‘Aye, we’ve not long gone back to work.’
‘Seems to me you can’t escape death if it has its sights on you.’
Elizabeth wished she could contribute some words of hope, but what was there to say in such times? To talk of a better future did not help when people felt so desperate today.
‘You sustained an injury yourself, I see,’ she said.
‘Aye, only minor though. Still got my sight.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Gwilym lifted his head to the sky as the first drops of rain descended. ‘Better get in for my bath. And your mam and da’ll be glad to see you.’
Douglas nodded and started off again, lifting his arm and calling, ‘Maybe see you in the McKenzie Arms.’
‘I’ll let you get on then,’ Elizabeth said to Gwilym.
He simply nodded and carried on to his house.
* * *
The small clock on Violet’s dresser indicated it was ten minutes to three. She put the kettle on the stove. Gwen and her brother Henry would be arriving soon, as they’d promised when they’d called by after chapel this morning. Violet had stayed home this Sunday, not able to cope with the mournful declarations of sadness at her loss. She didn’t think they’d be insincere, but they could not guess at the depth of her regret.
Regret. She mulled over her choice of word. She surely meant grief. Weren’t they different sides of the same coin? There’d be no more chances of a good life with Charlie; that was what she regretted.
The children were playing on the table with a toy train and carriage and several wooden people. It was like any other day for them, as they had no idea yet that their lives had been turned upside down. They were taking turns to load the passengers, set them on a round trip, then unload them, making chuffing sounds and their attempt at a whistle. She’d taken them several times to Dorcalon station, down near the pit, when a train was due. They’d never travelled on one, though. She hadn’t been on one herself since the time she’d visited Cardiff with Anwen, Sara and Gwen, six years back.
There was a knock at the front door. She looked down at her old blouse and skirt, only fit for cleaning, with its faded fabric and patches. Too late to change now.
Clarice’s trip came to a halt. ‘Is that Aunty Gwenny and Henry?’ Clarice asked.
‘Yes fach, I believe it might be.’
Violet went to the front door, gesturing them in without a word. In the kitchen, Henry removed his cap and sat down in the old wooden armchair. He wasn’t in uniform this time, as he had been when he’d called this morning, but in what she guessed was his best suit, his hair neat and parted to one side. Like Gwen, he was blond, though his hair was a little darker than hers and not curly. He had the same large blue eyes. Gwen was still in her Sunday best, an outfit more modern than anything Violet owned, with its chiffon overskirt and wool embroidery in a lovely forest green. Violet knew she’d bought it from Mrs Bowen, who stocked second-hand clothes as well as making new ones. Even second-hand, Violet could never have afforded it, not like her friend on her munitions wage.
Gwen took a seat next to the children, chatting to them about their game.
Violet lifted the warming teapot from the stove. ‘The kettle’s just boiled so I’ll do some tea.’
‘That would be very welcome,’ Henry said, stiffer than he normally was with her.
Dread crawled around Violet’s stomach like the slow worms she’d seen among the heather on the hills. Henry had come to tell her of Charlie’s last hours. Part of her wanted to know, but most of her wanted to run away.
‘I know a new hymn from Sunday School,’ Clarice trilled, before embarking on ‘I’ll Be a Sunbeam’.
Benjamin tried to join in, much to Clarice’s irritation as he didn’t know the song, causing her to shush him before she continued.
When the tea was made, Violet set the three cups on the table. ‘Shall we take our drinks to the front room to talk?’
‘Can we come to front room too?’ pleaded Clarice, her cherubic face tipped to one side.
‘Not today, cariad. We’re going to talk about boring things and you’re better off playing with your train.’ Violet was relieved when Clarice didn’t argue, instead taking her turn at the game without a word.
Henry arose and coughed, causing him to lean over and clutch his chest. The sharp sound sent a shudder through her.
‘Chlorine gas,’ Gwen mouthed, turning her worried frown on her brother.
Violet led the way to the front room. It was lighter than the kitchen but no more cheerful, its long-term neglect only too apparent. It had the musty whiff that accompanied unused rooms. It was just as well Charlie had not been brought home to be laid out in here, what with her selling some of the furniture last year to make ends meet. With no table, the coffin would had to have sat on the floor. But then, it was Charlie’s stinginess when passing on money to her that had caused the situation. She lamented the thought immediately. How wicked she was, thinking of her late husband in this way.
They placed their cups on the small occasional table, one of the few pieces still left in the room.
‘I’m sorry there are no chairs. Would you like to bring some from the kitchen table?’
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Henry. ‘We were sitting down at church and then at dinner.’ He took out his handkerchief and coughed once more. ‘I’m sorry, I might do that quite a lot.’
‘No need to apologise.’
He took a sip of the tea, putting the cup on the mantelpiece when he’d finished. ‘It won’t be easy to relate what happened, but I think you should know. Especially as Charlie’s body won’t be returned.’
Violet pressed her eyelids together, willing herself not to cry. She couldn’t bear the thought of him so far from home, from family, for evermore.
‘I’m sorry Violet, would you rather I didn’t speak of it?’
She opened her eyes. ‘No, I need to hear what happened.’
Henry pushed both hands against the mantelpiece and stared down into the empty fire grate. ‘I hear you had a letter from Dylan Davies.’
‘That’s right, telling me Charlie saved his life.’ She was regretting not bringing the chairs in, feeling a little weak in the stomach.
Gwen leant against the dresser, hands behind her back, gazing at the floor.
‘Well, that’s right enough, he did,’ Henry said. ‘And Dylan wasn’t the first one. He was brave like that, was Charlie. Or foolhardy, always looking out for everybody, and going back for people.’ He looked up. ‘Not that I’m saying I’m a coward, look you, or didn’t keep an eye out for my pals, but there are times when you just have to keep running or you’ll be cannon fodder.’
‘You’re right of course, Henry,’ said Violet, not wanting the ailing man thinking she considered him a coward.
‘Anyway, Charlie wouldn’t be told, even when the lieutenant ordered us on, he wouldn’t leave. He brought in two more soldiers.’
Gwen stepped towards Violet at this point, placing an arm around her.
‘As he was bringing in a third, I was watching from behind a tree. That’s when it happened. Him and the poor sap he was carrying. In the back, quick, it was. He probably didn’t even know what had hit him.’
Violet put her hand to her mouth, afraid she might be sick. Shot in the back. However quick, it must have been agony. She couldn’t bear to think of him suffering, her Charlie. The pressure built up behind her nose and eyes. She breathed in several times, suppressing the emotion, like a dam holding back a river. What a true hero her husband had been. Never in all the time she’d known him had she felt prouder of him. But why had he been so eager to put his life in danger when he had her and the children waiting at home? It was like he’d forgotten their existence.
It was Gwen rubbing her arm and consoling her with, ‘Oh Violet, I’m so sorry,’ that finally made her lose control. The tears gushed forth and she let out a long, low howl of lament, clutching Gwen as she jammed her head against her frie
nd’s shoulder. She tried to keep the volume down for the children’s sake, though she’d have liked to shriek.
Despite her effort, the door swung open and there stood Clarice, Benjamin just behind her.
‘What that noise, Mam? Benjy and me don’t like it.’
Violet stood away from Gwen, composing herself. She took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed her eyes.
‘I’m not feeling too well, cariad, that’s all.’
‘Now might be the right time,’ said Gwen. ‘You can’t leave it forever.’
Violet considered her two little babbies. It wasn’t fair, burdening them with this tragedy. Would Benjy even understand? But Gwen was right. And there’d never be a good time to tell them their da was never coming home.
‘Would you stay while I tell them?’ She looked from Gwen to Henry.
‘Of course,’ said Gwen.
Henry nodded.
She smiled sadly at the children. ‘Let’s all go back to the kitchen and sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.’
Chapter Four
Violet came to a sudden stop just before reaching the doors of the Ainon Baptist Chapel. She looked up at its pointed roof and five first-floor windows, aware of the wave of panic that had stolen her breath.
‘What’s wrong, fach?’ said her mother, Doris Wynne, clutching her arm.
‘I – I—’ she looked behind at Anwen and Gwen’s families, at the queue of people politely waiting to get inside the building, being patient because they knew she was one of the bereaved. No, this faintheartedness wouldn’t do. ‘It’s all right, I’m all right. I’m sorry,’ she said to those behind, before moving swiftly through the double wooden doors.
‘No need to apologise, fach,’ said her father, Ioan.
Charlie’s parents, Olwen and Brynmore Jones, had already found a row of five seats for the family. Olwen beckoned them over.
‘I’d like Anwen’s family to sit with us too,’ said Violet. ‘And Gwen’s. There are more rows together in the middle.’
Olwen frowned. ‘But these are at the front.’
‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather sit further back.’
Violet led the way to three rows about halfway down. ‘This will do.’
Olwen insisted on sitting on the outside with Brynmore, so Violet sat at the opposite end of the pew with her parents. Anwen, Idris, Enid and Hywel sat behind. In front of Violet sat Gwen, her parents and her brother. Henry was wearing his uniform today, as were the rest of those home on leave. Soon the chapel was filled both on the ground floor and the gallery above, with many standing at the back. Violet spotted Elizabeth sitting on the other side of the aisle, near the front, with her mother.
Now she was here, waiting for the memorial service to begin, she felt the opposite of the panic she’d experienced in the doorway. Life had been like this since telling the children, her emotions swinging from feeling it was all too unbearable to – nothing. A numbness.
Clarice had sobbed for an hour after she’d been told about Charlie. Benjy had too, but only because his sister had. He’d asked yesterday when his da was going to come back from the dead place. The sad thing was, he’d probably not remember him at all in the next year or so. Even Clarice would have difficulty hanging on to memories of him as she got older. The realisation of this inevitability made Violet grip her hands. How desperately sad that was for them. Anwen must have noticed her reaction, for she placed her hand on her shoulder reassuringly.
‘I’m grateful to Cadi for looking after the children,’ Violet said.
‘She says she’s been to enough funerals and memorials for a lifetime.’
‘We all will have by the time this war ends.’
The congregation hushed as the new minister, Pastor Lewis Thomas, took to the pulpit. Only in his late twenties, he’d arrived recently from Carmarthenshire. He was reasonably tall and slim, with an already balding head. His kind face matched his softly spoken voice. His young wife, Anabel, was pretty and delicate, with fine, mousy hair. They had no children as yet. He introduced himself for the benefit of those who’d not met him before and started with a verse from the gospel of St John.
‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ He paused a little, as if to let the quote sink in. ‘A great sacrifice has been made by a good deal of men in this village, and in many villages and towns in this country. And I fear a lot more names will be added to the Roll of Honour before this war is over.’
A series of sobs came from the end of Violet’s row. Without looking, she knew it was her mother-in-law. Would people think her cold for not doing the same? But she couldn’t show her feelings, not to the outside world.
Her attention was drawn back to the service, in time to hear Pastor Thomas say, ‘We must remember the ravages death is making on all sides.’
There was a brief grumble among the congregation; suggesting having any sympathy with the enemy was not a popular opinion with many. The pastor hesitated for some moments before ploughing on.
‘Charlie Jones, Bryn Lloyd, and the brothers, Aneirin and Ianto Pendry, were all old members of Sunday School here, while Harold Prothero and Meirion Peirce had been loyal members of the chapel since they moved to the village.’ He continued to tell a little of their connection with the chapel, his knowledge gleaned, Violet knew, from the families of the lost. He’d been to visit her just a few days ago to offer comfort and find out a little about Charlie. She didn’t yet know what to make of this new, inexperienced minister. He’d said nothing yet of Charlie’s bravery in helping several men to safety. She thought he might, since he’d borrowed the letter she’d received from Dylan Davies.
‘It’s particularly tragic that they should have been taken in this way, considering the thirteen men who died little more than a month ago, and the loss of Percy Vaughan and Robert Harris in the war barely three months past.’
After enlarging on this, he listed the names of the remaining men lost, who were not attendees of the chapel. After he had finished speaking, there was a rendition on the organ of Handel’s ‘Dead March’ from Saul, a piece she’d heard at so many funerals. Violet felt once again that this could be a memorial for anyone. There were no bodies, a fact that pierced her heart. There’d be nowhere for her children to visit their father, to offer flowers. It would be like he’d never existed.
The prayers came next. She recited them by heart, the individual words meaning nothing today. How she longed to get back to her little house and cuddle her babbies.
Pastor Thomas was back in the pulpit after that. ‘And now, I’d like to emphasise the bravery of these young men, who, you may recall, signed up to fight before conscription, therefore did so of their own volition. And here, I have further proof of the courage and heroism of the ordinary sons of God.’ He held up a piece of paper, before reading what Violet soon realised was the letter Private Davies had sent her.
She lowered her head, burying her face in her hands. She couldn’t stand to hear it again. Why had Charlie done it? Yes, he’d been valiant, he was a hero.
But he was dead.
She felt the hand stroke her back, wanted to brush it away, but she knew it came from the care and love Anwen felt for her.
There was a rustle that made Violet uncover her eyes. Everyone was standing. When she heard the pastor say, ‘…which was the favourite hymn of the late Lord Kitchener,’ she realised she must have missed some instruction. The organ struck up, the introduction to ‘Abide With Me’ ringing out. Determined to see this thing through to the end, she stood with everyone else. After this, she could be on her own with the children.
But she wouldn’t be on her own. First, she had to attend the tea. Then Charlie’s parents were staying overnight. So be it. She’d soldier on, as she always had done.
* * *
Violet hadn’t wanted to attend the tea after the memorial, organised by the pastor’s wife, held in the chapel hall. Olwen had insisted it was only
right and proper, overriding Violet’s wishes. So here she was, not knowing what to say to people, dreading what people might have to say to her. It was all so – predictable. Did they really mean any of it?
Her parents were standing either side of her, as if to protect her. Her mother was still much thinner than she had been, the result of a bad bout of influenza she’d suffered at the beginning of the war. Violet’s older sister, Ivy, had lived near them in Bargoed then and had taken care of her, but she’d recently moved to Hereford with her own family. She’d sent her apologies for her absence from the funeral, something about her two youngest having a cold, though Violet suspected she simply didn’t want to come.
Facing her and her parents were Anwen and Gwen, talking solemnly of the service, and of the others who’d been lost. Their family members were spread around the room, speaking to the relatives of the other lost men.
Violet felt detached from it all, remote, as though she were on the ceiling, looking down. Was that what Charlie was doing right now? Could his soul travel here, if he were buried so far away in France? The panic began to expand in her chest, making her breathe too fast.
‘Violet?’
She came to, faced by Hywel who was holding out a cup and saucer.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, would you like a cup of tea?’
About to refuse, she realised she was parched. She’d had nothing to eat or drink today, her stomach threatening to eject anything that might be placed there.
‘Yes, thank you, Hywel. That is most kind.’ She took the beverage and had a sip.
‘So, you’ve moved back in with your sister now,’ her father, Ioan Wynne, said to Hywel.
‘I have, regrettably, for Violet was a grand landlady indeed and made me feel very welcome. But with my accident, I’ve needed looking after and have no work at present.’
‘Aye, Violet wrote to us what happened. Terrible business indeed. Never did take to Madog Rhys when we lived here. Begging your pardon, Anwen, since he is your father.’
War in the Valleys Page 4
