Shoes for Anthony (25 page)

‘He's on oxygen, Mam,' Alwyn told her, as she ran her fingers across Father's forearm. ‘In case his lungs pack in. Best case – he's going to be bloody sore. Worst case – he could get pneumonia or go into respiratory distress.'

‘What happens then?' asked Mam, casting an anxious glance at Alwyn.

‘We do the best we can,' he replied.

I didn't know quite how I felt, standing there at the end of the bed. It was like it wasn't really happening, like I was up the flicks watching it on a big screen. Where was the orange peel? The fag ends flying through the air? I looked down at Father and a weight settled in my chest, the certainty of the grave. I had never seen him weak or vulnerable but now, as those frailties came knocking at our door, I knew my bones weren't ready for it.

Alf had pulled up a chair so Mam could sit by Father's side. He stood back and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, little man?' he whispered. ‘He's made of strong stuff, your Father. He'll not go down without a scrap.'

I didn't want to cry but I felt a swell burning behind my eyes. I turned away and rubbed at hot tears with the back of my hand.

‘Someone should go tell Bethan,' said Alf, behind me. ‘Would you like me to do that for you, Alwyn? I'm sure I can cadge a lift off someone.'

Alwyn nodded. ‘Thanks, Alf,' he said, quietly, ‘I'd appreciate it.'

Alf reached for his cap and pulled it on. ‘I'll be off, then,' he said. ‘When he wakes up, tell him he owes me a shilling.'

A brief moment of laughter broke the tension, and with a short tip of his cap, Alf left us, a family that knew nothing except a life underground and the cold, hard shadow of the mountain.

‘I'm so very sorry,' said Piotr, taking my mother's hand. ‘I heard when I came from seeing Captain Willis. I went to find Bethan and one of the adjutants told me what had happened. If there's anything I can do …'

‘Thank you,' said Mam, patting his hand absent-mindedly. ‘Bethan, if anyone wants tea, can you get a brew on? I should go see Mrs Reece. Pay my respects.'

I'd never seen her look so tired. She was the hearth of our family, forever burning. Yet now, her strength diminished, she had something tiny about her, fragile. I watched her go and instinctively shot a glance towards Father's empty chair. The fire had gone out and Bethan, still in her uniform, was taking a shovel to the clinkers.

‘Lend a hand, Ant,' she said. ‘Fetch me in a bucket. Does everyone want tea?'

‘I'll warm the pot,' said Piotr, walking towards the kitchen.

Alwyn settled himself on to the sofa, wincing as he sat. He took his cap off and threw it in my direction. ‘Hang that up for us,' he mumbled. He leant his head backwards and let out a heavy sigh. ‘Any more news, Emrys?'

‘Tallyman says three men still down. Haven't heard who yet. Apart from John Reece. Four dead. One to bury.'

Emrys sank heavily into Mam's chair, his head falling into his hands.

‘Christ,' said Alwyn, shaking his head. ‘What a mess.'

‘Come on, Ant,' said Bethan, again. ‘I need that bucket.'

Down the hallway, a knock sounded, a familiar rat-a-tat-tat. ‘Em?' called out Bopa.

‘She's down with Mrs Reece,' called out Bethan, shovelling clinkers into newspaper.

‘How's your father?' said Bopa, appearing in the doorway. ‘I saw Beryl House, told me he was bad.'

‘We don't know yet,' said Alwyn. ‘He's been given morphine. It's knocked him out a bit. He hasn't spoken yet.'

Bopa folded her arms and shook her head. ‘And they've flooded the mine. Whoever did that may as well have gone down and murdered them. Sacrificing men to save seams. I don't care how much coal burns, one lump isn't worth a man's life. Oh,
diawl
, look at your arm, Alwyn. Painful, is it?'

‘Not too bad,' he replied. ‘I'll live.'

Bopa gave a small, worried tut and then, looking round the room, frowned. ‘Look at me, gabbling on when I could be making myself useful. Tea. That's what's needed. Leave it to me.'

‘Ant,' said Bethan, turning to look at me. ‘Bucket. Now. And bring some bricks in.'

The coal was stacked in the cellar out the back. Once a month the horse and cart would drop a ton of coal outside every miner's front door, and my mother would pull up all the rugs and mats. Being the youngest, I had to carry the coal through the house, out the back door, down the steps and into the cellar: large lumps used to build a wall, with the smaller bits thrown in front.

I hated going down there when the coal was running low: it was a mucky job, and you had to get right inside, the metallic smell deep into your nostrils. There was no door on the cellar and rats would nest there in the warm. If you caught a rat when it wasn't expecting you, you'd catch a bite, so as I ducked down and in, I took the hand shovel and gave the doorframe a few thumps.

Most of the small bits were gone so I had to take the pick and smash up one of the large slabs. It was always hard work but Father said it was good practice for when I went underground. It felt odd hewing coal in the circumstances, almost like a betrayal. Coal had put Father in hospital. I hated it.

I filled the bucket to its brim and picked up a few bricks to toss on top. On cold nights, they'd be laid around the hearth to heat through and then taken to bed wrapped in old socks. Posh folk had rubber bottles to keep them warm. We didn't.

‘Anyway,' Bopa was saying, as I came back in, ‘there's going to be a gathering up the chapel tonight at seven. Show respects, like. They've still got the coffins of them Germans up there. And your friends.' She nodded toward Piotr. ‘Jones the Bible was saying he thinks the Germans'll be buried up at St Athan. He doesn't want them in our cemetery. Don't blame him. Dunno what'll happen to the POWs. Do you?'

Piotr shook his head.

‘Anyway,' continued Bopa, ‘what with everything, we shall have to sit and stare at them. It's a grim old business, innit?'

The chapel was packed. It was tradition, whenever there was a death at the pit, for the village to gather as an act of solidarity. We'd managed to get the tail end of a pew, but with no more seats to be had, people were lined along the walls on either side, spilling out beyond the doors. There were a few Americans, the ones billeted locally, and their presence, though not expected, was nonetheless welcome. I glanced around me. Captain Willis had just arrived and was talking to Dr Mitchell. ‘Nice of him to come,' whispered Mam.

Behind the lecturn, the coffins of the dead airmen and Polish POWs were lined up. It was unusual to see coffins in the chapel: the Welsh liked to keep their dead at home. Two of the coffins, I noticed, were made from plywood, cheap stuff. Must be the Germans, I thought. Wouldn't want to waste good wood on them. Someone had made some little pennants, half red, half white, and hung them on the other three. I wasn't sure, but I guessed it was something Polish.

The chapel had one slightly battered organ, and playing it fell to an elderly woman, Mrs Onions, permanently hunched, always smelt of lavender and only knew three songs: ‘Abide with Me', ‘How Great Thou Art' and the Welsh national anthem. I don't think I'd ever heard her play anything else, even at Christmas. She was a notoriously slow player and every Sunday, Emrys would joke she needed winding up, but that evening, as she played, there was no hilarity. The mood was sombre, sad and broken.

Jones the Bible was in serious mood: jowly, intense, burning with fire and brimstone. His jet-black suit ironed to precision, every button creaking at the seams. As the chapel filled, Mrs Onions played ‘Abide With Me' as slowly as she possibly could. It added to the air of gloom. I looked about me. I'd never seen people looking more miserable.

Jones the Bible had entered through the rear door of the chapel and nodded to Mrs Onions to wind things up. Taking his cue, she delivered one last, elongated chord and then concertinaed herself into her usual hunched ball, hands on lap, ready to go again when required.

‘We are gathered here,' the minister began, in that booming voice of his, ‘under the saddest of circumstances. Only last week, we dealt with a tragedy above us' – he gestured towards the coffins behind him – ‘and now, a tragedy below. One man, John Reece, taken trying to save others, and three other men unaccounted for, assumed dead,' he continued. ‘Gareth Owen, Geraint Boyle and William Gayle, lives taken at the coalface. Our way of life, the price of coal, paid for in blood. Day-today comforts cruelly ripped away. The mountain makes fresh widows. Graves may take them, but never our memories. Long scars left behind. Deep in our hearts, we will remember them.'

He bowed his head and everyone around me instinctively followed suit.

‘Where is the other coffin?' a voice asked from the back of the hall. Everyone turned round. It was Captain Willis, his face urgent. ‘I'm sorry to have to do this, but this is important. There are five coffins. There should be six. Piotr.' He looked over towards us. ‘You told me there were seven of you.'

Piotr shot a glance upwards, his forehead compressing into a frown. He shot a look in my direction, then back towards the coffins. His face contorted, as if trying to work out something impossible. Piotr glanced at me again. I could feel the tension.

A ripple of disapproval filled the hall.

‘Sir, we are at prayer,' said Jones the Bible, his face reddening. ‘Please. Sit down. This is neither the time nor the place. There were five bodies. And there are five coffins.'

‘But Piotr told me there were seven of them in the plane.' Captain Willis' voice became more insistent. ‘Captain Skarbowitz, please.'

‘The Captain is right. There were seven of us,' he said, his voice slow and measured. ‘I survived. There should be six bodies and six coffins.'

‘We saw five bodies!' yelled Ade, standing up over to my left. ‘We saw 'em. Three in Polish uniforms. Two in German!'

Piotr turned pale. ‘There were three Germans. Three.'

‘Oh, my God,' muttered my mother, clutching her face. ‘There's a German up our mountain.'

It was chaos. All around me people were on their feet, shouting, gesturing, an air of panic and confusion adding to the dark and deathly shadow already hanging over us. My chest was pounding, and under the quick and leaping beat, a thin trail of excitement began to burn. The war was here, our own appointment with fear. Another stab of guilt: I liked it.

‘Home Guard!' yelled Captain Pugh, standing up on a pew. ‘Get home and get your uniforms on. If there's a German up our mountain, we're going to find him!'

‘I'll run and get the rifle!' shouted Emrys, fired up.

‘You've only got five bullets,' cried Ade. ‘What if he's got a proper gun, like the Americans?'

‘Stay where you are, Emrys,' said Alwyn, pulling him back. ‘We need to think this through. This is going to take more than broomsticks.'

‘Let us do it!' said Robert, gesturing towards himself and a few other Americans. ‘We're trained for combat. We're properly armed. It's the least we can do after all your kindnesses.'

There were murmurs of agreement.

‘Yes!' shouted Jones the Bible. ‘The Americans know what they're doing. We've lost enough men. Let's not lose another to foolhardy notions of bravery!'

‘But they don't know the mountain!' shouted Emrys, his face reddening. ‘Not like we do. They won't know where to look, where someone might hide. We know that mountain like our own skin.'

‘It's been over a week,' said Hughes the Grocer, stepping forward.' Who's to say the fella is even still up there? If a German fell out of that plane and survived, he's either injured and most probably dead anyway, or he's long gone. And besides, he's not going to wander down into the village and ask for a cup of sugar. It's too late. Let's not risk a single man. We'll find him dead come winter. Mark my words!'

‘But what if he's not dead?' yelled Bopa. ‘What if he does come down into the village? What then? Do we want to wait and let our enemy pick us off? Or do we go up there and flush him out?'

‘This is our village!' cried Emrys. ‘Our home. It's up to us to defend it. Since when have Welsh men depended on strangers to keep their women and children safe?'

Murmurs of discontent rumbled through the chapel. He was right.

‘Treherbert is full of strangers, but this falls to us. This is our responsibility.'

Yells of agreement rang around the chapel. Men were rallying, patriotic, proud, as if, suddenly, there was a focus for their collective frustration.

‘Please!' said Dr Mitchell, holding both arms in the air. ‘There's really no need for anyone from the village to …'

‘With the greatest respect, Doctor,' shouted Emrys, ‘there's every need. Now, who's with me?'

A cheer went up.

‘I can fetch some pitchforks!' shouted Old Morris. ‘There's some up the salvage!'

Hughes the Grocer ran a hand down his face. ‘Listen to yourself, man! Have you all lost your minds? Let's all run up the mountain in the dark with pitchforks chasing the monster? We're not in bloody
Frankenstein
!'

Gwennie Morgan, who was sitting on the front row, stood up. She was breathing erratically and fanning herself with a hymn sheet. ‘All I know is, there's a German up that mountain who is going to come down, at night, and murder us. Murder us in our sleep …' Her eyes rolled up and she crumpled downwards.

‘Oh,
diawl
,' said Bopa, pushing her way towards her. ‘She's fainted. Get some water from the font. Pass it up! Margaret! There's a cup b'there.'

I looked around me. Everywhere was uncontrolled and shapeless noise. People were arguing, their faces contorted. Over by the far wall, I saw Miss Evans, arms crossed, standing beneath a large wooden cross. Unfolding her arms, she took the collection plate and banged it against the wall.