BLACK-EYED DEVILS
CATRIN COLLIER
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2011
ISBN 9781908262493
Copyright © Catrin Collier 2009
The right of Catrin Collier to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.
Cover design by The Design House
For Ross Watkins and Claire Parsons
CHAPTER ONE
‘Straight down to the picket line at the Glamorgan colliery and straight back, Amy. No stopping to talk to anyone.’ Mary Watkins warned her daughter.
Amy’s blue eyes glittered with mischief. ‘It would be rude to ignore the neighbours if they talked to me, wouldn’t it, Mam?’
Mary tried not to smile. ‘Don’t look at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about, my girl. Stay away from the soldiers and police.’
Amy wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. Father Kelly says the way the government is bringing them in, there’ll soon be more officers in Tonypandy than colliers. And, all the police do is watch the picket lines. You’d think they have better things to do. Like catch thieves.’
‘The only places worth thieving from these days are the pawn shops. There are more goods behind their counters than in our houses.’ Mary poured cold tea from the teapot, through a strainer into an enamel jug. ‘Fill the men’s cans for me, love. I’ll prepare the tea leaves for drying so they can go in the oven when we light the fire tonight. It’ll be their third “brew”, but it’s all the tea we’ll have until the next strike pay.’
Amy lifted down her father and brothers’ “snap” cans from the dresser. She filled them with cold tea and screwed on the tops. ‘Do you want me to take them anything besides this?’
‘Like what? The hens haven’t laid today and the cupboards are empty.’ Mary tried not to sound bitter but she couldn’t hide her feelings. It was a woman’s job to keep her family clean, warm and fed. She hated not being able to put enough food in front of her husband and grown sons when they returned from their “shifts” on the picket. And, no matter how much she and Amy cut back on their share, there was never enough for the six year old twins. Sam and Luke’s eyes had grown large in their thin faces, and they hadn’t had the energy to go out to play after school for months.
As a union man’s wife, Mary, had been one of the first women in the town to agree the strike was necessary. The miners had no choice but to withdraw their labour after management refused their request for a decent wage. But watching her children go hungry was almost more than she could bear.
Amy smiled. ‘The cupboards aren’t empty.’
‘What have you been up to?’ Mary was worried. Her eldest son, Jack, worked in the illegal drift mines the men had opened up on the mountain. Without the miners’ free ration of coal there was no fuel to heat water, houses or cook what little food they had. The men in the family insisted the coal that came out of the drifts was essential and worth the risk. But if Jack was caught, he would be fined. And a fine meant prison as they had no money.
Amy opened the cupboard and lifted out a cake tin. She opened it and showed her mother the contents. ‘There are twelve here.’
‘Welsh cakes? Wherever did you get them?’
‘I helped make them in the soup kitchen this morning after I cleaned the vegetables. Mrs Evans persuaded Mr Hopkin Morgan the baker to donate the ingredients but he didn’t give her any dried fruit.’
‘Not surprising the price, of it. It was good of him to give her the flour, sugar and margarine.’
‘We mixed the donated eggs with milk and water. Mostly water, but Father Kelly’s housekeeper gave us the last of her home made jam to fill them. Mrs Evans insisted I take these for helping.’
‘Leave them here,’ Mary said. ‘You know what your father is like. He won’t eat them in front of the other men and twelve cakes won’t give them a bite each. We’ll have one each tonight and keep the last four for the twins’ breakfast tomorrow.’
Amy returned the tin to the cupboard and packed the cans of cold tea into her basket.
‘Straight down and back,’ her mother reminded. ‘And, when you go to the soup kitchen this afternoon, take the jug and the last shilling from the strike pay and get it filled. There’s no bread left so it will be just soup tonight.’ Mary drained the teapot into a bowl and tipped the tea leaves on to a sheet of newspaper she’d spread on a baking tray.
‘Do you want me to get anything else while I’m in town, Mam?’ Amy picked up the cloak she shared with her mother. As hers was almost new, it had been one of the first things to be pawned when the men had come out on strike.
‘I’ll have ten of everything they’re giving away free.’ The joke was used by every miner’s wife in the Rhondda. Amy didn’t find it funny.
‘Won’t be long.’ Amy kissed her mother, walked down the passage opened the front door and left the house. Although it was late September, the winter rains had come early. Most of the women in the street were outside, scrubbing their front steps with stones and cold water because they couldn’t afford soap. Outdoors was wetter but no colder than their unheated stone houses.
‘You going down the picket line, love?’ Anna Jenkins who lived opposite the Watkins’s asked Amy.
‘Yes, Auntie Anna. I was about to call in and ask if you’d like me to take Uncle Gwilym’s tea down for him.’
‘If you don’t mind, love. I’ve got his can ready and it will save me a walk. I promised to go to the soup kitchen early to organize things for Father Kelly. He called in to tell me that he has to go out on parish business. Come in.’
Amy followed Anna into her house and up the stone flagged passage to the kitchen. It was as clean, bare and cold as her mother’s.
Anna handed her the can. ‘Tell him I’m sorry I have nothing more to give him.’
‘I will.’ Amy dropped it into her basket with the others.
‘And mind how you go.’
Amy had known Anna all her life. She was her mother’s closest friend and had moved to Tonypandy from Pontypridd the same time as her parents. ‘Mam’s given me the full lecture. No talking to soldiers or policemen.’
‘Or blacklegs.’
‘I won’t be seeing any. They hide behind the police line inside the colliery.’
Anna lowered her voice as she followed Amy to the door. ‘My Gwilym’s heard different. Management’s been bringing them into the town for the last two weeks and hiding them among the soldiers in the lodging houses. It’s best you avoid all strange men, Amy.’
‘I will. ‘Bye, Auntie Anna.’
Anna watched Amy until she turned the corner. Despite the rain and short rations there was a spring in Amy’s step. She suddenly remembered what it felt like to be young. Not that she had ever been as pretty as Amy. Tall, slender with silver blonde hair and deep blue eyes, Amy had attracted admiring looks from men since her fifteenth birthday. When she’d caught her husband, Gwilym, watching Amy, he’d said, “Anna, I might be nearer fifty than forty years old, but I can still recognise beauty when I see it. And Amy has something of the same look about her that you had when I married you fifteen years ago.”
Anna had be
en upset by the comparison. But she had been careful not to shed her tears in front of Gwilym.
Father Kelly hailed Amy as soon as she stepped into Dunraven Street. The Catholic priest tugged at the sleeve of the young man with him and ran across the road to meet her. It took them a few minutes to avoid a procession of women who were carrying a rag and straw dummy of Arnold Craggs, one of the directors of the Glamorgan Colliery. The women were taking it in turns to whack the effigy with carpet beaters.
‘Good day to you, Amy,’ the priest greeted her. ‘Hope the world is treating you and your family well. I’ve a real treat for you, Tom.’ He pulled the young man forward. ‘Meet Amy Watkins. The prettiest girl in the whole of Wales.’
‘If you weren’t a priest I’d call you a liar, Father.’ Amy kissed the priest’s cheek. Her family were Baptist, but everyone in town, Anglican, Chapel and Salvation Army loved Father Kelly. The day the strike had been declared he’d been the first to open a soup kitchen by turning the Church hall of St Gabriel and St Raphael into a canteen. Whenever help was needed, he was always first on the scene. And he never spoke of religion outside the church unless someone asked him to.
‘As if an Irishman let alone an Irish priest would lie about a woman’s beauty.’ He slipped his arm around Amy’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘Amy, darling, this is my brother’s son. Young Tom Kelly.’
The young man towered above the short, plump priest. Amy’s mouth went dry and she froze. Her three older brothers were all over six feet, “Young Tom Kelly” was at least four inches taller. He had the same thick curly hair as his uncle. The priest’s was iron grey, Tom’s blue-black and glossy. His eyes were dark and gleamed like wet coal.
Tom offered Amy his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Watkins.’
Amy was aware of the warmth of Tom’s fingers as they closed over hers. The seductive lilt of his voice, the fresh, clean smell of wind and rain that clung to the shabby, tweed suit that was too small for him. But most of all she was aware of the warmth of his body as he stood next to her. And her image, mirrored in his eyes.
‘Tom’s visiting me for a bit,’ the priest explained. ‘He’s on his way to America.’
‘America,’ Amy repeated.
‘It’s a grand land with lots of opportunity for a hard working man. I’ve relations out there who’ll see me all right.’ Tom continued to stare at her.
‘We’d best move on, Amy, Tom.’ Father Kelly nudged his nephew. He’d spotted one of the London policemen who’d been sent into Tonypandy.
The officer walked up to them. ‘You’re blocking the pavement, Father Kelly.’
‘Sorry, constable, it’s my nephew. He can’t move because he can’t stop staring at Miss Watkins. He’s never seen a girl as pretty as her before.’
The constable studied Amy as if she was a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab. She shivered.
‘Your father a miner?’ he demanded.
‘Yes.’ Amy lifted her chin. Her father had ordered everyone in the family to avoid the soldiers and police who had been sent into the town to keep order after the strike had begun. But he’d also told them not to treat the officers with more respect than they did any other man.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, constable.’ Amy knew he wanted her to call him “Sir” but in her opinion, the only difference between him and other men was the uniform he was wearing.
‘What’s your father’s name?’
‘James Watkins.’
‘Jim Watkins the strike leader?’
‘He’s an organizer,’ Amy acknowledged.
‘You’ve three brothers. Jack, Matthew and Mark?’
She was worried where the questioning was leading but she refused to show fear. ‘I have.’
Tom Kelly gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. Father Kelly drew closer to her.
‘Tell Jack from me, he’d better behave himself. He’s been seen digging in the illegal mines on the mountain. One day we’re going to catch him at it and then he’ll be sorry.’ The officer pointed at her with his index finger.
The crowd that had gathered around them fell silent when Tom caught the officer’s hand in mid air. He held it fast.
‘Where I come from we don’t insult a lady by poking her,’ Tom said quietly. ‘I think you should put your other hand in your pocket before apologizing to Miss Watkins, constable.’
CHAPTER TWO
A loud crash shattered the silence that had fallen over the street. Startled, Amy turned and saw draymen rolling wooden barrels off a brewer’s cart. They rolled them down a ramp and into the cellar of the White Hart. The colliers didn’t have any money for beer, but the soldiers and police who had been brought in to control them, did.
‘You Irish,’ the constable spat in disgust. ‘Nothing but troublemakers. The lot of you.’ He unhooked his four foot truncheon from his belt with his free hand and raised it in front of Tom’s face.
‘What’s the problem here, Constable Shipton?’ Sergeant Martin, a local police officer pushed towards them through the crowd.
‘This Irishman assaulted me, sir.’
Angry murmurs rose from the people. Constable Shipton lowered his truncheon at a signal from the sergeant and Tom finally released the officer’s hand.
‘Did you assault, Constable Shipton. Mr?’
‘Thomas Kelly, sergeant. No, I didn’t assault Constable Shipton. I grabbed his hand because he was about to poke the lady.’
‘Poke the lady?’ Sergeant Martin repeated solemnly. ‘Were you about to assault Miss Watkins, Shipton?’
‘I didn’t touch her, sir.’
‘Only because I grabbed his hand, preventing him,’ Tom stated.
‘I was giving Miss Watkins a warning to pass on to one of her brothers,’ Constable Shipton continued. ‘He’s been seen working in one of the illegal mines on the mountain, sir.’
‘By you, Constable Shipton?’
‘An informer, sir.’
The crowd moved restlessly. Their voices rose. Hundreds of miners had been imprisoned on the evidence of “anonymous informers”. No one could be sure whether the informers existed or the police had simply made up the evidence. As a result, Tonypandy had changed from a friendly town where people had been happy to help one another to a place where people had become suspicious of their neighbours.
It was common knowledge that the authorities would pay two shillings for the name of a striker who had attacked a blackleg. The price for betraying a miner who worked in a drift mine was a shilling. And a shilling put a meal on a family’s table.
‘If you have proof Jack Watkins has been working in an illegal drift mine, why haven’t you taken him into custody?’ Father Kelly asked the constable. ‘Wouldn’t that be more sensible than threatening his sister as she goes about her lawful business? Or, are the police targeting the miner’s women now because they are too afraid to speak to the men?’
‘It’s not police policy to target women, Father.’ Sergeant Martin turned to the crowd. ‘All of you move on. You know it’s illegal to gather in the street.
‘We were trying to move on, Sergeant Martin,’ Father Kelly protested. ‘Constable Shipton stopped us.’
‘He’s not stopping you now, Father.’
‘Thanks to you, Sergeant.’ The priest took Amy’s arm and walked on, leaving Tom to follow.
‘I have to cross the road, Father.’ Amy stopped opposite Rodney’s, the grocer’s shop. ‘I’m taking my father and brothers their tea. They’re picketing the Glamorgan Colliery.’
‘You could find more trouble down there than you have here,’ the priest warned.
‘Dad’s on a twelve hour shift. And my brothers are taking it in turns to keep him company. They need something to drink.’
‘I’d go with you, but Mrs Edwards has sent for me. The poor woman is not long for this world.’
‘I’ll walk Miss Watkins to the picket,’ Tom volunteered.
‘You don’t know Tonypandy, Tom. When a man is seen “
walking out” with a girl the gossips have them engaged in a week and married in two.’
‘I’ll risk the gossip if Miss Watkins will.’ Tom smiled at Amy.
Amy saw Tom’s smile and her heart started pounding rapidly again. But the last thing she wanted was for Father Kelly and Tom to think her incapable of looking after herself. ‘I’ve been walking to the picket for months without any bother from anyone, Father.’
‘I know you have. I also know that as my nephew here isn’t a collier or a policeman both sides will be suspicious of him.’
Tom wasn’t to be out off so easily. ‘They’ll not be throwing stones at a man who hasn’t taken sides.’
‘It’s obvious from your cap and clothes, boy, you’re a working man. That puts you on the side of the colliers.’
‘There’s no need for you to walk me, Mr Kelly,’ Amy protested.
‘This is my first day in Tonypandy. I’d appreciate someone showing me the sights. And I am Father Kelly’s nephew.’
‘But you’re not a priest.’
‘No, I’m not, nor will I ever be,’ he laughed.
Father Kelly realized that Tom was determined to stay with Amy. He also saw Constable Shipton watching them again. It was time for them to move on. ‘You’ll be safe enough with Tom, Amy, provided you can keep him from arguing with any more police officers.’
‘I promise, no arguing with anyone unless they threaten, Miss Watkins. I’ll see you back at the soup kitchen in the church hall, uncle.’ Tom offered Amy his arm.
‘As you’ve promised not to pick any more quarrels, I accept your offer to walk me to the picket line, Mr Kelly.’ Amy’s cheeks burned as blood rush into her face when she linked her arm in Tom’s. She was embarrassed. She hadn’t blushed since she was a child.
‘You know your young countryman, Father?’ Sergeant Martin stopped Father Kelly after Tom led Amy across the road.
‘Tom’s my nephew. My dead brother’s son. God rest his soul.’ The priest crossed himself.
‘Strange time for him to come visiting you in the middle of strike.’
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