Winners and Losers (17 page)

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘If the Church is right and making love outside marriage is a mortal sin, Joey is destined to spend an awful lot of time in hell.'

‘Quite!' Although she would never have admitted it, she was smarting from his rejection. ‘Everyone knows that Joey has slept with half the women in the Rhondda, never mind Tonypandy, and he's not worried about fathering a child.'

‘That's because Joey has no respect for the women he sleeps with and even less for himself.'

‘In other words, if they have a baby, Joey can stand in front of the magistrate and say, “Please, sir, it could be me or any of the other men she slept with.”'

‘I'm not Joey, so I don't know what he thinks.' He fell serious again. ‘What I do know is there's only one woman for me and that's you. We have our whole life ahead of us, Megs. Let's not rush into anything. And my parents always taught us that sleeping with a woman comes after marriage.'

‘It seems to me only you listened to them.'

‘Joey -'

‘Never mind Joey, what about Lloyd and Sali?'

‘They are getting married. You're bridesmaid, remember, the Saturday before Christmas. I hope you've asked Mrs Palmer for the day off.'

Megan hadn't, but neither was she about to get sidetracked into a discussion about Lloyd and Sali's wedding. ‘Mrs Robinson across the road says that she hasn't seen Lloyd close his curtains once at night since you came back from your summer holidays last year.'

Victor's face darkened. ‘Mrs Robinson is a poisonous old gossip and Sali and Lloyd had good reason to delay their wedding.'

Feeling that Victor was justifiably angry with her for even listening to a woman like Mrs Robinson, she apologized. ‘I'm sorry. I wasn't prying into Lloyd and Sali's business. Just trying to point out that we're engaged and we have the house to ourselves for the afternoon so we should make the most of it.'

‘I'm sorry if I've hurt you by loving you too much to use you.' He looked so miserable she couldn't do anything other than forgive him.

‘I'll heat some soup for you, and afterwards if you want, we can go out.'

‘About all I can afford is a walk up the mountain and a cup of tea in the teashop when we get back.'

Megan almost told him that she had four shillings and sixpence and could pay for both of them to go to the Empire. Then she realized his pride would never allow him to accept money from her. ‘A walk and a cup of tea it is, unless you'd like to sit by the fire and forget we had this conversation –for now,' she qualified.

‘How about,' he sat down and pulled her back on to his lap, ‘we make plans for the twenty-fifth of August nineteen twelve. We could start by talking about where you'd like to live.'

‘A coalhouse would do as long as it's with you.'

‘Jokes aside, where would you like to live in an ideal world?'

‘I know it sounds silly, because you're a colliery blacksmith and your life is here, but whenever I think of us married and living together it's always in a farmhouse.'

‘A proper farm?' he asked in surprise.

‘With geese, goats and chickens in the yard, ducks on a pond, sheep in the fields, a couple of cows and at least one horse. Oh –and a kitchen garden and orchard. Perhaps it's something to do with growing up on my father's farm, although that's nowhere near as grand as the one I picture us having. It is just a dream,' she said, when Victor grew thoughtful.

‘It's funny, whenever I imagine us married, I think of home as something like this house. Next door, for instance.' He had asked Lloyd if he could exchange the house for one his father held in their names and, as he'd expected, Lloyd had happily agreed. But he still held back from telling Megan.

‘Next door would be wonderful. Do you think Lloyd would rent it to us?'

‘He'd sell it to us outright when the time comes. You know my family owns houses.'

‘And your share will be a whole house?'

‘At least that.' He didn't want to go into details because there was no point in building even an imaginary future on tenanted houses that weren't bringing in a penny.

‘Just think, Victor, no rent or mortgage to pay.'

‘Just think, Megan, while this strike lasts, no money.'

‘It can't go on for another twenty months.'

‘I sincerely hope not.' He started as the front door opened but he refused to allow her to get off his lap.

‘Damned chorus girl ...' Joey barged in. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you two. Victor did say it was your afternoon off, Megan, I forgot. But I must say for a newly engaged couple you are behaving very respectably. Victor's collar isn't even undone.'

‘That's my fiancée you're talking to,' Victor growled.

‘I can see the ring. It looks good on you, Megan. But I do apologize for my brother being a bit slow on the uptake.'

‘He is anything but slow.' Megan retorted defensively. She and Victor exchanged glances and they both burst out laughing.

Joey instinctively glanced down at his flies to check that they were buttoned. ‘What are you two laughing at?'

‘Nothing,' Megan giggled.

‘I take it Peggy didn't want to rekindle the memories. Tell me, did she slap your face?' Victor enquired.

‘It was all a ploy cooked up by her and Marsh Phillips. I've been doing his job, shifting scenery around for the last two hours while they've been off cavorting at a very private party for two in an upstairs room in the White Hart.'

‘And they didn't reward you for your efforts?' Victor didn't even try to keep a straight face.

Joey felt in his jacket pocket and dropped two tickets on the table. ‘For tonight's show. As if I'd go and watch Peggy on stage after what she did to me.'

Victor reached over and filched them. ‘Stalls no less. Thank you very much, little brother.'

‘You're welcome to them. Say, is there any food going? I'm starving after all that heavy lifting.'

‘There's soup. I'll heat it up.' Megan pushed Victor's hands back and left his lap. ‘As soon you've eaten, Victor, we'll go for that walk. We'll need a few lungfuls of fresh air before we go to the Empire. You know how stuffy it can get in there,' she glanced slyly at Joey, ‘especially in the stalls with all those young men breathing heavily at the sight of the chorus girls in their costumes.'

Chapter Nine

‘You've left Lloyd and Harry in Ynysangharad House, Mrs Jones?' Mr Richards helped Sali down from the carriage that had pulled up outside Gwilym James' department store in Market Square in Pontypridd.

‘I have. Mari's promised to keep an eye on them because Lloyd is still weak. She told me to tell you that she'll have tea on the table at four o'clock.'

‘Then I'll try to ensure that we finish our meeting before four. Mrs Williams' teas are something to be reckoned with.' Mari Williams had been Sali's father's housekeeper before his death, and although she was employed in Ynysangharad House only as a nurse and companion to Sali's mother, the elderly housekeeper was somewhat frail and Mari had taken over responsibility for most of her duties.

‘Are all the trustees here?' Sali took the arm he offered her and they walked into the store.

‘They are. But you are not late. It is a quarter to two and the meeting is not due to start until two o'clock.'

‘Mr Horton, how nice to see you.' Sali greeted the manager of the store. His father had occupied the post before him and given fifty years sterling service to Gwilym James before his death. All the reports she'd received indicated that his son was just as dedicated to the business.

‘And you, madam. May I enquire after Master Harry's health?' Mr Horton walked them to the lift.

‘Master Harry is well thank you. And everyone at the store?'

‘The staff have had their usual complement of winter coughs and colds, but we are coping well and the store is running like clockwork. Although the takings have been adversely affected by the strike.'

‘Badly?'

‘Not as yet, madam. Fortunately we have an excellent customer base among the tradesmen in Pontypridd and the miners in the pits that are still open. I will be upstairs in good time for the meeting but I have one or two things to attend to beforehand.'

‘In case I don't have to time to speak to you after the meeting, my compliments to your wife, Mr Horton.' Sali followed Mr Richards into the lift.

‘Thank you, madam.' Mr Horton signalled to the liftboy to take the lift to the third floor and the boardroom where the trustees of Harry's estate held their meetings.

‘So, how badly has the store been hit?' Sali asked Mr Richards when they alighted and the boy had taken the lift back down to the ground floor. Mr Richards was not an official trustee but two members of his firm of solicitors were, and she knew that he kept a close eye on her late great-aunt's estate.

‘The takings are down ten per cent. It's not just the strike. People are afraid that it might spread to other pits. Everyone is cutting back and trying to save against possible future hard times.'

‘So we're not really in trouble?'

‘Not at all. You know that we were set to expand when the strike broke out. We have enough put aside to see the store and the trust's other business ventures safe, even if the strike lasts two years.'

Sali halted, unable to believe she'd heard him correctly. ‘Surely you don't think the strike can go on that long?'

‘From what I've heard, Mrs Jones, the colliery companies are out to break the miners. Why do you think that they and the government have gone to the expense of drafting over a thousand extra police into the valleys as well as stationing the Hussars and the Somersets there?'

‘Management has to give in, they have to ...' Her voice tailed. She simply couldn't bear to think of the alternative: principled men like Lloyd, his father, Victor and even Joey fighting for a cause that was already lost.

‘It seemed a good idea to go for a walk when we were looking out of the window in your warm kitchen.' Megan snuggled close to Victor, as a keen south-westerly wind picked up speed, whipping their clothes and stinging their faces.

‘It is fresh,' Victor agreed. They climbed the hill, walked past the garden walls of the last terrace and out on to the unfenced mountain.

‘Your fresh is other people's Arctic.' She glanced across at him. His eyes were bright, his skin glowing. ‘You love being outdoors whatever the weather, don't you?'

‘You would too, if you spent eight hours of your working day underground.'

‘What's it like down the pit?' she asked curiously.

‘Your uncle never told you?'

‘We only ever talked about the house, the children, the housekeeping and what he wanted me to cook.'

‘Of all the jobs in the colliery, your uncle had the worst, cutting coal at the face and loading it into drams. It's bad enough if the seam is tall enough for a man to stand upright while he pickaxes out the coal and shale, but some of them are barely high enough to crawl into sideways. And the dust at the face –it's difficult to describe to someone who's never seen it. It hangs in the air –thick, filthy –it covers and gets into everything. Your clothes, boots, tools, skin, eyes, ears, nose –it's like trying to breathe in a pea soup of powder. And outside of the light of your lamp, it's blacker than you ever imagined darkness could get. Sometimes it's hotter than a bread oven ...'

‘I thought it would be freezing cold.'

‘Not always, and what little breathable air there is around you is clammy and stinking. So now you know why I like the outdoors even in the cold. And the rain isn't so bad either, especially during the day. Because there have been times in the winter when I only see daylight on a Sunday.' He wrapped his arm around her waist.

‘But you work with the horses in the stables and aren't they near the cage?'

He laughed. ‘You think the horses are near the cage so they can look up and see the light.'

‘Of course not,' she answered touchily, because that was exactly how she had imagined the stables.

‘My job might be head horsekeeper and blacksmith, but shoeing the horses is only part of it. There's a lot of smithy work underground. Maintaining the tracks, the ironwork on the dram wagons and ventilation doors, and that's without seeing to the coal cutters' tools.' They reached the summit of the mountain and he turned and looked back at the valley spread out beneath them like a living map.

On either side of them and across on the opposite mountains, vast interlocking pyramids of glistening black slag and colliery waste spewed down from the hilltops, ending only yards from where the houses began. Directly below was the path they had walked, bordered by yellow-green grass splattered with purple heather and gold-speckled dying bracken. The first four rows of houses, the highest in the valley, were the smallest and poorest. At the end of each terrace was a communal waterspout. And below the tiny two-up two-down cottages were the ‘better' streets of larger houses, built behind Dunraven Street.

‘I know it's silly, but I can never climb to the top of this hill without looking for our house. My father used to do it every time he brought us up here when we were children. It was almost as if he needed to reassure himself that it was still there, waiting for us to come back.'

‘At least you still have a home to look for.' She spoke with more sorrow than bitterness.

‘We'll have one of our own one day, Megs, and until then you'll be welcome in ours.' He lifted her chin with the tips of his gloved fingers and kissed her. Her nose was freezing, her lips cold against his. ‘I'd better get you back down before you turn blue.'

‘Not yet. My favourite place is just over the brow of the hill where you can't see any signs of people.'

‘Just slag, mountain and sheep.'

‘And the freshest air.' She saw him watching her. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘I always know what you mean.'

‘Race you to that rock?'

‘I know better ways to warm up.'

‘So do I, but we'd freeze if we tried them here.' Megan ran as fast as she could, but she couldn't catch Victor, who remained a constant two feet ahead of her. It didn't help that she knew he was holding back. Eventually he stopped and grabbed her. Breathless, she fell against him but instead of kissing her as she expected him to, he narrowed his eyes and looked over her shoulder.

She turned and saw a crowd of several hundred men. ‘An unofficial strike meeting?'

He frowned. ‘It's an unofficial meeting, but I don't think it has anything to do with the strike.'

‘Does it mean trouble?' she asked apprehensively.

‘Let's take a closer look.' He reached for her hand and started walking.

Sali entered the boardroom of Gwilym James, greeted her fellow trustees and took her place at the head of the table. Mr Richards sat on her right, Mr Jenkins, her late great-aunt's butler on her left. Her Great-Aunt Edyth had stipulated in her will that there were to be twelve trustees. These were to include Sali, Mr Jenkins, the three senior members of staff of Gwilym James, which were at present, the manager Mr Horton, Sali's brother Geraint who held the post of assistant manager, and Mr Horton's son, who, although young at twenty-two, had worked for the store since his fourteenth birthday.

The junior Mr Horton, who had been christened Alfred after his grandfather, always took the minutes of the meetings and arranged for them to be posted to his fellow trustees. Sali also suspected that he had a greater knowledge of the day-to-day running of the store and possessed more business acumen than her brother ever would. But when their uncle had embezzled Geraint's inheritance and he needed a job, she'd arranged for him to take the position that she sensed the store's other employees felt was Alfred Horton's by aptitude, capability and, considering his father and grandfather's devoted service to the James family, by birthright.

Every time she saw Alfred Horton, she felt guilty. When Geraint had accepted the position of assistant manager, he had insisted that he would soon move on. Just as he had assured her that he would take responsibility for finding somewhere other than Harry's house for himself, their mother, brother and sister to live in. But as time passed, he ceased to mention ‘moving on' or out of Ynysangharad House and she believed he now regarded the post and housing he had taken as a temporary measure, as his by right. Certainly, he behaved more like the master of Ynysangharad House, than she, the mistress, when she visited her mother after the monthly trustee meetings.

The two senior directors of the Market Company that owned Pontypridd indoor market halls and collected the rents for the outdoor stalls, had been co-opted on to the board, and as Gwilym James held fifty-five per cent of the Market Company stock, they could always be counted on to vote with Mr Horton. Two partners from Mr Richards' firm of solicitors were also trustees. Mr Richards attended the meetings, but only at Sali's invitation and in his capacity as her adviser. Three directors from the Capital and Counties Bank made up the number.

Sali had read the minutes of the last meeting and Mr Richards had sent her a letter commenting on the business he expected to be covered at the next session. She expected a routine and dull discussion on investments, because the company was too cash rich at that moment for the bankers' liking. But thanks to Mr Richards' tutelage and their weekly correspondence, she was beginning to understand the intricacies of business and high finance.

They sat quietly through the reading of the monthly balance sheets by one of the bank's directors. Gwilym James' overall turnover was down ten per cent just as Mr Horton had warned her it would be. At twelve per cent down, the Market Company had been hit slightly harder, but although profits were smaller the businesses were doing well, especially in comparison to some of the other shops in Pontypridd and the Rhondda. The minutes of the last meeting were read, passed as accurate and, as she'd expected, the bankers, solicitors, Mr Horton and the two directors from the Market Company embarked on an involved debate as to the merits, or otherwise, of various investment opportunities.

Glad to leave the financial decisions to the professionals, Sali gazed out of the window. It was set too high for her to see anything other than an expanse of clear sky and wispy white clouds. Her mind drifted and she mulled over what Mr Richards had said to her about the strike.

During all the years the solicitor had advised her father and her family, she had never known him to be ill-informed. She respected his opinion above everyone else she knew, with the exception of Lloyd and his father. But she couldn't bear the thought that the man she loved and all the other colliers and their families were suffering the deprivations and hardships of the strike for no gain. Yet, she couldn't deny the logic behind Mr Richards' conclusion, and wondered why she hadn't thought the situation through for herself. It had undoubtedly been prohibitively expensive to bring in and house close on a thousand extra police as well as two regiments of soldiers in the Rhondda. And although the colliery owners were prepared to talk, they had made it clear that they weren't about to make any further concessions to the miners' demands other than those that had been already rejected by the union. So why should they suddenly change their minds and offer more?

How much longer could Lloyd and the strike committee hold out? The miners were in no mood to back down, but Christmas was coming, the winter was proving a hard and cold one, and the soup kitchens were struggling to feed the starving population as it was. Connie had told her all the shops that had extended credit to the strikers were teetering on bankruptcy ...

‘Would you like to comment on the point Mr Watkin Jones has just made, Mrs Jones?'

‘Pardon?' Sali turned from the window and looked blankly at Mr Jenkins.

‘We have reached any other business, Sali,' Geraint explained testily. ‘And I have brought the manner in which you are raising Harry to the attention of the committee.'

‘The way I bring up my son is my business and no one else's, Geraint.' She was furious with her brother for initiating a discussion with the trustees on the subject.