by Kit Habianic
She slapped away his hands, fixed her hair at a high, indignant angle. ‘The right answer is the truth.’
‘We finished long ago, me and Debbie,’ he said.
But all she heard was her mam’s voice: no man wants a woman who’s easy. All she could see was Scrapper legging it, her dad limping after him with garden shears. She remembered what her dad yelled when he grounded her for being late: you’re stupid. You’ll waste your life. You’re a worthless little slut. All of it came crowding in on her.
She went to the window, pushed up the sash and gulped a lungful of air. Sleet soaked the street. The cold and damp soothed her. Lights twinkled on the far side of the valley beyond the trees. She heard a crow caw and flap overhead. She shuddered. Her mam said crows were the souls of dead miners.
She pulled back and saw Scrapper’s face reflected in the panes. The angled glass warped his cheekbones, the balance of forehead to chin. At last, she shut the window, drew the curtain, turned to look at him.
‘It’s the truth, Red,’ he said.
The back door scraped open. Footsteps pattered up the stairs. Angela Schiappa-Jones burst into the room and flung herself on Scrapper, laughing and crying. At last, she let him go, studied his face.
‘Caro mio!’ She raised her hand, slapped him, then hugged him again. ‘Is last time you go playing big hero, cretino. Understand?’
Scrapper prised her away. ‘Stop fussing, Mam. It was nothing’
‘Is just as well, Simon, else I’d bloody kill you.’
‘Aw, Mam—’
Angela turned to Helen, kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Is high time he brought you home, bella. Too bad it takes an accident to teach my peasant of a son some manners.’
Helen looked away, blushing. Someone else was climbing up the stairs. She prepared herself to greet Iwan Jones, thought better of it when she caught the look that crossed his face on seeing her.
‘What is she doing in this house?’ he said.
Angela frowned. ‘Is no way to speak to Simon’s girl.’ She put a hand on Helen’s arm. ‘Forgotten his manners, my husband. You are welcome here, bella.’
‘She bloody isn’t,’ Iwan said. ‘Not after today.’
‘That’s not fair, Dad,’ Scrapper said.
‘Not fair,’ Iwan echoed. ‘When her old man had the pair of us suspended?’
‘Suspended,’ Helen said. ‘What d’you mean, suspended?’
Her question hung unanswered. Iwan strode off down the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Is not your fault, bella,’ Angela said.
Helen’s skin prickled with shame. ‘I’d best go home.’
She shuffled her shoulders into her blazer and trudged down the stairs. Outside, the wind had picked up. The sleet had bite. She paused, half expecting Scrapper to come after her, to apologise for what his dad had said, to offer to walk her home. There was nothing doing. She let herself out and set off up the hill cursing herself.
— 3 —
Four pints down, Gwyn struggled to scale the hill. At last he forced open his front gate, climbed the three tall steps to the front garden, defied gale and gravity to reach his front door, taking shelter in the porch to steady himself, draw breath and slow his spinning brain. Across the valley, below the line of trees, the frosted hillsides sparkled in the darkness. Blackthorn’s winding tower rose from the valley floor like the mast of a sunken ship.
The moonless sky had a yellow cast that threatened snow. He’d planned to dig his garden at the weekend, till the front borders, throw in handfuls of peat moss for his dahlias. Bishop of Llandaff dahlias, he planted. Proud red blooms on deep black stems. The Rolls-Royce of dahlias. The talk of the valleys, his summer borders.
The lace curtains were yellowing too, for want of a spring clean. Carol needed telling again. They kept a spotless house. A matter of pride. He had a home to call his own, mortgage paid on time, all the latest appliances bought on HP. The deal was that Carol kept things nice. He wouldn’t have the neighbours whisper behind their hands about Gwyn Pritchard not providing. About Carol Pritchard being a slattern. They had standards to keep.
The front door was unlocked. He wiped his boots on the mat, bent to unlace them. He had tremors in his legs after the walk uphill. He stepped into his house, boots in hand, slid his feet into the slippers parked next to the grandfather clock. Carol poked her head around the kitchen door. Steam and the stench of burned meat billowed into the hall.
‘Thank God, cariad,’ she said.
He went straight into the sitting room. A good fire blazed in the grate, sprigged wallpaper wilting in the heat. He flopped down in his armchair, reached for his newspaper. Carol bustled in, wiping sticky hands on her skirt, lunged at him for a kiss.
‘Stop clucking, woman,’ he levered himself away from her.
She had heard the pit siren and the ambulances, knew as well as the next person what the claxon signalled. But they’d been married long enough for her to read his mood, to know when her attention was welcome and when to leave him be. She fetched his tray, perched opposite him in her armchair. Picked up her knitting and set to work on a square for a patchwork quilt. Dark red yarn flowed through her fingers but her eyes were fixed on him. She wanted to talk about it.
He looked down at his plate, at the slab of liver cooked until it croaked for mercy, lumps for gravy, peas colourless and crushed. A hunk of cauliflower, collapsed like a crushed brain. He chased a couple of peas around the plate with the tip of his fork. Set the tray on the side table.
‘I’m not eating this.’
The knitting needles paused. ‘It’s all we got. Unless we pop up the chippy?’
‘You want me to go back out to fetch grub? After the day I had?’
She lowered her knitting. Damn. He’d walked right into it.
‘I tried to reach Albright all morning, cariad. Took hours to get through.’
‘He was busy, woman. We all were.’
‘But why not call, let us know you were safe?’
He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair.
‘How about I fetch you a beer, love,’ she said.
The thought of drink flooded his mouth with bitter juices. One hell of a day, he’d had. First the accident, then the Jones boys defying him, then having to explain the trouble with the lodge to Albright. And now a second interrogation. In his own bloody house, from his own bloody wife.
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘Out,’ Carol said.
‘What d’you mean, out?’
She shrugged. ‘You don’t reckon you punished her enough?’
‘Enough? That girl got the brains to make something of her life.’
‘She done well in her mock O-levels. No harm cutting her some—’
‘No harm? Wait ’til she falls pregnant an’ tell me no harm.’
She flinched as though he’d stung her. With luck, that would be the end of it. He looked at the mantelpiece, at the black and white photos of the two of them in their wedding suits. Carol barely nineteen, wool jacket clinging to a tiny waist, skirt four inches above the knee to show a neat pair of pins. Hair in a sleek strawberry-blonde beehive. A smart little piece, Carol, when they married. All the lads joshing him about landing himself a dolly bird ten years his junior and a dead spit for Julie Christie.
Some Julie Christie, with her stained clothes and smudged mascara, hair bleached brittle blonde.
A strapping figure he cut in his wedding suit. Brown serge that cost a whole week’s wages from Howell’s down in Cardiff. He had Dai Cross-Stitch the tailor let out the arms and shoulders. He’d worked fourteen years below ground by then. Twelve stones of pure muscle. Spider, they’d called him when he started, for his spindly arms and legs. He’d bulked up quick-sharp. Mining was piece work, back then: the more you worked, the more you earned. He learned to shift the load of three men, earned himself a fancy new nickname, after some Cold War worker hero. That one’ll take it for a compliment, Gwyn heard Alf Manifesto tell the others. Damn
right. Gwyn Stakhanov. It had a ring to it, that. But the men hadn’t called him that in years. Captain Hook was what they called him since he lost his fingers and got promoted.
He picked up his newspaper, scanned the headlines.
Carol’s eyes were fixed on his face. ‘Chrissie next door said a man died. Who?’
‘Gabe Parry.’
A knitting needle fell on the carpet. He shook his head, irritated now, snapped open the newspaper and raised it. Blocked out the horror in Carol’s eyes, the shocked O-shape of her lips. He hid inside the newspaper and pretended to read. Started with the sports pages, worked forwards. Navigated horoscopes, motoring and women’s nonsense to the news pages. Glanced at the girl on page three. Nothing special. But young and pert and silent, at least.
Carol drew breath again. He lowered the paper, glared at her. She took the hint, bent her head over her knitting, started picking out dropped stitches. The gate opened with a screech of hinges. Light footsteps clip-clopped up the path. The front door swung open and slammed shut. Already, he smelled attitude.
‘That you, love?’ Carol called.
‘Who else, Mam?’
About bloody time the girl showed up. If she’d been anywhere near that boy again, he’d tan her hide.
— 4 —
Helen slung her sodden coat and bag over the banister and slunk towards the living room. She had hoped against hope to find her mam alone. Most nights, her dad stayed down the pub. Most nights, he staggered in after she was tucked up safe in bed. Rare, since the lodge banned overtime, to have him come back early. Since Christmas, he had the pub to himself, pretty much, his men skint and stopping home. But her mam wasn’t watching soaps on the sly tonight. The telly was off. Her dad shot from his armchair on seeing her, a face to shatter stone.
Her mam looked pale and tense. ‘Sit yourself down, love. I’ll fetch your tea.’
‘I got homework, Mam. I’ll take the tray upstairs.’
‘You sit down by there,’ her dad said.
She sat. Her mam vanished into the kitchen, started rattling plates and cutlery. Took her time. A muscle twitched in her dad’s cheek, ticking like a stopwatch. If that was how he handled his men, no wonder things were bad with the lodge. She curled her arms and legs around herself, rested her gaze on the carpet until the swirls of red and blue paisley bled into purple sludge.
‘So where you been, young lady?’
‘Round Bethan’s. Geography project.’
Her dad fixed her a hard stare. Her mam came in, caught the look on his face, clattered the tea-tray in warning. Too late. The warning wouldn’t save her. Not this time.
‘Let’s try again, shall we,’ her dad said.
Her mam set down the tray. ‘Tell him,’ she hissed.
‘I fancied a walk.’
Her dad raised his wrist, eyeballed his watch. ‘Well, look at that,’ he said, every word fired like a bullet. ‘Already gone seven. School out at four-thirty. Walk, did you? Walk all the way to Cardiff?’
Best not to answer, when whatever she said made things worse.
‘You been with that boy, haven’t you?’
The room was too hot, the stench of cooked liver mixed with stale tobacco, sweat and furniture polish.
‘Sorry, Mam. I’m not hungry.’
She put the tray on the side table, tucked her arms around herself. If she made herself small, maybe he would leave it. When she was small, her dad was gentle and kind, like other people’s dads.
His maimed hand gripped his belt buckle, the other jabbed the air. ‘What did I tell you on Saturday?’
She shrank away, muttered something vague.
‘Did I or did I not say you were grounded for the rest of the month?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Yes. So I’ll thank you to look me in the eye. Were you or were you not with that boy?’
She looked into his grey face, at the sagging corners of his mouth, his pouchy eyes. She saw him then. Really saw him, in all his hunched disappointment. A man, no longer young, who reached for too much, caught too little.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Alright, yes. I was with Scrapper Jones. Me and him. All afternoon.’
She raised her chin, insolent. Saw shock and triumph and white-hot rage.
‘Slut,’ he breathed.
He unbuckled his belt, eyes fixed on her. Took time to draw frayed leather under and over the buckle. To release the prong. To slide the belt, loop by loop by loop. Buckle in hand, he reached for her wrist. No grip to that maimed hand of his. No effort to twist herself free.
‘No! Tell him, Mam.’
‘Carol, come and hold her,’ he said.
Her mam hovered in the doorway. ‘Don’t, Gwyn.’
‘Do what I say, woman. Now!’
‘You forgot what you promised?’ she said softly.
‘She’s asking for it, the little whore.’
‘But you’re not your old man, cariad. You’re better’n that.’
As suddenly as it started, it was over. Her dad backed away, lowered the belt, shoulders slumped in defeat.
She scampered behind the sofa, reckless with relief. ‘He’s been picking on Scrapper again, Mam,’ she said. ‘Sent him and Iwan off the job.’
A flicker in her dad’s cheek showed that her blow hit home. He raised his belt, brought it down again. She felt the rush of cold air as the strap missed her cheek by inches.
‘Your first punishment was being grounded,’ he said. ‘Defy me again, you’ll regret it, young lady. See that boy again, he’ll be out of a job. Go anywhere near him, and I’ll skin the pair of you.’
The look in his eye told her he meant it. She backed out of the room without another word.
— 5 —
Gwyn shifted the belt between his hands. The scuffed black leather was fixed to a buckle of solid brass, initials etched on it. Presented to the old man to mark his twenty-fifth year at Blackthorn, that belt, only weeks before the blast that took him.
He ran his thumb and forefinger over the scratched metal. Lucky for the girl that he was slow on his feet, lately. He looped the belt around his waist and buckled it again. A dizzy spell sent him back to his chair. He’d asked the pit medic about his symptoms; the dizziness and the fighting for breath and lost appetite. He pressed his face to the bathroom mirror every morning, waited to see the anthracite bruises beneath his nails spread to his lips, for the whites of his eyes to stain blue. When coal dust showed in the face, death called within the year. Black lung. It did for his granddad and three of his uncles. Did for so many older miners. Would have done for his old man and for Gabe Parry if the darkness hadn’t taken them first. Coal would come for him, too, like as not.
His arm ached, lungs threatened to choke him. The girl was with that boy all afternoon. With that firebrand, trouble-making boy. The grandfather clock chimed the hour. He set aside his newspaper, turned on the TV to watch the news. The prime minister was striding down a production line at a car plant in the Midlands. The car workers queued to be inspected, slouch-necked and awkward, dressed in spotless overalls to meet the woman taking a crowbar to the UK car industry. Britain’s glorious leader, squaring up to the car unions, cwtching up to the Japanese. She glided down the line, the prime minister, hair set to concrete. Blue suit, blue shoes, blue hat, blue handbag, the better to match her politics.
Carol came padding down the stairs. He’d told her not to go after the girl. And she’d defied him, yet again.
She perched on the arm of her chair. ‘Well, cariad?’
He fixed his eyes on the prime minister. A fine set of pins on her.
‘So what happened?’
‘Leave it, will you.’
‘You got fresh trouble with your men?’
He sighed. ‘Same old story. Nothing for you to worry about.’
Carol tilted her head, waiting. A terrier’s persistence, she had.
‘The roof fell in. Gabe Parry went missing. I told the men to stay put, but Iwan and Scrapper Jones
defied me, went looking for the old boy. The roof fell in some more and Dai Dumbells and Iwan Jones got injured. And for nothing. Gabe was killed straight off.’
‘And you punished the boy and his dad?’
‘For God’s sake, woman. They went against my orders. Nearly turned an accident into a disaster. It was Albright suspended them. Then the rest walked off the job.’
‘But how could Albright send them home for trying to find poor Gabe?’
‘Orders is orders.’
‘Yes, but Gwyn—’
It was all he could do not to throw back his head and howl. As bad as that rabble from the lodge, his own wife, his own daughter. He’d had a bellyful of back-chat. His hand twitched. And he had never hit his wife.
She knelt beside his chair, took his hand.
‘But you did the exact same thing yourself, cariad. The deputy told you not to go back for Alf Manifesto. But Alf was your butty and to hell with what the boss said – back you went.’
A low blow, that. He snatched his hand away. When he spoke, his voice was tight. ‘I was young and bloody-minded. The deputy was well within his rights to tan my hide for going back for that miserable old Bolshevik.’
She sighed. ‘Point is, you weren’t disciplined. And why? Because the deputy was a former collier. He understood.’
‘So?’
‘So you understand and all. You could speak to Albright. Get him to reinstate the Jones lads.’
‘Reinstate? They disobeyed my orders.’
‘Yes, Gwyn. But you got a chance to help cool things off.’
‘Cool things off?’
She seized his hand again. Stroked the stumps that were once his fingers. ‘We both knows the price of coal, eh, cariad. What do they know, them managers with their clean fingernails and their number-crunching? To hell with men in suits, shuffling bits of paper from desk to desk, Gwyn. You owe nothing to them and everything to Blackthorn. To your men.’
The irony. ‘To my men? It’s for them to decide; are they with me or with the lodge.’
‘But Gwyn—’