by Lesley Parr
Now all the other things start to fit together – how some people frowned when Mrs Thomas chose us, the two old fellas arguing in Welsh, the way Mrs Ringrose is to Mrs Thomas, Mr Thomas not going to John Ringrose’s funeral. It all makes horrible sense.
He picks up his mug and stands. ‘Well, I’d better get off to work. No rest for the wicked, eh?’
He stops and looks back at me. ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’
‘Mrs Thomas made your tea,’ I say.
‘I didn’t mean the tea.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SMALL SPACES
The thought buzzes in my mind like a trapped bee. I rush through the kitchen and living room, down the passage and out on to the pavement. Because there’s only one way to be sure.
I run, not knowing if my feet or my heart pounds hardest and loudest.
I need to know.
I need to know.
Mr Thomas needs to know.
Down Heol Mabon, across the Bryn, along the next street and over the fence.
Then up the mountain to the tree. If there’s an answer, that’s where it’ll be.
But at the gate I stop, suddenly afraid to be right. I think of Mr Thomas again and force myself on.
Kneeling at the hollow, my skin prickles hot and cold. There’s the skull, where I left it. I move it to one side and crawl forward. No waiting. No messing about or I won’t do it.
I stick my head right in. Darkness. A small space. Breathe, Jimmy. Coolness. Moss smells and earth smells and nutty wood smells. My eyes get used to the dark.
I blink a few times.
Shapes appear. Whiteness at the back of the hollow. And then I see.
Bones. Not like in the diagram, all neat and ordered. Instead, like sticks in an odd-shaped pile. If I think too hard about who it might be I want to cry, because I don’t know if I even want this to be true. I pat my hand around but there’s nothing that feels like …
Something scratches against my palm. My fingers close around a tiny, hard object.
Out in the light again, I sit back and open my hand.
It’s made of metal and caked in dried mud. I rub and pick at it. I smooth off the dirt until colours show through. Red. Black.
I run down to the stream and hold it in the water and rub it again. A red uniform. A tall black hat. A tin soldier playing a drum.
I turn the little figure over and over in my hand. It’s like I’m falling head first into a deep, dark hole, my mind spinning. Nye liked small spaces; he could have crawled inside the hollow. The bones are him. They have to be.
‘We knew you’d be here.’
I jump and look up to see Florence and Ronnie walking towards me. She’s hobbling a bit.
My fingers close around the little tin drummer. ‘How did you get up here on that ankle?’
‘It wasn’t even a sprain. Phyllis bandaged it anyway and – what are you holding?’
I open my hand to show the toy soldier lying on my palm. ‘I think I know who it is.’ My voice is loud but wobbly. ‘In the tree.’
Florence stares at the drummer, her voice wobbly too. ‘It’s not a child in there, is it?’
I tap the grass next to me, like Mr Thomas did with the bench. We sit close together on the bank and I tell them everything he told me. When I get to the part about Nye in the coal bunker, Florence starts to cry. Ronnie looks confused but holds her hand anyway and neither of them says a word. Nothing. Which makes it even harder somehow.
When I’ve finished, Florence wipes her face with the back of her hand. ‘You have to tell Alun,’ she says.
‘I know.’ I feel sick at the thought. ‘I’ll tell him tonight when he gets in from work.’
We get up and I put the drummer in my pocket.
‘Sausage and mash,’ she whispers.
‘Pardon?’
Florence’s eyes fill up again. She blinks and a big tear drops on to her cheek. ‘Imagine having a day in your life so bad you remember exactly what you had for tea.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PULLING TOGETHER
I keep my hand pressed tight to my pocket as we set off down the mountain, keeping the toy soldier safe. Suddenly a sound like dogs being tortured wails through the valley.
‘Is it an air raid?’ Ronnie asks, his eyes wide and terrified.
‘It can’t be,’ I say, but my heart is thumping fast. ‘They sent us here to be safe.’ I look up but all I can see are clouds. Perhaps the bombers are flying above them?
‘Jimmy,’ Florence says, her face white as a sheet.
‘I know!’ I shout over the siren. ‘We need to get to a shelter.’
‘No.’ She’s shaking her head really fast, staring over the valley.
‘It’s not an air raid. It’s the pit siren.’
The pit.
All those men down there.
Mr Thomas down there.
We run like the devil himself is after us, down past the graveyard, along the footpath and out on to the streets.
More than once, Florence stumbles and almost goes over on her ankle but just waves an arm and shouts back at us, ‘I’m fine!’
We reach the top of the Bryn and stop. I’ve never seen so many people out at once here. For a second it’s like being back in London. Small groups of men hurry upwards, larger groups of women stand around in headscarves, patting each other on the arm or offering to put the kettle on. Others move downwards. We join them but it’s like we’re invisible. Three evacuated ghosts walking slowly through the Llanbryn people.
Another wail. A long, low tone but different to the pit siren. An ambulance speeds past us, up the hill.
Florence and me share a panicked look over the top of Ronnie’s head.
Then a bell clangs through the din. ‘It’s a fire engine, Jimmy,’ Ronnie whispers. He wriggles his fingers into my hand, looking scared, not excited like he usually would.
Someone bumps into me as they rush past. It’s Ieuan. I reach and grab his sleeve.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
‘Cave-in.’
My whole body tingles and my head whooshes like it’s underwater. Mr Thomas could be hurt or … I push the thought out of my head. ‘What can we do?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, walking away backwards. ‘Just … keep out of the way.’
‘Ieuan, we can’t do nothing!’ Florence says, her voice choked.
He ruffles her hair, like people do to Ronnie. ‘Then go to the institute and find Mam. People are rallying there.’ He sets off again, lost in the crowd.
We run. Down and down and down to the Miners Institute. No one sees us. The siren howls and moans.
It’s like the operations room of a war film. With Mr Bevan as the general. He stands in the middle of the hall telling people where to put tables and what to put on them. Nearest the door are some older men, including Dai, crowded together holding bits of paper. Women carry tray after tray of cups and saucers and plates and put them near the stage. Phyllis and Mrs Jenkins lift a big urn on to a table. Florence goes to them. The two old fellas I met when I was looking for the shop are talking to some policemen.
Even Mrs Ringrose and Mrs Evans are moving chairs.
I don’t see Mrs Thomas until Ronnie gasps and runs across the hall. He tries to wrap his arms around her, but it’s like she doesn’t know he’s there. She tucks a bit of hair into her headscarf and rushes off. I go to him.
‘She didn’t want a cuddle,’ he says quietly.
I take his hand and lead him over to Florence and Phyllis.
‘Where’s Mr Thomas?’ I ask.
‘Oh my poor little dabs.’ Phyllis takes our hands. ‘He’s at the colliery.’
‘But he’s all right?’ I say. ‘He’s out?’
She glances towards the door. ‘We’re waiting for news. Dai’s organising runners to keep us updated.’
‘But he’ll be all right, won’t he? They all will.’
‘No one’s above ground yet but … look … I need you to go back to
the shop.’
‘We’re not leaving you,’ Florence says, taking her hand. ‘We want to help.’
‘We could do with some washer-uppers once these cups and plates get dirty,’ Mrs Jenkins says, trying to smile. ‘The children can sit on the stage out of the way till then. Can’t they?’
Phyllis rubs her forehead. ‘Oh, I suppose so.’
Florence and Ronnie sit down but I can’t keep still. I pace back and forth in front of them.
‘They’ll get them all out,’ I say. ‘This probably happens all the time.’
‘It doesn’t, Jimmy.’ Florence’s voice is a croaky sort of whisper. ‘Phyllis said they only sound the siren if it’s really bad. Smaller rockfalls are a part of mining, they’re used to them. This is … really bad.’
My stomach knots up. ‘He’s going to be all right.’
‘Of course he is.’ Florence puts her hand on my sleeve. I jerk it away, wrap my arms around myself and keep pacing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
RAT CATCHING
There’s a big commotion in the middle of the hall. Mr Bevan is trying to calm Jack’s mother and Mrs Ringrose, who are waving their arms around and throwing nasty looks our way. I catch some of their words. Cash box. Money. Thieves.
Mr Bevan clears his throat. ‘Good people of Llanbryn, if I may have your attention for just a moment …’ He’s so loud, everyone stops at once. ‘We seem to have had a bit of a … erm … mishap regarding the miners’ benevolent fund cash box. If we can all search our areas, Mrs Evans and I will have another look through the drawers.’
‘I’ve told you, Ceri. I had it locked in that drawer in the downstairs office and the key’s missing too!’ Mrs Evans argues. ‘And I think we all know who’s to blame, don’t we? It’s been the same ever since those children came from London.’
Phyllis and Mrs Jenkins look like they’re about to explode. Then Mrs Thomas comes from nowhere and marches into the middle of the hall. ‘Got any proof, Ruth?’
Mr Bevan holds up his hands. ‘Now now, ladies. Let’s all calm down. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation that doesn’t involve casting blame.’
A dark muttering goes around the hall, full of words like evacuees, Thomas family and bad eggs. All eyes are on us now. Florence stands, puts her hands on her hips and gives them all a very bad stare. I know it isn’t helping but I’m still pleased she’s doing it.
I feel a tug on my sleeve. ‘What’s a cash box?’ Ronnie whispers.
‘A box to keep money in,’ I say. ‘A tin one with a lock.’
Ronnie frowns. ‘Can it fit in a gas mask box?’
‘Depends. Why?’
Ronnie points at a slightly open door at the back of the hall, just behind the stage. Standing there is Jack Evans.
Looking shifty.
His head flicks from side to side and he’s holding his gas mask box tight to his body.
I glance around; all the grown-ups are fussing and flapping and searching for the missing cash box. No one’s noticed Jack edging towards the main doors of the hall.
‘Come on,’ I whisper to Florence and Ronnie. ‘Let’s see what he’s up to.’
I step in front of Jack, knowing they’re right behind me. ‘What’s in there, Evans?’ I say, poking the gas mask box. It makes an odd jingling sound.
‘Nothing.’ Jack holds it closer.
‘It’s the cash box, isn’t it?’ Florence says.
‘What’s it to you, shunk? My mother asked me to fetch it. She knows it isn’t safe with vaccies around.’
‘Liar.’
He must know he’s been rumbled because he says, ‘Let me go or I’ll tell everyone you stole it and I was trying to stop you.’
‘Get stuffed,’ I say.
‘Yeah, get stuffed,’ repeats Ronnie.
Jack laughs. ‘And who do you think everyone will believe? You three vaccies – or the vicar’s son?’
‘Shut your mouth, Jack Evans!’ Ronnie almost shouts.
‘Or what? You’ll run to Alun Thomas and tell on me? Be a bit difficult if he’s dead.’
It’s like a twig snapping in my head and I launch a swing at him but he’s ready. He dodges and makes for the door. But before he gets past Phyllis’s table, Ronnie pushes him hard from behind.
Jack flies into the middle of the hall, putting out his hands to save himself. The string snaps and his gas mask box lands on the floor with a thud and a jangle of metal. It opens, and a black-and-gold tin box tumbles out. Jack scrabbles to pick it up but it’s too late.
The fussing and flapping and searching stops. All is quiet. Everyone’s eyes are on him.
‘No! Wait! It was them!’ He points at Florence, Ronnie and me. ‘They’re the thieves. I was stopping them.’
‘Nonsense!’ Mr Bevan shouts, and it’s a very different sound to his happy boom. ‘These children have been in the hall the entire time.’
People in the crowd mutter and nod.
‘But you have to believe me.’ Jack looks around as if he doesn’t understand. ‘They’re filthy vaccies!’
Even Mrs Ringrose gasps.
The crowd splits and Reverend Evans sweeps through. His eyes are tiny slits; his voice is a terrifying roar. ‘Jack Tudor Evans! HOME! NOW!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ALUN THOMAS’S BOY
I had to get out of there. Any other time I would have loved to listen to everyone saying what a rotten egg Jack Evans is, to see the shame on the faces of those who thought it was me. But not today. Not with the cave-in and the fear and the panic that I won’t ever get to tell Mr Thomas where his brother is.
I lean on the fence at the end of the street, staring at the fields that lead to the tree. It was here Florence first told me she was Ieuan’s sister and I thought she was mad. And I thought he was mad for letting her. Now she’s my best friend, so I suppose that makes me mad too. But I wouldn’t swap her for a thousand Duffs.
I take the tin soldier out of my pocket and march it along the top of the fence, just like Ronnie might. My little brother never had a problem fitting in. I used to think it was because he’s cute, but the truth is, people like the Thomases and Phyllis and Ieuan make it easy. If you let them.
It’s so much better here than I ever thought it could be. But what if it all changes? What if …
I grip the drummer so hard it digs into my hand.
There’s a noise in the street and I turn to see a man putting a key into his front door. He stops, looks up, then jogs over. It’s Dai.
‘You all right there?’ he calls. ‘Oh, you’re Alun Thomas’s boy, aren’t you?’
I nod.
‘Then I’ve got some news,’ he pants. ‘Coming from the institute I am now …’
Please God, let him be alive.
‘… Alun’s all right. Bit bashed up like, but he’ll mend.’
My whole body goes soft. I grip the fence to stop me falling.
‘If you go now, you might catch Gwen before she leaves for the—’
But I’m already running.
When I get to the institute, a man’s helping Mrs Thomas into a car, then he walks around and gets in the driver’s seat. He starts the engine and pulls away. I stop on the pavement, panting and holding my side.
Phyllis, Florence and Ronnie are in the arched doorway, waving her off.
‘Jimmy!’ Ronnie shouts. ‘Where were you? He’s safe! Uncle Alun’s safe!’
‘I know, Dai told me.’ I walk over and put my arms around him.
‘Your Aunty Gwen has gone to the hospital,’ Phyllis says. ‘They’ve taken Alun to be checked over so she’s gone to be with him.’
‘Will they come home tonight?’ Ronnie asks.
‘No, bach. You’re staying with us. Take pillows and blankets into the living room and all be together. That’s important at a time like this.’ Phyllis takes Ronnie’s face in her hands and squeezes his cheeks. ‘I’ll come up as soon as I can. Off you go now, there’s still men unaccounted for.’ She must s
ee the confused looks on our faces. ‘Missing.’
We say goodbye and walk back up the hill.
In Phyllis’s living room, we snuggle under our blankets. Ronnie’s asleep straight away. He doesn’t even ask for his Dinky van. There’s a scuffling sound at the door and Noble noses his way in. He flops on top of Florence with a happy grunt.
‘Hello, boy,’ she whispers.
‘Aren’t you squashed?’ I ask.
‘A bit. But it’s nice, like an extra blanket.’
‘Bit smelly though.’
‘No smellier than you.’ She giggles. ‘Turn the lamp off, Travers. There’s a war on, you know.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A THOUGHT
Mr and Mrs Thomas are in the parlour. The feeling that I need to talk to him swells inside me like a balloon. I have to tell him about the bones before it bursts, but I can’t.
She won’t let us see him yet. She said he needs to recuperate in peace and, anyway, he’s sad because two of his workmates died and four more are still in hospital. Mr Thomas was in for three days with cracked ribs and cuts and bruises but wouldn’t stay any longer. He said he needed home, not hospital. Ronnie offered to tell him jokes to cheer him up but Mrs Thomas said it wasn’t a good idea. Probably best; he only knows daft ones that no one else laughs at.
Now we’re washing up after tea. We had corned beef cawl because there wasn’t any lamb, but Mrs Thomas said it still had a lot of goodness in for a recovering patient and two growing boys. I thought it was really nice; the way the corned beef mixed through the stew, going all squishy and soaking up the juices. I might even like it better than real cawl.
Ronnie puts the last spoon on the draining board and gets down off his step.
‘Want to play snakes and ladders?’ he asks. I nod.
We’re just at the end of the third game – the decider – when Mrs Thomas comes through to the living room. She looks tired but she’s smiling.
‘Can we see Uncle Alun now?’ Ronnie asks.
She kneels between us on the rug. ‘Good boys, you are.’ She puts her arms around both of us and it feels right to lean into her like Ronnie does. ‘He’s asleep. If he has a good night, you can go in in the morning.’
