It was not done for a girl to make the first move, or even be out for too long a time with a young man, a young man who hadn’t even been courting her, a young man who had hardly said two words to her, let alone one with the reputation of Hugh Jones. They said not a word – he just sat there and she lay back with the crown of cornflowers on her head. Her hands were at her sides and she could feel the cool grass between her fingers. She began to wonder if he would speak at all, or if he would just get up and walk away. When she opened her eyes he was leaning up on one elbow, staring into her face.
She smiled, but he continued to stare as he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. Still keeping his distance from her, his huge hand covered hers completely . . . then he lay back and closed his eyes, holding her hand tight. Mary raised herself on her elbow and looked at his handsome face. His hair was a thick, curly mane, blond, yet his eyelashes were almost black. She bent closer and closer, and in one sudden move he pulled her on top of him, held her face and kissed her. She had expected him to be rough, to kiss her like Joe Scuttles had when he grabbed her on New Year’s Eve. Hugh’s kiss was sweeter, and so gentle her body ached to pull him tighter to her. He laughed, his eyes twinkled, and the dimple in his chin deepened. Then he stood up, scooping her in his arms and carried her to the steep drop of the mountainside and she clung to him. She knew he was teasing, but he took her closer and closer to the precipice.
‘Marry me, Mary, or I’ll throw you over the mountainside, because if you don’t I’ll not let another man touch thee. You belong to me.’
Mary clung to him, burying her face in his big, broad shoulder and kissed his neck. There had been no need to speak of love, no courtship, no arguments with the families. They were destined for each other.
The village said that Mary had tamed the wild lion. Stories of what Hugh Jones had been up to, and with whom, were passed around and several girls wept themselves into puffy, red-eyed misery. The prize had been caught by Mary, the quiet one – a dark horse if ever there was one, with her big brown eyes and lanky legs. She’d never even said as much as two words to the lad. The truth was there’d been no ‘taming’, simply a mutual recognition that they belonged together. Everyone said it wouldn’t last without even a few weeks’ courtship for them to get to know each other. Of course, some said she had to get married – the wild one must have got her in the family way – but that wasn’t true either.
Eventually even the most sceptical had to button her mouth, because the couple seemed so contented, so happy, with no need of the social life of the village. They kept themselves to themselves, and were the envy of many other couples. Hugh Jones never stopped off at the pub on his way home from the mine with the other lads. He would be up and out of the cage faster than anyone else as soon as the hooter sounded the shift’s end. At home he would be building, sawing, painting, and if anyone so much as hinted that he would go back to his old ways, Hugh’s temper would flare up and no one in his right mind ever wanted that. Memories of Hugh with his shirt sleeves rolled up, taking on any comer at fist fighting, even the gypsy travellers, were as clear as day. Hugh had been the source of much gossip in his wild days, but the gypsy fight was the one the village remembered best.
No one could recall the reason, it had been so long ago. It was a blazing hot day in August when, as Peg-Leg Thomas remembered, three gypsies had called on Hugh’s invalid father. They had come to exact some kind of vengeance and they weren’t just any old travellers, they were from the Romany clan that sold the pit ponies to the mine. They would arrive in midsummer every other year, with their wagons and trailers and roped lines of ponies. Once they had set up camp the women would go from house to house selling pegs and ribbons. Some, with their bright skirts and headbands, would be invited in to read the tea leaves or the worn, red palms of the miners’ wives.
It was always an occasion, and if they were there on a Sunday, they would set up a small fair. The children were warned not to go too near to the camp or the gypsies, as no one could ever really trust them. On this particular Sunday, according to Peg-Leg, three gypsies, all wearing their smart suits and brightly coloured neckerchiefs, walked down Elspeth Street. Their arms were linked and they knocked any passer-by out of the way with a shrug. It was whispered that the man in the middle was descended from the Romany king himself. Proud, their black eyes expressionless, they were the real Romantishels. They seemed almost to skip, their steps as light as if walking on air. Peg-Leg said you could always tell a gyppo by the spring in his walk.
It was typical of the Jones family, no one could get out of them the real reason for the visit of the three cocksure, high stepping men. All they did know was that Hugh was taken from his house, not exactly held between the men, but walked by them up to their camp. A few of the village boys followed, but kept well back because they could see trouble brewing, like a small cloud in the air.
They saw Hugh Jones being led to one of the very ornate caravans, taken inside and then brought out again. All the gypsy men formed a circle around him, and the one who had walked in the middle of the threesome took off his jacket. Hugh threw his own worn jacket to the ground and adopted a boxer’s stance. Quite a few of the older men from the village had joined the watching boys. They all had to admire Hugh. He seemed fearless with his fists up, his face grim, and yet he could have been no more than sixteen or seventeen. For all his youth, Hugh was a lot taller than his opponent who was a grown man and, by the firmness of his muscular body, also a fit one.
The villagers watched Hugh Jones take one hell of a thrashing. Time and time again he was knocked to the ground, but every time he got up again, although his nose was bleeding and his eyes cut. Nor did his opponent fight clean – there were kicks, and Peg-Leg swore he saw the gypsy snarling and snapping as if he was trying to bite Hugh’s ear off. There was no outright winner; the fight went on for a full hour until both men sank to their knees in exhaustion. Hugh had been picked up by two youths and flung out of the camp. His pals slunk down and helped him up, and only when they had put a safe distance between them and the camp were there raised fists and defiant yells, before they hurried away with the bleeding Hugh. And, by God, Hugh was at the pithead that night, bloody nose and all. They tried to wheedle out of Hugh why he had taken such punishment, but he wouldn’t say a word. A couple of the boys even tried bribes, but he shook his head. It was a private matter.
The gypsies moved on and soon the incident was forgotten, unless Peg-Leg was in one of his story-telling moods or had a few beers too many. Of course, Hugh Jones always came out as the champion, taking on five men – sometimes six or seven – which only built up his legend as a great boxer. It was always murmured in the ear of anyone who crossed Hugh, ‘Eh, watch it, remember the gyppos.’
So when Hugh had insisted on staying by Mary’s side for the birth of their first child, the account of the fight Hugh had with Doc Clock brought out all the old stories again, and Peg-Leg drank quite a few free pints down the pub. Hugh’s workmates shook their heads in amazement. ‘Imagine wanting to be there at a birth,’ they muttered, ‘dear Lord, what was the world coming to . . .’
Hugh had been at Mary’s side for the birth of his eldest three sons: Dicken, the first, then Will and Mike, but for Evelyne’s and little Davey’s births he had been on the night shift so he had missed their deliveries. The neighbours whispered that perhaps if Hugh had been there when Davey was born, he wouldn’t be the way he was.
Hugh Jones, Mary’s man, lover, husband; the crown of cornflowers had married them on top of the mountain. The taste of that sweet kiss had long since gone, but now the memory of it filled her with a new strength, and she was fifteen again. She knew he’d find her, would come running to her with his big strong arms open wide, to scoop up her tired body and hold her close to his chest. The lioness was exhausted, her brood grown, but the lionheart wouldn’t fail her.
Evelyne woke from a deep sleep, sat up and felt for the warmth of her mother.
‘Ma?’
‘Ma, where you going? Is it time? Shall I go call Nurse Thomas?’
Evelyne rushed over to her mother, but when Mary turned round her face was so flushed and her eyes so bright that Evelyne drew back.
‘I’m going to see the mountains, Evie, I have to go up to the mountains before it’s too late. Don’t try to stop me, don’t call the boys, I beg you . . . I’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’
Evelyne ran back upstairs to get into her clothes, and she heard the door slam. She ran to the window. She was frightened. Something was wrong and she knew it. From the bedroom window she could see her mother’s bundled figure as she hurried up the street, helping herself up the hill with her hands against the brick walls of the houses. Evelyne woke Will, shaking him, shouting that their Ma had gone out.
Will sat up and rubbed his head. Evelyne was already shaking Mike awake, and the boys scrambled out of their bunks and ran to the window. Mary was way up the street now.
‘What’s all the fuss, our Evie? Ma’s all right . . .’
The hooter sounded for the end of the night shift, and it was only minutes before the sounds of the men returning home would fill the street. Evelyne ran to the pithead looking for her father. She knew something was wrong – knew it but didn’t know what to do. As the cages full of black-faced men were cranked up Evelyne ran from one group to the next. Dai Thomas pointed over to Hugh, and Evelyne ran towards him. He was well over six foot two with broad, strong shoulders, and he stood out from the rest of the men. His back had never buckled over, he still stood upright, and with his shock of greying red-blond hair he looked more the grizzled lion than ever.
With Hugh was his eldest son Dicken, tall as his father. They were just climbing out of one of the cages when Hugh saw Evelyne running towards him. He thought automatically that Mary was having the new babe and waved to her, his mouth and gums glowing pink in the blackness of his face.
‘Da, come quick, Ma’s gone up the mountains, and she’s too near her time, she was strange, she shouldn’t have gone walking, not now, not at this time.’
Hugh and Dicken began to run, and the word spread quickly. Soon they were joined by Shoni ‘Bully’ Thomas, Rees Jones, and Willie ‘Black Pipe’ Keenan. Still black-faced, covered in dust, they ran down the street. The day-shift men were leaving home and as word sped through the street, several of them dropped their tools and went to join the search. This meant a lot, for the day men would lose out on a day’s wages if they didn’t turn up at the pithead on time. Dicken, Will and Mike followed their father, all of them running out of the village towards the mountain.
In the early morning the mist had been thick over the mountain-top, but the sun began to cut through and it slowly lifted. Echoes of the men’s voices rang round and round as they called out for Mary. It was a strange sight, the searching, black-faced men calling to Mary as the clear, beautiful day began.
‘Oh Christ, man, where is she? Mary!’
Hugh Jones was beside himself. He thrashed at the bramble bushes, calling his wife’s name, his face streaked with sweat. He turned to the men, told them to go back, not to lose a day’s work because of him; he and his boys would find her. The men eventually turned back to their work or their beds.
The whole village was agog. What on earth was Mary Jones thinking of – a woman in her condition going up the mountain – she must have lost her mind. They discussed it avidly at the water taps, over the clanking of the buckets. They would occasionally look up beyond the village, not that they could see anything, but Mary was up there somewhere. Their menfolk down the pit talked about it and, like their wives, they were only too ready to recall stories of people lost up in the mountains, men who had run wild up there after being too long underground.
Hugh Jones was exhausted. He sat on a rock, his sons around him. They had never seen their father so distraught: he clung to Dicken and began to weep. The boys were scared. Why had Ma suddenly upped and left them in that condition? It was so strange. Their safe, strong Ma, where was she?
Evelyne kept on searching and calling, climbing higher and higher. Surely Ma could not have got this far, she must be below, they must have missed her. Evelyne looked down and could see her Da and her brothers way below like small black dots . . .
‘Ma . . . Mama . . . Ma!’
Evelyne’s voice echoed round the mountain. Mary was standing staring down at the river. There was a puff of smoke where a train had just passed below a bridge, a little train chugging on down the valley.
Evelyne called down to the men that she had found her mother, and they climbed up the mountainside towards her. Mary stood frozen, eyes staring vacantly into space. Hugh reached his daughter’s side and Evelyne pointed to her mother, his wife . . . His face was almost clean of soot, whether from sweat or tears she couldn’t make out. He edged towards Mary, speaking her name, so softly the children could hardly hear him. They watched, bewildered, as the huge man moved closer and closer, saw him take hold of his wife, rocking her gently in his arms.
‘Gave us a proper scare, you did, Mary. Had the whole village out looking for you. Did you not hear us calling you?’
He turned back to his children, told the younger boys to go to the pithead and see if they could still get on the shift, the others to go home.
They began to wander down the mountainside, turning to look back up at their parents. They saw their father still holding their mother tight, so tight as if he was afraid she would throw her swollen body over the precipice. As they went further down the slopes, the two figures on the mountainside sat down, their arms around each other, their heads close, like young lovers.
Dicken could see his little sister getting anxious so he made light of it.
‘You know our Ma, Evie, she’s just wanting to have Da to herself.’
Evelyne smiled, then went and sat on the front doorstep and waited for hours. She saw Mr Williams’ dog wander past with his shopping bag and little leather purse, saw him trot into the butcher’s and collect the meat. Clever little dog, went by the main street there, but round by the back cobbles when he’d got the meat. That way he was sure none of the other dogs would steal his owner’s chops.
At midday Evelyne woke little Davey and fed him, then sat and played with him on the doorstep, and still her mother and father had not returned.
Dr Jones came by, with his gold watch chain. Doc Jones only had the chain, no one could recall him ever having a watch on the end of it. So he very rarely knew the time and was known as Doc Clock because of it. He’d heard about Mary, and said to tell them he’d drop by to see if everything was all right.
Along the street net curtains twitched aside. Hugh and Mary, entwined in each other’s arms, walked slowly down the narrow, cobbled road. They were like young lovers – twice Hugh stopped and cupped his wife’s face in his big hands and kissed her upturned face.
Evelyne saw her big Da carrying her mother up the stairs. Mary was weak, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink. When Hugh came down again his daughter had already filled the tub with water for him. He said nothing, but began slowly to wash his face and hands, soap his hair. He bent his head as Evelyne scrubbed his back, and when he stood up from the tub his massive, muscular body looked like a warrior’s; there were deep scars and gashes across his back, arms and thighs. His body was still as strong as a young man’s, his thick grey hair stuck up in waves like a mane.
Evelyne kissed his back softly and he squeezed her hand. Oh, how she loved him. He was not a man of many words, never had been, but he had held them all together. The boys, all of them, adored him.
‘Your Ma wanted to go up on the mountains, that’s where we used to do our courting. She’s all right now, just very tired. Take her some hot tea, there’s a good girl.’
Evelyne prepare
d the tea, and just as she was about to take it up her father stopped her, took from the pocket of his old work coat a tiny wild flower, and stuck it in her hair.
‘Stay a while with her, until I’m home. That woman up there is part of me, understand, child? We just found a bit of our yesterdays . . . you get so you forget she was a rare beauty. Today she was just as beautiful again, I had almost forgot.’
Mary lay in the bed, her eyes closed. Evelyne placed the tea beside her and lay down close to her mother, took her hand and kissed it. Mary turned her huge, swollen body to face Evelyne. They smiled at each other as if they had an intimate secret. Mary looked into her daughter’s face, traced her high, strong cheekbones with her worn, rough hands.
‘You’re a good girl, Evie, I’m sorry to frighten you all so, I didn’t mean to, but I just had to go up there one more time.’
As young as she was, Evelyne seemed to understand. Mary held her daughter’s hand and whispered to her, made her promise on God’s Holy Bible . . .
‘Don’t let the mines take your youth. You get away from here, Evie, don’t stay too long. It’ll soon be time for you to go, find yourself someone from outside, promise me, Evie?’
Evelyne promised, but she was unsure exactly what her mother meant.
She left her mother sleeping and went downstairs to give her brothers their dinner. They had just come back from the day shift. Will was laughing and shoving Mike . . . it seemed that Lizzie-Ann had said ‘yes’, and she and Will were going to be married. Only half listening, Evelyne gathered that Will planned for Lizzie-Ann to move in with them until they saved enough money for a small house of their own. So much for Lizzie-Ann and London.
Mike’s back was worse, the cuts deeper, and he said it was his own fault because the rocks were jagged and he couldn’t remember to keep his body crouched. His knees were in a terrible state, and his clothes were sodden.
The Legacy (1987) Page 3