How Green Was My Valley (11 page)

My father put on his glasses, and picked up the paper, and looked all round at the
boys, but he gave no look to me at all. I thought I had done something wrong, and
I was bruising my brains trying to think what, when my father cleared his throat,
and then I knew it was nothing bad, but good.

“Handwriting Competition,” he read, and my heart bumped almost to the roof of my mouth.
“Boys under twelve years of age. First prize of Two Guineas is awarded to Master Huw
Morgan, son of Mr. Gwilym Morgan, for an entry of great merit.”

Well, everybody was dumb with it.

My father put the paper down and took off his glasses and started to tap them on the
chair.

“And that boy,” he said, “have been lying there for going on three years and no sound
from him but laughing and no words but cheerful. I am afraid,” he said, looking over
at me, “I will have to stop by here to tell you what a good son you are, Huw, my little
one, because if I went to you now, I would be acting very silly, I am afraid. Bless
you, my son. You are a comfort, indeed.”

Well, then, they all started. They read the few words in the paper over and over,
as though to get more from it each time, or to see if anything was hidden that had
been missed. Gwilym ran down to fetch Ivor and Bronwen, and of course that was the
cap for the evening.

“There is clever you are, boy,” Bronwen said, pretending to be fainting and smiling
in her own way. “You are making me feel like Red Riding Hood in front of the old wolf.
Have you got big, strong teeth with you?”

She put her finger-tip in my mouth. My jaw was better now, though a little weak, but
I gave her finger a good nip and held on and she screamed.

“O, dammo,” she said, “jaws he has got like an old mule, here. Right, you. I will
have you for that. You shall eat your dinner tomorrow by yourself.”

Davy came and sat down by me when Bronwen went to get supper ready with the girls,
and he looked at me for a moment, saying nothing.

“You are a clever boy, Huw,” he said, “and the first in the family to have your name
in the paper. Good. Now then, let us turn this to good account. You shall have twopence
every time you write a letter for me. How does that suit you?”

“I would rather write for nothing for you, Davy,” I said.

“No, no,” he said. “You shall write for the Union. And the twopences shall pay for
your school and for a holiday when you are better. Is it?”

“Yes,” I said, for to be able to pay for myself was a good thought to me.

Bronwen gave me my supper that night as usual, but a piece of pie instead of bread
and milk. There is good it did taste, too.

“If you have trouble with the meat,” she said, “tell me, and I will put the old man
back on his old baby’s food.”

She knew I would chew all the more for that, and chew I did, resting back in the crook
of her arm, with the smell of lavender and thyme about me, and her warmth near me,
and her face made gold in the lamplight and laugh in her eyes. Perhaps it was wrong
for a boy to feel in love with a woman ten years older than himself, but nobody ever
knew, even Bronwen down to this day. So no harm was done, though she has been a sanctuary
to me all through my life. And she would have been seventy-two next month.

So the years do go.

But I never knew I was in love, of course, until much later. There is a lot of nonsense
talked about love, and most of all by people who have never known it, who have no
spirit within them to inspire it in others. Talk of love in such mouths is a grossness,
indeed.

I had my first taste of it when Owen met Marged Evans. Marged was daughter of one
of my father’s oldest friends, and she came to us because her mother thought she should
learn how to run a house for a family. My mother was still too weak to do a day’s
work properly, so she stayed on in bed. My father’s orders, and sensible, too.

Marged had quiet prettiness with dark blue eyes that would change colour when she
laughed, and make you feel so pleased you would want to laugh more than you knew you
should. For the first week she was so shy no one would have more than four words from
her, and they were yes, please, and thank you. Bronwen tried all ways to have her
talking, I tried, and so did my father. But no use. Marged would hold her head down,
and if you tried to make fun, you would see tears and then you would be sorry. How
is it that people who have shy strangers to stay never think that home sickness and
many strange faces, habits, and voices, may put aches in the heart. You are so used
to the house and people yourself, you never come to think that what is ordinary to
you may be a desert of woeful newness to another.

She had been with us for four or five days, and she had just got to the stage where
she could smile at you quickly and look away in case you spoke, when Owen became her
champion.

Of course, lying there as I had been, I could have told anybody that Owen was in love
with her, because I remembered how Ivor had been with Bronwen. And the signs are all
the same with the same family.

My father was carving the chicken and he asked Marged what she would have, leg or
wing?

“Anything, Mr. Morgan, please,” said Marged, still shy, and with eight pairs of eyes
upon her, and going red under them.

“A nice wing,” said Bronwen.

“How about the parson’s nose, then?” asked Davy.

“Marged is our guest,” Owen said, and black thunder he was looking at Davy. “If there
is any joking, perhaps you will have it out on me.”

“What is the matter with John Willie, now?” asked Davy, knowing well. “There is a
scowl, man. Take it off, quick. You will have a hole in the table-cloth.”

“Never mind about the table-cloth,” Owen said. “You leave Marged alone.”

“Owen,” said my father, “if there is any rebuking in this family, I will be the one
to do it. Davy may have been forward in his remarks, and he knows that the part he
spoke about is never left on a chicken in this house. But there was no wrong in it,
and Marged was not offended. Were you, my girl?”

“No, Mr. Morgan,” Marged said.

But only I saw the look she gave Owen, except Owen, of course.

And you should have seen it. I cannot blame poor Owen for falling in love. There was
flame in that look, that made you feel as though you had put your eyes too near the
fire.

It was a couple of days after that, at night, when I had proof I was right. My father
and the boys and Bronwen had gone down to choir practice, leaving Marged in the house
in case my mother called, and Owen was out in the back doing his inventions.

He was sure he would make a machine to cut coal so that colliers could have an easier
time of it, and work less hours, with more pay because the machine would cut more
coal to be sold. Every night he was hard at work in the back, hammering and filing,
and running down to Howell the Blacksmith to melt and fashion pieces of iron for him,
and calling to someone in the house to come and hold something while he hit it, and
making a nuisance.

Well, to-night, Marged was doing her tapestry by the fire and I was in the wall bed
as usual, with the curtains drawn in case I would sleep. I could see her well, and
I was having games to count how many stitches with one colour, how many with another.
But so fast she used the needle, my eyes got tired and I was just going to sleep when
the door opened quietly and Owen came in, black and with a handful of iron.

“Oh,” he said, and stood.

Marged smiled at her work and said nothing, but kept her back to him and made plain
her face.

“I had no notion you would be here,” said Owen. There is a liar he was.

No answer from Marged, but plenty of good stitching, indeed.

“Have you got any hot water, with you?” asked Owen, nailed to the floor. Nobody knew
better than he that the cauldron was brimming with boiling water, as it always was.
You could hear it.

Marged said nothing for a moment, then she put her needle in a part she was coming
to, and looked up, though not at Owen.

“How much do you want?” she asked him.

“O,” said Owen, as though he thought it was a miracle she could speak. “I would like
a wash.”

“I will fill a bucket,” said Marged, and got up.

“No, no,” said Owen, as though it was shocking to think she could touch a bucket.

“How will you have a wash, then?” asked Marged, still with her back to him. “In a
cup?”

I had to stuff a corner of the blanket in my mouth to have quiet from myself.

“No, no,” said Owen, and very serious. “I will get the bucket myself. There is no
need for you to do things like that for me.”

“Where is the bucket with you?” asked Marged, still not looking.

“Out by here in the wash-house,” said Owen.

“Good,” said Marged, and she sat down to stitch again.

But Owen made no move to the wash-house. He was watching Marged.

There is a look in his eyes of a man in love that will have you in fits unless you
are in love yourself. If you are, you will feel something move inside you to be of
help to him, to try and have him happy even if there is no chance for you.

This look was in the eyes of Owen. You will see a part of it in the eyes of sheep
fastened to the board and waiting for the knife. The other part you will see only
in the eyes of a good man who has put his heart into the hands of a girl. It is a
light that is rarely of the earth, a radiance that is holy, a warming, happy agony
that do shine from inside and turn what it touches to something of paradise.

Marged felt that look, because she straightened her shoulders and made to shiver.

“Are you going for the bucket,” she asked him, and making a big swallow.

“O,” said Owen, as though he had smashed a window. “Yes, indeed. Now, just.”

He had no notion where to put his iron, so he put it outside the door while he went
for the bucket. Of course, if one of us had only touched his iron, never mind leaving
it outside, blood would have run in the gutters. That is love for you.

Back he came, then, and went forward step by step till he was at the side of her,
but still she was stitching.

“Ermhh, mhh, mhh,” said Owen, scraping like an old hen, “shall I have some, now?”

“Give it to me,” said Marged, and down went the work again.

She stood up, trying not to look, but burning coals are not as hot as the eyes of
men like Owen, and so, wanting to or not, Marged was forced to look up, slowly from
the bucket, up his arm to his shoulder, and slowly again, so slowly, up his face.

To his eyes.

At first I could not see Marged in the face because her back was to the fire and the
lamp was behind her. But I had no need to see, for I could feel. And I could see her
hands tight fast in her apron.

“Marged,” said Owen, for the first time.

“Yes,” said Marged. I nearly fell through the bed so cold was her voice.

“I have got my bucket,” said Owen, so silly I was sorry for him.

“Here is the water,” said Marged, and waved behind her.

“Yes,” said Owen, but no move.

“They will be home from choir in a minute,” said Marged, and I could see the shadow
bless her throat as she swallowed again.

“I wish they would never come back,” said Owen.

“There is wicked you are,” said Marged, but not a bit stern.

“I am speaking the truth, Marged,” said Owen. “There is beautiful you are.”

“No,” said Marged, between a sigh and a sob.

“Yes,” said Owen.

“No,” said Marged, not so certain.

“Behold,” Owen said, from Solomon, “thou art fair. Thou hast dove’s eyes.”

“Dove’s eyes are small,” Marged said.

“Your’s are so big they are all my world,” said Owen.

“No,” said Marged, high.

“Yes,” Owen said, and put down the bucket. “I love you, Marged Evans.”

“There is silly,” said Marged, going cold again, “only five days you have known me.”

“I knew from the moment,” said Owen, and I believed him. “I have known you five thousand
years. In jewels and gold.”

“Jewels and gold?” said Marged. “Since when, now?”

“By the brook of Hebron,” said Owen. “Oh, Marged.”

Marged’s hands flew up on wings to her throat so pretty was his voice with her name.

“I have no jewels or gold,” she said, trying to be cold again. But even Owen knew
now.

“You shall have them,” he said, and meant it. “Wait you till I sell my inventions.
You shall have everything to your heart’s want. And no work about the house.”

“No work about the house?” asked Marged.

“No,” said Owen.

“What will I do all day, then?” asked Marged.

“You shall wait for me,” said Owen. “When will you marry me?”

“I will have to ask Dada,” said Marged.

“Make your own mind to answer,” said Owen. “When?”

“You will wake Huw,” Marged said, shaking.

“When?” asked Owen.

“You will make me cry,” said Marged. “Leave it, now.”

Owen looked at her, and Marged’s hands dropped again. For minutes, it did seem, they
looked at each other. They were still, hardly a breath, looking.

Almost before my eyes could see, Owen caught her by the shoulders and kissed her,
so long I thought they were turned to salt.

“Marged,” he said, and his voice was rough and sore with him. “O, Marged.”

“Owen,” she was whispering.

“I love you,” he said.

“Me, too,” she said.

“No,” he said, as though astonished, unbelieving.

“Yes, indeed,” she said, and you will never hear deeper truth. “When I saw you first.”

“No,” he said. “Like I did?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like you did. And when you stood up for me about the chicken, I
wanted to kiss you.”

“Marged,” he said, and holding her again. “There is beautiful you are.”

“I wish I was,” she said.

“Beyond compare,” he said. “I will worship you all my life. You shall be happy every
minute. I will stab myself for every tear.”

“Owen,” she said, “there is nice things you say.”