A Million Tears (9 page)

It rained most of the day and I sat in front of the fire dreaming over my atlas. I was not in the mood to do any schoolwork and Mam was too busy to set me any, so I just sat and thought. About Sian mostly and I wondered for the millionth time if there really was such a place as heaven. I wanted to believe there was, if only for Sian’s sake, but no matter how I tried I found it impossible to reconcile my intelligence to the idea. And now with more problems coming . . . It was impossible for there to be some Supreme Being looking after our interests on earth.

Sion came back for lunch. He talked of nothing else except his new design for a kite that he and Uncle James were building together.

By now I was fed up with staying in and not being able to do anything. It was all the more galling because I felt much stronger. Mam was being over cautious, just in case. But even I knew that a relapse could be very serious.

I woke with a start, the smell of Mam’s cooking filling my nostrils. My mouth watered when I thought of her pikelets and Welsh cakes, cooking by the hot plate. I went to see if she needed any help, like someone to test the texture and flavour of her baking. Unfortunately, she assured me my help was not wanted so I returned to my seat to think up another ploy. I sighed as Mam came in with a cup of tea and a Welsh cake.

‘Just one Dai, to make sure they’re all right, see’ she said, putting them on the table.

I grabbed it, the spoils no less sweet because I had done nothing to earn them. Only after I finished did I remember Welsh cakes had been Sian’s favourite and the edge was taken from my enjoyment.

Nothing of consequence happened at the mine that day nor for a few days afterwards. Meeting followed meeting. We were left on tenterhooks, the whole village wondering. On Wednesday, Da came home late. There had been another meeting at the Wheatsheaf and the men had voted to strike. The night shift, due to finish at five the next morning, would be the last before they came out.

A short while later there was a knock at the door. Da answered. I heard voices and then Da came in followed by some of the men.

‘Your father will be along soon,’ said Lewis Lewis to Da. ‘Hullo Dai, feeling better boyo?’ he asked. He was a short, red-faced man running to fat. He was always pleasant and cheerful, but now his usually smiling face was uncommonly grave. With him were Huw Shepherd, and Peter Lloyd. I suppose they and Grandad were the village leaders. The committee. Nothing important happened at the mine or village without their involvement.

‘You know what happened today, Evan,’ began Peter Lloyd without preamble. ‘We realise the vote was carried by the younger men. Hullo, Meg,’ he broke off as Mam came in.

‘Hullo Peter, Lewis, Huw. What are you all doing here?’

‘I’m just coming to that Meg,’ continued Peter. ‘The three of us and Evan’s dad had a long talk and we want Evan to go round to the men, individually like, and try to persuade them to change their minds about the strike. Goodness Meg, you know Evan is virtually the spokesman for the younger men,’ he nearly smiled but didn’t quite manage it, ‘now that you’ve taught him to read and write better, aye and talk proper like. Well, they respect that and we thought he might be able to do something.’

‘That’s no good,’ said Da. ‘First of all I don’t think they’ll listen to me and secondly as soon as they get together again Thomas or Williams will bully them back to supporting the strike. I don’t think it’ll do any good at all, look you.’

‘Hold it a second, Evan,’ said Lewis Lewis. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d like to smash the bloody owners financially and physically. I hated them before and now I feel . . . I just don’t know how to put it into words. I thought hate was the strongest feeling I could have and I thought I hated the owners. But by God the feelings I once had are nothing compared to now. Hell man, I wouldn’t walk across the street and piss on them if they were on fire . . . Sorry Meg, my feelings got the better of me.’

‘That’s all right Lewis. I’ll just go and make some tea while you men talk.’ She went into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

‘What I’m trying to say, Evan, is despite how strongly we feel we don’t think what the men are doing will do any good. Our only hope is to try our luck with the courts. I know we might not win, but anything else is utter madness. Christ Almighty, you know how they’re talking. What was it one of them said? Something about tightening the belts for a long fight. And for what, for God’s sake? Some sort of bloody principle they aren’t too sure of anyway,’ he leaned back on his chair, looking worn out. ‘I think I’m getting too old for this.’

‘There’s years left in you yet, Lewis Lewis, so don’t talk daft, man. I know how you feel,’ said Huw Shepherd. ‘The point is Evan, we can’t afford a strike and you know it. I don’t mind admitting I’m frightened what might happen, see. I remember the past only too well. We’ll spend what little savings we have, eat like . . . like animals, too hungry to waste even rotted food . . . Remember, Peter?’

The old man nodded sadly. ‘It’ll get to the stage when our pride won’t let us give in. We’ll lose any ideas of being reasonable and stick it out for everything we demand. You know what’ll happen then, boyo?’ Peter was addressing me, much to my surprise.

I shook my head, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

‘Then the strikebreakers will come. The owners know that if they don’t do something quick then it’ll not only take a hell of a lot of money to put right but some shafts may even be beyond saving. Before they bring in the scabs they’ll let us know what they’re doing and give us one more chance to go back. The men will get angrier and angrier, an anger fed by their families’ hunger and they’ll be more determined not to return like whipped dogs with their tails between their legs. There’ll be fights with the scabs, splintering amongst the villagers as some will try and get the men back to work. There might even be killing. The stinking militia will be with the scabs, with their guns and batons. And do you know what’ll happen in the end?’

I shook my head again. The others knew what was coming. They had not only heard it all before but had seen it too.

‘I’ll tell you, boyo,’ went on Peter Lloyd, ‘we’ll end up going back, some time, God knows when. And the strikebreakers will return to their homes. And the village will be bitter, counting the cost. Some men will be sent to Coventry, neighbour not speaking to neighbour. There’ll be more fights, all the more frightening because instead of being a fight with strangers it will be friend against friend, family against family. Actions and attitudes during the strike will be remembered forever, and for what? Tell me that, for what? Nothing. Less than nothing if there’s such a thing.’ He broke off as Mam returned with tea and cakes. The curtain by the stairs moved and Sion put his head through, his eyes heavy with sleep.

‘Oh, hullo,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I heard voices and wondered who was here.’

‘Well, now you know off you go! Back up the wooden hill,’ said Da. ‘And go to sleep.’

Sion pushed out his bottom lip in a pout. ‘Can’t I have a cake, like Dai?’ he said, suddenly smiling as all heads turned to me as I bit into my second Welsh cake. I paused and looked guiltily at Mam.

‘All right. Take it up to bed with you,’ she said. ‘And no crumbs, there’s a good boy.’ He nipped in, grabbed the cake and was back up the stairs in a twinkling of an eye.

There was a further interruption as Grandad arrived fresh from talking to a few of the other miners.

‘Still up, Dai?’ he greeted me. ‘Thanks, Meg.’ He took the cup Mam offered, sipped, grimaced and added a teaspoon of sugar. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he shook his head. ‘Not good at all. I spoke to Evan Evans, look you, Robert Jones, the two Jones brothers and Henry Wilks. I dunno, look you, what the hell they think they’re playing at. Evan Evans started in on me by claiming I didn’t understand how they all felt because I hadn’t lost anybody myself. Even after I reminded him about my grandchildren, God bless their little souls, he didn’t have the decency to apologise. Just said it wasn’t the same thing as I was their grandfather and not a father. I could have killed the bastard.’ His hands clenched into large fists, the whites of his knuckles showing. ‘How I wanted to hammer some sense into him! Anyway,’ he went on, sounding tired, ‘I couldn’t persuade him it was a pointless strike and that we had to find a better way. He as good as called me a scab. The Jones brothers were worse. Clive Jones suggested that perhaps I was in the pay of the owners.’ The others exchanged glances. ‘Luckily for him, his brother intervened and played it down or else I would have hit him.’

‘What about Henry? He usually sees good sense when it’s put before him,’ said Da.

Grandad made a rocking motion with his hand. ‘He’ll sway either way. He didn’t have anybody killed,’ Grandad said bluntly, his bitterness emphasising the word killed, ‘so he’ll follow the majority which at the moment is for the strike.’ He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, the clock that was the wedding present to Mam and Da from him and Grandma. ‘Which will start in exactly eight hours when the night shift comes up.’

‘Look,’ said Lewis Lewis, ‘this mine employs men from what, seven villages? Our three villages make up most of the work force. Perhaps with those that’s wavering here and with the men from the other four we can get a majority to remain in work. After all, not all the men have voted by a long way.’ He paused as the others nodded or shrugged. ‘If we do that, then the strikers may agree to go back and we’ll get a chance to use the courts.’

‘What then?’ asked Da. ‘And anyway, it’s too late now. We couldn’t get organised before tomorrow morning. It would take too long.’

‘There’s no doubt about that,’ went on Lewis Lewis. ‘We can’t stop it from starting, but if we got organised . . . perhaps in a day or two we can get them back.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Grandad. He smiled at Mam as he said, ‘We could draw up a list of the men we think want to work. We’ll get more names as we go along and visit them one by one. Or perhaps we could get small groups together and talk; we could save time that way. I’m sure many of them don’t want to go through the hardships just for this. This won’t get us anywhere.’

‘We know that, Lewis,’ said Peter Lloyd, ‘who’re you trying to convince man?’

‘Um, sorry like. I forgot for a minute. What do you think?’

There was silence for a few moments. The patter of rain outside and the crackling hiss of the fire gave a background homeliness out of place with the serious issues at hand.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Da, hesitatingly. ‘It’ll cause an awful lot of bad feeling and possibly add to the problem, not help.’

‘I can’t help feeling my son’s right, but what alternative is there? Apart from backing the strike one hundred percent I can’t see another answer.’ Grandad was anxious to agree with the others, but knew he couldn’t really do so.

‘Couldn’t we try the men who are all for the strike? If we persuade them the others may follow . . .’ Huw Shepherd’s voice trailed off.

‘No good, Huw,’ said Peter Lloyd, ‘you know what they’re like. My God, I don’t really blame them, see. Both Thomas and Williams lost two kids. Perhaps I’d feel different if they’d been my kids, I don’t know. Sorry Evan,’ he broke off, seeing my father’s pinched, white face, ‘that’s the wrong thing to say. No, I do understand their anger and frustration, we all do. But they’re going about it the wrong way.’

It seemed to me the talk had gone round in more than one circle and they were getting nowhere fast.

6

The first two days of the strike passed peacefully. Of course, as I was not allowed out, I saw nothing but Da or Grandad told me what was happening. The mine was effectively sealed: nobody and nothing was allowed to move in or out. The owners protested strongly about the need for mine safety supervision but got nowhere with the men. When one of the managers tried to talk to the pickets they threw mud at him, making him duck and run. There was no further attempt on the owners’ part to reason with the men; instead they tried talking through Grandad, Lewis Lewis and the others who thought the same way. This was all to no avail. Another problem was already arising according to Da. The men were beginning to reject out of hand anything the leaders said. Yet for all that it was relatively quiet, no one attempted to go to work and the owners did not attempt strike breaking tactics . . . not yet.

The committee and some of the others visited the men in the surrounding villages, talking to as many as would listen. By the third day they were hopeful. They had names of more people who wanted to go back to work than wanted to be out. The committee decided on a mass meeting. A proper show of hands and the men could be back within a few days. The committee was optimistic and worked hard whenever any incident threatened to get out of hand.

Unfortunately there was one incident that the committee had no control over, and a very damaging one. Apparently it started pleasantly enough when two of the owners’ wives were out riding in their carriage and a dozen of the men stopped them. The men tried to explain how they felt about the loss of their children and asked them to talk to their husbands on the villagers’ behalf. One of the men asked how they would feel if it had been their children and one of the women replied she would feel proper human feelings of grief, not the animal reactions of the workers. The women were nearly hanged for that remark and it was only Granddad’s timely arrival on the scene that prevented serious trouble. By the time the story did the rounds, feeling amongst the villagers was hardened, and as a result the ditherers sided with the strikers.

Even so there was enough common sense left that the committee thought they could end the strike. A meeting was called for Monday.

Saturday dawned bright and fair. The wind had inexplicably dropped and the clouds disappeared. The day promised to be mild and sunny for the twelfth of November, Mam and Da’s anniversary.

Sion and I burst into their bedroom sometime between seven and eight, not long after first light. With cries of ‘Happy Anniversary’ we gave each a present – a scarf for Mam and a tobacco pouch for Da.