The Emerald Valley (36 page)

It was against the law of course and if they were caught they could go to prison, but it was happening everywhere.

‘Did you read about those miners in Abertillery who were going to a colliery in the mountain after dark and working it?' Charlotte asked Amy when she came to get the children one night. ‘It sounds as if half the pit was there!'

‘How do they know that?' Amy asked shortly.

‘Because the police caught them. Well, at least, they caught eight, but it said in the paper that many more made their escape and sixty-two bags of coal were recovered.'

Charlotte glanced at Amy, half-expecting another sharp retort. She was so bad-tempered these days, not at all interested in the sort of pleasant chat in which she and her mother had indulged in the old days, and Charlotte knew it was because she was tired and overwrought.

On this occasion, however, Amy said nothing. It was Harry who spoke, coming indoors with Huw after letting him help feed the pigeons.

‘You can't blame them though, can you?'

‘Blame them?' Charlotte turned on him. ‘What do you mean – can't blame them?'

‘Well, when they see their families cold and hungry and the coal's there for the taking …'

‘That doesn't make it right,' Charlotte said stubbornly. ‘It's still stealing.'

‘You don't say “no” to a sackful of the batch.'

‘That's different,' Charlotte maintained. ‘A bit like that doesn't make any difference to anybody – and it's stuff that's been thrown out as waste. These men were mining new coal and stealing it, I don't care what you say.'

Amy and Harry exchanged amused glances. Strict honesty was and always had been one of Mam's hobby-horses – and if something that it suited her to be party to was perhaps less worthy than the standards she proclaimed, then you could be sure there would be some circumstance that made it totally ‘different'.

‘I don't know what things are coming to, I'm sure,' she went on now, mixing batter in a bowl for the ‘Johnny-cakes'she was making for tea. ‘You never know what you're going to hear next these days. And what these silly men don't realise is that when they do something dishonest like that, they have to live with it for the rest of their lives.'

‘I don't suppose conscience will keep them awake so much as cold or an empty belly,' said Harry.

‘Harry, I wish you wouldn't use that word!' Charlotte reproved him. ‘You know I don't like to hear it. Can't you say “stomach” like I always brought you up to?'

Another amused glance passed between brother and sister. For all her seeming propriety, Mam was not above using a choice word or two when the fancy took her!

‘Anyway, it wasn't their consciences I was talking about,' Charlotte continued, returning to her theme. ‘The bosses will have it in for them, you can bet a shilling. When they start taking men on again, those that stole or made trouble will be the last in line. Naturally. They won't trust them.'

‘The Federation will see to it that they're not victimised,' Harry said, helping himself to a currant intended for the Johnny-cakes.

‘Oh yes, and how are they going to do that?' Charlotte scoffed. ‘Don't talk rot, Harry! No – they'll be marked men, I'm telling you, in the mines and out of them. Because it will be a fat lot of good them trying to get a job elsewhere with a police record!'

She swung round to get the heavy frying-pan out of the cupboard beneath the range and saw the look on Harry's face – thoughtful, anxious, guilty almost.

‘What are you looking like that for?' she demanded.

Harry shook his head, saying nothing.

‘
You
haven't been up to something you shouldn't, have you?'

‘No, of course not. Chance would be a fine thing,' Harry replied, but the wariness was still there about his eyes.

‘Well, I hope not,' Charlotte said. ‘You have a good future ahead of you if you don't let yourself down.'

Amy laughed out loud – a small, scornful snort – and Harry snapped, ‘Oh, for goodness'sake, Mam!' in much the same short tone that Charlotte was becoming used to hearing from her youngest daughter.

Charlotte pursed her lips.

It had come to something when her children talked to her in this way. There were times when she wished they were small again – young enough to make them know, and small enough to gain pleasure from the little things of life instead of always trying to appear too big for their boots.

‘It's time we were going, Mam,' Amy said suddenly and Charlotte extracted her revenge.

‘Would you like one of your Grandma's Johnny-cakes, Barbara?' she asked the little girl, who was curled up in her laundry basket playing ‘boats'. ‘I expect Mammy will wait while you have one.'

‘But you haven't even started cooking them yet,' Amy protested above Barbara's excited affirmatives and Maureen's piping echo.

‘It won't take me long. You know how
you
loved Johnny-cakes when you were little, Amy. I'll do one for Barbara and Maureen first.' She looked up to enjoy Amy's impotent annoyance and instead found herself looking at Huw. He was standing by the table saying nothing, but his eyes, huge and round as he regarded the Johnny-cakes, spoke volumes.

Charlotte had been totally against Amy taking him in – still was, if it came to that. They had managed to keep the truth of it quiet, thank goodness, but still it had caused talk in Hillsbridge and Charlotte had had her work cut out explaining to people why Amy had done such a thing. More often than not she had resorted to blaming Amy's grief at Llew's death: ‘There are times when I don't think she knows what she's doing – or cares. All she could think of was that there was this little boy homeless and he was Welsh, like Llew. So she took him in. I tried to talk her out of it, but you know our Amy. And all credit to her, I say …'

Privately though, she had the strongest misgivings about the wisdom of Amy's action and in the dark of the night shuddered not only about what Hillsbridge would say if the truth were learned, but also what the future held for the newest member of her daughter's family – a boy born to and raised by a woman who was not only a foreigner, but also ‘no better than she should be'. ‘Bad blood will out,' Charlotte would think to herself. ‘He'll be nothing but trouble for our Amy and she'll live to regret the day she made such a rash decision.'

But just now the young devil she conjured up in her worst nightmares seemed little in evidence, and Charlotte saw instead a little boy overwhelmed by passionate longing.

‘Would
you
like a Johnny-cake, Huw?' she asked.

He almost jumped. It was the first time she had ever spoken to him civilly – if at all! Instead of defiance there was disbelief and the clearly-etched fear that this mirage had been offered him only to be snatched away.

He nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘Yes,
please.
Here you are, then, I'll put one in for you too,' Charlotte said; and tossing her head with satisfaction at this minor victory over her two children who seemed these days to delight in putting her in her place, Charlotte thought: ‘And you two can put
that
in your pipe and smoke it!'

Tea over, Harry pushed back his chair and got up.

‘Going out, then?' Charlotte asked unnecessarily.

‘To Margaret's, yes.'

‘I might have known – you're never anywhere else these days,' said Charlotte, whose bad temper had still not quite evaporated.

Harry did not reply and as he walked up the hill his feet seemed to drag. It was not that he didn't want to see Margaret; he did. But he also had things on his mind – things he could only think over alone. For that day he had come to hear about the latest piece of mischief planned by the striking miners of Hillsbridge, only this particular idea went far beyond a joke.

Plans were under way to wreck the winding gear at Middle Pit – a move designed not only to prevent any ‘blackleg labour'from going underground, but also to show the bosses that the men were reaching the end of their tether.

Naturally enough, the hot-headed Ewart Brixey was the instigator.

‘It's about time we showed 'em!' he had announced to the gathering of men, disgruntled at finding no pay-out for the third week running. ‘We've got to show the bosses they can't go on treating us like this.'

‘But Ewart, they can!' Walter Clements, father of the brood next door, was one of the old school, mild in speech, moderate in outlook. ‘They've been treating us like this since last May, remember.'

‘Only because we've let them! Well, we'll just have to show'em we can get tough if we have to. Do some damage to their property so that they feel it where it hurts – in their pockets.'

There was a murmur of dissent amongst the men and Harry was secretly relieved. He had only been eleven years old during the last strike in 1921, but he could recall the mob that had marched up South Hill to manager O'Halloran's house with murder in their hearts and their minds set on doing as much damage as they could. Nothing had come of it, mainly thanks to the courage of Harry's brother Jack and the esteem in which he was held in the community, but Harry could well remember the charged atmosphere and now, with the wisdom of his sixteen years, he realised it was generated and sustained when ordinary angry men joined together in a mob.

When the majority of the men had moved off, Ewart came across to Harry and the Clements boys.

‘They'm yellow-bellied, all of'em,' he grumbled. ‘We won't get nowhere if we don't do something to really show the bosses.'

‘What did you have in mind, then, Ewart?' Tommy asked.

‘You really want to know?'

‘'Course – I wouldn't ask otherwise, would I?'

‘If I tell you, you'll only go and let on to somebody.'

‘No, I won't!'

‘All right.' Ewart lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘I reckon we ought to blow up the winding gear down at Middle Pit.'

‘Blow up the winding gear? But what with?'

‘Their own bloody explosives. There's enough in the powder store up the yard. Pity we can't get a shot-firer in on it.'

‘You'd never get a shot-firer to mess about with his own explosives,' Reg Clements said.

Ewart shrugged. ‘Well, I reckon I could do it myself anyway.'

‘It's gelly.'

‘Aw – kids'play. I've seen it done often enough.'

‘Oh, you want to be careful, Ewart. You could blow your hand off easy as look at'un …'

‘If all you'm going to do is put the damper on it, you know what you can do.' He turned and stalked off, leaving the boys staring after him in awe.

‘Do you reckon he's serious?'

‘I do – you know Ewart.'

‘Maybe he's right,' said Tommy. ‘Maybe it is time we did something to show them.'

‘Maybe.'

But Harry was still uneasy. He tried to forget what he had heard, but Charlotte's words about the long-term effects of ‘foolishness' only served to worry him more.

It was not only the danger to Ewart himself if he started meddling with explosives. There was far more to it than that. Real damage could affect all their future. The bosses could be ruthless; blow up the head-gear at Middle Pit and it would cost thousands to get it in working order again. Suppose the bosses decided to have the last laugh and refused to shell out for repairs? Middle Pit would be closed permanently then and with the pit lost, all their jobs would be lost too.

But there's nothing I can do about it, Harry thought wretchedly. I'm in the know, but what use is that? Ewart would never listen to me.

That evening, sorting yet more used clothes for the Relief Fund, he was silent and morose.

‘What's wrong then, Harry?' Margaret asked, sitting back on her heels to study his closed-in face.

Harry only shook his head. It would be a relief to share it with her, but if he did she would probably insist he told her father – or else she would tell him herself. And what could George Young do? He would probably go to the police – he was that kind of law-abiding person. And if the police were brought in, Ewart would very likely go to jail.

I can't do that to him, Harry thought in anguish. He's got a wife and youngsters and the bosses would make certain he never worked again.

‘Harry …' Margaret wriggled closer to him, tucking her arm through his and tilting her head to look up at him with her most pleading expression. ‘Don't be a misery. I hate it when you're a misery.'

Impatiently he shook himself free. ‘Oh, leave me alone, can't you?'

She withdrew as if she had been shot, looking as if she might be going to cry, and he got up, aiming a kick at the pile of used clothing.

‘I'm sick of all this. I'm sick of the whole bloody strike. I'm going home.'

‘Harry!'

‘Good night, Margaret.' He marched through into the kitchen where Gussie was busy letter-writing. ‘Good night, Mrs Young. I'm going to get an early night,' he said, summoning civility.

‘Oh, good night, Harry. Will we see you tomorrow?'

‘I don't know.'

The night air cooled his flushed face, but did nothing to improve his humour or help him solve his dilemma.

He was in a cleft stick and he knew it. Nobody wanted to further the cause more than he did – sometimes he burned with the desire to help set the injustices to rights. But this was not the way to do it, he knew that instinctively – saw too clearly for comfort the possible consequences – yet was quite unable to think of a way to stop it. Whichever way he turned, he would be betraying someone.

If only I could be like the Clements boys! he thought enviously. They know about Ewart's plan too, but I don't suppose they'll lose any sleep over it. The Clements boys never lost sleep over anything. Forget it as they will, he told himself. But it did no good. The knowledge, the indecision and the fear of the consequences went on eating into him.