by Rosie Harris
‘That’s only part of it.’
‘To do with the Chartists’ movement?’
‘There’s discontent throughout the Valleys,’ he said bitterly.
‘Protesting about their working conditions, you mean.’
‘And their rights as citizens. Everywhere there’s men mustering. Jack Frost, who used to be mayor of Newport, is behind them. Powerful speeches he makes, cariad! You should hear the fine words he uses to get the men to rise up against the ironmasters and coal barons.’
‘A revolution,’ shuddered Kate, thinking of the men who had gathered on Coity. ‘It’s like the Tolpuddle Martyrs all over again.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Some farm workers in Dorset who demanded better wages and working conditions. The ring-leaders were transported to Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘Probably the same thing will happen to the Chartists,’ the man muttered angrily. ‘There’ll be Redcoats from Brecon in Nantyglo and Blaina before it all ends,’ he added bitterly. ‘And there’ll be bloodshed…’
He stopped abruptly as a shrill siren rent the air. ‘I turn off here for the pit,’ he said, thrusting her canvas bag back into her hand.
As she tried to thank him she found herself jostled to one side as men, women and children responded in a mad frenzy to the siren’s summons.
‘Good luck to you,’ he shouted. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again, both marching towards Newport! My name’s Idris Lewis.’
‘I’ll look out for you,’ she called after him.
‘I’ll be the one carrying the Blaina Benefit Banner!’ he shouted over his shoulder before he was swallowed up in the crowd.
Kate stood stock-still as people surged around her. Some rushed to where colliery wheels ground and jarred as cages packed tight with human cargo were lowered into the blackness. The rest scurried towards the ironworks, where great chimneys belched acrid smoke and giant furnaces glowed like a devil’s kitchen. Within minutes the road was empty as if they’d all been swallowed up in the pall of sulphurous smoke that swirled in yellow clouds.
Now it was as if the only people left in the world were crippled old men, a handful of women with young babies tucked inside a carrying shawl, and barefoot toddlers playing in the mud and filth outside their houses.
Compared to these people she was wealthy, Kate thought, as she trudged past them. Furtively, she slid a hand under her cloak to reassure herself that the pocket containing her money was still tied securely round her waist beneath her petticoats.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafting out on to the chill air reminded her that Olwen Price would be serving breakfast about now at Machen Mawr. She thought longingly of hot creamy porridge followed by succulent bacon, devilled kidneys and fried eggs. And there would be hot, sweet tea, and freshly made rolls, with plenty of butter and honey to spread on them.
The hairs on the nape of her neck rose as she heard a cart drawing up alongside her and a lilting voice calling out, asking if she wanted a lift.
‘Are you going to Brynmawr?’ she asked nervously, looking up into the bearded face.
‘Is that where you’re making for, my lovely?’
‘I want to get to Blaenafon eventually.’
‘Blaenafon, is it! Now there’s a long journey! Were you thinking of walking all the way?’ The man’s laugh was deep and reassuring.
‘Not really.’
‘Come on, hop up.’ He reached down and took her canvas bag from her. ‘I’m going to the Top, and like as not I can find someone to give you a ride the rest of the way.’
In spite of his assurance that if she stayed with him until they reached Beaufort at the head of the Valleys he could be sure of getting her a lift all the way to Blaenafon, Kate insisted on being put down in Brynmawr.
‘Bleak old place, if you ask me,’ he scowled. ‘Cold as charity. Highest hill town in Wales, you know.’
In that he was right. The road had risen ever since they’d left Nantyglo and when she climbed down from the cart in Brynmawr she found the wind had become sharper and colder.
Walking was far from pleasant. She had to stop constantly to change her bag from one hand to the other and rub her numbed fingers. Her shoulders and back ached, her feet were tender where her boots pinched, and she was ravenously hungry.
Pausing to rest, she tried to work out some plan of action. The mountains flanking the scrub moorland beside the road were like impenetrable walls. Even the foraging sheep that dotted their sides looked scrawny and seemed to shiver as gusts of wind parted the fleece on their backs.
Could she be certain of finding David at Llwynowen, she wondered, or would it be more sensible to go straight to Fforbrecon colliery? Since she wasn’t sure where either of them were she decided the time to make up her mind was when she got to Blaenafon.
It was almost dark by the time she reached the outskirts of the town. In the far distance, beneath a dull red glowing sky, she saw the towering chimneys of the ironworks.
As she neared the gothic church in the centre of the town, people emerged out of the gloom, coming down the hill towards her like an army of ants as they made their way home.
Men, women and youngsters, work-weary and hungry, they moved in a ragged wall of humanity, pushing and jostling her out of their way. As they reached Stack Square they seemed to divide up into two columns. The men towards the pubs and ale-houses, women and children homewards.
Kate leaned against the enormous great stack that gave the square its name and wondered if she could rent a bed for the night. She took out the shilling from her reticule and clutched them in her hand, uncertain which door to knock on.
As she hesitated, someone tripped over her canvas bag which she’d rested for a minute on the ground, and began to curse in Welsh. Kate screamed and struck his hand away as he reached out and grabbed her.
‘What’s going on, boyo?’ a voice rasped.
‘Mind your own business, mun.’
‘Thought I heard a woman scream…’
‘With excitement, mun! Proper little darling! Her and me’s got business, see!’ Kate’s assailant joked as he grasped Kate’s wrist and twisted it cruelly.
Pain shot up her arm, numbing her fingers so that the coins she held in her fist rolled on to the ground.
A crowd had gathered and there was a scuffle to pick them up.
‘They’re mine!’ She held out her hand for them to be returned.
A heavily built man with a check muffler wrapped round his neck spun one of the coins in the air, shouting to his mates to join him for a beer.
‘That’s my money you’re spending,’ protested Kate.
‘Come with us and have a drink then,’ he bellowed.
The ale-house was packed with men who’d just finished work. They greeted her arrival with ribald remarks.
Grabbing hold of the man who had her money by his coat sleeve, Kate demanded food as well as ale.
‘Here you are, my beauty!’ He shoved a beef butty and a pot of ale into her hands. Kate took them and made her way to a far corner of the room where she could sit down and enjoy them. The beef was salty and tough, the bread coarse-grained and thickly cut, but she was so hungry she devoured them rapidly.
At the same time she kept a wary eye on the men crowded around the bar. They were watching her and making remarks in a mixture of Welsh and English which she didn’t understand. Instinctively, she knew they boded no good and she was afraid of what might happen next.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the man who had taken her money, ignoring her completely, left in a babble of farewells from his cronies.
Relaxed by the warmth of the room and the food, she felt too weary to move on. Drowsily she listened to the banter around her, only half aware that one by one the rest of the men were leaving.
‘Right then, missy, time for you to settle up.’
The landlord came from behind the bar and stood, legs straddled, looking down at her. ‘Three shillings, if you please.’
‘Three shillings!’ Kate stared at him wide eyed, then struggled to her feet. ‘What are you talking about? All I had was a butty and a tankard of ale.’
‘And what about all the ale your friends drank, then?’
‘Friends?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know a single soul in this town.’
‘What about the crowd you came in with, then! Ifor Addams said you were standing them all a drink so I gave it to them.’
‘Then you had better ask him for the money,’ Kate retorted spiritedly. Anger fired her cheeks. ‘That man stole money from me as it is.’
‘So you can’t pay?’
‘Not can’t pay, but won’t pay,’ she told him heatedly.
Dai Roberts glared at the defiant figure in front of him. He had been landlord at the Bull long enough to know that this girl was a cut above the Molls and Polls who came in to pick up a man and fleece him on a paynight. Her clothes were of good quality cloth. Her boots were muddied but she looked clean and well fed, her cheeks plump, her black curls glossy.
Even so, he told himself firmly, he couldn’t afford to give drink away. Three shillings she owed him, and one way or another he was determined it should be paid.
‘The law is it, then?’ he threatened.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Them as doesn’t pay gets clapped into gaol… or sent to the House of Correction,’ he told her grimly.
He saw the colour drain from her face, her blue eyes darken and her teeth bite down on her lower lip to stop it trembling.
‘You have the choice.’
Her mind sifted the options. She had heard terrible accounts about the treatment meted out in a House of Correction and she had no intention of ending up there.
In the pocket concealed under her petticoats was her hoard of sovereigns. If she produced one of those, having led him to believe she was unable to pay, he’d probably take her for a thief. Furthermore, there was the added problem of reaching them. She could hardly remove her top skirt while he was standing there.
‘Are you going to pay or would you rather work instead?’
‘Work?’ She felt a glimmer of hope; she needed a bed for the night. ‘Doing what?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Cleaning, serving the customers, doing a bit of cooking. Helping out generally, like. I could do with a woman about the place, see.’
‘As long as I get a bed and a room to myself?’ she said firmly.
‘Of course you will! Duw anwyl, what do you take me for?’
‘I just want to be sure. I’ve been taken in once since I’ve arrived in Blaenafon so I want to be certain it doesn’t happen again.’
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ His needle-sharp eyes raked over her.
‘No! I’m from… from the south.’
‘You don’t talk like someone from Newport or Cardiff.’
‘I come from much further south than that… from Wiltshire.’
‘So what are you doing in these parts?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I’m looking for someone.’
Their eyes locked, each wondering if they could trust the other. The Bull was the meeting place for Frost’s supporters and from her appearance and the soft way she had of talking, she could be gentry. She didn’t look like she might be a spy, but then neither was she like any of the women who came into the Bull. They were either shabby-shawled wives, ragged working women or garishly dressed tarts with painted mouths.
‘I’m looking for someone who… who works at Fforbrecon colliery.’
Dai Roberts eyes narrowed. There had been trouble at Fforbrecon. First the cave-in and then a riot of some sort. It had been hushed up but he’d heard rumours that one of the coalmasters had been badly hurt. He’d only heard rumblings, since none of the men wanted to talk about it. A strike had been threatened, but after the accident the men had dropped their action and the arbitrators who’d been called in had gone away.
Dai Roberts studied Kate’s appearance again. From the look of her she could well have been sent by one of the gentry to find out the names of men involved.
‘Why come here to Blaenafon if it’s Fforbrecon you want?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I’ve walked from Nantyglo and I was told this was the best road to take.’
Dai Roberts rubbed his chin thoughtfully. She sounded genuine enough, and he liked the look of her. Once the weariness was gone from her face she would be quite pretty and an attraction behind the bar. The men liked to have a woman handing out their ale.
‘Make your mind up, cariad,’ he told her as he began swabbing down with an old rag. ‘It’s generous I’m being offering to let you work off your debt rather than be sent to the House of Correction.’
‘How much are you going to pay me?’
‘Sixpence a day and your food. One week and the debt will be cleared.’
‘All right,’ she agreed, squaring her slim shoulders and lifting her chin proudly.
‘Get started then. Collect the pots and wash them. When you’ve finished that I’ll show you where you can sleep. Tomorrow morning, six sharp, I’ll tell you the rest of your duties.’
Chapter 23
Kate found the work at the Bull harder than anything she’d ever done in her life.
Her day started at six o’clock each morning scrubbing the slopped ale, dollops of spittle and the coagulation of coal dust and iron stains off the bar floor. That done, Dai Roberts expected her to clean the rest of the house and do the washing as well as serve the customers.
Too stingy to pay out for help after his mother had died two years earlier, Dai Roberts had muddled along, running the Bull single-handed. As she cleaned and scrubbed, Kate vowed that she should have walked out at the end of her first day rather than face such accumulated grime.
She regarded it as a respite when he sent her shopping, even though women grabbed their children by the hand, pulling them close for safety because she was a stranger and looked Irish.
And the Irish themselves, knowing that for all her colouring she was not one of them, openly resented her. Most of them were crowded into leaking shacks or sleeping in bricked-up arches with only cinders on the floor and straw for a bed and envied her living in comfort at the Bull.
As she walked through the town they delighted in throwing their slops into the roadway ahead of her so that she was forced to slow her pace, lift her skirts and pick a path through their refuse.
‘It’s that curly black hair of yours and those bright eyes,’ Dai Roberts told her when she complained. ‘Droves of young Irish girls we get over here, see. Don’t worry, my flower, folks will soon accept you.’
And he was right. Within a couple of days, knowing she worked at the Bull, people nodded and smiled. In the shops, the women would stand back to let her be served first. As her order for mutton, sugar, cheese and bacon was weighed up she was conscious of them enviously eyeing her fine dress and blue bonnet with its fly-away streamers the colour of her eyes.
Kate longed to win their confidence. She wanted to question them about the man she was seeking, but she knew better than to rush things.
Having made her purchases she would wander away from the High Street and Broad Street, through the narrow, overcrowded areas of Stack Square and Engine Row where the small terraced houses were packed to overflowing with as many as fifteen people under the same roof. Even those dwellings, however, seemed luxurious when she compared them to the walled-up arches near the ironworks where immigrants, vagrants and orphaned children were herded together like animals in a pen.
As she breathed in the sulphurous air, or saw the sky redden with fire from the forges, heard the deep pulsating hammers and the rattle of loaded trams bound for Llanfoist Wharf, Kate grew impatient with her self-imposed caution.
A reluctance to put her relationship with David to the test kept her there. She was within a few miles of his home, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to visit Llwynowen. She longed desperately to see him, hear his voice, be in his arms, fe
el his lips on hers, yet she hesitated to make the move.
The malodorous chimneys, fire-belching furnaces, iron puddling and vats of molten ore dominated the scene. The surrounding countryside was scarred by coal mines and cinder tips, the grass scorched, the bushes stunted. Coity Mountain stretched out like some great grey whale, the ridge of its back resting against the skyline, an impenetrable wall that blotted out the sun and imprisoned the people living in Blaenafon.
It was all so different from the lush green fields and gentle rolling downs of Wiltshire that sometimes she found it difficult to believe she was in the same world. There, the hedgerows had been a continuous delight; a celebration of colour.
Snowdrops in January, followed by glittering yellow celandines, soft pale primroses, violets, wide-eyed daisies, bluebells, wild roses; a profusion of colour all through the year. Even this late in the year, she reflected, there would be hawthorn and holly berries, food for the birds and a delight for the eye.
There had been poverty, but even that had been made bearable by the harvest of berries and nuts in the hedgerows, and apples and pears overhanging from the orchards. Most cottagers had a patch of garden for potatoes and vegetables. Many owned a cow or pig and a clutch of hens so they had a supply of milk and eggs.
The whole of Blaenafon seemed to be in a ferment of discontent. The uprising at Fforbrecon, she learnt, had been the result of the owners’ callous attitude to the cave-in and refusal to extricate the bodies. But it was all part of a much greater unrest linked with workers in North Wales, the industrial North and the Midlands. Union agitators were persuading the workers that only by rising up in a body would they achieve better conditions and shorter working hours.
A Charter of Rights had been drawn up by the leaders of the movement and the terms laid down in it were the subject of lengthy arguments and heated discussions.
The Bull was one of the principal meeting places for Chartist supporters. They would come in straight from their shift, their eyes glazed with tiredness: the colliers still grimed with coal dust, as noisy as pit ponies in their hobnail boots; men from the ironworks, the skin on their hands and faces tattooed brown with pigment, their ragged clothes stained ochre-yellow with dust, giving off a rank, sour smell that made Kate’s stomach heave.
