A Million Tears (12 page)

‘I just want to add what I think about this matter and I hope most of you here will see it my way too. Nearly all of us lost a child. I lost two grandchildren and the thought will haunt me all my days. My heart bleeds not only for my two sons and their wives but for the rest of you. I know the anguish you must be suffering. You heard what Peter had to say will happen if we stay on strike. The hardships will be that much greater. Hunger will feed our sorrow. And it’ll do no good because it won’t bring the children back. Most of you here know we’ll end up going back. We’ll have to. There’s no way we can win. And the next time we want a pay rise or an added safety feature in the mines, and all you coal face workers know we’ve got plenty of ideas, the owners will remember. They’ll know many of us will have spent a lot of our savings, if we have any, and they’ll know we wouldn’t be able to last long the next time. On the other hand if we go back now, with our dignity and savings intact, then next time we’ll stand a better chance of getting what we want.’

‘Why should we get something then and not now?’ a voice asked.

‘That, friend, is a good question. When we say we want increased safety, and say so again and again, they’ll know it’s as much in their interest as ours to see that we get it. Greater safety often leads to greater production which puts more money in our pockets as well as theirs. They know this as well as we do. It just sometimes takes a little bit of persuasion on our part to make them realise it. And you all know they have often come round to our way of thinking. I know and so do the committee who’ve been at the meetings. We can’t win by striking but we have a chance through the courts. Remember the saying, he who fights and runs away,’ he paused. ‘The younger ones are better educated than me, and they know these things.’ The crowd laughed.

Peter Lloyd took over again. ‘I suggest we have a vote to decide whether or not we return to . . .’

‘Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Not so fast.’ A group of men pushed their way to the stage. Amongst them were Uncle Huw and Uncle David. About eight of them clambered onto the stage.

‘Before we have any vote I’ve got a few words to say.’ It was Ivan Thomas. He was a short, bald man who was renowned for his fiery temper.

‘We’ve heard what the old men of the villages have to say. Well, now it’s our turn, see. I’m sick of being told to think with my brain and not my heart. It wasn’t my brain that loved my children, it was my heart. I lost two good boys and even if you didn’t, then you probably lost a nephew, a niece or a grandchild. Remember what is was like. A black sea engulfing them, choking them to death. Our children died horribly. And do you know who’s fault it was? The owners, that’s who. They put the slag there. Sir Clifford and his cronies killed our little ones. I say we hurt them as hard as possible and that means we strike. Force them to acknowledge they were in the wrong and that they are responsible. Only then will we see justice done and get the compensation we deserve. And don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the money. I want to rub their faces in their crime. I want them to wake at night, plagued by their consciences, like I wake and think of my two sons, choking in that slag. That is what I want and the only way we’ll get it is by staying on strike and fighting the bastards every inch of the way.’ He stopped speaking and stepped back.

Immediately Uncle Huw stepped forward. ‘I say we fight to the bitter end. Let them send their militia. Let them send their scabs. We’ll get organised and fight in such a way they won’t be able to see us, never mind hit back. I lost a son that day and I want him to know I’d die avenging him rather than slink back to work with my tail between my legs. I’d rather die a man knowing I’d done what was right. I say
strike
,’ he screamed the word.

A group of men began to chant the word and more joined in. Almost the whole hall screamed ‘
strike, strike, strike
.’

There was no point in waiting for a show of hands.

Grandad joined Mam and Da as they made their way home. They were a silent group, full of worry and fear.

8

I was awake in time to see the grey dawn nibbling at the edge of night. I sneaked downstairs, so as not to disturb Sion, sure I was the first up. The fire in the grate proved me wrong. Da must have been up for some time and had gone out already. I stoked the fire with our dwindling coal supply and put the kettle on. While I waited for it to boil I went into the front room and sat in the half light, watching my small part of the world come to life. I could see men coming and going outside. If it had been a normal working day activity would have reached an early morning peak and would die down again, waiting for the wives to send the children to school or out to play. Today, though, was not a normal day.

Late the previous night, after the meeting, we had received word that a gang of scabs, protected by the militia, were already mustered and coming from Cardiff. We expected them to arrive sometime in the afternoon. The committee had been staggered by the speed of the owners’ response. None of the committee had told the owners of the outcome of the meeting but, as Grandad said, it was naı¨ve of the committee not to expect a spy in their midst.

At the window I became more aware of the undercurrents pulling at the village. It showed in the way people rushed about their business as if they were frightened of being caught in the streets; it showed in the lack of name calling and greetings; it showed in the slight movement of curtains as the occupants watched and waited. After a while the slightest noise, like the meowing of a cat, made me jump. I found myself gripping the curtains tightly with one hand, my toy soldier in the other.

I suddenly started out of my tension and left the vantage point of the window to make tea. I was pouring a second cup when Mam came down and joined me. Her own tension showed in the way she fidgeted with the spoon in her saucer, and turned the cup, round and round.

‘I’m going down to the mine later, Mam,’ I announced. She looked at me steadily for a few minutes before replying: ‘I expected you would. I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do or say to stop you. You’re a big boy now, not a child any more. Just keep out of the way, and if any trouble comes, leave. Run home. Hide. I don’t care what you do as long as you get out of there. Understand?’

It took me a second or two to reply but it was long enough for her to repeat harshly: ‘Understand, Dai?’

‘Yes, Mam, I understand.’ I left a few minutes later, before Sion was out of bed. Mam intended keeping him at home all day.

A watery sun was half a diameter below the hillside, the sky was cloudless and there was hardly a breath of air moving. There had been a heavy frost, the day was bracing and made me feel it was good to be alive.

I felt guilty when I passed the cemetery and looked up at what I thought was Sian’s grave. I had still not taken her flowers or a plant, and I promised to do so as soon as possible. Further along the road the feeling of excitement returned. I walked at a steady pace, feeling better than I had done for a long time.

There was quite a crowd at the mine gates, mostly men but a few women too. The boys of my age were on the outskirts; just about all the gang was there. I found Cliff, and we hung around watching what was going on and keeping out of the way.

From time to time one of the strike leaders like Ivan Thomas or Uncle Huw got on a box and spoke to the gathering. They said nothing new or interesting. They only spoke of the need for solidarity, keeping the scabs out and said that the strikers should not use force unless the militia did first. Some of the men were armed with sticks and staves, poor weapons against guns.

One of the men said, ‘Don’t worry, the scabs won’t be here today and perhaps not tomorrow either, even though they’re on the way.’ Some of the crowd laughed. Shortly after this Cliff nudged me and nodded to the edge of the crowd.

In dribs and drabs men were sneaking away. My initial thought was that they were a cowardly lot who did not want to stay and fight. But then I realised they were the die-hards, as Grandad called them, Thomas, Williams, Uncle Huw, Stevens, Pratt and a dozen or so others.

‘Come on,’ whispered Cliff. ‘Let’s follow and see where they’re going.’

‘I shouldn’t,’ I whispered back. ‘I promised Mam I’d stay out of trouble.’

‘I promised mine as well. But we aren’t going into trouble are we? We’re just going to see what’s going on. We can stay in the background, hidden like, and just watch.’ He snorted, ‘course if you’re a scaredy cat . . .’

‘I’m not. It’s just that . . . Oh well,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

Carefully we edged away. With only two of us there was little chance of being seen. The men were at the river bank, going downstream, when we followed.

My heart was hammering, my nerves stretched as tight as bow strings when somebody yelled, ‘Hey you.’ We looked back to see a man gesturing for us to come back. We turned, slipped, skidded and half fell down the steep incline. We ran and within seconds were hidden from the top by a turn in the Taff and high leafless bramble bushes. We hurried along but soon I was out of breath and sweating.

‘Got to stop,’ I gasped. I took some deep breaths. ‘Sorry Cliff, the pneumonia, look you.’ I got my breath back and we continued. Cliff was frowning in frustration.

‘You go on if you want to and I’ll follow,’ I suggested. ‘I don’t want to hold you back.’

‘Naw, it’s all right, I don’t mind. Honest I don’t. It’s just if you could walk a bit faster we might see where they go, like.’

I stepped up my pace. We carried on for about twenty minutes. I kept silent, saving my breath. We passed a few hundred yards away from the school, the slag now hidden from view. Spurred on by memories of the place, I found the breath and energy to run the next quarter of a mile. We passed the shallows where I went for coal and reached the road leading up the hill near where we lived. We paused.

‘Which way do you reckon?’ asked Cliff.

‘I dunno. I guess we can’t be far behind. If they’d gone up there or crossed the river we’d see them.’ I frowned. ‘And why come along the river bank if they wanted to go up either way? They must have gone straight on.’

We followed the river further, hoping for a glimpse of someone soon. Although we hurried and occasionally ran, we saw nobody. Excitement at what we might see wore off a mile past our houses, and though I was not out of breath or tired, I felt like stopping.

We had left the last of the houses behind us. The next place would be Eglwsarn and then continuous streets of houses like ours all the way to Pontypridd. The floor of the valley broadened out a little; the area was overgrown with brambles and other bushes. Many had shed their leaves, stripped by the heavy rain and approach of winter but others still retained some, brown and red, curling and dying. The ground was damp underfoot, soggy after absorbing so much water in the previous weeks. I was glad I wore gum boots and thick socks.

I nodded. ‘I know we have, but how much further do we have to go? The scabs might have already got here by now and we might be missing it all.’

‘Look you, I heard they were coming up from Cardiff by train and getting here this afternoon. And we haven’t heard a train yet, have we? We wouldn’t have missed it.’

I nodded in agreement. I was sure the men had gone this way but how far had they gone?

‘I tell you what, Cliff. Let’s go as far as Eglwsarn and no further. If we don’t see them we’ll go up to the road and walk home. What do you say?’

He nodded. ‘That’s fine with me. What about you? Do you think you can make it?’

I nodded that I could. So far the river had been partially hidden by bushes still bearing some leaves in spite of the time of year, but now they thinned out and the path went closer to the bank; the water, black and uninviting, gurgled at our feet. Across the river we saw the railway bank and from time to time as the rails dipped or the river bank went higher we could see the gleaming ribbons of track.

Cliff suddenly grabbed my arm and pointed. We had found the men. We were so surprised for a moment or two we stood still and then ducked behind a thick, leafless bush. At first their actions puzzled us.

We could see some of them shoving posts into the ground and hanging sacking or something like sacking between them. We started to move carefully along the bank, hidden by the bushes. Finally we were close enough to read the crudely painted sacks. “Scabs go back.” “Scabs go home.” “Death to scabs.” “Down with the militia.”

I felt disappointed we had come so far only to see that. But why come so far down river just to put up a few signs?

‘You know when that man said something about the scabs not getting here today I thought something really exciting was going to happen. This isn’t going to stop them is it, Cliff ?’

‘I don’t think so, look you.’

I sighed, thinking of the walk back. I looked up at the sun and guessed it was the middle of the afternoon. ‘Should we go home now?’

‘I dunno. Let’s wait and see if anything else happens.’

Where the men stood the track curved, following the river about twenty yards from the water’s edge. There were two signs on the curve and two immediately before it. Further back, now hidden by the bend, we had passed four men. They had not been putting up signs. We went back to take another look at what they were doing. ‘I think they’re doing something to the track,’ I said.