Victor, Joey and Luke out through the door.
‘Abel’s a reasonable man. I’ll have a word with him and see if I can get him to drop the charges.’ Billy ran his hands through his thick grey hair.
‘It won’t do any good.’ Lloyd went to the door, and watched the police push his brothers and Luke Thomas through a crowd who cheered the prisoners and spat on the officers. ‘I doubt that it’s Abel and the Winter boys who are bringing the charges. It’s management, and they’ve primed the police to do their dirty work for them. They are going for the easy targets first and loud-mouthed idiots like Luke are a gift.’
‘And your brothers? Are you saying that they are out of control?’
‘They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Lloyd looked his father in the eye. ‘You do realize that no matter how hard every member of the strike committee tries to live by the letter of the law, we’ll be the next to be arrested. And, if they’ve made a list, you can bet your last farthing that you and I are at the top.’
Chapter Six
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It took an hour and a half of Lena’s and Megan’s time to clean the bedroom to Megan’s satisfaction. When they finished, the china toilet sets and marble surfaces of the washstands gleamed, as did the furniture Megan had asked Lena to polish with beeswax. The beds were made with fresh linen. The toilet jugs held clean water and Lena had laid out the men’s shaving apparatus neatly next to the shaving mugs on the washstands. The room was icy but the nauseating stench had dissipated.
Megan picked up the brush, dustpan and cleaning cloths. She left them on the landing while she and Lena lugged the heavy slop pails downstairs and emptied them down the toilet in the yard. They returned upstairs with clean water and Megan consulted the list. But after two months in the lodging house Lena knew the routine by heart.
‘Sergeant Martin’s room is next. All we have to do then is make the beds and tidy the others in between the officers’ shifts.’ Lena opened the door next to the room they had cleaned. To Megan’s relief it held a single bed and, in comparison with the first room, it was pristine.
The sheets and blankets had been folded back to the foot of the bed to air it, and although the linen was down for changing, it was unstained. The chamber pot was mercifully empty, and even the washstand didn’t need more than a quick wipe down to mop up water splashes. A shaving mug, cut-throat razor, nail brush, boxed set of tortoiseshell hair brushes, jar of pomade, toothbrush, glass and toothpowder, soap in a clean dish, manicure set and large bottle of cologne were arranged with regimental precision on the marble surface next to the toilet set.
The slop pail held dirty washing water, the bowl had been wiped out, the linen bag that hung on the-door knob outside the wardrobe was full of neatly folded clothes for the laundry. Megan looked around; unlike the other room there wasn’t a single photograph, letter or even magazine to be seen.
‘The sergeant’s a tidy man,’ Lena commented superfluously.
‘So I see.’
‘It usually takes Mrs Palmer and me less than half an hour to do his room.’
Winners and Losers Page 10