Winners and Losers

by Catrin Collier

  Sali had read the minutes of the last meeting and Mr Richards had sent her a letter commenting on the business he expected to be covered at the next session. She expected a routine and dull discussion on investments, because the company was too cash rich at that moment for the bankers’ liking. But thanks to Mr Richards’ tutelage and their weekly correspondence, she was beginning to understand the intricacies of business and high finance.

  They sat quietly through the reading of the monthly balance sheets by one of the bank’s directors. Gwilym James’ overall turnover was down ten per cent just as Mr Horton had warned her it would be. At twelve per cent down, the Market Company had been hit slightly harder, but although profits were smaller the businesses were doing well, especially in comparison to some of the other shops in Pontypridd and the Rhondda. The minutes of the last meeting were read, passed as accurate and, as she’d expected, the bankers, solicitors, Mr Horton and the two directors from the Market Company embarked on an involved debate as to the merits, or otherwise, of various investment opportunities.

  Glad to leave the financial decisions to the professionals, Sali gazed out of the window. It was set too high for her to see anything other than an expanse of clear sky and wispy white clouds. Her mind drifted and she mulled over what Mr Richards had said to her about the strike.

  During all the years the solicitor had advised her father and her family, she had never known him to be ill-informed. She respected his opinion above everyone else she knew, with the exception of Lloyd and his father. But she couldn’t bear the thought that the man she loved and all the other colliers and their families were suffering the deprivations and hardships of the strike for no gain. Yet, she couldn’t deny the logic behind Mr Richards’ conclusion, and wondered why she hadn’t thought the situation through for herself. It had undoubtedly been prohibitively expensive to bring in and house close on a thousand extra police as well as two regiments of soldiers in the Rhondda. And although the colliery owners were prepared to talk, they had made it clear that they weren’t about to make any further concessions to the miners’ demands other than those that had been already rejected by the union. So why should they suddenly change their minds and offer more?

  How much longer could Lloyd and the strike committee hold out? The miners were in no mood to back down, but Christmas was coming, the winter was proving a hard and cold one, and the soup kitchens were struggling to feed the starving population as it was. Connie had told her all the shops that had extended credit to the strikers were teetering on bankruptcy ...

  ‘Would you like to comment on the point Mr Watkin Jones has just made, Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Sali turned from the window and looked blankly at Mr Jenkins.

  ‘We have reached any other business, Sali,’ Geraint explained testily. ‘And I have brought the manner in which you are raising Harry to the attention of the committee.’

  ‘The way I bring up my son is my business and no one else’s, Geraint.’ She was furious with her brother for initiating a discussion with the trustees on the subject.

  ‘And the business of everyone in Pontypridd and the Rhondda who can read and afford to pay a penny for a newspaper.’ Geraint lifted a dozen copies of the Pontypridd Observer that carried several of the same stories as the Rhondda Leader from beneath his chair and set them on the table. He had already turned them to the page that covered the court reports. ‘All three of your employer’s sons have been arrested and two sent to trial.’

  ‘On what charge?’ one of the solicitors asked.

  ‘Take your pick,’ Geraint drawled. ‘Intimidation, harassment ... Mr Lloyd Evans, whom I believe my sister is contemplating marrying as soon as she is free to do so, was charged with assault.’

  ‘A charge that was dropped,’ Sali broke in heatedly.

  ‘A charge is not a conviction, Mr Watkin Jones,’ Mr Richards interposed quietly.

  ‘Two of Mr Evans’ sons have been sent to trial,’ Geraint countered. ‘And Harry calls both of them “uncle”.’

  ‘The law in Britain states that a man is deemed innocent until proven guilty.’ A steely note crept into Mr Richards’ voice.

  ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that Sali is bringing up the heir to the Gwilym James estate in the house of a strike leader and a Marxist.’

  ‘It is not illegal to be a Marxist, Geraint,’ Sali said firmly.

  Ignoring the angry glare Sali was sending in his direction, Geraint crossed his arms, sat back on his chair –and looked to his fellow trustees. ‘I believe my nephew should be brought up and educated in a manner befitting the gentleman of means and prominence he will become when he takes control of his inheritance. And that, gentlemen, cannot happen while he remains in his present accommodation. It is my contention that we would be negligent in our duty to allow him to remain in Mr William Evans’ house.’

  ‘Harry is four years old,’ Mr Richards reminded. ‘At that age a child needs his mother.’

  ‘And stepfather,’ Sali interposed.

  ‘A miner -’

  ‘A qualified engineer,’ Sali interrupted.

  ‘Who has joined the ranks of Marxist troublemakers who flout the law and preach the sedition that is crippling the coal industry in Wales. They fight the police and army in the streets -’

  ‘The miners are fighting for a wage that will enable them to live with dignity.’

  ‘You see, gentlemen,’ Geraint’s lip curled in contempt, ‘my sister has, as the result of living in a strike leader’s house, joined the ranks of the Marxists.’ He turned to Sali, daring her to contradict him.

  ‘If believing that workers should be paid a decent wage for their labour makes me a Marxist, then I am proud to be one,’ Sali blazed, losing her temper. ‘The first motion I put to the trustees was the raising of staff wages in this store. From which you benefited.’

  ‘The staff here didn’t withdraw their labour,’ Geraint snapped.

  ‘It is not a crime -’

  ‘That is debatable,’ Geraint cut in ruthlessly. ‘It is also irrelevant to the point I am making. The family you live with are not fit to raise Harry.’

  Mr Richards laid his hand over Sali’s and gripped it tightly. ‘And who do you suggest should raise your nephew, Mr Watkin Jones?’

  ‘Harry should be brought up in Ynysangharad House. From the terms of her will, Mrs James clearly expected him and Sali to move into the house that he will inherit on his thirtieth birthday. As I am already living there and am his uncle by blood, I believe that I am well suited and placed to act as his guardian.’

  ‘And Mrs Jones?’

  ‘It is ridiculous for the mother of the heir to the Gwilym James fortune to work as a housekeeper for a family of striking miners with criminal tendencies. I dread to think of the example they are setting my nephew.’

  ‘You forget that I am about to marry into the family, Geraint.’ Sali followed the lead Mr Richards had set, realizing that she would accomplish more if she managed to restrain herself.

  ‘On the contrary, that is what is at the forefront of my mind.’

  ‘Would you consider moving into Ynysangharad House, Mrs Jones?’ Mr Jenkins asked.

  ‘No,’ Sali replied honestly.

  ‘Under the terms of Mrs James’ will, any member of your family may do so. Perhaps you and your husband, when you marry -’

  ‘Mr Evans would not consider moving into Ynysangharad House,’ Sali said uncompromisingly.

  ‘You have discussed it with him?’ Mr Jenkins questioned.

  Sali recalled her father once telling her that the most snobbish and class-conscious people on earth were butlers, and she saw that Geraint wasn’t the only trustee who thought it disgraceful that she was raising Harry in a collier’s terraced house.

  ‘My future husband is employed by the Cambrian Collieries -’

  ‘When he bothers to work,’ Geraint broke in derisively.

  ‘He lived in Pontypridd when he worked in my father’s colliery,’ Sali ignored Gerain
t, ‘but now both his work and his family are in Tonypandy.’

  ‘There is the matter of Harry’s education,’ Mr Jenkins mused. ‘Surely neither you nor your future husband think Harry should attend a council school in Tonypandy.’

  ‘Harry already attends a council school.’

  Geraint’s face darkened. ‘That is a damned disgrace -’

  ‘Language, Mr Watkin Jones,’ Mr Jenkins interposed. ‘All the men in your family have been educated at public school, Mrs Jones. Surely you intend to send your son there when he is old enough?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Sali lied. She had thought about little else since she had first been told of the terms of her aunt’s will. Her father and brothers had gone to the ‘family’ school and her younger brother, Gareth still had three more years there before he could move on to university.

  There was a murmur of conversation and Mr Jenkins tapped the table.

  ‘All trustees in favour of Master Harry attending public school at the earliest opportunity please raise their hands.’

  Sali looked around the table in despair. The only hands that weren’t raised were her own and Mr Richards’, and he didn’t have a vote. ‘Surely my son’s education is a private matter for myself and my future husband to decide?’

  ‘We are here, not only to manage your son’s estate, Mrs Jones, but to also monitor his welfare,’ Mr Jenkins informed her pompously.

  ‘May I request a vote on Harry’s place of residence,’ Geraint proposed. ‘I suggest that he should be removed to Ynysangharad House as soon as possible.’

  ‘Let us make this absolutely clear, Mr Watkin Jones. You are asking us to vote that your nephew be taken from your sister’s care?’ Mr Richards said baldly.

  ‘I am suggesting that both Sali and her son should move into Ynysangharad House.’

  ‘Your sister has already stated that she will not move from her present abode, Mr Watkin Jones.’

  ‘My sister has a choice, Mr Richards. She can either make the welfare of her son her first priority, or continue her liaison with this collier and his family.’

  ‘Mrs Jones,’ Mr Jenkins put his hands together, intertwining his fingers as if he was about to pray, ‘are you prepared to reconsider your decision not to take up residence in Ynysangharad House?’

  ‘No, Mr Jenkins. I reserve the right to decide where and with whom I live, and where I will bring up my son. Harry is four years old. He loves and trusts his future stepfather and his family and he feels safe and secure living with them.’

  ‘Living with the working –or at present the non-working classes,’ Geraint said.

  ‘Although I am here only in an advisory capacity, may I make a suggestion that the subject of Master Harry’s education be put into abeyance until he is six years old, when the trustees can discuss the matter again and make a firm decision as to where he should be educated,’ Mr Richards interposed.

  ‘And in the meantime?’ Geraint queried. ‘You think he should be left to live in the squalor of a collier’s house, exposed to the most unsuitable political views along with dirt, disease and heaven only knows what else?’

  Sali seethed at the injustice of Geraint’s description of a home he had never stepped into.

  ‘You would remove a four-year-old boy from his mother’s care?’ Mr Richards looked Geraint in the eye.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ Geraint answered defiantly. ‘Placed in new surroundings, and given over to the care of a competent tutor, the boy would soon adapt and forget the errors of his early upbringing.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us could countenance taking such a drastic step, Mr Watkin Jones.’ Mr Jenkins looked down the table and the other trustees nodded assent. ‘To move on, is there any other business?’ When no one spoke, he rose from his chair. ‘It only remains for me to thank you all for coming. Mr Horton?’ He looked to the junior member of the board. ‘I trust you will copy the notes of the meeting to all members as usual. Good day to you all. I will see you back at the house, Mrs Jones, Mr Richards, Mr Watkin Jones.’

  ‘Goodbye and thank you, Mr Jenkins.’ Sali stared at Geraint as the elderly butler left the room. But her brother turned his back to her and set his face resolutely to the door.

  Megan had never seen so many men gathered together outside of a union meeting. A massive crowd circled a small area of raised ground, colloquially known as a ‘tump’. Colliers in rags, their good clothes, boots and overcoats long since pawned, stamped their feet and waved their arms in an effort to keep warm as they stood alongside police officers and soldiers dressed for winter in waterproof capes and woollen greatcoats.

  ‘Do you know what’s going on?’ Megan asked Victor.

  ‘A boxing match.’ Victor peered into the distance, but the fighters were too far away for him to recognize either of them. ‘Luke Thomas told me they were holding them up here.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a boxing match.’

  ‘They’re not a fit sight for women.’

  ‘You men think we’re delicate beings who can’t stand excitement and faint at the sight of blood.’

  ‘No, we don’t. We know you’re all as tough as old boots beneath your pretty faces. What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded when she ran off towards the crowd.

  ‘Getting a better look.’

  He raced after her, reaching her when she stopped to climb on to a dry stone wall. Holding her arms out like a tightrope walker, she balanced precariously on top and gazed over the heads of the spectators. Two men, stripped to knee-length flannel drawers, circled one another. Blood streamed from one man’s head down on to his chest. Every time he tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, his opponent punched him, but although he couldn’t possibly see to retaliate, he still lashed out blindly. His adversary had no problem dodging his punches.

  ‘That poor man’s getting beaten to death,’ she cried out feelingly.

  Victor stepped on the wall and held her by the waist to steady her. ‘That’s Dai Hopkins. The idiot,’ he declared, as another punch landed above his right eye. Dai wavered and Victor waited for him to topple like a ninepin, but he remained stubbornly, if unsteadily upright. ‘I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing. He’s no boxer.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s a repairman like Joey. They work together.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he give up?’

  ‘Because the referee is a cage hand. Dai’s opponent must be either a policeman or a soldier, and the colliers have probably placed money they don’t have that he’ll win.’ A couple of particularly choice instructions to Dai from his butties carried towards them on the wind. ‘As a woman and an innocent, I hope you didn’t understand a word of that.’

  ‘It’s no worse than some of the things my uncle and his brothers used to say to one another when they were arguing.’

  Victor eyed Dai’s opponent. He was wearing khaki drawers, a soldier then. And he was good. Quick on his feet with a sound punch. Not that he needed much speed or agility to anticipate Dai’s moves. Victor was furious with the referee. He should have ended the bout when Dai started bleeding. It was obvious he’d lost the match.

  He and Megan continued to watch for another five minutes until, blood-soaked and beaten, Dai finally fell to his knees. The referee blew a whistle and the crowd swarmed over the tump, swallowing up all three figures.

  ‘I hope someone’s looking after that poor man.’ Megan blew her nose, and Victor wasn’t sure whether she was suffering from the cold or a surfeit of emotion.

  ‘He’ll be looked after.’ Victor jumped from the wall and held out his hands to lift her down.

  ‘Perhaps we should see to him.’

  ‘I’m not taking you into the middle of that crowd. Besides, we’ve just enough time to go home and have a cup of tea before going to the theatre.’

  A small group broke away from the circle and started walking towards them.

  ‘Look, someone is waving to us.’ Megan waved back.

  ‘That’
s Luke Thomas. He may want to see me, but I don’t want to see him.’ Victor turned his back to the men.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s looking for boxers.’

  ‘I remember Joey telling me that you used to box before I came to Tonypandy. He said you would come home covered in cuts and bruises and you were so badly hurt you had to give up.’ She snatched at his arm. ‘You wouldn’t start fighting again, would you, Victor?’

  His mouth set into a grim line as he thought of Dai Hopkins. The repairman was no bare-knuckle boxer. He would never have considered fighting if he hadn’t been coerced into it. But then Dai had a family, and the men with young children were the most desperate for money.

  ‘Victor?’ Megan repeated anxiously.

  ‘You came to see the boxing after all, Victor.’ Luke Thomas walked towards them. To Victor’s astonishment, one of the men with him was Sergeant Martin.

  ‘You two make unlikely bedfellows.’ He looked from the sergeant to Luke.

  ‘There’s the law, there’s work, there’s business and there’s entertainment, Mr Evans,’ the sergeant said coolly. ‘We could all do with some relaxation, which is why I help organize these matches.’

  ‘And run the book as well as turn a blind eye?’ Victor enquired drily.

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know that it’s illegal to run a book. Good afternoon, Miss Williams.’ He tipped his hat to Megan. ‘May I ask what you are doing up here?’

  ‘Out walking with my fiancé on my afternoon off.’ Megan stole closer to Victor.

  Victor laid his arm protectively around Megan’s shoulders. ‘And, as we have tickets for tonight’s show in the Empire, it’s time we were on our way. Please, excuse us, gentlemen.’

  ‘You said that Mr Evans was interested in taking up the challenge, Thomas.’ Sergeant Martin reached into his uniform pocket and extracted a cigar. Biting off the end, he spat it to the ground. ‘I know you colliers are in dire need of champions but I didn’t think you’d go so far as to pressgang an unwilling man into fighting for you.’