War in the Valleys

by Francesca Capaldi

  War in the Valleys

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One 21st July 1916

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  A letter from Francesca

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  War in the Valleys

  Francesca Capaldi

  To my great grandmother, Mary Jones, who struggled, through hardship and the premature loss of many loved ones, to care for her family. Gran, you’ll always be a sunbeam for me.

  Chapter One

  21st July 1916

  Violet Jones plonked her slight body onto the Windsor armchair, its creaking groan a reminder of its age. She surveyed the kitchen slowly. The stained oilcloth on the table was scrubbed, the dishes washed, the dresser organised. The range was blackened to gleaming. Although it was a warm July day, she moved a little closer to the fire in the stove. Its crackling flames and sulphurous aroma gave her the comfort of the familiar. The area was as neat as it was possible for a room with such shabby furniture to be. She knew ‘shabby’ was too kind a description for her belongings, as it was for the deep rose walls, now smoke-stained.

  But none of this bothered her much today. It was the lack of another body on the matching chair, sitting on the other side of the range, that chipped away at her heart, like a pick hewing coal. Her children, four-year-old Clarice and twenty-three-month-old Benjamin, had been tucked up in bed ten minutes before for a nap, worn out by a morning running around the allotments as Violet had picked and planted. The house was unnaturally quiet.

  Her husband, Charlie, had signed up with the Rhondda Pals in March 1915. She counted in her head… One year and four months ago. The 13th Battalion of the 114th Brigade of the 38th (Welsh) Division, as he’d been at pains to remind her several times when home on leave in November last year. Morose, he’d been, on that occasion. He’d spent more time out with his pals than in with his family. Her tears had welled up when Clarice had asked why he was out again. But she’d kept strong for the children. That was before his brigade had been sent to the Front. His short and infrequent letters did not reveal the exact location.

  Oh Charlie, what changed, cariad? What happened to the happy, joking boy I married? He might have survived the carnage of the war so far, but his spirit had floundered. Was it lost forever, like so many of the limbs of their brave soldiers?

  She rose to fetch the single photograph of him from the dresser in the front room. In this image he was upright and proud in his uniform, his hair combed back in a side parting. He’d grown a small moustache after he’d signed up. Standing in the doorway she looked down at his image, then towards the chair on the right-hand side of the range.

  But it wasn’t Charlie she pictured there.

  The jolt in her chest came a heartbeat before she leant against the doorframe as she realised it was Hywel’s form she imagined on the chair. Hywel was the uncle of Anwen Rhys, her best friend and had been Violet’s lodger since last November. That was, until nine days ago, when he’d been shot defending his sister and niece against Madog Rhys, Anwen’s father. After he’d come out of hospital, he’d moved in with Anwen’s family. It was him she missed, his generous smile, his spark and vitality. But that was only because he’d been company for her recently, she told herself. Once the war was over, Charlie would return and be his old self again.

  But which old self? She’d experienced three different Charlies over the seven years they’d been courting and married. The first one had been attentive and loving. The latest version, the one who’d been on leave the last time, had been sullen, not taking much interest in her. It was the original one she hankered after. As for the middle one…

  The sudden clunk of the letterbox almost made her drop the photograph. ‘What’s that now?’ she whispered.

  She placed the picture back on the dresser, catching sight of the postwoman in her conspicuous blue serge skirt and coat, and blue straw hat, as she passed the front room window. Violet hurried out to the hall, via the kitchen. On the rag rug was a single letter. Perhaps it was from her mam. It was unlikely to be from Charlie, especially as she had read that the men were in the thick of it in the Somme. She reckoned that was where his brigade was now, in muddy, disease-ridden trenches, with guns firing overhead and bombs going off, if what she’d heard was true. The thought of him there, always close to death, turned her stomach.

  She dipped down to pick up the missive. The handwriting was neat and precise, but she did not recognise it. She glanced up the stairs, afraid the noisy letterbox might have awoken Clarice and Benjamin. But no, there was no sound from there. She’d miss her daughter’s lively chatter during the weekdays when she started school in September. Benjy was beginning to string enough words to make sentences, but only to ask for something or make an observation.

  This letter wasn’t going to open itself.

  She ran her finger along the back, then slowly drew out the contents. A dread seized her gut, quickening her breathing. Slowly, she unfolded the paper.

  Violet was confused at first by the address at the top of the letter. At the back of her mind she’d feared it would be news from the army to tell her Charlie had been killed. This was despite knowing that news like that arrived by telegram, and would have been dropped off not by the postwoman, but by the new telegram boy George Lewis, who’d recently taken on the job from the lad who’d been called up.

  She looked next at the signature: Pte Dylan Davies, 114th Brigade, 38th (Welsh) Infantry Division. The same Pals’ Brigade Charlie was in.

  She sat on the stairs, frightened to turn it back to the beginning of the letter. Why would one of his fellow soldiers be writing to her? She took a deep breath for courage and began.

  Devonport Hospital

  Plymouth

  Wednesday 19th July 1916

  Dear Mrs Jones,

  My name is Dylan Davies. I am sure you will not have heard of me, but I want to tell you what a great hero your husband, Charlie Jones, is—

  Is. Not was. She read on, greatly relieved.

  You may have read in the papers about the Battle of Mametz Wood. It’s all over and done now, and we have captured an important German post, but if it were not for your husband, I would not be here to write this to you. We were in the thick of it, in the middle of the wood, Germans firing all around us, trees shot to pieces by our own shells because they were falling short of their marks. The trees still standing were on fire. Many of our men had already fallen.

  I was hit in the leg by a bullet. I tried to pull myself through the mud, but my leg was burning and I could not bear the pain. More shells fell nearby and I knew my time would soon come. It was then that your husband, Charlie, ran back to help me. I told him to run to safety, but he would not hea
r of it.

  For a long time, it seemed, we struggled, until finally we reached some kind of shelter. He stayed with me there a while. We talked as best we could, given the terrible din, and swapped addresses. He said I would be taken to a field hospital, then shipped back home. He asked me to write to him to tell him how I fared. Then he ran to help other men caught in the woods.

  I was shipped out the next day. As far as I know he reached our target with the rest of the survivors. I know the men of the 114th are currently scattered, but are slowly being shipped home for leave. Perhaps he is already home with you, in which case may I request that you pass on to him the news that I am fine and in hospital in England, as you can see by the address. It is also an opportunity to let you know what a courageous man your husband is, for I am sure, from the little I got to know him while we were in the 114th together, that he is a modest man, who would not admit to such bravery.

  I am from Bargoed, so who knows but I might bump into Charlie again one day as he told me his parents live there.

  I hope you have not minded me writing to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Pte Dylan Davies

  She turned back to the beginning and stared at the address for some time. This man had taken the time to write to her when Charlie hadn’t. Yes, this Dylan Davies was in hospital, with time on his hands to write letters, but… She sank onto one edge of the chaise longue. She was being unreasonable for she had no idea what her husband had been through. And what had become of Charlie since this battle? Skimming the letter once more she found the sentence about the men being shipped home on leave.

  Maybe, if she showed him this letter, Charlie would open up a little more to her. He’d refused to speak of the training when he was last on leave, before Christmas, saying that he’d come home for a rest from it.

  She was dying to show the letter to someone. Anwen. She’d be the most understanding, and anyway, their other friend, Gweneth Austin, would still be at the munitions factory in Ebbw Vale at this time of day. Hywel would be at Anwen’s house too, what with his injured leg. Maybe taking the letter and showing him the care and concern she had for her husband would put some distance between her and Hywel.

  What a conceited little being she was. She scolded herself for thinking that her former lodger might be holding a torch for her. Yet she had wondered at one point whether this was the case, as he had shown her so much kindness. She’d even considered asking him to move out, especially after the fuss Charlie had made on his last leave about having a man in the house. He’d reckoned people would talk. Hywel being shot and consequently moving into his sister’s house had taken the decision out of her hands.

  So, to Anwen’s she would go. But first she’d have to rouse Clarice and Benjamin.

  * * *

  Violet reached the top of Bryn Road and came to a standstill, turning to look out beyond the pit, nestled in the dip, to the valley beyond. The clouds’ shadows skittered across the verdant hills, the grass shining where the sun’s rays found it. The children stood either side of her. She was weary after a morning’s scrubbing and cleaning of steps, doorways and windows. Her furniture might be past its best, but she was determined to keep the outside of the house as spotless as she could. She wasn’t having her neighbours calling her a slattern, looking down on her like they did on some women in the village.

  Clarice tugged on Violet’s hand. ‘Mam, when is the noisy dragon going to start up again?’

  The pit had not yet reopened after the explosion three weeks back, at the beginning of July. The absence of the revolving wheels had brought a deathly silence over the village. Violet shivered, remembering the thirteen men who had tragically met their end in the underground tunnels. Bombs and bullets in France, explosive pit gas: it seemed the men of Dorcalon could not escape danger in war or peace.

  Clarice had referred to the pit wheel noise as a dragon since Idris, Anwen’s fiancé, had told the children a story he’d made up about one who’d been trapped underground.

  Benjy made a long, harsh noise at the back of his throat, trying to emulate the sound. ‘Poor dwagon.’

  ‘The sooner it starts up, the better,’ said Violet. Though she loved the quiet that had resulted, the pit being still was no good for men’s earnings. The money made from repair work didn’t compare to that of filling trams. And the women who sorted the coal, like she used to with Anwen and Gwen, were getting nothing.

  Nevertheless, she took a moment to close her eyes and enjoy the silence.

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  Violet’s eyes popped open to see her next-door neighbour standing there, eyeing her with concern.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mrs White, thank you. I was taking in the quiet, that’s all.’

  The older woman looked towards the pit. ‘Aye, quiet as the grave it is. Monday they reckon it’ll open back up.’ Her body slumped as she walked away, dragging her feet like a much older woman. She’d aged overnight since losing her nephew in the accident. It was how so many of them seemed to walk around the village these days. Everybody knew somebody who’d been affected by the disaster.

  She took the children’s hands once more and led them onto Edward Street. As if to illustrate her thoughts, Gwilym Owen and his grandfather, Abraham, were shuffling along together in silence, staring at the ground. Gwilym’s clothes were grubby: he must have been helping with the repairs at the mine. She followed on behind, since they lived two doors from her destination. Behind her she saw a few more men, adopting the same weary pose. Clarice chirped like a little bird, still relating the story of the dragon, blissfully unaware of the blanket of gloom that seemed to be laid across the village.

  The three of them walked past Gwilym and Abraham, Violet intoning a subdued greeting, then took the path at the end to the back of the houses. On reaching Anwen’s back door, Violet knocked gently on it. Clarice was running up and down the garden path singing, little Benjamin trying to emulate her, his shirt untucked from his baggy shorts.

  ‘Clarice, hush your noise now. You’re—’

  The door opened and there stood Cadi, Anwen’s grandmother, beaming broadly.

  ‘Why Violet, cariad, how lovely to see you. And it’s always a pleasure to see the little ones.’

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘No, not at all. Come in.’ The children hurried into the scullery, giggling. ‘Elizabeth is already here in the kitchen. It’s nice to have a natter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude on whatever she’s here for.’ She could have done without the mine manager’s daughter today, but she’d become a firm friend of Anwen’s since they’d started on the allotments together.

  ‘Nonsense. Just dropped in, she has, to see how we all are. Come on now, in you come.’

  Violet did as she was instructed, enjoying the inviting bready aroma of something as she stepped into the kitchen. Bakestones, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  Elizabeth and Anwen were sitting at the table. In the wooden armchairs either side of the stove sat Hywel and his sister Enid, Anwen’s mother. Elizabeth was in her allotment attire of trousers, not elegantly dressed as normal. Cadi lifted Clarice and Benjamin onto the chaise longue, taking up one long end of the table, much to their delight, before going to the stove to make tea.

  Hywel grinned broadly at her. ‘How have you been, Violet?’ He pushed his hand through his dark brown hair as his hazel eyes studied her.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Hywel. How’s your leg now?’ She looked down at the bandaged limb, held aloft on a footstool.

  ‘It’s aching quite a lot. Still, the surgeon seems to have done a good job of removing the bullet without any danger to anything else.’

  Enid tutted, tucking a piece of fine grey-brown hair behind her ear as she murmured. ‘That Madog Rhys. Where’d he get a gun, that’s what I’d like to know? Bringing trouble to my family and trying to’ – she glanced at the children – ‘cause trouble.’

  An outsider wouldn’t have guessed she was ta
lking about her own husband, who’d become a dangerous tyrant in their midst, handy with his fists. Almost two years ago, not long after the war had started, he’d pushed Enid down the stairs in the hope of killing her, rendering her bedridden. That was, until Madog had shot Hywel and they had discovered she’d been able to walk for a while, but had been too frightened to let her violent husband know. There’d also been his involvement in criminal activity, what with the stealing and profiteering.

  ‘And how are you feeling today, Mrs Rhys?’ said Violet.

  ‘Me? I’m fit as I was before… the incident. Walking out on the hills, every day I’ve been, and I’ll keep on doing it regular like. It was a bit of a struggle at first, but it’s done me the power of good. See.’ She jumped out of the chair and started running on the spot. ‘I’m not going to let that madman’s actions keep me a prisoner anymore.’

  ‘At least he’s safely locked away now,’ said Violet.

  ‘Aye, but we’ve the court case to get through yet. October, they reckon.’

  ‘Enough of that for now,’ said Anwen. ‘I’m glad you’ve called round, Violet, for I was planning on popping down as I have something to tell you. And since Elizabeth is here too, this might be the time…’

  ‘Oh, what is it?’ Violet always worried when people told her they had something to tell her, instead of just saying it.

  ‘Don’t look like that, it’s nothing bad. Idris had a letter from the hospital in London yesterday. The operation’s at the end of August. Monday 28th.’

  Was that good? Operations were not without their dangers. She’d heard of a couple of people who’d died on the operating table. Not that she knew what was involved in operating on an overactive thyroid. ‘I suppose it’s best to get it over and done with.’

  ‘Yes. But that’s not all.’ Anwen looked a little sheepish. ‘Since he’ll be in London a few days, we thought we might go a couple of days before. Make it a bit of a, um… honeymoon, like.’