by Rosie Harris
Wynne, her arm tucked through Fern’s for support, led the way in dignified silence.
‘Would you like me to wash him and tidy him up for you, cariad?’ Bryn Evans asked Wynne gruffly after they’d carried Cradock’s body indoors and laid it on the big table in the living room.
‘No.’ Wynne shook her head very firmly. Her round face was impassive but she looked composed and her voice was quite calm. ‘Thank you very much for your kind offer, Bryn Evans. I do appreciate it, but since it’s the last thing I’ll ever be able to do for him, I’d like you to leave me to do it on my own, if you please, boyo.’
Bryn Evans nodded, brushing away his own tears with the back of his hand as he shuffled backwards towards the door. ‘I understand; that’s as it should be. Call on me, then, if there is anything else I can do to help you,’ he mumbled, looking at Fern.
Chapter Three
Many times in the days that followed Fern marvelled over the change in her mother and wondered where she found her energy and spirit.
Wynne’s listless, ghost-like apparition of a week ago was all in the past. Even though she smiled very little she seemed to be her old, bustling self again. She handled the arrangements for Cradock’s funeral so efficiently and with such composure that no one would ever have known that she’d lost both her only son and her husband within days of each other.
When the funerals of the other men who had died in the explosion took place, Wynne attended them all so that she could pay her last respects to her husband’s workmates. Those of Cradock’s colleagues who were not in hospital attended his funeral along with a great many neighbours and friends.
Fern felt subdued and weepy as she stood beside her mother, shaking hands with all those who were there and thanking them for coming. Wynne was dry-eyed and quite calm and composed throughout.
Fern expected her mother to collapse into a sobbing heap when they returned home afterwards, but not a bit of it. Instead, Wynne carried on as though everything was normal, even to the point of scolding Fern because she didn’t hang her coat up neatly.
‘Come along,’ Wynne insisted firmly as she began preparing food for them both, ‘you must eat a proper meal or else you’ll be catching a chill and won’t be able to go to school tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want to go to school, Mam,’ Fern protested. ‘I can’t bear the thought of having to face people again for a few days. I thought you’d want me at home with you to keep you company.’
‘Rubbish. Off to school with you in the morning and no argument. Keeping your mind occupied is the best medicine there is,’ her mother told her brusquely.
‘That means leaving you on your own, Mam.’
‘I shall have plenty to do. This house needs cleaning from top to bottom. There are your dad’s clothes and stuff to be packed away and a hundred and one other jobs I need to do. I shall be so busy that the time will fly by,’ her mother told her forcefully.
Fern wanted to argue but she was hesitant about doing so for fear of upsetting her mother. It was far better to have her in this brisk, bustling mood than weeping and listless.
Before she could formulate what she wanted to say there was a loud knocking on the front door. They looked at each other in surprise, wondering who it could be. When they’d spoken to all the mourners at the funeral, Wynne had made it quite clear that she didn’t want visitors because she needed a few days to herself to get to grips with the situation and she knew they would all respect this.
‘Shall I go and see who it is?’ Fern asked.
Wynne hesitated. ‘No, cariad, you stay here.’ Tightening her mouth as the loud rapping was repeated Wynne patted her hair into place and hurried to answer the door.
Fern heard her exclamation of surprise as she opened the door and when she heard a man’s voice greeting her mother as if he knew her well, she was so curious that she went out into the hallway to see who it was.
Her own gasp was equally spontaneous when she saw her mother talking to a dark, wiry man who looked so like her father when he was all spruced up in his best clothes that it could have been him.
‘So this is Fern, is it?’ The man smiled, his dark eyes crinkling up at the corners in exactly the same way as her father’s had. ‘Well, well. You were a babe in arms the last time I met you, Fern. I saw you at the funeral, of course, but even though you were standing by your mam’s side I wasn’t sure that you were her daughter. You don’t know who I am, do you?’ he said with a smile.
‘No, not really,’ Fern admitted in a puzzled voice. ‘You look so very much like my dad, though, that I’m sure you must be a relation,’ she added.
‘This is your Uncle Bryson, your father’s younger brother. He left the Valleys so long ago that none of us remember him these days,’ Wynne said pointedly.
‘Is that why you ignored me in the cemetery?’ Bryson asked, raising his dark eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You saw me even though I kept to the back.’
Wynne didn’t answer but Fern was quick to notice that she looked uncomfortable and that her cheeks had reddened as though with embarrassment.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in, then?’ Bryson asked. He shrugged when Wynne said nothing. ‘I understand . . . I came to have a word with you because I thought I might be able to give you a helping hand in some way now that you are on your own.’
‘A helping hand from you!’ Her voice was so derisory that Fern felt shocked by her mother’s rudeness and even more astounded when she began to close the door in his face.
‘Hold on, Wynne.’ Bryson Jenkins quickly put his foot over the threshold to stop her from shutting the door. ‘Here’s my address in Cardiff. If you do need any help, then you know where to find me,’ he said, holding out a piece of paper.
When Wynne ignored it he tried to push it into her hand but she stepped back and let it fall on to the floor. With a final shrug of his shoulders Bryson withdrew his foot and without a word turned and walked away.
‘Whatever was that all about, Mam?’ Fern asked in bewilderment.
‘Nothing you need worry your head over,’ her mother told her sharply. ‘What about making us a cup of tea, I could certainly do with one,’ she added as she sank down on to a chair.
As Fern was about to do as she’d been asked there was a sharp rap on the front door and, before Wynne could protest, Fern hurried to answer it.
‘If that’s your uncle back again, then make sure you don’t let him in,’ her mother warned as she stood by the living-room door waiting to see who it was.
It wasn’t her uncle. The man who stood on their doorstep was a smartly dressed portly man wearing a black bowler hat and an expensive-looking black overcoat over a dark pinstriped suit. He was carrying a clipboard and looking very officious.
He ignored Fern and, looking over the top of her head at Wynne, he enquired, ‘Mrs Jenkins?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good!’ He stepped into the hallway, pushing past Fern and moving towards the living room.
‘I’m Mr Tyrell, the pit owner’s representative,’ he informed her. ‘I’m here to remind you that this property belongs to the pit owners and since you no longer have a member of your family working in the pit then you must vacate these premises immediately as they will be needed for other workers.’
‘You mean you’re turning me out?’ Wynne gasped.
‘You have until Saturday to vacate but we will extend that deadline for one week if necessary. I must also inform you that you must pay your rent of six shillings the day before you leave or your possessions will be confiscated in lieu of this sum. A further six shillings will be due, of course, if you stay until Saturday week.’
‘Where can we go? I have no family who can take us in,’ Wynne asked in bewilderment as she sank back down on to the chair.
‘I’m afraid that is not my concern. The terms I’ve read out to you are all on here,’ he told her, handing her a sheet of paper as he prepared to leave.
Wynne bit down on her lower lip as she
took it from him but she said nothing. As soon as the door closed behind him, however, she gave vent to her feelings.
‘The hard-hearted swine,’ she muttered angrily. ‘Cradock worked down that pit for over thirty years; from the time he was twelve. A mere slip of a lad, he sat there in the dark for hours at a stretch, opening the doors for the wagons to come through.’
‘Don’t take on so, Mam,’ Fern begged, putting her arm round her mother’s bowed shoulders.
‘Over thirty years of slavery in the dank darkness of the pit. He started as a boy at Milfraen Pit, a mile or so from Blaenafon, but once he started earning a man’s wages he had the chance to transfer to Big Pit and that’s where he’s been ever since, working his way up to become one of their most skilled cutters. You could say he devoted his entire life to King Coal and this is the reward: his family kicked out of house and home at almost a moment’s notice before he’s cold in the ground.’
‘Dad wouldn’t want you to get yourself all upset like this, Mam,’ Fern said awkwardly, choking back her own tears. ‘We’ll survive somehow, we’ll manage; we always do.’
The words were meant to console her mother but they only seemed to irritate Wynne even more. Shaking Fern’s hand away she stood up and went upstairs.
Fern went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea and took it up to her. She expected to find her lying down but to her surprise her mother was busy piling things up on the bed.
‘Whatever are you doing, Mam?’ she asked as she handed her the cup of tea.
‘Sorting out what we must try and sell before we have to leave, of course,’ Wynne said sharply. ‘No point in delaying things now, is there? If we can be ready to leave before Saturday, then we won’t have to pay any rent.’
‘We’ll have to pay for this week,’ Fern reminded her.
‘Don’t be so twp! I’m not giving them another brass farthing,’ her mother told her scornfully. ‘We’ll be out of here before the rent man calls; packed up and vanished,’ she went on forcefully. ‘Not a word about this to anyone else, mind, or it will get back to that man Tyrell and he’ll send the bailiffs in before we can skedaddle.’
‘You mean that I can’t even say goodbye to Sybel?’
‘Not a word to her; promise me now! One whisper in her ear and it will be all over Blaenafon and our plan will be scuttled.’
‘How are we going to do it, Mam? We can’t do a midnight flit; you know what people are like. Someone going on night shift, or coming home from a night out is bound to spot us moving all our stuff.’
‘We won’t be moving any of it, though, will we?’ her mother declared triumphantly. ‘No, we’ll sell off what we can before we leave. There will be enough furniture and such like left behind here that will more than cover the rent so there’s no need for you to have a conscience about us walking off without paying our dues.’
‘So where are you planning on us going, then?’ Fern asked in bewilderment.
‘We’ll go to Cardiff, of course. They’ll never even bother to start looking for us in a city that big.’
‘We don’t know anyone there,’ Fern argued.
‘Yes we do; it’s where your uncle Bryson is living and there’s always his promise of help, now, isn’t there?’
‘Oh Mam! You didn’t even take the piece of paper with his address on it when he tried to offer it to you,’ Fern reminded her.
Her mother laughed cynically. ‘That’s true enough, but I know you did because I saw you pick it up and put it in your pocket, my lovely, and I’m quite sure you still have it.’
Fern and her mother spent the next couple of hours sorting out what they could hope to sell. Cradock’s best Sunday suit and his second-best jacket and trousers, Barri’s suit and his working clothes – all of which Wynne had washed and ironed when he’d been called up in readiness for the day when he would be demobbed. To the ever-growing pile Wynne added one or two things of her own and several frocks that Fern had outgrown.
‘You may as well put in any toys or dolls you have because we won’t be able to take them with us and, anyway, you’ve outgrown such things now. It’s time for you to grow up and face life,’ Wynne commented grimly.
‘Where are we going to try and sell all this stuff, Mam? If we go to the pawnbroker’s here in Blaenafon, there’s a chance he might suspect what we’re planning to do.’
‘We’re not going to the local pawnbroker’s. They hold a mid-week market in Pontypool and that’s where we’re taking everything. With any luck there won’t be anyone there who knows us because the men will all be working and the womenfolk think it’s too far to walk.’
‘In that case, then, isn’t it too far for us?’ Fern questioned.
‘Well, it’s a tidy walk but we’ve got reason to do it, they haven’t,’ her mother answered.
‘So what time are we setting out, then, Mam?’ Fern asked as she added some of her own belongings to the pile.
‘Quite early. Somewhere between the time the men set off for the day shift at the pit and the time most people are up and about getting their kiddies off to school.’ Wynne sighed as she looked at the bundles they’d made ready. ‘Since we’ve done all we can we may as well have an early night.’
It was still dark next morning when Wynne shook Fern awake. ‘Come on. I’ve made the porridge, so get a good basinful of that down you before we leave because there’s no knowing when we’ll get anything else,’ she told her.
They set off with their bundles the minute they’d finished their breakfast, trying hard not to let then appear too heavy or obvious in case they met anyone.
When they were well clear of Blaenafon they sat down on a fallen tree by the roadside to have a rest. Wynne pulled a small package from her coat pocket and unwrapped the jam sandwiches inside it.
‘I should have brought along a bottle of cold tea but I didn’t think about it,’ she said as they munched away.
‘I’m happy enough with these; I didn’t think you’d packed anything, Mam,’ Fern said, smiling.
‘If you’ve finished, then we’d better start walking again. There are still a few miles to go.’
‘What will we do if none of the stallholders will take them?’ Fern asked as they picked up their bundles and set off again.
‘Don’t say that; we don’t want to have to carry this lot back home again and we can’t afford to simply dump it all. I’m counting on what we get for this lot to pay our fares to Cardiff.’
It was almost ten o’clock when they reached Pontypool. The stalls were already set up in the market place; those selling food were busy but on both the clothes stalls they approached the traders looked glum as they waited for customers.
One of the stallholders wouldn’t even look at what they had in their bundles. ‘No call for men’s clothing, see,’ he told Wynne dispara-gingly. ‘Half the men are in the army and those that are still working down the pit are making do with what they‘ve got.’
The second trader agreed to take Cradock’s best suit and the boots they’d brought along but said he didn’t want any of the other stuff. ‘There’s a rag-and-bone place on the edge of town, they might take the rest of the stuff off you,’ he told them.
Footsore and disappointed, they sat down on a low wall and wondered what to do for the best.
‘I’m not going to give up just yet,’ Wynne said defensively as she eased her aching feet out of her boots and flexed her toes. ‘I don’t intend taking it all back home and I don’t want to take it to the rag-and-bone yard either. All we’ll get for it there is a few coppers.’
‘So what else can we do?’ Fern pondered. ‘We could take it along to the pawnbroker’s here and see if he would give us a few shillings on it,’ she added hopefully.
Wynne shook her head. ‘We’d have to give our name and address and the moment he knew we weren’t local, he’d probably refuse it; he might even think we’d stolen it and tell the police.’
‘Don’t tell him we’re from Blaenafon, then,’ Fern persisted. ‘
Give him the name of a street in Pontypool; it’s not as though we are ever going to redeem any of the stuff is it?’
‘You’re so damn sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,’ her mother told her tartly. ‘Nevertheless, it’s not such a bad idea. Come on, let’s try it and see what we can do.’
Their ruse worked. Half an hour later they were heading back home and Wynne had twelve shillings and sixpence safely tied up in a handkerchief and secreted away in the pocket of her skirt.
Without their heavy bundles and satisfied with their day’s work, they both found the long journey home much less tiring. As they walked along Wynne revealed some of the plans she was hoping to put into practice in the days to come.
‘Tomorrow perhaps we’ll chance it and take along as many bits and pieces as we can to the pawnbroker in Blaenafon,’ she told Fern.
‘I thought you said you didn’t want to do that because it was taking too much of a risk?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell him I need the money to pay off the funeral debts. I’ll keep back your dad’s watch and any other small items like that and we’ll take those to Cardiff with us. We can pawn them when we get there if we need to raise some money to see us through the first few weeks. We’ll both have to look for work, of course, the minute we arrive there.’
‘Mam, I’m not fourteen yet,’ Fern interrupted. ‘I can’t leave school until next Christmas at the earliest.’
‘Rubbish, you’re a big girl for your age, so who’s to know that you’re not already fourteen? No one will, unless you’re twp enough to tell them.’
‘Stop saying that I’m daft, Mam. Someone is bound to find out. Mr Paterson will report it to the school board man when I don’t turn up next week and then they’ll come looking for us.’
‘By then we’ll be in Cardiff and it’s a big city; far too big for them to ever find us,’ her mother told her confidently.
Chapter Four
Worn out by their expedition Fern and Wynne had an early night, but they were up at daybreak the next morning making preparations for their departure.
