by Follett, Ken
Mrs. Dai cried: “Where am I to go, with five children?”
Billy was shocked, too. How could the company do this to a woman whose husband had been killed in their pit?
“It’s signed ‘Perceval Jones, Chairman of the Board,’ at the bottom,” Da finished.
Billy said: “What lease? I didn’t know miners had leases.”
Da said to him: “There’s no written lease, but the law says there’s an implied contract. We’ve already fought that battle and lost.” He turned to Mrs. Dai. “The house goes with the job, in theory, but widows are usually allowed to stay on. Sometimes they leave anyway, and go to live elsewhere, perhaps with their parents. Often they remarry, to another miner, and he takes over the lease. Usually they have at least one boy who becomes a miner when he’s old enough. It’s not really in the company’s interest to throw widows out.”
“So why do they want to get rid of me and my children?” wailed Mrs. Dai.
Gramper said: “Perceval Jones is in a hurry. He must think the price of coal is going up. That’ll be why he started the Sunday shift.”
Da nodded. “They want higher production, that’s for sure, whatever the reason. But they’re not going to get it by evicting widows.” He stood up. “Not if I can help it.”
{ II }
Eight women were being evicted, all widows of men who had died in the explosion. They had received identical letters from Perceval Jones, as Da established that afternoon when he visited each woman in turn, taking Billy with him. Their reactions varied from the hysterics of Mrs. Hywel Jones, who could not stop crying, to the grim fatalism of Mrs. Roley Hughes, who said this country needed a guillotine like they had in Paris for men like Perceval Jones.
Billy was boiling with outrage. Was it not enough that these women had lost their men to the pit? Must they be homeless as well as husbandless? “Can the company do this, Da?” he said as he and his father walked down the mean gray terraces to the pithead.
“Only if we let them, boy. The working class are more numerous than the ruling class, and stronger. They depend on us for everything. We provide their food and build their houses and make their clothes, and without us they die. They can’t do anything unless we let them. Always remember that.”
They went into the manager’s office, stuffing their caps into their pockets. “Good afternoon, Mr. Williams,” said Spotty Llewellyn nervously. “If you would just wait a minute, I’ll ask if Mr. Morgan can see you.”
“Don’t be daft, boy, of course he’ll see me,” said Da, and without waiting he walked into the inner office. Billy followed.
Maldwyn Morgan was looking at a ledger, but Billy had a feeling he was only pretending. He looked up, his pink cheeks closely shaved as always. “Come in, Williams,” he said unnecessarily. Unlike many men, he was not afraid of Da. Morgan was Aberowen-born, the son of a schoolmaster, and had studied engineering. He and Da were similar, Billy realized: intelligent, self-righteous, and stubborn.
“You know what I’ve come about, Mr. Morgan,” said Da.
“I can guess, but tell me anyway.”
“I want you to withdraw these eviction notices.”
“The company needs the houses for miners.”
“There will be trouble.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Don’t get on your high horse,” Da said mildly. “These women lost their husbands in your pit. Don’t you feel responsible for them?”
Morgan tilted up his chin defensively. “The public inquiry found that the explosion was not caused by the company’s negligence.”
Billy wanted to ask him how an intelligent man could say such a thing and not feel ashamed of himself.
Da said: “The inquiry found a list of violations as long as the train to Paddington—electrical equipment not shielded, no breathing apparatus, no proper fire engine—”
“But the violations did not cause the explosion, or the deaths of miners.”
“The violations could not be proved to have caused the explosion or the deaths.”
Morgan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You didn’t come here to argue about the inquiry.”
“I came here to get you to see reason. As we speak, the news of these letters is going around the town.” Da gestured at the window, and Billy saw that the winter sun was going down behind the mountain. “Men are rehearsing with choirs, drinking in pubs, going to prayer meetings, playing chess—and they’re all talking about the eviction of the widows. And you can bet your boots they’re angry.”
“I have to ask you again: are you trying to intimidate the company?”
Billy wanted to throttle the man, but Da sighed. “Look here, Maldwyn, we’ve known each other since school days. Be reasonable, now. You know there are men in the union who will be more aggressive than me.” Da was talking about Tommy Griffiths’s father. Len Griffiths believed in revolution, and he always hoped the next dispute would be the spark that lit the conflagration. He also wanted Da’s job. He could be relied upon to propose drastic measures.
Morgan said: “Are you telling me you’re calling a strike?”
“I’m telling you the men will be angry. What they will do I can’t predict. But I don’t want trouble and you don’t want trouble. We’re talking about eight houses out of what, eight hundred? I’ve come here to ask you, is it worth it?”
“The company has made its decision,” Morgan said, and Billy felt intuitively that Morgan did not agree with the company.
“Ask the board of directors to reconsider. What harm could that do?”
Billy was impatient with Da’s mild words. Surely he should raise his voice, and point his finger, and accuse Morgan of the ruthless cruelty of which the company was obviously guilty? That was what Len Griffiths would have done.
Morgan was unmoved. “I’m here to carry out the board’s decisions, not question them.”
“So the evictions have already been approved by the board,” Da said.
Morgan looked flustered. “I didn’t say that.”
But he had implied it, Billy thought, thanks to Da’s clever questioning. Maybe mildness was not such a bad idea.
Da changed tack. “What if I could find you eight houses where the occupiers are prepared to take in new miners as lodgers?”
“These men have families.”
Da said slowly and deliberately: “We could work out a compromise, if you were willing.”
“The company must have the power to manage its own affairs.”
“Regardless of the consequences to others?”
“This is our coal mine. The company surveyed the land, negotiated with the earl, dug the pit, and bought the machinery, and it built the houses for the miners to live in. We paid for all this and we own it, and we won’t be told what to do with it by anyone else.”
Da put his cap on. “You didn’t put the coal in the earth, though, did you, Maldwyn?” he said. “God did that.”
{ III }
Da tried to book the assembly rooms of the town hall for a gathering at seven thirty the following night, but the space was already taken by the Aberowen Amateur Dramatic Club, who were rehearsing Henry IV, Part One, so Da decided the miners would meet at Bethesda Chapel. Billy and Da, with Len and Tommy Griffiths and a few other active union members, went around the town announcing the meeting orally and pinning up handwritten notices in pubs and chapels.
By a quarter past seven next evening the chapel was packed. The widows sat in a row at the front, and everyone else stood. Billy was at the side near the front, where he could see the men’s faces. Tommy Griffiths stood beside him.
Billy was proud of his da for his boldness, his cleverness, and the fact that he had put his cap back on before leaving Morgan’s office. All the same he wished Da had been more aggressive. He should have talked to Morgan the way he talked to the congregation of Bethesda, predicting hellfire and brimstone for those who refused to see the plain truth.
At exactly seven thirty, Da called for quiet.
In his authoritative preaching voice he read out the letter from Perceval Jones to Mrs. Dai Ponies. “The identical letter have been sent to eight widows of men killed in the explosion down the pit six weeks ago.”
Several men called out: “Shame!”
“It is our rule that men speak when called upon by the chairman of the meeting, and not otherwise, so that each may be heard in his turn, and I will thank you for observing the rule, even on an occasion such as this when feelings run high.”
Someone called out: “It’s a bloody disgrace!”
“Now, now, Griff Pritchard, no swearing, please. This is a chapel and, besides, there are ladies present.”
Two or three of the men said: “Hear, hear.” They pronounced the word to rhyme with “fur.”
Griff Pritchard, who had been in the Two Crowns since the shift ended that afternoon, said: “Sorry, Mr. Williams.”
“I held a meeting yesterday with the colliery manager, and asked him formally to withdraw the eviction notices, but he refused. He implied that the board of directors had made the decision, and it was not in his power to change it, or even question it. I pressed him to discuss alternatives, but he said the company had the right to manage its affairs without interference. That is all the information I have for you.” That was a bit low-key, Billy thought. He wanted Da to call for revolution. But Da just pointed to a man who had his hand up. “John Jones the Shop.”
“I’ve lived in number twenty-three Gordon Terrace all my life,” said Jones. “I was born there and I’m still there. But my father died when I was eleven. Very hard it was, too, for my mam, but she was allowed to stay. When I was thirteen I went down the pit, and now I pay the rent. That’s how it’s always been. No one said anything about throwing us out.”
“Thank you, John Jones. Have you got a motion to propose?”
“No, I’m just saying.”
“I have a motion,” said a new voice. “Strike!”
There was a chorus of agreement.
Billy’s father said: “Dai Crybaby.”
“Here’s how I see it,” said the captain of the town’s rugby team. “We can’t let the company get away with this. If they’re allowed to evict widows, none of us can feel that our families have any security. A man could work all his life for Celtic Minerals and die on the job, and two weeks later his family could be out on the street. Dai Union have been to the office and tried to talk sense to Gone-to-Merthyr Morgan, but it haven’t done no good, so we got no alternative but to strike.”
“Thank you, Dai,” said Da. “Should I take that as a formal motion for strike action?”
“Aye.”
Billy was surprised that Da had accepted that so quickly. He knew his father wanted to avoid a strike.
“Vote!” someone shouted.
Da said: “Before I put the proposal to a vote, we need to decide when the strike should take place.”
Ah, Billy thought, he’s not accepting it.
Da went on: “We might consider starting on Monday. Between now and then, while we work on, the threat of a strike might make the directors see sense—and we could get what we want without any loss of earnings.”
Da was arguing for postponement as the next best thing, Billy realized.
But Len Griffiths had come to the same conclusion. “May I speak, Mr. Chairman?” he said. Tommy’s father had a bald dome with a fringe of black hair, and a black mustache. He stepped forward and stood next to Da, facing the crowd, so that it looked as if the two of them had equal authority. The men went quiet. Len, like Da and Dai Crybaby, was among a handful of people they always heard in respectful silence. “I ask, is it wise to give the company four days’ grace? Suppose they don’t change their minds—which seems a strong possibility, given how stubborn they have been so far. Then we’ll get to Monday with nothing achieved, and the widows will have that much less time left.” He raised his voice slightly for rhetorical effect. “I say, comrades: don’t give an inch!”
There was a cheer, and Billy joined in.
“Thank you, Len,” said Da. “I have two motions on the table, then: Strike tomorrow, or strike Monday. Who else would like to speak?”
Billy watched his father manage the meeting. The next man called was Giuseppe “Joey” Ponti, top soloist with the Aberowen Male Voice Choir, older brother of Billy’s schoolmate Johnny. Despite his Italian name, he had been born in Aberowen and spoke with the same accent as every other man in the room. He, too, argued for an immediate strike.
Da then said: “In fairness, may I have a speaker in favor of striking on Monday?”
Billy wondered why Da did not throw his personal authority into the balance. If he argued for Monday he might change their minds. But then, if he failed, he would be in an awkward position, leading a strike that he had argued against. Da was not completely free to say what he felt, Billy realized.
The discussion ranged widely. Coal stocks were high, so the management could hold out; but demand was high too, and they would want to sell while they could. Spring was coming, so miners’ families would soon be able to manage without their ration of free coal. The miners’ case was well grounded in long-established practise, but the letter of the law was on the management’s side.
Da let the discussion run on, and some of the speeches became tedious. Billy wondered what his father’s motivation was, and guessed he was hoping that heads would cool. But in the end he had to put it to the vote.
“First, all those in favor of no strike at all.”
A few men raised their hands.
“Next, those in favor of a strike starting Monday.”
There was a strong vote for this, but Billy was not sure if it was enough to win. It would depend upon how many men abstained.
“Finally, those in favor of a strike starting tomorrow.”
There was a cheer, and a forest of arms waved in the air. There could be no doubt about the result.
“The motion to strike tomorrow is passed,” Da said. No one proposed a count.
The meeting broke up. As they went out, Tommy said brightly: “Day off, tomorrow, then.”
“Aye,” said Billy. “And no money to spend.”
{ IV }
The first time Fitz went with a prostitute, he had tried to kiss her—not because he wanted to, but he assumed it was the done thing. “I don’t kiss,” she had said abruptly in her cockney accent, and after that he had never tried it again. Bing Westhampton said a lot of prostitutes refused to kiss, which was odd, considering what other intimacies they permitted. Perhaps that trivial prohibition preserved a remnant of their dignity.
Girls of Fitz’s social class were not supposed to kiss anyone before marriage. They did, of course, but only in rare moments of brief privacy, in a suddenly deserted side room at a ball, or behind a rhododendron bush in a country garden. There was never time for passion to develop.
The only woman Fitz had kissed properly was his wife, Bea. She gave him her body as a cook might present a special cake, fragrant and sugared and beautifully decorated for his enjoyment. She let him do anything, but made no demands. She offered her lips for him to kiss, and opened her mouth to his tongue, but he never felt she was hungry for his touch.
Ethel kissed as if she had one minute left to live.
They stood in the Gardenia Suite, beside the bed covered with its dust sheet, wrapped in each other’s arms. She sucked his tongue and bit his lips and licked his throat, and at the same time she stroked his hair, clutched the back of his neck, and thrust her hands under his waistcoat so that she could rub her palms against his chest. When at last they broke apart, out of breath, she put her hands either side of his face, holding his head still, staring at him, and said: “You are so beautiful.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hands, and she stood in front of him. He knew that some men regularly seduced their servants, but he did not. When he was fifteen he had fallen in love with a parlor maid at the London house: his mother had guessed it within a few days an
d sacked the girl immediately. His father had smiled and said: “Good choice, though.” Since then he had not touched an employee. But he could not resist Ethel.
She said: “Why have you come back? You were expected to stay in London all of May.”
“I wanted to see you.” He could tell that she found it hard to believe him. “I kept thinking about you, all day, every day, and I just had to come back.”
She bent down and kissed him again. Holding the kiss, he slowly fell back on the bed, pulling her with him until she was lying on top of him. She was so slim that she weighed no more than a child. Her hair escaped from its pins and he buried his fingers in her glossy curls.
After a while she rolled off and lay beside him, panting. He leaned on his elbow and looked at her. She had said he was beautiful, but right now she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was mussed, and her red lips were moist and parted. Her dark eyes gazed at him with adoration.
He put his hand on her hip, then stroked her thigh. She covered his hand with her own, holding it still, as if afraid he was going too far. She said: “Why do they call you Fitz? Your name is Edward, isn’t it?”
She was talking in an attempt to let their passion cool, he felt sure. “It started at school,” he said. “All the boys had nicknames. Then Walter von Ulrich came home with me one vacation, and Maud picked it up from him.”
“Before that, what did your parents call you?”
“Teddy.”
“Teddy,” she said, trying it on her tongue. “I like it better than Fitz.”
He started to stroke her thigh again, and this time she let him. Kissing her, he slowly pulled up the long skirt of her black housekeeper’s dress. She wore calf-length stockings, and he stroked her bare knees. Above the knee she had long cotton underdrawers. He touched her legs through the cotton, then moved his hand to the fork of her thighs. When he touched her there, she groaned and thrust upward against his hand.
“Take them off,” he whispered.
