How Green Was My Valley

by Richard Llewellyn

  But Bronwen was used to the village street, and the eyes of those who knew her, so I knew we had perhaps an hour of discomfort to live through before she grew less tender of herself and more a part of the crowding streams of people, the dusty street of many sounds, and the noise of horses by the hundred, with more traps and carts and carriages than we had ever seen in all our lives before.

  There is strange to walk in a town. Something is strange in the faces of people who live all their lives in a town. For their lives are full of the clock and their eyes are blind with seeing so many wonders, and they have no pleasure of expectation or prettiness of wish. Good things are heaped in the windows all round them, but their pockets are empty, and thus they suffer in their minds, for where they would own, now they must wish, and wishes denied soon turn to a lust that shows itself in the face. Too much to see, day after day, and too much noise for peace, and too little time in a round of the clock to sit by themselves, and think.

  At last we had ease of eyes when we reached the arcades and went in to the lighted quietness of those winding streets of glass, full of thanks to the man who thought of them, and happy to be there.

  I had splendid minutes in a bookshop while Bron and Olwen were buying presents in the shops for women.

  O, there is lovely to feel a book, a good book, firm in the hand, for its fatness holds rich promise, and you are hot inside to think of good hours to come.

  I would willingly have stayed there till the bolts were itching to be shot, but Bron came in and took me by the arm, with her mouth tight, and pulled me gently to the door.

  “Old books, again,” she said. “And two out here to march up and down while you are rubbing your old nose up and down pages.”

  “Let us buy a couple of books for the boys,” I said, for the book-seller was looking at me as though I owed him money.

  “A couple of testaments,” Bron said, quick, for the shop was full of them.

  “Go on, girl,” I said. “They have got testaments to spare. A book to read, I mean. Would they thank me behind my back for a testament?”

  “A little Prayer Book and hymn book in a case,” Bron said, “there is pretty.”

  “Have it yourself,” I said. “Something to make them shout to have. A couple of good books. Something worth taking back from Town.”

  So I bought Ivanhoe and Treasure Island, after a serious talk with the bookseller, a good little man with loose teeth and plenty to say, and all of it sense, and a few good dips into both of them myself, until Bronwen started to tap her foot, with her mouth screwed up on one side, and Olwen looking so sour to make miracles of sweetness out of little green apples.

  “An outing for me, is it?” Bron asked me, in a voice to bring snow. “Come you, now then. Let us find another bookshop and I will go to live in it. Books, good God, and the shops will be shut in only another minute.”

  But when we had drunk a cup of tea she felt better, and the world was good when we went in the market, and Olwen was even humming.

  Long, wide, and high, under an arch of glass, with the sun strong about us and stalls very tidy and full of good things, and voices coming happily from hundreds in a deep sighing sound that echoed in warmth, and a lovely smell made of many smells, of mint and cabbage and celery, and cured bacon and hams, and toffee and flannels and leather and cheeses, and paraffin oil, and flowers.

  There is gladdening to see many kinds of flowers in long lines, standing brave in buckets and boxes, with reds and yellows and blues and purples and whites with a slenderness of green in among them, and coming closer, to put the nose into a bucket full of red roses, cold with freshness to make the smell keener and so drive it deeper into the head, as with nails of honey.

  Out we went with arms full of flowers, and parcels of cheeses and a black ham, with a couple of bolts of flannel, two pairs of solid boots for the boys and a hand-worked apron for my mother, and both my pockets crammed with toffee, and our faces paining with big lumps that tasted lovely.

  Then we bought dolls for Ceridwen’s little girls and a boat and an engine for the boys, and saucepans in copper for my mother, and a set of jelly moulds for Bron. I waited outside a woman’s shop while Bron was fitting herself with a dress, and Olwen was having a coat, but when they came out they were stiff with parcels, and short in breath with buying, but if they had spent a million sovereigns, they could not have had more happiness in their eyes, and my heart could not have known more lightness, or I would have been off the earth and drinking the skies.

  We were loaded like packmen ready for months in the mountains when we went to the station, and we sang all the way back home, and when Thomas met us, he sang, too.

  Down at the turn in the road, just before the rise that led into the Valley, we saw hundreds of lamps, and Thomas clicked his tongue with impatience.

  “Talking, still,” he said. “They have been grinding their tongues since this afternoon. Wonder there is any left in the Valley.”

  “What, now?” I asked him, and surprised.

  “They are coming out,” he said.

  “I will get down,” I said. “I will hear what is being said.”

  “No trouble, now, Huw,” Bron said, and trying to pull me back. “Better for you to come home, straight, with us.”

  “Stop the trap, Thomas,” I said and I went down to the meeting.

  A stranger was talking about capital and labour with the names of Marx and Hegel thrown in as candied peel is put in a cake. Mr. Marx was made to sound like a newly risen Christ and Mr. Hegel as a John the Baptist, with gold flowing easily between them, endless as the waters of Jordan, ready for all to gather by the capful.

  I listened to him for minutes, but there was too much noise about me to hear all he said, for the men were arguing among themselves and in places there were fights. Red revolution and anarchy was what the speaker wanted, with a red flag to fly over all, and everybody equal.

  If I had found in myself the voice of a bull I could not have made myself heard, and I was sick in my heart, too, and without spirit to make the effort.

  So I walked home in the darkness, leaving behind me the noise of them until the bulk of the slag heap shut it out, and for only once in my life I was grateful to slag.

  It was pain to me that men could be so blind, but it was greater pain to know that my brothers and Mr. Gruffydd, and the brave ones of early days, had all been forgotten in a crazyness of thought that made more of the notions of foreigners than the principles of Our Fathers.

  I was in a heat of worry to know what to do, whether to go back there and speak to them, or let them go in the company of foreigners, to have a lesson.

  Down by the dead river I was, with slag rising up behind me, and a roughness of stone under foot where years ago the trout had come to wait for flies.

  I stood still in the cool quiet, looking up at the blackness of the mountain, hearing only the north-east wind busy with his comb in the grass, and my eyes came to be wide, and sight was pinned to a place in the night, and waters returned to the river.

  The sky became a sudden gold, and the mountain was of silver, and the river ran free and wide as a sea in a brilliance of precious stones. All about the mountain-top was a sparkling of unsheathed steel, and I saw, with a loftiness of fear, that a host of men were standing there looking into the Valley, and armour was shining on head and breast, and colours were gay on shields, and hands were clasped on the hilts of swords that pointed into the ground.

  I was dull with wonder and drowned in a dream, but fear soon went in a bright tiredness of feeling, and I had strength and wit to wish that I could go closer to see their faces, and hear their voices, and know the sound of their speech.

  Somewhere beyond the steadfast ranks, a trumpet sang a rich male song, and a thousand banners were raised as one, and swords went up in a burnish of flame, and steel heels clashed together.

  A drum spoke up in a single flourish and the banners began to move, and a golden dust was rising from the marching ranks,
shining about their helmets, reaching nearly to the ribbons and flowers that hung from the banner tops.

  Then all the winds of Heaven ran to join hands and bend a shoulder, to bring down to me the sound of a noble hymn that was heavy with the perfume of Time That Has Gone.

  The glittering multitudes were singing most mightily, and my heart was in blood to hear a Voice that I knew.

  The Men of the Valley were marching again.

  My Fathers were singing up there.

  Loud, triumphant, the anthem rose, and I knew, in some deep place within, that in the royal music was a prayer to lift up my spirit, to be of good cheer, to keep the faith, that Death is only an end to the things that are made of clay, and to fight, without heed of wounds, all that brings death to the Spirit, with Glory to the Eternal Father, for ever, Amen.

  Trumpets sang again and drum-beats carried the marching feet across the golden sky, and the banners were held in the arms of the winds to show the crimson dragons, and at the head, a throng of steel was bright, about the Cross and Crown.

  They passed from me and I was coming to stand in the darkness again, and my eyes were heavy and filled with the sands of staring, and I thought I could still hear the Voice behind the voice of the wind.

  I went slowly up the road to the village, and lifted my cap to the house with the sea-shell porch, and up, slower still, to our house.

  “There is a time you have been, boy,” my mother said, and smiling more than I had seen in months. “Did you have trouble?”

  “No, Mama,” I said.

  “Is there something the matter, my little one?” she asked me, with a hand on my arm.

  “Only what I heard at the meeting, Mama,” I said.

  “What, now?” my father asked me.

  “Revolution,” I said. “I wonder what would the boys say if they could hear.”

  “Leave it,” my father said, and blowing through the stem of his pipe, “they will be tired of it. Revolution, indeed, and not enough sense among them all to turn a tap.”

  “O,” my mother said, with impatience. “Let us have peace from them for one night, will you? Come and look at the beautiful presents, and then supper.”

  But I had seen too much that night, so the little things we had bought that made my mother smile for pleasure were nothing to me, though I tried hard not to show it.

  I gave Bron her present in a box when we were back home. A brooch, set with a garnet, on a lover’s knot of gold.

  “O,” she said, and her eyes were with light, and I saw that her mouth was soft for me, but there was nothing in me to answer her, for the Voice seemed to have taken my strength.

  “I will put it on your best silk,” I said, and lines came swift to her face, and in my mind I cursed myself, for her best silk had always been Ivor’s favourite, so I had said the wrong, wrong thing again, and worse, as though on purpose, to knock that light from her eyes and softness from her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said, and went quickly to light the candles.

  I stood in the kitchen while she went upstairs with no good night for me, but I knew she was quiet because of tears.

  For minutes, I stood there, burning as in a fire, to go to her and kiss her, and beg forgiveness for a thoughtless fool, but I still could hear the voices on the mountain, and I sat in quiet to listen.

  And again the key turned in the door.

  Next morning men were running up the Hill to shout that they were out on strike in the next valley.

  My mother gave my father little looks all the time we were having breakfast, but he said nothing, and looked nothing, but she knew.

  Bronwen had gone early to Tyn-y-Coed with Olwen to give the house a polish, but before she left I had made her a cup of tea, and pinned the brooch on the inside of her apron.

  No words, only a cup of tea, and a pinning, and a kiss, and such a lovely smile, and off, and I sawed a plank that was eight feet long without a single rest, so good I felt.

  That afternoon, Olwen came to me running, with tears dried on her face.

  “Huw,” she said, “the strikers in the other valley are marching round the mountain. They made fun of me and Bron because of Iestyn.”

  “You will have to go over the mountain, then,” I said, and angry to think some lout had made them unhappy, and wishing to have him close to my fist. “I will show you a good way to-morrow.”

  “They said we would be stopped going near Tyn-y-Coed again,” she said. “Nasty things, they said. They were going to have the clothes off us.”

  “About the first, we will see,” I said. “As to the second, I will pray to be near.”

  My father came back that night, and on his face a blankness of spirit.

  “Out, again,” he said. “Nothing to be done.”

  “How are the men such fools?” I asked him. “They have had lesson after lesson.”

  “A few words of the right sort,” my father said, “a bit of flattery, a couple of words to have sympathy, and then some fighting talk, and most of them are like sheep for the slaughter. Those who are not can be accused of cowardice, or of knuckling to the owners. You know them.”

  Yes, I knew them, and loved them, and was sorry to the heart for them.

  “What now?” my mother said.

  “Sit down and wait,” my father said. “No use to talk. Too many are at it with no notion why. I will rest my tongue until I am asked, or till the time is ripe to do a bit of good.”

  “Well, Dada,” I said, “surely this is the time for us to go out and speak to them?”

  My father put his hand steady on my shoulder, and looked at me greyly in the eye, without a blink.

  “My son,” he said, “your good brothers are from home only through speaking to them, and for them. They warned them enough not to strike. They saw its uselessness, at the last, as I have seen it these years past. Speaking to them now is a waste of breath. They are drunk with unreason. Leave them.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  I WENT DOWN TO THE VILLAGE that night to the Three Bells, to fit shutters over the windows.

  Dai was in bad spirits and so was Cyfartha, for a strike meant a stoppage of trade and a piling of debt. Cyfartha had come out with his shift, and he had been having both edges of Dai’s tongue since he put foot over the step.

  “Red flags,” Dai said, with bubbles in his voice. “By God, I would give them red flags, indeed. Only to have my bloody eyes right, and I would show a couple of them, indeed to Christ. Eh, Cyfartha?”

  “O, Dai,” Cyfartha said, and shameful to soak in the sawdust, “I am sorry, dear Jesus, I am sorry. But could I stay on my own to cut coal and nobody to push the trams, and the horses idle?”

  “I have told you, yes,” Dai said. “I would see them in hell’s good blazing before to take orders from them. Pounds and pounds we have lost through strikes. What gain, please to tell me, now, where you are standing, what gain? Nothing, not one halfpenny, eh, Cyfartha?”

  “No, no,” Cyfartha said, and a swallow of beer as though to wash away his sins, and then looking into the glass, “but damn me everlasting, Dai, they all came up, I tell you. Only me and the boy down there if we had stayed.”

  “Stay till you rot, then,” Dai said, “but think for yourself. Do any of them know what they are out for? Some for a price on the five-foot seam, and some for ballots on places, and some for a price on cutting stone. Instead to have it solid on the table among them all. Everybody pull, pull, pull. And every pull a different one, and the owners sitting fat to laugh at us all for fools. Eh, Cyfartha?”

  “Too tired for talking, I am, Dai, my little one,” Cyfartha said. “Put my mouth to a barrel I will, and sleep drunk for a couple of days. That is the best for me.”

  “If they would listen to your good father, Huw,” Dai said, in sorrow, “instead of these who think with heads of parsley. Shocking, to make the eyes run.”

  “The sportsmen, these are,” I said. “The cattle.”

  “I am ready to pole-axe a couple
, then,” Dai said. “Are the shutters right, with you?”

  “Solid as the house,” I said. “Are you afraid of trouble?”

  Dai looked round the bar, first, and then put his head to my ear.

  “They have sworn to flood the pits this time,” he said, with whispers. “If I will catch one to open his mouth to say so, I will hit his teeth to mix with his brains. But sly, they are, see. Nobody do know where the orders are coming from. I heard it in the bar, here, but only in talk. Ears open, mouth shut, Huw, my little one, and if you come to know, tell me. Only tell me, eh, Cyfartha?”

  “I will hold him gentle by the tail for you to hit, Dai,” Cyfartha said.

  “And I will hit him to leave the tail in your hand,” Dai said. “Shall we have a little walk over the mountain tomorrow, Huw?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We will go to Tyn-y-Coed to meet my sisters. Some of them were careless in their language to them and they were frightened they would put hands on them because of Iestyn.”

  Dai looked at me, mouth loose, waiting for words to come, and his eyes went wide from me to Cyfartha, and back to me, and his fists coming open and shut.

  “Your good sisters?” he said, and red coming all over his head, and water to the eyes. “Well, for the love of God, what are we coming to, now then? Huw, me and you to do a bit of watching to-morrow night, and Cyfartha and a few good boys a few yards behind. Eh, Cyfartha?”

  “Not too far, Dai,” Cyfartha said, “in case to have a bit of trouble, and me not there to have the pleasure.”

  “Pleasure it will be,” Dai said, and hit his fist on the bar counter with force to crack planks. “Only please to let me see one eye too many on them, and I will hit him, by God, to make them sink a shaft to pull him out of the mountain. Eh, Cyfartha?”

  “There is cruel you are, Dai, my little one,” Cyfartha said, and very solemn, too. “If you will hit him a bit harder, see, he will come out the other side and walk home, and no trouble to anybody.”

  James Rowlands came in, with a shortness of breath and a face full of bad news.

  “Mr. Winston Churchill is sending soldiers up here,” he said, and his asthma having him sore.