A Million Tears (6 page)

The men organised themselves into shifts after the initial frantic digging. One hour in, one hour out, they worked like demons, like men possessed. When they came out the women gave them hot snacks and drinks. Hardly a word was spoken and as time went on and as hope died even those few words dried up. Pathetic. That was the word that came to mind when they got into the headmaster’s study and found his body. They said he was still at his desk. Old man Williams had been a dry stick of a man with a sour outlook on life but he had been a person. Now he was nothing. That was what struck me most deeply as the body was wrapped in a blanket. It was nothing. A lump of flesh and bones covered with black slag and now hidden from view by a grey blanket. His wife kneeled by his side and wept. His? No, it was no longer his, it was its, nothing. The vicar ordered the body be taken to the chapel.

‘You’re like ice, son. I think you ought to go home. Mam will take you and give you a hot bath and put you to bed. Sion will go with you as well.’

‘Not now, please, Da. Not now we’re so close to . . . to getting in there.’ I had been about to say so close to finding Sian’s body but stopped myself in time. We might all have thought so but nobody was going to say it.

Surprisingly it was Mam who intervened on my behalf. ‘I’ll get him a blanket, Evan, and some hot tea. He may as well stay now he’s been here this long. It can’t be long now . . .’ she tailed off, looking towards the school, now lighted by dozens of miners’ lamps and oil fired wall lamps from the mine. The blackness, pierced with the flickering yellow lamps casting deeper shadows in the slag, was like a scene from Hell. The slag blackened men and women making then look like insubstantial ghosts as they worked in silence.

The quiet came to a shattering end when the first child’s body was brought out. Someone screamed and then they all started, crying, moaning, cursing.

Each small form was identified, covered with a blanket and taken by the family to the chapel.

Da was kneeling alongside me and with a sense of shock I realised he was shaking with silent sobs, the tears washing white streaks on his blackened face. Mam bent down, took his hand and pulled him to his feet. With her arm around him I watched as they walked away. I called Sion back in time as he made to follow them, knowing somehow that they needed to be alone.

Sometime during that period I had begun to call Mr Price Uncle James and as I sat there his arm was a comfort. Sion sat on the other side and I put my arm around his shoulders. Like me he appeared to have cried all the tears he had in him. We sat like that for God knows how long. Time passed slowly as we watched the small bodies being carried out from the first classroom.

Husbands and wives stood side by side, some holding hands and trying to find comfort in their contact. Some families had lost one, some two children. One family had lost three. In silent procession once the bodies had been claimed, the families made their way to the river, across the bridge and up the hill to the chapel. A million tears were shed that night.

Twenty-two bodies were brought out from the first classroom. After that there was a lull as the men carried on towards the next room of death. The gang which had entered the study had now worked their way into the classroom opposite. It was the empty one, apart from Sian, the children having been for a walk. Mam and Da went to meet the miner who brought her out and handed her still form silently to Da. We got to our feet and followed as they put her in a blanket and started towards the Chapel. I was incapable of crying but Sion sobbed his heart out as we stumbled along in the dark. Uncle James swept Sion up in his arms and carried him.

I walked besides Da, Mam on the other side. Sian was completely hidden by the blanket, a shapeless bundle of grey. I would no longer hear her high pitched squeal, whether of delight or anger, or hear her telling us to hurry because she was hungry. I realised what my parents were going through and with the realisation came more tears. This time they were not for Sian. They were for Mam and Da.

At the chapel Mam and Da went inside with the others but Sion and I were told in no uncertain terms to go home. This time there was no argument. Uncle James took us.

Sion went directly to bed but I had to wait and have a hot bath. It was four thirty in the morning and by then I was shivering continuously.

When I woke it was to find the doctor with his hand on my forehead. Mam was behind him looking drawn and worried, her eyes red rimmed. Da stood at the foot of the bed, his face haggard, his mouth set in a grim line. I gave a harsh, dry cough, accidentally spitting out phlegm.

‘Sorry Mam,’ I said hoarsely, as the three of them looked at the rusty coloured sputum. Mam quickly wiped it away.

‘Hush Dai,’ Mam soothed, ‘it’s nothing. Here, let me prop you up.’ She fussed with my pillow and then gave me the one from Sian’s bed.

‘Now Dai,’ said the doctor, ‘tell me, do you have any pain across here?’ he indicated my chest.

I nodded. ‘A bit,’ I admitted. I found it difficult to breathe comfortably but I did not say anything.

The doctor took my pulse. ‘You’re going to have to stay in bed for a while, my boy. And I mean in bed. You must keep warm. Even though you’ve got a temperature and feel too hot, never mind, you keep those blankets around you. All right?’

I gave another harsh cough by way of answer, this time catching the phlegm in my hand. Mam stepped forward and wiped it away.

‘Your Mam will give you a hot water bottle to keep on your chest to help the pain. And stay propped up on your pillows; it’ll help your breathing and your chest, look you. Now you go back to sleep while I have a talk with your parents.’

I sighed and closed my eyes.

I am unsure how long I was ill. I do remember whenever I awoke Mam or one of my aunts was there. I remembered being given sweet drinks almost continuously. I had periods of delirium and periods of clarity. My temperature dropped and I started eating. No one needed to tell me I was getting over a bout of pneumonia. The doctor visited regularly though I was not always fully aware of him.

During that time thoughts of Sian and the nightmare of the school kept returning. Sometimes I believed it had not happened, at other times I knew it was all too real.

It was the day after the funeral. I was upset because I had not been able to attend. When I awoke I found Aunt Nancy with me. She was one of my favourite aunts, Uncle William’s wife. Da and Uncle William probably got on better with each other than they did with their other brothers, and so inevitably Mam and Aunt Nancy did too. She had two sons, both older than me, one working in the mine, the other on the railway. Between them, with the wages they took home, they lived well compared to other families. Whenever we called there was a glass of home-made lemonade and biscuits for us.

She smiled. ‘Take some of this,’ she held out a cup of her lemonade. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Not so bad. At least the pain in my chest isn’t as bad as it was.’ I coughed, but this time it was not a harsh dry cough, nor was there any phlegm.

‘Good boy. The doctor says your temperature is nearly normal and after a few weeks rest you should be all right. You didn’t half give us a scare, I can tell you. Though the doctor said you weren’t as ill as some he’s seen. Still boy, it’s nice to have you on the road to recovery. It’ll be a load off your Mam’s mind.’

‘How is she? I’m real sorry see, if I’ve upset her, especially after . . . after Sian.’

‘Now don’t you fret none. She’ll be fine in a little while, as soon as she gets over the funeral like. That was yesterday,’ she added.

I nodded miserably. I felt the tears welling in my eyes.

‘Hush now Dai,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking my forehead. ‘Don’t upset yourself. The Good Lord giveth and the Good Lord taketh away. Sian is probably up there in heaven looking down on you right now, telling you not to cry. So don’t take on so, there’s a good boy. She had a lovely funeral, they all did. They all went to their Maker knowing how much we all loved them.’

I nodded, clinging to her words for comfort but not believing them. ‘Why did God take her away then? She was a good girl, never did anybody any harm . . . at least nothing serious, only childish games. Why take her from us?’

‘I don’t know Dai and I suppose nobody really knows though all the vicars and preachers have some reason for it. Perhaps God looked down and saw what a lovely girl she was and wanted her in heaven with him.’

As she paused I leaped in: ‘But we wanted her down here with us, as did all the other families. The Bible says if we’re good we’ll go to heaven forever and ever – that’s a long time. So why couldn’t the children stay with us until it was time to die? . . . Like in old age.’

‘I don’t really know,’ she had the honesty to admit. ‘It does say in the Bible that our God is a selfish God and it says, “Suffer the little children to come unto me”. Perhaps that had something to do with the reason.’

‘Well I don’t care for our God anymore and I’m not going to chapel ever again and if he wants to strike me dead with lightning for saying so he can,’ I said defiantly.

‘You shouldn’t talk like that, Dai. It’s not nice. And of course you’ll go to the Chapel as soon as you’re better again. You have to thank God for making you better.’

‘Tell me, auntie,’ I said slyly, ‘is God responsible for everything that happens on earth? I mean, he’s allpowerful, right? So when he sees something is going to happen that isn’t right he could use his power to change it, right? So he probably gave me pneumonia in the first place, so why should I thank him for curing me? It was the doctor who cured me, not God.’

She looked a bit dubious, whether this was at my logic, or because she did not understand my argument, I was unsure. ‘Well, never mind that now,’ she fussed over me, straightening my blankets and pillows. ‘All I do know is you’ll be in Chapel with the rest of us in no time at all,’ she said cheerfully.

He nodded. ‘You know it’s lonely without Sian. I know . . . I know we used to fight and things but at least there was someone to talk to.’ He looked sadly at the bits and pieces he was holding, the beginning of a new kite. ‘I wish she was here now. I’d never tease her again, or get angry with her. I’d let her do anything she wanted, even fly my kite. And I’d play with her dolly if she wanted me to, instead of me always telling her I was too busy.’ I could see his lower lip trembling. ‘I wish I hadn’t been so nasty to her now’.

‘You weren’t nasty to her,’ I said. ‘She’s gone to heaven and is probably looking down on us, telling us not to worry about her.’ I hoped the difference in our ages would let Sion believe me, even if I had not believed my aunt, who was smiling encouragement at me. ‘I’ll soon be well and then I’ll play with you, all right?’

‘All right, Dai. I guess you’re right. Uncle James said the same thing to me a couple of days ago. And Mam and Da did, so I suppose it’s right. Do you want anything? The atlas or a book maybe?’

Before I could reply Aunt Nancy answered. ‘No he doesn’t, thank you Sion. It’s time he rested again, before the doctor gets here. So off with you now.’

The next few days were a procession of relatives, uncles, aunts, boy cousins, girl cousins, Grandmother Osborne, Granddad and Grandma Griffiths. They all brought me little gifts like a packet of biscuits or the loan of a book. On the fourth day, the doctor said I could get out of bed for an hour and sit in a chair. He emphasised that it did not mean I could walk around or go out of the room.

‘You’ve been pretty ill, Dai, and you’ve got a lot of strength building to do yet. So you just take it easy and do what I tell you, and we’ll have you on your feet again in no time.’

I nodded. We were alone and I took the opportunity to ask him something that still bothered me. ‘Doctor, do you believe in God?’

‘Why do you want to know? Having doubts yourself are you?’ he asked kindly.

‘Sort of,’ I replied cautiously. ‘What with Sian and the other little kids and me getting ill like this. I just can’t make what’s happened and what we’re taught about God make any sense. If you see what I mean,’ I finished lamely.

‘Aye, Dai, I see what you mean all right. I’ve seen death in most of its forms I reckon; from disease to mine accidents and from war to suicides and each time I see it I wonder. I go to chapel like everybody else and I say the words like everybody else but when I come down to it I guess I only do it to keep my wife happy.’ He looked over his shoulder at the door and then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘If I was honest, and you’re not to tell anyone this mind, coming right down to it, I suppose I don’t believe. You’re old enough now, and been through enough to realise that we aren’t all God-fearing, and worshipping believers. We all have our doubts, some more than others I guess.’

‘If that’s so why do all the men and women go to chapel then?’

‘Not all do. Your Da for one goes only when he’s made to but I know what you mean in general. They all have their own reasons but on the whole I’d say it was fear that drove them. You know what life is like in the mines

– all the accidents down there. The railways aren’t much better, nor the iron and steel works. I suppose the men are trying to make sure that if something does happen to them then they may not be quite as frightened of dying as otherwise they would be.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s as good a reason as any for going. Now don’t you say I said that, mind, or else I’ll get a reputation for being an atheist.’