by D. Luckett
I fy neiniau a theidiau, a wnaeth hyn
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Copyright
I was always unlucky. Unlucky thirteenth child, I was. Unlucky for my mam. She died. I didn’t know anything about it but there’s bad luck for you. I always knew it, even when I was little.
There had to be someone to take up the bad luck going around, didn’t there? My da was a lucky man, they said. A pitface fell on him, and he never walked straight again but that was lucky because five other men died in that accident and he got a pension from the union. As well as that, the company gave him free rent on the house in Caradog Street for the rest of his life. Everyone said it was very good of the company to do that. They didn’t have to, you know.
My da might have been a lucky man but he wasn’t a happy one. He limped and his leg hurt and he had to walk with a stick and that made him angry. And how could he bring up another daughter by himself, and an unlucky one, at that?
So my sister Olive looked after me. Olive is fourteen years older than me. She’s the third-eldest, after George and William. Then there was Thomas, Gwyneth, Dewi, Margaret, Sarah, Harry and Hugh (they’re twins), Ceridwen, Rowan (except he died) and me, Sian. Sian Mary Roberts, if you please. The English would spell it ‘Sharn’, probably, but I’m not English. I’m Welsh.
We didn’t all fit into the house, not all of us at once. But George was already going down the pit then, and so were Willy and Tom, pretty soon after. As soon as they were all earning a wage they found a place of their own. It was a terrace house just like Caradog Street but two streets away in Llewellyn Street. They lived there together and had Gwynnie to keep house for them.
So that left only eight of us in the house with Da in Caradog Street and that wasn’t too bad. Well, for a while, anyway, until I got bigger. It had three rooms upstairs, a kitchen and a front parlour downstairs and even its own toilet in the yard with a covered path to it for when it rained. My brothers’ house over in Llewellyn Street didn’t have its own toilet – they had to use the neighbours’ and everyone could see you going to it.
I said my da wasn’t a happy man and that’s right, but Olive was even less happy because she had to look after me and the younger ones. Ceridwen was six when I was born and going to school, so she wasn’t so much trouble. But me, I was an awful lot of trouble.
I was in my fourth year at school when Olive began walking out with Ellis Williams who had just finished his time learning a trade. He worked for Jones the builder as a carpenter and joiner. No going down the pit for him. He was a catch, Olive said. It would be quite a step up for her, marrying him, you see. If she could manage it.
But as she said, it wasn’t easy and I made it even harder. ‘Here am I, only a year older than he is, and it’s like he’s courting a widow,’ she said. ‘Cleaning, cooking, wiping dirty faces,’ she went on, giving me a swipe with the flannel. ‘Always up to my elbows in a washtub. Hands all red, just look at them! How did you get so dirty?’
‘I was picking,’ I said. ‘Ow!’ Olive had screwed up the soapy flannel and was poking it into my eye.
I had to pick coal. And Olive knew it but she pretended that she didn’t. I went to the pit slag heap with the other children and picked up the small pieces of coal that had been washed out by the tippler with the slag and the rock. They weren’t worth the bother to the pit, so people could just pick them up.
I was having my bath in front of the stove in the kitchen, too. Where did Olive think that the coal burning in that stove came from? Did she think we bought it, or something?
Oh, Olive knew where it came from, perfectly well. She’d done plenty of picking herself. We had to, see? Or we couldn’t cook or have a fire when it got cold. And it was always cold, pretty much.
So I’d been picking and I’d like to know how you’re supposed to do that and not get dirty. I’d been at it for half the day – it was a Saturday, bath night. If you picked enough you could go shares in the Rees boys’ barrow when they wheeled it up the hill and sold the pickings to the rich people in the big houses for a shilling a barrowload. I’d picked enough for our house and at least half the barrow as well, so I’d get a share. Four pence, maybe, although knowing Jimmy Rees it’d probably be only threepence. But three pennies was better than nothing. That would buy a new pencil and a copybook for school and a twist of humbugs as well.
Da would have belted me if he’d known, though. He didn’t hold with selling pickings. He wouldn’t have it. He hadn’t worked all his life to have his children touting in the streets, he used to say. But Da didn’t have to know about it, did he? And Da wasn’t going to buy me a new book or any sweets.
I was getting sleepy, even with Olive sticking the corner of the flannel in my eye, and the water was getting cold – I was always the last into the bath. So after we poured the dirty water down the sluice, I went upstairs to bed. I shared one with Ceri and Sal in the girls’ room. Madge and Olive had the other bed.
But after chapel the next day, everything changed.
Sundays were very quiet. Except when we sang in the chapel, of course. And the Reverend Mister Rowland Rowlands wasn’t so very quiet either, when he preached the sermon. The longer he went on, the louder he got. But after chapel, you didn’t make a noise, or play in the street, because that would be breaking the Sabbath. You stayed home and read the Bible or a book from the lending library, so long as it wasn’t a novel, or you did your homework.
Or you could go out for a Sunday walk, past the terraces, up the valley into the hills. For the air, everyone said, and that was right. You could walk right up into the hills and look down into the clutter of streets and houses, down where the air was smoky and sooty. Or you could go right up to the top and look far out, all the way to the sea. They were steep, those hills, steep and rocky, and they rose high above the valley. The coal was down in the valley, so the pits were in the valley too, but up there were hill meadows dotted with sheep and flowers and woods.
Right up there, high up in the sky where the air was clear, you could see so much. Valley after valley, and far, far off, the sea. It made you feel as if you could see the whole world.
Olive and Ellis were walking out together of a Sunday. That means they were courting. So after chapel, Ellis would call at the house in Caradog Street, and he’d walk out with Olive – both in their Sunday best, with her in that big hat she’d bought in Newport and trimmed herself, with real egret feathers. They didn’t want any company, she said, and anyway she promised to take the copper stick to me if I tried to spy on them, so I didn’t.
And then, after they’d had their walk, Ellis would come back to the house in Caradog Street and be invited to stay for tea, with a plum cake that Olive had baked, and scones and Welsh cakes and sandwiches. That had been going on ever since the weather got warm enough for walking out. But this Sunday would be different.
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Ellis was a thin man, stringy like, and not very tall. For chapel and walking out with Olive he always wore a starched collar and a suit with a waistcoat and a proper round hat. He had a gold watch to put in his pocket, too. That was only for Sundays though. The rest of the week he worked in the yard at Jones’s Builders wearing a canvas apron and one of those funny square hats that carpenters wear. It was hard work, being a carpenter, but it was a good trade, and clean. Not like going down the pit. He had a thin face and a big nose and he didn’t smile much but when he did, it was a gentle smile.
I sort of liked him. I know I shouldn’t call him Ellis, and at first I said Mr Williams, but later he was Ellis, and that’s what I call him now. Olive sort of liked him too but even then it was more important to her that he wasn’t going down the pit.
‘He has ambition,’ said Olive. ‘And a bit put by. Handsome is as handsome does, you know.’
Yes, he would do very well for Olive. And so he did. That Sunday he came and saw Da, looking nervous.
I should say that Da was a big man, because Ellis wasn’t. Da walked with a limp and he used a stick to get about with but you didn’t want to cross him. He was sitting in his big chair by the fireplace in the parlour, his stick by him. Ellis came in, pulled off his round hat and held it in front of him with both hands. Olive went upstairs to take off her own hat, which was a bother, what with all the hatpins.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Mr Roberts,’ Ellis said. ‘In private,’ he added, looking about at us.
Da looked at us, all seven. We’d been told to be on our best behaviour and there was always that stick of Da’s. So he only had to look at us and we all got up and went out. Only there really wasn’t anywhere to go. We all had our best clothes on, a clean pinny for the girls and clean shirts with a collar for the boys. So we couldn’t go out into the street, and anyway it was starting to rain.
So we crossed the hall from the parlour door, went into the kitchen and waited. Olive wasn’t there. She was walking about, upstairs. We could hear her. I didn’t know why she had stayed upstairs but I soon found out.
‘He’s popped the question,’ said Dewi. Dewi is eight years older than me, so he was nearly seventeen by then. He had managed to take a scone as he went out and now he crammed it down.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, as I watched him chewing.
It was Ceridwen who answered. ‘He’s asked Olive to marry him and Olive has said yes, and now he has to ask Da for his blessing.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I thought about it. ‘So Ellis is coming to live here?’ I asked. I was wondering where we’d put him, you see.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Dewi. He’d finished the scone. I thought if he didn’t brush all the crumbs off his front, Da would notice, and Dewi would get the stick but he’d just called me daft, so I wasn’t going to tell him. ‘Olive will be moving out. They’ll get a house together.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. Well, that would mean there’d be more room. It was getting crowded in our bed.
A few minutes later Ellis put his head around the door. ‘Your father wants to see you in the parlour,’ he said.
So we trooped in again and Da said, ‘Children, Mr Williams is your brother-in-law to be. He has very properly asked my blessing to marry your sister Olive and I have given it.’
Well, that was that, wasn’t it? After this, I thought, I won’t have to do what Olive says all the time.
But now who’d look after me?
I was just thinking about that when I heard the Rees boys’ wheelbarrow in the street outside. It had an iron wheel and it made a noise on the stones. I’d been listening for it because I knew that Jimmy Rees would try to sneak past without paying me my share.
Well, there was only one reason I could think of for going out, wasn’t there? So I asked, very politely, ‘May I be excused?’ and shifted from foot to foot as if I needed to go right now. Da glared at me but he nodded and I got out fast. In the passageway I started to run, out the back door, through the yard, and through the side gate into the Rees’s side passage.
And there was Jimmy, and the barrow was empty. He’d sold the load. He looked at me and licked his lips. That was what he always did when he was thinking of a lie to tell. I didn’t let him get one out.
I just held out my hand. ‘Five pence,’ I said. I thought I might as well start high.
‘It’s warm weather, see?’ said Jimmy. He looked around for his brother Llew but Llew wasn’t there. Probably gone to play football. The Rees family didn’t keep the Sabbath like us. Da said they were no better than heathens. ‘People aren’t using so much. Couldn’t get a shilling for it. Had to take nine pence.’
‘Nine pence?’ I said. ‘Well, that’s still four pence to me. Hand it over.’
‘Thruppence. You only picked half the load.’
‘Half of nine pence is four pence ha’penny,’ I said. Jimmy was hopeless at sums. He used to get Mr Hall’s ruler across his knuckles most days at school.
‘Yes, but it’s our barrow and it’s me that wheeled it up the hill. Thruppence.’
About what I’d thought. Oh well. ‘Thruppence,’ I said, still with my hand out.
Jimmy scowled and thought maybe he should have made it tuppence, but he put his hand in his pocket and brought out a sixpence and four copper pennies, which showed that he’d actually got ten pence for the load. I reached for my pennies, took them, and was just about to turn away, when …
‘Sian Mary Roberts!’
It was Da’s voice. Da’s big voice. The voice he used when he was angry. Da was angry.
I’d forgotten that the front parlour had a side window and that Da could see out of it from his chair. We were the end house in the row, see.
I looked up and around and there was Da’s face in the window. He’d actually got up from his chair and crossed the parlour to look out of it. The Rees house was down the hill from ours and he could see over the side fence. Just my bad luck.
I stood there, the pennies clutched in my hand. Jimmy gave Da one frightened look and ran for his life. But me, I could only stand there, because I knew what was coming.
Da pushed the window up and leaned out of it. ‘Inside, Sian Mary. I’ll meet you in the … kitchen.’
It would usually have been the parlour, see, but we had company.
So I went inside. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. No point in putting it off, like. That would only make it worse.
Da was waiting in the kitchen. He’d already taken off his belt and it hung from his hand.
‘Touting,’ he said. Da was a big man, as I said, and he had a beard like the blade of a shovel. ‘And on the Sabbath, too. Disobeying me. Lying about it. Lying about going to do it. Put that ill-gotten money on the mantelpiece. It will lie there untouched until next Sunday, when you will be allowed to put it in the poor box at chapel.’
Well, there went my new pencil and writing book. I’d filled up the old one, see.
‘Now bend over this chair,’ said Da.
Da had been a miner, and he was still a strong man, for all his bad leg. He had a miner’s belt, too, wide and heavy. He gave it me across the backs of my legs, my skirts hauled up. Six times.
Six with the belt. Six flashes like lightning, six times when you can’t see anything or feel anything but the pain of it, six times while you can’t even cry because the pain stops your breath. Six times while you have to wait for him to draw the belt back again, and the wait seems to go on forever.
It’s a funny thing but you can’t really tell people how much things hurt. It’s not something you can say in words.
And then I had to go and say sorry to Mr Williams for my disgraceful behaviour while he was a guest under our roof. I tried but I couldn’t get it out. I was crying too hard by then. Ellis looked very upset about it. After that I was allowed to go upstairs.
I lay face-down on the bed I shared with two of my sisters and cried and waited for the sting to go away. It took
a long time.
Some time later Olive came upstairs. I was still face-down on the bed and the pillow was all wet. She said nothing but she pulled up my skirts and I could hear the click of her tongue. Then she went down again.
When she came back it was with a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth.
‘Take that pinny off,’ she said. ‘It’ll need to soak.’
She bathed the backs of my legs. The water in the bowl was pink when she finished.
‘He drew blood, this time,’ she said. It was as if she was talking to herself. ‘It’s getting worse. And we could hear it in the parlour. Ellis was very upset …’ But she didn’t go on and I wasn’t listening. She took the bowl downstairs.
After a while the sting wasn’t so bad. I put yesterday’s pinny on and went downstairs. The others had saved a scone and teacake for me but I had to eat them standing up. Ellis watched me. He seemed like he was about to say something but he glanced at Da, then at Olive, and said nothing. He drank his cup of tea, put it down on the little table, said ‘Thank you very much. Most kind of you,’ then stood up and went out, taking his hat. Olive saw him to the door.
Nobody said anything to me for the rest of the day. I wasn’t allowed outside. I wasn’t allowed to read a book either, except for the Bible.
At supper, which was bread and cheese, Olive said that she didn’t believe in long engagements. Ellis was well into his trade and she had her hope chest ready. No need to wait, she said.
‘It must be three months,’ said Da. ‘People will say we’re hurrying it for a reason otherwise.’
‘That’ll be October, almost. I don’t –’
‘Then that’s what it will be. I’m not having them heathens counting up the months on their fingers and smirking at each other.’
‘But it’ll be getting cold by then,’ said Olive. ‘And the sea –’ She stopped.
Da gave her a look and cut another piece of cheese. And that was that.
The wedding was arranged for Saturday the fifth of October, 1910.
Every Sunday from then on, Ellis and Olive went out walking, rain or shine now, and some Saturdays as well, because Ellis had a half day Saturdays. They were looking at houses, they said. They could please themselves, said Olive, because Ellis had a bit put by. Even though renting a house was very dear. You wouldn’t believe how much, said Olive.
