How Green Was My Valley (5 page)

“Are you in bed, Huw?” my mother called up, after enough time.

“Yes, Mama,” I said.

“Good boy,” my mother said. “Candle.”

I blew out the candle and lay there looking at the blue criss-crossed square where
the window was. I was not exactly afraid now that the time had come, but my heart
was beating so loud I was sure they would hear downstairs. It is strange how loud
little sounds become when you are in the dark and doing something wrong.

When I got up the old bed creaked so much I could have given it a good kick for its
trouble, but at last, and inch by inch, I was out of it, and even then the bedclothes
breathed so loud it was like putting back some old man.

The floor, then.

Each plank had something to say, scolding and moaning when I put down a foot and picked
it up, and the carpet, too, was stretching and grieving all the way to the chest of
drawers by the window.

To push up that window was to suffer for years, it seemed to me. I held my breath
and pulled all sorts of faces as I raised the little sash, ready at the slightest
movement from downstairs to leap for the bedclothes. Bit by bit it went up, and the
more it went, the colder blew the draught and the more shivery I got, and what between
listening for noise downstairs and squeaks in the window, and sounds of somebody coming
outside, I got a sort of squint in my ears, until at last I could easily have shouted
downstairs that I was going out and I could have taken the strapping without a murmur
in pure relief.

But at last the sash was up enough for me to climb through, and that was when the
real trouble started. The tiles outside the window sloped down to the guttering and
from there you had to be made of putty. First I got one leg out in the cold, resting
on the frozen sill, then I had to pull up the rest of me to get the other leg through,
and that is where the fight started between my chin and my knees. There was one time
there, when I thought I would stick there all night unless my head would be squashed
through the wall, and my foot outside the window kept slipping on the tiles and making
a shocking noise, indeed.

It was my father’s chair scraping on the stones downstairs that got me through. I
heard it as I was trying to force my head through the space between my bent knee and
the top of the window.

It frightened me so much that I must have gone smaller or something, and the next
thing I knew I was through the window and slipping on my front down the cold tiles
feet first toward the guttering and a five-foot drop.

I was not sure whether to start shouting then or wait until I landed on the ground.
I remember thinking that if I shouted on the ground, and I was hurt, I would get nothing
from my father until I was well, but if I shouted now he would run out and catch me
and perhaps skin me alive. I was saved all that trouble by catching the toes of my
boots in the gutter edge and that brought me to a stop.

Sliding down and gripping the edge, and swinging for a bit before I dropped down,
was so easy that I was calling myself all sorts for being such a cry-baby less than
a minute afterward. As I ran down toward Dai Ellis the Stable, I remembered Dada saying
that too many people shout before they are hurt, and there is a fine contempt I was
feeling for myself as I climbed through the hole in the fence.

So contemptuous I felt, indeed, that I was ready to brave anything just to show myself
I was not the coward I thought I was.

But Dai Ellis happened then to open the stable door where he was sitting up with Bess,
the black mare who was sick, and the very sight of him framed in the light stuck my
feet to my boots, and nothing would move me.

Good for me that he went back in, or I would have had it for sure. But when he went
in, I crept double round the back of the house to the pigsty where Mervyn was meeting
me, and there I found him, nearly dead with fright. He would not let on, of course,
that he was ready to give up and go back to bed, but I knew how he felt because I
was the same.

So we both pretended we liked coming out like this, and what sport it was, and how
we would swank with the other boys in the morning, and have the girls looking at us
the way girls do, when a boy has done something special.

We went over the pigsty and climbed the stone wall that led to the river, crossing
the stepping-stones very carefully because it was dark and the trees shut out the
light, so that we could see the stones only because of the white whiskers the running
stream put round them.

On the other side of the river we started to run up the path up the mountain-side
through the trees, and run we did till we were almost dropping. Now we were out, we
kept thinking of the witches that lived up in the caves, and although Mervyn said
nothing to me, and I said nothing to Mervyn, I know he was thinking the same as me
because I saw him looking round once or twice and then go on faster when he found
me watching him.

Out of the trees and in the fields we felt better off because the moon was giving
a bit of light, though moonlight is something I can do without at any time for comfort.
Nothing is so creepy as that pale light splashing over everything that makes white
look shining and everything else greyish blue and soft black. Even the grass goes
grey, and a boy’s face is like death indeed, with black shadows in the cheeks and
under the eyes, and silver points in the eyes themselves.

We were so busy being frightened we almost forgot what we were up there for, until
we saw the light of lamps shining on the leaves of a may tree growing on a hedge in
front of us.

I pulled Mervyn’s arm just in time to stop him running full-tilt through Jones the
Chapel’s field. We stopped dead and crawled to the hedge, lying there looking both
ways to see if we had been seen, and while we were waiting there holding our breath
we heard a lot of low voices over on the other side as though a crowd of men had all
agreed about something.

Standing, we climbed up the stones and looked over the hedge. I for one nearly fell
backwards with surprise.

There were crowds of men there, hundreds easily, all in their overcoats with caps
pulled down, standing in ranks, listening to Davy.

He was standing on a piece of rock, and although I could hear nothing only very faint,
I could tell by his hands how his voice would be sounding, and I knew what his face
would be like without looking. It was knowing that that made me more afraid than being
caught up there.

I gave Mervyn a jog and climbed down.

“Back, me,” I said, “quick, too.”

“Not yet, boy,” Mervyn said, “I want to hear what they are going to do.”

“Stay you, then,” I said, “but I am going from by here now.”

And I went, and before long Mervyn came running behind me. We went down the mountain
double fast, never mind the moon or the witches, and crossed the river, and I left
Mervyn by the sty to go through the lane to our back way. But when I got underneath
our window I found there was no way for me to get in.

I had forgotten there was five feet of brick to be climbed before reaching the gutter.

Here was something to cry for, indeed.

Then I thought of the water butt. It was much bigger than me, and stood under the
spout by the kitchen door. So I started to wheel it inch by inch nearest to the place
under the guttering where I could climb up. Never have I heard such a noise as that
old barrel made.

First it scratched its old rim on the cobbles, then it splashed and slopped its water.
Then it pulled itself out of my grip because it was so heavy, and bumped down with
a boom like a drum, and more splash and slop. Indeed I have never made more faces
at anything, as though the act of making a face would excuse the noise to the listening
quiet.

And under my breath I was telling it to hisht and for shame, and if I had known any
swearing I would have had that in, too.

And then, when I had it under the place I wanted and I had got up on the edge of the
rim, I slipped on the sticky moss, and fell inside in the water with such a noise
that the hens woke up and screeched to make your eyes cross.

For minutes I must have stood there dribbling wet and up to my knees in water that
froze my legs and feet through to the bones. The dark old barrel covered me right
up, smelling of old earth and moss and everything that is bent and cracked. So when
I found nobody was rising, I was at pains to be out of it sharp and lively, indeed.

I pulled myself up over the edge and balanced there to let the water drip off me and
the wind blew so cold where I was wet it was like razors cutting at me. Up I got,
and cocked up my leg to get over the gutter, with my teeth gnashing so much they nearly
shook my head off. So cold I was that the slates felt quite warm as I lay on them
to slide up, and nothing felt better than to catch hold of the sill and rest there
to breathe and feel I was up at last. Quietly I got my legs through, and carefully
I went in a little bit at a time until I was all in and standing on the carpet.

Then, it was, that my father lit the candle.

“Where have you been, my son?” he said.

I was colder with fear than the wind or wet. My tongue was like a piece of steel in
my mouth, and if you had seen my father’s face you would have known why, too.

He was not tall or very broad, but tidy in size and always carried his head well back.
His head looked to be the biggest part of him, broad across the front and back. His
eyes were grey, and sometimes when he was laughing they were almost blue. He had a
small nose, scarred by a coal fall across the bridge, and a good mouth. His moustache
was long and almost the same colour as his hair, black and going white, but his eyebrows
were jet, and stood out from his pale face, especially when he stood near a light
or if you saw him in the daytime with his cap off.

In this light his eyes were almost white, shining at me like jewels, and so stern
that I wanted to die.

“Where have you been?” he asked again, and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was still
dressed, and sitting on my bed.

“Up the mountain, Dada,” I said, though it is a mystery to me to this day how I got
it out.

“Did I tell you about minding your own business?” he said.

“Yes, Dada,” I said.

“Do you expect your mother to clean that mess you are in?” he asked me.

“No, Dada,” I said.

“Go downstairs and clean yourself and be sharp about it,” he said.

Off I went like a black-beetle, dripping all over the floor, expecting a clout that
would stretch me senseless. But nothing happened.

The kitchen fire was banked all night, so I had no trouble drying my clothes. But
blacking and polishing my boots was another matter. For minutes I stood there rubbing
and brushing my boots, naked in front of the fire, knowing my father was still sitting
upstairs, wondering what I was going to get from him, and what Mama would say in the
morning, and if Gwilym would come in before I could give him a sign to wait on.

When I went upstairs again I carried my dry clothes and my polished boots to show
my father. He looked at them all very carefully one by one, nodding.

“Look,” he said, when he had finished, pointing to the puddles on the floor. “Look
at the mess Mama will have with her in the morning. Go you and get a cloth.”

Down I went again and up I came with a cloth and rubbed all the puddles dry, and very
careful I was to look along the floor to see if I could find any more wet places,
knowing all the time that those grey eyes were upon me, and on that account being
so careful in my work, and so vigorous when I found some to do, that my father got
impatient.

It is strange how you will do a job with more than ordinary care when you have a fault
upon your conscience. It is almost as though you thought to make your industry a form
of penitence.

“Come here, Huw,” my father said at last.

I put down the cloth and stood in front of him, hanging my head.

“Why did you go up the mountain when I told you not?” my father asked, and to my surprise
his voice was quite ordinary, and not angry a bit.

“I wanted to help Davy, Dada,” I said.

“Help Davy?” my father said. “And how about your poor Mama? What would have happened
to her if you had come to harm? Did you stop to think?”

“No, Dada,” I said.

“Think in future,” he said. “Now go to bed and sleep. And mind you, no more of this
Davy nonsense out of you.”

“No, Dada,” I said.

My father lifted me into bed and put the clothes over me, and patted me on the head.

“You will be a man soon, my son,” he said, “and you will find all the troubles you
are wanting in plenty. Plenty, indeed. I am afraid you will have it more than us,
now. So till then, be a good boy and think of your Mama. She is the one to help. Good
night, my son. God watch over you.”

“Good night, Dada,” I said.

I was so glad he had gone before Gwilym came in through the window. I fell off to
sleep at once then.

But thinking back now, I hear my father’s voice as he spoke then, so sad and soft,
as though he had known and seen.

Chapter Five

I
T WOULD TAKE
a lot to upset my mother, but she was quiet and worried when I came back from school
at dinner-time next day. Gwilym told me that my father had given Davy a talking to
that morning, and Davy was off down the Hill to live with Mrs. Beynon, who had four
lodgers already, all of them Davy’s friends.

My mother never said a word about it, but it showed the first Saturday when Davy came
up to put his money in the box and have his dinner. She was not crying, but the tears
were rolling down her cheeks when he kissed her. Davy and my father acted as though
nothing had happened and were talking quietly as they had always done. It was Owen
who caused the trouble.

Owen was a quiet boy then. He had nothing to say to anybody, and of course everybody
thought he was a fool. He would stay quiet for hours by himself, reading, or out in
the tool-shed putting iron together. I was a nuisance to him because I stole his tools
or lost the place in his books, so of course I was always due for a clip in the ear
whenever he saw me.