How Green Was My Valley (51 page)

He looked down at me with something of a smile, something of a frown, something of
hurt, and surprise, too, as though I had put out a foot to trip him.

“Worry, my son?” he said, with quiet. “I am not worried now and I never have or will.
You must learn to tell worry from thought, and thought from prayer. Sometimes a light
will go from your life, Huw, and your life becomes a prayer, till you are strong enough
to stand under the weight of your own thought again.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and willing to run from there, “I am sorry I said it to you.”

“Do you find a difference in me, Huw?” he asked me, and his eyes coming to watch mine
a little sideways, as though to make sure I was going to tell truth.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“How, then?” he asked me, eyes still.

“You are heavier in your talk,” I said, “not so much smile, not so much interest,
and not much of gladness, either. And nothing for the furniture.”

He turned from me to look up the mountain, and I was stricken with terror, in the
quiet little street, with only two of us in it, down there by the side-door of the
Chapel where a little path went dusty to the river, and the top of the water full
of ragged windows giving light, and me in the midst of a fight that I could neither
see nor hear, and yet shaken by its tumult, and its wounds.

“I have failed in my duty, then, my little one, is it?” Mr. Gruffydd asked me, after
moments and moments.

“No, sir,” I said, and ready to spill my blood for him. “No, sir, indeed. Only saying
that you are a bit different from old times.”

“Eh, dear, Huw,” he said, and put his hand behind him and touched my shoulder, “go
from me, now, and come in the morning for a start on the furniture, is it? We will
finish it with a couple of good days’ work.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and went from him with misery.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I
ESTYN’S SISTER
was in the house when I went in, and I knew from my mother’s face that there was
trouble, though a stranger would never have seen it. Blodwen was dark in the skin,
with black hair and round brown eyes, looking at you always as though you stood down
at the bottom of the garden. A calmness was in her, and she sat still, back straight,
with her hands folded and her feet almost under the chair. She spoke English nearly
always, but plainly, for she went to school in London, and then to Paris, and I suppose
the teachers there stood no old nonsense from anybody.

“Well, Huw,” she said, and smiling very pretty, too. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” I said. “How are you?”

“Impossible to feel better,” she said. “I wondered whether you would bring the harp
to Tyn-y-Coed to-night for me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good,” she said, and smiled again, but I knew from the way my mother was standing
that I was one too many in the room, so out I went and down to Bron’s to pack the
harp.

I told Bron about Mrs. Jonas and she clicked her tongue.

“I was at school with her,” Bron said. “Is Blodwen still with your Mama?”

“Yes,” I said.

“More trouble, then,” Bron said. “Angharad will be home here before long, you will
see. Drunken swine, he is.”

“Who, Bron?” I asked her.

“Never mind,” she said.

Then it was that I understood the looks and nods and words here and there, when Angharad
and Iestyn were spoken about in the house. It made me feel quite empty inside to think
of Angharad having trouble, but there was nothing I could do, and I knew from the
look of Bron that not another word would come from her, even with hot pincers.

So up with the harp and over the mountain to Tyn-y-Coed, and a lovely walk with plenty
of stops, and a little hum from the harp every time I put her down.

A good big house was Tyn-y-Coed, built in the time of the second George on the house
that came from before Elizabeth. The old part was still there, on one side, with chimneys
of brick, and laid beautiful. Big windows on two floors, the rest of the house, and
a big porch with pillars that went narrower toward the top. All of it was in white
with green shutters, and all the farm buildings whitewashed and kept spotless. A lovely
bit of property, it was, with trees to shade it and gardens front and back, brown
cows in the pasture, black and white and brown chickens in the yard, geese and ducks
white by the pond, and turkeys sitting on the gate by the stables.

Blodwen was there before me and standing at the door, with the houseman to take the
harp from me.

“Come and take tea, Huw,” she said, with her face in the green shadow of trees. “Wash
in the little room.”

So I went in to have tea, and very good, too. I liked that big room at Tyn-y-Coed.
It was high, and the windows big and plenty of them, planned in a day when men thought
spaciously and lived graciously, and had a love for good work. A look at the ceiling
would have shown you that, never mind the furniture. And as for the fireplace, you
would think it shame to burn coal there, so pretty it was, of white marble, simple,
and so easy in its curves, and straightnesses, and flutings, that it was pleasure
distilled to pass the hands over it, and think of the steadfast mind that carved it
into shape.

Blodwen always had a little laugh at me when I went to Tyn-y-Coed, but it was a gentle
laugh, and with sympathy, because I told her why I liked to put my hands on work that
had been blessed by good minds and the passing of time.

“Would you like to come and live here, Huw?” she asked me, when we were having wheat
cakes.

“No,” I said. “If it was my house, yes.”

“Supposing I asked you to?” she said.

“No,” I said. “I shall be working soon.”

“Must you?” she asked me, and looked at me straight, and her eyes were very brown.
“There are plenty of pieces of furniture that need repairs. And I think that furniture
you made for Mr. Gruffydd is simply lovely. Come and work here, Huw.”

“I said I would work with my father,” I said, and the face of Isaac Wynn coming to
harden me.

“Oh, dear,” she said, and breathed sharp, “I hate to think of you going down the pits.
I hated my father going down, and I shall always be glad that Iestyn sold his interests.”

“He put four hundred men from work, too,” I said.

She looked at me, and tapped a teaspoon gently on her saucer as though she would be
saying something in a moment to take the butter from the toast. Then she put the teaspoon
down, and gave her nose a dab with a piece of lace that was never in this life a handkerchief.

“You speak like your brother, Owen,” she said.

“Good,” I said.

“Has he had any more news about his patents?” she asked me, as though it was of no
interest.

“No,” I said, “but a gentleman from America is coming to see him next week. Going
to buy it, he is.”

“Oh,” she said, and a look in the teapot. “Is he going over there, do you know?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “if he can get somebody to do his union work for him.”

“Why he bothers with that nonsense is more than I shall ever be able to understand,”
she said, with impatience. “It can never be a union in the sense of the word.”

“More than fifty thousand members,” I said, “and growing every week.”

“How do you know?” she asked me.

“I write the letters to London,” I said, “ever since it started. And if Owen goes,
Ianto or Davy will be there to take it to the top. We will join with Monmouth soon,
and then the Dockers, and the Firemen.”

She sat quietly for minutes, hands folded, feet almost under the chair, a mauve shadow
in the coming darkness, and the fire giving reddish light to her cheek, and eyes of
red to silver.

“I heard him speak the other night,” she said.

“Over the mountain?” I asked her, and surprised, too.

“Yes,” she said, and I will swear she was blushing, because her voice was low, with
a hem of whisper. “We went over together.”

So that was why Owen was ready for three meetings in one night, with Ianto and Davy
and he to take one each.

“I suppose he has plenty of friends?” she asked me, and in a sudden moment I knew
she was warmer towards me, though there was no change in her, only her voice. As though
a wall had fallen somewhere without a sound.

“Yes,” I said, but taking care. “Plenty, indeed. In all the valleys. He could be drunk
every night.”

“Does he drink?” she asked me, with fright, quick.

“No,” I said, “not a drop. Tea and water, Owen. Sometimes a drop of my mother’s beer.”

She seemed to go lower in the chair.

“I suppose, with a lot of brothers,” she said, “young ladies abound? Have some more
tea, Huw, please. Try this cake?”

“Tea, yes, please,” I said, and handed my cup. “Cake, no, thank you. I have had plenty
and very good, too. No young ladies.”

“Oh,” she said, “but of course, you men always say no, when you should be saying yes.”

“No young ladies,” I said, and firm. “They are a nuisance. Some, anyway.”

“Am I a nuisance, Huw?” she asked me, and laughing.

“No,” I said, “I like you. So does Owen.”

“How do you know?” she asked me, very small.

“Would he go with you over the mountain or two steps anywhere else?” I said. “No,
indeed.”

Orange came to light the wall outside in the passage, and Mrs. Nicholas came in with
a couple of sticks of candles, wide and round in her black dress with a silver chain
and many keys rattling, and the candles making her hold up her head and her face like
a gold sun with sparks in her eyes.

“Sitting in darkness,” she said, in a fat voice, and scolding. “There is silly you
are, Miss Blodwen. In darkness with a young man. Dear, dear. Every tongue in the Valley
will chat.”

“Let them,” said Blodwen. “Do you mind, Huw?”

“No, indeed,” I said, “but I would like to catch them.”

“Catch them?” Mrs. Nicholas said, and lighting more candles. “Only go in any shop,
or listen in the market. Like fleas in a poorhouse bed. Ach y fi.”

“Nicky,” Blodwen said, “I believe you are as bad as the rest.”

“Well, indeed, Miss Blodwen,” Mrs. Nicholas said, voice gone deep with shame, “there
is a thing to say to your Nicky, indeed. Twenty years ago I would have had you over
my knee for that, and no Nicky, please, Nicky, please.”

“I still believe you can gossip with the best,” Blodwen said. “Eight for supper to-night,
Nicky.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Nicholas, a bit sulky, “eight, is it, Miss Blodwen? Master Huw is
staying, too, then, is he?”

“No,” said Blodwen. “There will be another.”

“Mr. Owen Morgan,” Mrs. Nicholas said, with a nod not to be argued with, up and with
the candle-holders, and going to the door with quick steps.

“Nicky,” Blodwen said, and coming to be angry. “You jump to conclusions. Eight to
supper. That will be all.”

“Yes, Miss Blodwen,” said Mrs. Nicholas, and turning round in the doorway, “Mr. Parry,
Mr. Owen Jones, Mrs. Owen Jones, Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Griffiths, and Miss Griffiths,
and you.” She turned round and went to go out.

“And Mr. Owen Morgan,” she said, over the shoulder, and the doorway was empty.

“That woman becomes more and more impossible,” Blodwen said, “she takes advantage.
Of course, Owen will be miles away.”

“He was pressing his best suit, anyhow,” I said, “and particular about a shirt this
morning, before the shift went down.”

“Huw,” she said, with quiet, and warmth in her face, but cold serious. “Tell nobody,
will you?”

“Eyes open,” I said, remembering Cyfartha, “mouth shut.”

And that was how I went so much to Tyn-y-Coed. Every piece of the furniture that wanted
repairs, I did in my spare time. And made a suite of my own, too, but that was after.

I saw Mr. Gruffydd looking at me many times in those few days I worked with him before
I started in the colliery. I saw his face in a shining, pink rub on the polish of
the sideboard panels when he was looking at me behind my back. When I looked round
at him he always looked away. At first, I wondered. Then I feared. But as one day
went to two, and the looks got less, and the talk dropped to one or two words about
the thickness of the polish, and the weather, and how hot the plates were for dinner,
I started to wonder again, until I was on tacks to ask him what was the matter. For
it is discomfort’s own essence to be near a man and to feel him in torture of misery,
to feel with him the very pain of the misery, and yet to be unable to help.

Little Olwen was bringing our tea down to us, and I used to go out and stand in the
porch to watch her all the way up the Hill again, and give her a wave when she turned
round. So she turned round every other step, and I had to wave or she would have been
there yet. It always took a good long time to wave her home, and the tea nearly cold
when I got in to it.

“She is very much like Angharad,” Mr. Gruffydd said.

“Yes,” I said. “When she grows, nobody will know the difference.”

“Twenty years’ time,” he said.

What is there, in the mention of Time To Come, that is so quick to wrench at the heart,
to inflict a pain in the senses that is like the run of a sword, I wonder. Perhaps
we feel our youngness taken from us without the soothe of sliding years, and the pains
of age that come to stand unseen beside us and grow more solid as the minutes pass,
are with us solid on the instant, and we sense them, but when we try to assess them,
they are back again in their places down in Time To Come, ready to meet us coming.

Or does the mention of it, I wonder, drive a wedge under that tight-shut door, just
enough to let in a thin smell of the steamings we shall live through before those
who know us can go about with long faces to say we are dead. Sad, sad is the thought
that we are in for a hiding in every round, and no chance to hit back, no hope of
a win, fighting blind against a champion of champions, who plays with you on the end
of a poking left, and in the last round puts you down with a right cross to kill.