Heartbreak in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  ‘Don’t be daft. We wanted to see how you were,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ll be in the scullery,’ said Meg, closing the door behind her.

  Idris pointed to the seats at the table and sat down. Charlie’s dark brown hair was shorter than it had been, neatly parted on one side.

  Jenkin came rushing into the room, maybe alerted by the voices. ‘Oh, mun, you all look smart in your uniforms. And look at that.’ He pointed to Henry’s shoulder badge, a red dragon, indicating they were in the 38th (Welsh) Division.

  ‘Yes, we finally got our proper ones,’ said Henry, ‘instead of those bits and pieces of uniforms they rigged us out in for training. One poor so-and-so even had on a scarlet jacket from the Boer War.’

  ‘I bet you’re a crack fighting force now though, with all your training.’ Jenkin’s face glowed with excitement as he spun round to take them all in.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Maurice laughed.

  ‘What exercises do you do? We’ve been doing military exercises at scouts. I wonder if they’re the same.’

  Idris looked down at the floor, feeling inadequate in the company of these men, all fit for action. Despite Jenkin’s words about being proud of him for enlisting, he knew he’d let his little brother down.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Maurice. ‘Well, not the stuff we did at Kinmel Park, anyway. Limbering up on telegraph poles mounted on bus tyres, long route marches, gun training with broomsticks and dummy rifles… and that was after we’d scrubbed the floors and latrines.’

  Jenkin looked disappointed until Henry added, ‘It got better once we got to Winchester. Did some proper training there.’

  The young lad was engaged once more, asking for more details. As Maurice and Henry provided them, Idris noticed Charlie had gone quiet, sitting furthest away. Idris moved along to sit next to him.

  ‘So, when are you off to the Front, or wherever you’re going?’ Idris had no inclination to know, but it was a better avenue of conversation than his discharge and how he was doing.

  ‘Thursday. France. Can’t say where.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask… Looking forward to it?’

  Charlie opened his mouth to speak but faltered. His forehead puckered. ‘Only a madman would look forward to it,’ he muttered, perhaps so the others didn’t hear.

  ‘But you were the one most up for—’

  ‘Giving the Hun a bloody nose? I’ve talked since then to men on leave. Bloody carnage, it is. People said it’d be home from home for us hewers, being used to being underground. But although we know there could be an explosion or rock fall here, how often does it happen?’

  ‘Not often is still too often,’ said Idris.

  ‘But in the freezing, diseased mud in a field in France, thousands are killed. Every minute could be your last. And sometimes soldiers wish it would be.’

  Charlie must have been quoting someone else, for he’d never been an eloquent man. Plain-speaking, with a bit of a temper, not maudlin, that was Charlie Jones.

  ‘See this here, in last week’s Herald, for instance.’ Charlie picked up the paper on the table, opening it and folding back the pages. ‘Casualties for the 6th Welsh. Missing. Wounded. Killed. How long before it’s the 38th Welsh?’

  ‘I read the newspapers,’ said Idris. ‘I know it’s not a party.’

  ‘Aye, but the papers don’t tell the half of it. And then there are the pieces about how ready we trainees are for the off, how proud, how we’re keen to recruit others. You’re well out of it.’

  Idris wanted to fling himself out of the chair and through the door. What did Charlie know of being labelled Not likely to become an efficient soldier? ‘I’d still rather be doing my bit.’

  ‘Aye, you’re a good man, Idris Hughes, always after doing the right thing. You just keep on digging out that good steam coal, as Edgar Williams is always at pains to tell us.’

  ‘D’you hear that, Idris?’ Jenkin’s eyes were wide with wonder. ‘They’ll be going on a ship, overseas.’

  Maurice laughed heartily. ‘Well how else would you expect us to get abroad, bach? Fly?’

  ‘The Royal Flying Corps would.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think they’d fit us all in those small planes.’

  The door from the scullery opened tentatively. Meg peeped round. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, lads?’

  Charlie spoke for them all. ‘No thank you, Mrs Hughes. We’ll be going shortly.’

  She nodded, disappearing back into the scullery. The tension in Idris’s muscles eased.

  ‘In fact, we were going to ask if you’d come out to the McKenzie Arms,’ said Maurice. ‘So many offers of pints we’ve had, reckon we could stand you a few too.’

  Idris’s brain worked quickly. ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. Said I’d help Gwilym fix a chest of drawers at his house. His mam wants it done quick, like.’ Although it was true, they’d made no plans to do it this evening. ‘And I thought buying drinks for others was banned now.’

  ‘You know Reg Moss. He keeps his own rules, and Harries the Police turns a blind eye,’ said Charlie. ‘Anyway, it’s your choice, mun. But we’re off tomorrow and I’ve no idea when we’ll see you again. Reckon we’ll make an evening of it, if you fancy coming down later.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be with Violet and the kiddies?’

  ‘I’ve spent time enough with family. Reckon I can be allowed out for some fun. Condemned man and all that.’ The laugh that followed was without humour.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jenkin, looking hopeful.

  Henry stood and ruffled his hair. ‘When you’re a few years older, bach.’

  Jenkin followed Henry and Maurice into the hall, still chatting about army life.

  Charlie got up from the chair and moved towards the door. Before he reached it, he spun round. ‘I’m not ashamed to tell you, I’m scared to bloody death, mun.’

  Idris had no words of comfort. How could you tell someone in his situation it would be all right? ‘Take care,’ was his only response.

  ‘You too.’ Charlie entered the hall and soon Idris heard the front door shut. He picked his book back up.

  Jenkin came back to the kitchen. ‘I bet you’re glad they popped in. I’ll have something to tell Evan and the others, especially at scouts, when Mr Beadle gets us exercising.’

  Idris put the book back down, accepting it might be a while before he got back to it.

  * * *

  ‘Come in,’ Violet’s voice called before Anwen had even reached the open back door.

  ‘I gather they’ve all gone.’ Anwen stopped by the sink where Violet was washing up. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand with drying.’

  ‘Charlie left about an hour ago.’

  Anwen assessed Violet’s face. She looked like a woman who’d caught her husband with another woman, her lips pressed into a pink slash. Her hands worked too quickly as they brushed the frying pan in the sink.

  ‘It must have been nice having him home, even for such a short time.’

  ‘Short time is right.’

  ‘I guess the army is needing to get them off—’

  Violet stopped her brushing suddenly. ‘Thirty-six hours, and half of that was spent at his parents in Bargoed and at the McKenzie Arms. I don’t resent him seeing his family, and I could understand him having a couple of hours to catch up with pals. But—’ She yelped in frustration. ‘And he made a fuss about Hywel being here.’

  That would explain why her uncle had spent time at theirs and slept on the chaise longue at Gwilym’s house for two nights. ‘I think Uncle Hywel was happy to give you time to yourselves.’

  ‘Which would have been fine if Charlie hadn’t been rude to him. He doesn’t appreciate that we’re short of money since he enlisted. And then not to even be here half the time. At least Hywel helps out.’ Violet lifted her hands from the water and shook them. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You go and sit down in the kitchen.’

  Anwen felt there was more to this than their convers
ation suggested. Or it could be that her friend was simply frightened for her husband, but didn’t want to cry.

  ‘Violet.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are things all right? Apart from Charlie going off to war…’

  Violet paused drying her hands. After a short while she smiled. ‘As all right as it is for anyone. Oh, don’t mind me. I’m tired. Charlie was tired. The war puts a stress on everyone.’

  ‘It does that, cariad. Now you sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. Go on with you now.’

  Violet beamed. ‘Yes, madam, whatever you say.’

  * * *

  The service at the chapel was over, a particularly depressing occasion, with news of soldiers from the surrounding villages of Rhymney and Tredegar having died. They were men who’d signed up early in the war and had already been dispatched abroad. Anwen pondered, as Sara and Hywel led the way to the smaller room for tea, how long it would be before news of fatalities from their village started to filter through.

  Hywel veered off to another part of the chapel to talk to a friend of his. Sara stopped to cough, pulling a handkerchief from her coat pocket to cover her mouth. She’d been doing that a lot the last few days. Anwen caught up, putting her arm through Sara’s free one.

  ‘Shall we go home?’

  Sara was taken aback. ‘No. I like being here, talking to people.’ Better than being home where Da will be waking up and complaining, were the unspoken words.

  Sara coughed once more. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  Gwen, by the door to the tearoom, waved and came over. ‘That’s a nasty cough, fach. My mam swears by the Lightening Cough Cure. That’ll sort you out.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Sara said defensively. ‘Nothing a bit of honey and pepper tea won’t sort out.’ She carried on to where the minister’s three daughters were serving the drinks.

  ‘Is she all right?’ asked Gwen, looking concerned. ‘I didn’t mean to offend her, poor lamb.’

  ‘She’s been coughing more since starting work at the House. But it has been colder and damper recently.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what it might be, then. But – well, I’d get her checked by the doctor, just in case.’ She placed a hand on Anwen’s shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘I’m parched. Coming to get a cup of tea?’

  ‘In a moment.’ She’d spotted Elizabeth Meredith and decided to approach her. She hadn’t sat with them this week, being a little late and taking a pew at the back. ‘Hello Miss Mere— Elizabeth. I’m glad I’ve seen you. I was wondering how Sara is getting on at the House.’ What she really wanted to know was whether she’d been coughing a lot there, too.

  ‘She’s very thorough.’ Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Maybe not as quick as my mother would like, but her excellent attention to detail is most satisfying.’

  Anwen’s heart sank a little at the polite criticism. ‘I’m sorry she’s been slower than you’d like. She’s had a chesty cold recently that won’t be helping.’ She remembered Gwen’s initial words. ‘There are a lot of colds going around.’

  ‘There certainly are. Tom has been in bed a couple of days with one. Mother doesn’t want him getting ill again when he hasn’t fully recovered from the influenza.’

  At the mention of the illness, Anwen remembered how they had all thought her brother Tomos had contracted influenza. Her heart was heavy with the memory. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘He’ll recover, don’t you worry. I am a little more concerned about Sara. Has she been to the doctor? She is always cheerful but I do wonder if she is hiding things so people don’t get concerned.’

  It was a show Sara had long performed. She didn’t like people to label her as ‘ill’.

  ‘Anwen, Miss Meredith.’ Mrs Price, Hywel’s former landlady, touched Anwen’s arm. ‘Isn’t it terrible? I’ve just heard that little Irene Marks on Owain Street died early this morning. The consumption again. Third little babby this month.’ She sniffed into a handkerchief. ‘What’s to be done? And the diphtheria took so many last year.’

  Anwen was surprised to see Elizabeth remove a handkerchief from her own bag, patting at the corner of each eye where tears had appeared.

  ‘I’m so very sorry to hear that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s so much that could be done, if only…’ She tailed off, not expanding on what those things might be.

  ‘This war certainly isn’t going to improve things,’ said Mrs Price. ‘Food shortages don’t help our poor children get healthier.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said Elizabeth.

  The minister’s wife, Agnes Richards, who’d been standing behind them, must have overheard. ‘At least the Rent Restriction Act should help. The landlords won’t be able to keep putting up the rents and leaving little money for anything else.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But if there is no food to buy, having more money will do little good.’

  ‘Perhaps we should grow our own, on the spare land around the village,’ said Anwen, immediately regretting talking out of turn in a conversation between the manager’s daughter and the minister’s wife.

  Elizabeth considered her with surprising admiration. ‘Have you ever grown your own vegetables?’

  ‘We used to,’ Anwen replied, remembering the long rectangle of produce that had once graced their garden. September three years ago, after her brother Geraint died in the night, her father stormed into the garden, kicking and chopping at the vegetables growing there. He’d blamed Geraint’s death on those vegetables, saying their old next door neighbour had poisoned them after he’d had a quarrel with him. The doctor had diagnosed consumption, but Madog wouldn’t have it. ‘We haven’t grown them for years,’ she said as an afterthought.

  ‘I must go to the Marks family after I’ve finished here, to offer comfort,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ she concluded, moving on to talk to someone else.

  ‘The Lord giveth and maybe it’s beholden of us to make the very best of what he gives,’ said Elizabeth. ‘There’s too much complacency.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, Miss Meredith. What can we do?’ said Mrs Price.

  ‘What indeed?’ said Elizabeth, as if in a dream. ‘It’s certainly about time I did something. Good day, ladies; I must take my leave of you.’

  Elizabeth wove through the crowds and was soon out of view.

  How Anwen wished she had Elizabeth’s position and connections, or at least, her confidence, then maybe she could do something.

  * * *

  The Workmen’s Institute was the last place Idris wanted to be of an evening, listening to the union man rambling on about rights and wages and conscription, but his father had almost dragged him from the house.

  He’d been glad to be a part of it all once, the union, the committees for arranging funds to build the hospital and Institute. Both had been completed five years ago. He’d been proud to contribute his penny per week. Penny ha’penny, it was now.

  Their union representative was a skinny blond man called Philip Hubbard, a fireman in the mine. He’d rambled on about the South Wales Miners’ Federation’s disapproval of conscription, and how they were going to make their opposition clear to Asquith’s government.

  Isaiah and Gwilym were sitting either side of Idris in the main hall. As people stood, interrupting each other and arguing, the pair of them shouted, ‘Hear hear,’ and several variations of, ‘Sit down and shut up,’ according to who was talking, like many men in the room.

  A small man with dark olive skin, known to everyone as Twm Bach, jumped up to shout, ‘If our army gets short of men, don’t you think it’s beholden of us to go and fight alongside our countrymen?’

  ‘Short of men is what you are,’ shouted a voice. ‘You wouldn’t reach anywhere near the minimum height, Twm Bach!’ People laughed.

  ‘It’s not Britain’s problem as I see it,’ bellowed Idris’s butty, Jory Damerell, who’d moved up from Cornwall two years before. ‘Let those who starte
d it sort it out. What’s it got to do with us?’

  Twm Bach started, ‘Lloyd George says—’

  ‘Lloyd George! Let him go and fight then,’ said Jory, causing more shouts of support and derision.

  At this point another figure stood, yelling, ‘Quiet!’ It was Edgar Williams, the under-manager. ‘Of course we must help our fellow human beings against the evil of the Germans and Austro-Hungarians, that is not in question, is it?’ He glared at Jory Damerell, daring him to answer back. ‘But, comrades,’ he said, adopting Hubbard’s language, ‘we are doing our bit, digging the coal for our good navy to blast the U-Boats out of the water.’ He caught Idris’s eye, fixing his gaze on him. ‘And any miner who goes running off thinking he can do any better sitting in a godforsaken trench is a fool.’

  There was further quarrelling for and against his words.

  ‘As for Britain not fighting in the war, only an idiot would think like that,’ Hubbard continued, shouting above the din. ‘Consider how miners’ wages have gone up since the trouble started. Let’s face it, war is excellent for business, and not just ours. The steel industry, munitions. It’s all good for the economy.’

  ‘You sound like Lloyd George,’ called Samuel Bevan, a timberman in the mine.

  ‘Nothing wrong with Lloyd George,’ said Twm Bach. ‘He should be prime minister, not Asquith. About time we had a Welshman as prime minister, if you ask me.’ There were more cries of hear hear.

  Beside him, Gwilym got to his feet. Idris pulled on his jacket for him to sit down, but he resisted.

  ‘War is excellent for business, is it Williams?’ Gwilym snapped. ‘The only people who’ll profit in the end are the bosses. You wait and see. Come the end of the war, we’ll be on the march for decent pay again.’

  There was a murmur of assent from some quarters of the hall.

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Jory, ‘we’ve got Christmas coming up and nothing in the shops to buy for our children, despite this so-called wonderful pay increase. And food’s not exactly flowing either.’