‘Where on earth did you get the money for these?’ asked Mam. Her smile held a hint of worry.
Sion and I squirmed. ‘Ask no questions and we’ll tell no lies.’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Sion can make it while I light the fire.’ I was halfway through the door before they replied.
‘No, hold it Dai,’ said Da. ‘Come on, tell us, there’s a good boy. We’d like to know. Not that it will lessen the gift any.’
I looked at Sion and he shrugged. ‘We can’t really say because we promised not to tell,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘and we can’t very well break a promise now, can we?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘we’ll be delivering coal and doing things for him so we can pay him back. We drew up a list of jobs and prices and Mr Price will keep count until it’s all square.’
‘And how long will that take?’ asked Da.
‘About a year,’ replied Sion, skipping out of the room to make tea.
Mam and Da laughed but abruptly stopped. ‘It seems wrong somehow to be happy,’ said Mam, sadly. ‘I think, boyo,’ she turned to Da, ‘that I wish we’d never agreed to the party but celebrated some other way.’
‘Hush, love,’ Da put his arm around her, pulling her down besides him. There was no need to tell me to leave, nor that the tea could wait. I wandered downstairs thinking, were they wrong to laugh? Was Sion or I to enjoy ourselves or not? I knew Sian had been dead only a matter of weeks. We still thought of her often, mostly when something made us laugh, something we knew she would have enjoyed. There would be an instant’s sadness and then it would pass, to be replaced by an empty feeling. The emptiness came, I thought, because we were aware Sian would never enjoy the occurrence, would never burst in demanding to know what was funny, being hurt when she did not understand and making us laugh more. It was the sense of loss, the absolute and permanent loss, which was hardest to live with.
Sion was standing in the middle of the kitchen, the kettle in his hands. ‘I don’t feel like doing this, it was Sian’s job,’ he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I wish God hadn’t taken her away,’ he paused. ‘I don’t think I like God anymore.’
‘Me neither.’ I felt my own tears rising. I realised because they had been twins Sion might feel Sian’s death more than any of us. ‘I’ll just light the fire,’ I said taking the kettle from him. ‘We can’t make tea until then.’
In the middle of the afternoon Grandad and Grandma arrived, quickly followed by Da’s four brothers, their wives and their nine children. Grandmother Osborne came last, with her sister, Great Aunt Olive. The grown ups were in the front room while we kids were banished to the living room and no chairs. We had no objections; we were nearer the food.
I think that for the grown ups it was not a particularly happy affair. We were aware of Sian and Johnny not being with us but we still played games and laughed at blind man’s bluff and tailing the donkey. But in the front room it was different, especially as Grandmother Osborne kept making remarks about how tasteless it all was. I could see she was upsetting Mam and Aunt Mair. I went into the room to listen, tired of playing games.
‘What’s going to happen do you think, Dad?’ Uncle William asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine William, better probably. You know what some of these hotheads are like . . .’
‘They’re not hotheads,’ interrupted Uncle Huw . . . bitterly, ‘just ordinary people like us. They are friends we’ve known all our lives.’
He was interrupted by Grandad, who said, ‘Come on now, this is a party. Let’s forget the strike for a few hours.’
The others nodded their agreement and the conversation turned to happier matters. The laughter was forced, an underlying sadness pervaded the room but at least for a while the strike was ignored, if not forgotten.
Then Grandad said, ‘I guess this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps we ought to try again next year.’ He looked around at the others who appeared to agree with him.
Before anyone made a move to leave Da spoke. ‘Wait a second. Meg and me spent ages trying to decide what to do about today. I know it’s our anniversary, but to be honest neither of us wanted this – though we didn’t expect it to be quite as bad,’ he paused. ‘The thing is we wanted to tell you something. We’ve,’ he paused again and then the words came in a rush, ‘we’ve decided to go to America as soon as we can.’
I was sitting on the floor next to the door and my mouth dropped open as I heard what Da said. I could not believe it . . . America!
It was Grandmother Osborne who protested first and loudest. ‘Megan, you can’t,’ she wailed. ‘You can’t just go off to the other side of the world like that. What’ll I do without you? You’re the only flesh and blood I have except for Olive. What’ll I do without you?’ she repeated.
‘Don’t cry, Mam.’ Mam kneeled at her mother’s side and took her hand. ‘We’ll write often and who knows? Once we’re settled perhaps you could come and visit us, even live with us.’
‘What?’ Grandmother pulled her hand away in horror. ‘And who will look after your father’s grave? Why,’ the thought dawned on her, ‘who’s to look after Sian’s? You can’t just leave your daughter’s grave unattended,’ she said, hurtfully.
‘What about the boys’ schooling? Dai is going to grammar school next year. At least,’ amended Uncle Albert, ‘he ought to get there with all the help you’ve given him, Meg.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ said Mam, ‘and that was probably the hardest decision to make. We think there’ll be good schools in America. In the meantime I can keep them on top of their work. After the effort we’ve put in and all the saving we’ve done to pay for their education it was heart breaking to decide to go to but after all that’s happened . . .’
‘But where will you live?’ asked Uncle David. ‘Where will you go? Do you know yet?’
Da shook his head. ‘We’ve a few places in mind but we’re keeping it sort of open for now, look you. We’ll decide later.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ve never heard such rot,’ said Grandmother Osborne furiously. ‘I absolutely forbid it, Megan, do you hear? Absolutely forbid it. You can’t just go off and leave me like that. What on earth will your poor father think?’ Her comment was greeted with silence and then Grandad spoke.
‘Never mind what he’ll think,’ he said brusquely. ‘He’s dead. It’s the living we have to concern ourselves with. I guess your mind is made up, son?’
Da nodded. ‘Yes, Dad. I’m sorry, Mam, but we both feel that it’s the best thing for us and the boys.’
Grandma gave a tremulous smile. ‘I understand, Evan, both of us do. We’ll be heart broken to see you go but you must do what you think’s best for Meg and the boys.’
‘That’s right son, what your Mam says. We don’t want you to go, not for all the tea in China but we certainly won’t try and stop you.’ Grandad was quick to accept the plan.
‘You’ve obviously thought a lot about it and I can’t say I’m exactly surprised,’ said Uncle Huw. ‘Not after all the nagging Dai’s done to emigrate. All I can say is “good luck”. Great good luck.’
The others nodded except Grandmother and great Aunt Olive. In the silence Sion put his head around the door. ‘Come and play, Dai,’ he said.
‘Hey, little brother,’ I replied, ‘we’re going to America.’
‘Eh? What are you on about, Dai?’ he asked exasperated.
‘Like I said. We’re going to America in the spring.’ The news still left me with a sense of shock. After all the dreaming it seemed wrong somehow that it should happen just like that.
Shortly afterwards everybody went home. The exodus was started by Grandmother Osborne and Great Aunt Olive who as usual had said nothing worth noting.
We were washing and clearing up when Sion said: ‘Mam, what about Sian? What are we going to do about her? We can’t take her grave with us can we? And who’s going to put flowers on and sort of look after it if we aren’t here?’ He was close to crying.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ said Da. ‘Grandad and Grandma will look after it for us. She’ll have flowers on her birthday and things.’
‘And anyway, Sion,’ said Mam, ‘she’ll always be with us. In our hearts and our thoughts, and that’s what’s really important you know. Not where she’s buried, but in our memories.’
He shook his head and burst into tears. ‘I don’t want to go to rotten America,’ he announced. ‘I don’t want to leave Sian.’ He ran up the stairs.
There was the nub of it. Did I mind about school? ‘To be honest Da, I’m not sure. Part of me minds, I think, but most of me is glad we’re going. Gosh,’ I began to get excited, ‘just think of seeing all those places. And seeing the sea. Gosh, I can’t wait. I hope Sion comes round soon, it’ll be terrible if he doesn’t want to go. Will we leave him behind Da?’ I paused. ‘If we’re going to, I’d better stay as well.’
He looked at me in surprise for a moment and then laughed briefly. ‘No Dai, we won’t be leaving him behind. Where we go he goes and so do you. So no more talk of staying behind, right?’
‘Right Da, I just wondered, that’s all.’ Pensively I dried another plate. Mam came back a little later, as we were finishing. She pulled a face at Da and took the towel from me. ‘Go and see if there’s any more dishes in the other room,’ she ordered.
Things seemed to be getting back to normal.
7
The weather stayed fine, with no wind, blue sky and sunlight that gave a tepid warmth. The doctor came on Monday when I was becoming frustrated and beginning to pace around, getting on Mam’s nerves with my whining to be allowed out.
‘You can go for a walk for an hour or so,’ the doctor said, ‘but make sure you’re back after that. And no getting wet and also, young man, no exerting yourself.’
‘That doesn’t leave me with much to do, does it?’ I complained.
‘Maybe not Dai,’ he sighed, ‘but try and understand you’ve had a nasty illness, which could have been worse . . . a lot worse. Now, if you do more than just walk in the fresh air and I hear about it, or your Mam hears about it for that matter, then you won’t go out for another week. Give me your word you’ll behave.’ He spoke sternly.
‘I promise,’ I said solemnly, my hands behind my back, fingers crossed. I grabbed my coat and made for the door. The last thing I heard was the doctor asking: ‘What’s all this I hear about you emigrating, Meg?’
After being cooped up for so long I felt a special excitement at being out and started to run along the street when I remembered I had to walk. I got to number twenty-three and called for Cliff, my closest friend. He was out, down watching the pickets his mother thought. I tried a few more doors – same story. I hesitated, fighting with my conscience and finally told myself that if I walked quickly I could say hullo to the gang and come straight back. It would be a tight hour but I could make it. Just.
It was not the sort of scenery poets wrote about and though daffodils were supposed to be the Welsh national flower, even in spring there were only a few of them waving their golden heads along the route I took. The endless streets of houses were roofed with grey slate and built from local grey stone. Curling trails of smoke covered the sky with their own greyness and the hills, sparsely covered with grass had a few grey looking sheep wandering over them. The sunlight did nothing to alleviate the bleakness of the valley.
My illness had taken more out of me than I had realised. Soon I was more breathless and tired than I had been in a long while. I slowed and finally stopped, wondering whether I should go back. I was over half way to the mine. It was only down the road and round the corner, just past Devil’s Elbow where the road almost doubles back on itself. After that another few hundred yards . . . that was okay, but returning? Most of the way would be uphill. Reluctantly I turned around.
I had looked away from the school, still half covered with slag. Workmen were slowly clearing it but they would be a long time yet. When I had a clear view I paused, but there was not a great deal to see. A black forlorn building, the roof and half the walls were showing through the sea of slag. The playground and road outside were still covered, a river of black running down to the banks of the Taff. I shivered, whether from the cold or the bleakness of the view I was unsure. I thought of Sian and knew where I could go for a short while.
I stood by her grave and read the stone.
Sian
Dearly beloved
Daughter of
Evan and Megan Grif
fi
ths
Born 29
th
July 1882
Died tragically 14
th
October 1890