Heartbreak in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  A tingling dread crept across Anwen’s body, causing her to wrap her arms around herself tightly. Geraint and Tomos had coughed up blood. But it wasn’t necessarily bad, was it? ‘I haven’t seen any blood before. She’s been coughing more, recently, but she insisted she was all right. I bought her some cough mixture and she said it had helped.’

  ‘Why is she working at all? I know you said your father insisted, but can’t he see she’s ill?’

  Anwen crumpled into the one chair in the room. ‘Our father is not a patient man.’

  ‘He will have to see sense now. You must fetch the doctor. You should have done so long ago.’

  Anwen closed her eyes momentarily. ‘I told her the other evening I would, but she got agitated, said she loved working at the House and didn’t want to give it up. I think it’s been a refuge.’

  ‘Is your father a violent man?’

  ‘He likes things done his own way. Since Mam fell down the stairs, we have to do the best we can. She could handle him better than we can.’

  ‘Is your mother not getting any better?’

  ‘The doctor and hospital couldn’t find any reason why she couldn’t walk, yet she can’t. And the more she stays in that bed, the more I fear she never will.’

  ‘I see there is more going on here than your sister’s condition, and it is all probably contributing to her poor health. I’m afraid my mother insists that Sara is not to come back to work at the house, and I agree with her. She is simply not well enough.’

  ‘I understand.’ At least the manager’s wife saying it might hold some sway with Da. It all depended on his mood.

  They heard a distant door slam, then another, closer.

  ‘My father,’ Anwen said in explanation, jumping up to sprint into the kitchen.

  He was standing erect, cleaner than when she’d seen him last, scowling at Sara reproachfully. ‘What’s all this then, the manager’s motorcar outside my house? Have you brought disgrace to my family, Sara Rhys?’ He lifted a hand above her and she cowered.

  ‘Please Mr Rhys!’ said Elizabeth sharply, stepping into the room. ‘I have brought Sara home because she is unwell. She is not fit to work. The girl needs care and attention.’

  Madog lowered the hand, stumbling back slightly. ‘Not fit to work? She only has a bit of a cold.’

  ‘You must fetch the doctor. I’m afraid we won’t be taking her back at the house. And she must not work anywhere else… Sara, I will bring your wages on Friday. Take care now. I bid you all farewell.’

  She reached the front door before Anwen could get there to open it for her. Madog stood in the kitchen doorway, a grimace marring his countenance.

  With one leg out into the street, Elizabeth halted as Madog murmured in Welsh, ‘Laughing stock I’ll be, my daughter fetched home in a motorcar, not even fit enough to flick a duster.’

  Elizabeth looked back at him to reply in the same language, ‘It’s more than a laughing stock you’ll be if I hear you’ve raised your hand to your daughter again. She’s ill, Mr Rhys, not a malingerer.’

  His mouth opened in surprise.

  Anwen stepped out to speak to Elizabeth, only to see Idris and Gwilym, no doubt on the way to Gwilym’s house at the end of the terrace.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Idris regarded Anwen.

  Madog was at the door by this time. ‘It comes to something when a man can’t be master in his own house. Since when did management get to be boss of my hearth too?’

  Elizabeth rounded on him. ‘This is nothing to do with the pit, or my father being manager; it’s common decency that a woman shouldn’t fear she will be thrashed for being ill, or any other perceived misconduct.’

  ‘He hit Sara?’ Idris’s voice rasped in incredulity.

  ‘I only raised my bloody fist, that’s all.’

  ‘You want to be careful, talking to Miss Meredith like that,’ said Gwilym. ‘Find yourself without a job, and a house, you will.’

  Idris stepped forward. ‘You want to watch yourself, Madog Rhys, that it’s not you gets a fist raised to them, for one of these days you will go too far.’

  Anwen was trembling from her shoulders to her knees. Doorways were filling up with curious spectators, leaning out to watch the show. She was aware of Mam’s faint voice from upstairs calling, ‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’

  Madog’s features twisted in hatred. A stream of profanities gushed forth, aimed at Idris. It was an intolerable situation, especially with neighbours listening in. Anwen held back the pressing tears.

  His vitriol spent, Madog stood defiant in the doorway.

  ‘I think I had better fetch the doctor now,’ said Elizabeth, unfazed by the vulgar language. She patted Anwen’s shoulder. ‘I won’t be long.’ She went to the motorcar, taking a crank from inside it, going to the front and winding it until the engine started. She got back in and set off.

  Idris glared at Anwen’s father. ‘You are a sick man, Madog Rhys. You need to watch your step.’ He and Gwilym tramped on to the end of the terrace.

  Madog spat on the ground then disappeared inside. Anwen followed quickly, afraid he’d hurt Sara, despite the warnings.

  Sara was still sitting on the chair, bent over, handkerchief to her mouth. Madog went to the scullery, returning with wet hands.

  ‘You’d better get your sister to bed. Quicker she’s well, the quicker she’ll be earning again. I’m going out.’

  ‘But you haven’t washed.’

  He ignored her, leaving through the back door.

  Sara went ahead of Anwen to the hall. She took the stairs slowly, Anwen standing just behind her to catch her should she falter.

  In the bedroom, she helped her sister undress and get into bed, propping her into a half sitting position on her pillows to make it better for her chest. ‘I’ll bring you some food.’

  ‘I don’t want any.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat something. I’ll get you some of the broth left from last night. Elizabeth is fetching the doctor.’

  Back on the landing again, Anwen heard her mother call, wanting to know what was going on. She’d have to play it down, say Sara had a bad cold; that Da got annoyed and shouted at the nosy neighbours to mind their own business.

  Mam didn’t need any more to worry about.

  * * *

  Dr Roberts took off his coat, shaking it and hanging it on the hatstand in the hall. ‘Where is Sara?’

  ‘In her bedroom,’ said Anwen as she hurried to the stairs. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

  Sara was sitting up with a book when Anwen and the doctor reached her room, her skin grey and damp with sweat.

  ‘I’ll examine her alone, if you don’t mind,’ said Dr Roberts when Anwen sat on the bottom of the bed. ‘I’ll come and speak to you afterwards.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I’ll be in the kitchen.’ She left, wondering whether she should go and talk to her mother first. She hadn’t called, so she must be sleeping.

  When Anwen entered the kitchen, Elizabeth was placing the kettle on the stove.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I do know how to do things in a kitchen.’ She offered a tiny smile.

  Anwen went to the dresser for three cups and saucers, bringing them back to the table and sitting down. Elizabeth joined her. They sat in silence until steam issued forth from the kettle’s spout. Elizabeth jumped up.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Anwen, going to the dresser. ‘I know where everything is.’ She took the tea tin down and went to the stove, placing four spoonfuls in the pot. As she filled it with water, she hummed a tune.

  ‘“Calon Lân”,’ said Elizabeth. ‘A beautiful song.’

  ‘We sing it in the choir sometimes.’

  They chatted in muted tones about chapel, and the concerts and talks held in the village in the last few months, keeping the mood hovering only a tiny bit above the gloom of the situation.

  Dr Roberts returned to the kitchen ten minutes la
ter.

  ‘A cup of tea for you, Doctor?’ asked Anwen.

  ‘Thank you.’ He took the offered cup and sat on one of the armchairs.

  ‘So, what is the prognosis?’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘I’ve taken a sample of her expectorate and it will be tested, but it will take quite a while to get the results.’

  He was avoiding an answer. Whatever it was, Anwen needed to know. ‘Do you think it’s consumption?’

  ‘Almost certainly, yes.’

  Anwen leant over, clutching her stomach, her face creased in pain. Dr Roberts jumped up, putting his tea on the table. He was just in time to catch her as she stumbled out of her chair, taking her to the armchair he’d just vacated. She’d known in her heart of hearts that Sara was seriously ill, but hearing it confirmed was agonising. Tomos, Geraint, and now Sara. How could they bear another loss? But not everyone died from consumption. Some survived, in the right circumstances. A few, too few.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Elizabeth.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if it is consumption, I’ve put your family in danger by bringing Sara to you.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ said the doctor. ‘Though I would advise sterilising things she may have come in contact with.’

  ‘Will she have caught it from Geraint?’ asked Anwen.

  ‘I don’t know. He died, what, four years ago?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You had a brother die of it?’ Elizabeth’s question was faint, breathy.

  ‘Two,’ said Anwen. ‘Tomos died eight years ago.’

  ‘It can lay dormant for a long time,’ said the doctor. ‘The advice I just gave Miss Meredith, you must take too. Also boil the clothes she’s worn, and her sheets. Don’t use them for anyone else. Any handkerchiefs she uses must be burned. She’s to stay at home but must get fresh air, take a turn in the garden every day, even in the cold. And she needs feeding up.’ He leaned down to open his bag, from which he took a sheet of paper. ‘Here, this will tell you what you need to know about containing it. Would you like me to find out about a place in a sanatorium?’

  ‘I don’t suppose that’s covered by the subs we pay.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then no, we can’t afford that.’

  ‘I’m sorry… Now, while I’m here, I might as well examine your mother.’ He tipped the cup up to finish the tea. Picking up the bag, he headed for the door.

  Now the initial shock was over, Anwen’s head was flooded with a kind of blankness. There was too much to do, too much to think about. She had to be the strong one of the family.

  Chapter Nine

  Anwen hadn’t seen her father since he’d gone out yesterday, after Elizabeth’s initial visit. She’d allayed her mother’s worries with a reassurance that he’d stayed with a drinking pal, but she really had no idea where he was.

  As she stood in the scullery now, leaning over the washing copper, the back door flew open and banged against the draining board. Madog stomped in from his shift, heading straight to the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s my bloody dinner? Nothing’s out, nothing’s cooking.’

  ‘Is it that time already? I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry on the other side of your face. And what’s all this?’ He pointed at the copper and the clothes on the dryer. ‘It’s Friday, not bloody Monday.’

  She wiped her hands on the wraparound apron. ‘The doctor came yesterday. He said I was to do it.’

  ‘Your sister’s only got a cough. I’m not paying for more soap to—’

  ‘Da! Sara’s very ill. Dr Roberts thinks it might be, well, he’s pretty sure it’s… the consumption.’

  Madog became dead still. ‘No. Weak chest, she has. She always has.’

  ‘We’ve been fooling ourselves, Da, thinking it couldn’t happen again like with Tomos and Geraint.’

  Even with his swarthy colouring, Madog went pale. He plonked himself into an armchair, placing his arms on his knees and lowering his head. ‘My boys, oh my boys. Why were they taken from me? Better to lose daughters than sons, for what do they bring to a house but little bits of money and a lot of lip?’ He started rocking, moaning low, ‘My boys, my boys.’

  He went through this performance every now and then. She thought of it as such since he showed no sad emotion for anyone else in the world. Here was Sara, ill, and he could only think of his sons, already passed on.

  He lifted his head, apparently recovered. ‘I’m not paying out for another coffin,’ was all he said before he propelled himself out of the chair and marched away to the kitchen. A few seconds later, the front door slammed. He’d gone out unfed, yet again. There was no checking on Sara for him, no asking how Mam was taking it. He had stopped worrying about anyone but himself long ago.

  She and the doctor had decided not to tell Mam just yet. He was worried about her too, unable to fathom why she wasn’t on her feet by this time, reiterating that the x-rays had shown nothing amiss. It was a worry, but now not at the top of her long list. Getting Sara better was her prime concern.

  * * *

  Idris was traipsing down to the grocer’s shop, the sun hurting his eyes as it sat low on the mountains. The air was so cold it burnt his nostrils as he breathed in.

  Every day now Mam had sent him out for something after he’d had his bath and dinner. Bread, meat, vegetables and margarine had been the most common requests, despite the first two being rare at this time of the day. Today she’d asked for lard. He’d realised quite quickly it was her way of getting him outdoors and not allowing him to stay brooding in the house.

  Coming out of Alexandra Street and onto the top of Jubilee Green, he spotted Dr Roberts heading towards Edward Street. He hoped Sara hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, poor girl. He felt sick with worry for his dear, dear Anwen, having to cope with yet more illness in her family.

  Skirting past the Institute, he decided to go through the gardens on Jubilee Green, despite their winter nakedness. You were less likely to come across people in there this time of the year.

  This reasoning was disproved halfway down when he saw Polly Coombes sauntering through the gate at the opposite end. Dark blonde, she was, and tall for a woman. Her clothes were always a little brighter in colour than those of others. She was the youngest sister of Maurice Coombes, one of his fellow Rhondda Pals. The family had come from London when Polly was an eleven-year-old and she’d been at school at the same time as Idris. He recalled that Anwen had never taken to her, said she was ‘false’, but he’d never witnessed it himself. Despite that, he had no wish to get drawn into a conversation with her right now.

  She waved, quickening her step. ‘I thought that was you, Idris. Been wondering when I’d come across you. Been back a while now, haven’t you?’ Her London twang had been softened a little by the valleys.

  He slowed his step, not wishing to appear rude. ‘About five weeks.’

  ‘My mum heard it from your mum. And you’re not going back to the army, neither?’ She looked infinitely happier about it than he felt. ‘And I hear you and Anwen Rhys have called off the engagement. She never was good enough for you.’

  Anwen not good enough for him! Imagine. If only there was some way to get rid of Polly politely.

  ‘You’re still dressmaking with Mrs Bowen, are you?’

  ‘Indeed. People still need clothes despite the war, them that can’t sew theirselves or can’t be bothered and have the money to spare.’ She trilled a laugh, like a bird tweeting. ‘The well-to-do always want clothes and we’ve a good reputation. We’re making blouses for Mrs and Miss Meredith at present, and shirts for the young and older Mr Merediths. Both handsome men. I went there to help measure them. Such a modern house; it’s wonderful to visit.’

  Why had he asked? He’d expected a yes or no. He nodded respectfully.

  They reached the gate. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked. He had no interest in the answer except to make sure he went in the opposite direction,
even if it meant going the long way around to the grocer’s.

  ‘To my sister’s on Islwyn Street.’

  The detour would not be necessary. ‘Good evening to you, then.’ He raised his cap.

  ‘And to you, Idris. I hope I’ll be seeing you again very soon.’ She lowered her face, looking up through her eyelashes in mock coyness.

  He walked away, aware of her lingering a while. When he reached the pavement diagonally opposite the grocer’s, he glanced around quickly. She’d only just set off from the gate.

  ‘Lard,’ he muttered as he crossed the road. That was something at least they wouldn’t be short of.

  * * *

  ‘It’s only me – Cadi. Mamgu.’

  Anwen heard the voice call from the hall as she sat at the table in the kitchen, preparing dough in a bowl. Beside her sat Sara, cutting an old newspaper into stars, happy as a child. She’d begged to come downstairs today, to join in.

  Both the girls got to their feet. Anwen experienced an equal measure of delight and relief at her grandmother’s cheerful voice. The yoke of work and sadness was lifted, if only temporarily.

  Cadi got to the kitchen before the girls got to the hall. She placed the three overloaded sack bags down, hurrying to her granddaughters to fling her arms around them.

  ‘How are my darlings? Looking forward to Christmas?’

  Sara beamed. ‘I’m so excited, Mamgu.’ Her voice was weak.

  Cadi held her tighter, flashing a questioning glance at Anwen.

  ‘What have you brought?’ Sara let Cadi go, peering into the bags her grandmother had put on the floor.

  ‘Hey, don’t peek in that one now.’ Cadi pointed to the bag on the left. ‘Otherwise there’ll be no surprises. This bag is food. You can take that. The other one’s my clothes.’

  Sara tried lifting the food bag, but despite her grim determination to complete the task, all her effort produced was a small cough. Anwen relieved her of the bag without a fuss, placing it on the table. ‘You empty that out, Sara. I’ll take Mamgu up to my room.’