How Green Was My Valley (6 page)

Owen had the voice of my mother, deep and from the chest, and to hear him read in
chapel was a shock, so good it sounded, echoing up in the gallery and under the rafters.
My father had a notion to put him up as a preacher, but Owen was not yet old enough,
and in any case he liked better to use tools than study, though even then he knew
almost any part of the Bible by heart.

I forget what exactly Davy and my father were talking about. I think it was about
coal raising and the way the seam ran down the Valley.

“They are all fools,” Owen said.

Davy was so surprised that he put down his knife and fork.

“Hisht, Owen,” my mother said, and looked at my father with wide eyes. None of us
were allowed to speak unless my father spoke to us first.

My father chewed what was in his mouth as though he had not heard, but as soon as
he had swallowed he turned to look at Owen as though he had never seen him before.

“And what,” he said, “do you know about the subject?”

“I am very sorry I was rude, Dada,” Owen said, but with no fear in his eyes or voice.
“But the way they are working the coal now is not only stupid but criminal.”

“As it happens, my son,” my father said, “you are right. But who gave you permission
to speak? And where did you have your knowledge?”

“I said without thinking, Dada,” Owen said. “I must have been dreaming or something.
I got my knowledge from Dai Griffiths.”

“Good,” my father said. “There is no man knows more than Dai. But learn manners, too.
Speak when you are asked and not before.”

“I will speak against anything I know to be wrong,” said Owen.

“Not in this house,” my father said. “And that is enough from you.”

“In this house and outside,” Owen said. “Wherever there is wrong I will speak against
it.”

“Leave the table,” my father said.

“I will leave the house,” said Owen.

“Gwilym,” my mother said, reaching out a hand to my father. “Owen,” she said, turning
to him, “tell Dada you are sorry.”

“I am not sorry,” said Owen, “except to lose my dinner. I am going down to live with
Davy.”

“So am I,” said Gwilym, putting his knife and fork down and pushing back his chair.

“If you two leave this house,” said my father, “you will never come inside again.”

“Good,” said Gwilym, nearly crying.

“Oh, Gwilym,” my mother said, staring at my father.

“We are together, Gwil,” said Owen.

“Davy,” said my mother, “tell them to say they are sorry to Dada. They are following
your example.”

“Yes, Mama,” Davy said, and got up. “But they are men, working for their living. I
cannot stop them.”

“I will give you two,” said my father, looking at Owen and Gwilym, “one more chance.
Behave yourselves, and we will say no more.”

“We have done nothing,” said Owen, “and if table manners prevent the speaking of the
truth, I will be a pig.”

“So will I,” said Gwilym.

“Boys,” said Davy, “there is no need for this.”

“There is, Davy,” said Owen, and white passion was in his eyes. “I am going, whether
you will have me or not.”

“So am I,” said Gwilym.

“Get your clothes and go,” said my father, and started to eat again.

“Oh, Gwilym,” my mother said, in a whisper.

My father did not answer, but went on chewing, though his body was trembling and there
was water in his eyes.

Nobody moved for a time. Then Davy sighed, and bent to kiss the top of my mother’s
head, here on this blue cloth.

“Good-bye Mama,” he said, and walked from the room.

“Good-bye Mama,” Owen said, waiting for Gwilym.

“Good-bye, Mama,” said Gwilym, and went out with Owen.

It was quiet in the kitchen when they had gone, and the sound of their footsteps had
gone down the Hill with them. My mother was looking at my father all the time as if
she was sure he would call them back.

But he went on eating his dinner, looking up through the kitchen window at the rock-face
outside. I was trying to be as quiet as I could while I was having my dinner, but
then my spoon grated on the plate and brought his eyes to me.

“Yes, my son,” my father said, “I know you are there. It do seem I will have only
Ivor and you, now then.”

“Gwilym,” my mother said, in her ordinary voice, “how long, now, will those boys be
from home?”

“The only boys I have got, my girl,” my father said, “are twenty-three years of age
and six. That is Ivor and Huw. Those are the only two, and Ianto is away. I have no
other sons, and there is nobody else entitled to call himself my son unless I own
to him.”

“Oh, Gwilym,” my mother said, and started to cry. I had never before seen my mother
cry really and properly as I had cried and had seen others cry.

I wish now I had not. There is supposed to be something noble about the tears of a
mother, but it is a pity that real, well-meant tears cannot come without the sounds
that go with them. The scrapings in the throat, the fullness of spittle, the heavy
breaths and halting, gulping sighs, are not fitted to be the servants of heartfelt
grief, so there is that about them making for laughter and contempt, especially in
the mind of a child.

There is first of all surprise that a grown-up can cry properly, and then curiosity
to see how they cry, and that causes a cold scrutiny in which all feeling is lost,
even when it is realised that this is your own mother who is crying.

You are intent upon the details.

The shaking hands, swollen blue veins, smeared cheeks, hair coming loose under the
stress of an almost rhythmic sobbing, of points of light flicking from brimming lashes,
and you are amazed at the growing wetness of the handkerchief and the never-ending
flow of big tears.

This is your mother, you think.

This poor, huddled woman over there, is your mother, who has told you so many times
not to cry. After that, her red face and swollen, wet eyes, so miserable and helpless,
come as a shock to make you laugh, and although you know it is wrong, you feel you
must laugh outright, or go under the table.

And when that is past, you will want to cry because your mother is still crying to
herself, and cannot find comfort.

It will seem shame to me, now, but my mother never meant the same to me after that.
I could always hear her crying and see her face, though when I grew up, of course,
I learnt better. But there it is.

My father took no notice. I know now how he saw the matter. He was the father and
head over all the house, and what came in and went out. His authority had been defied
and he had taken the course he saw to be most fitting. For that reason he was clear
in his conscience, and he said nothing to my mother for crying, because he knew tears
to be a woman’s last refuge. She can go no further, especially if she is a good woman.
And I will swear with my blood that my mother was good.

My sisters were crying with my mother. Ceridwen was looking from the plates to my
mother and then to my younger sister who was standing by the fire waiting for the
kettle to boil. Angharad was about ten, then, and Ceridwen five years older. I was
sure Angharad would say something from the look on her face. If you have never seen
the look in the eyes of a cat when you have made a noise to frighten it out of sleep
you will not know what was alive in the eyes of Angharad.

She was as tall as my mother, then, and very fair with grey eyes lighter than a snow
sky, and so big and clear you would think it not possible. So when they were full
of her spirit, and she looked straight at you, you would feel yourself going small
inside yourself.

“Mama,” Angharad said, loud and clear and in the voice of my mother. “I am going down
with the boys to look after them.”

My mother stopped crying, and turned so quickly she made my father jump.

“Angharad,” my mother said, and indeed her voice made me all cold, “close your mouth
this moment.”

“Mama,” Angharad said, “I am going down with the boys.”

“This moment,” my mother said, and stood up. “Outside in the wash-house and get your
work finished. Not another sound. If I will hear another word, you shall have a smacking,
my lady. Go you, now.”

My father pushed back his chair and looked at me.

“Come on, my son,” he said, “we will go up on the mountain and find peace. Beth,”
he said to my mother, “I will leave Angharad to you. But I hope she knows how far
she can go. I have still got a strap. Come, my son.”

I got down from the table very thankful, and ran to get my cap and my father’s stick.
I loved walking with my father. I have often wondered whether the trouble in our family
could have happened if my father had gone walking with the other boys as he did with
me. If I had only known my father in the house, perhaps I could have spoken to him
as the others had done, but knowing him as he was up on the mountains, I was never
able to speak to him other than with respect and with love.

He never once as far as I remember talked to me as though I were a child. I was always
a man when I was with him, so no wonder Bron called me The Old Man. Everything I ever
learnt as a small boy came from my father, and I never found anything he ever told
me to be wrong or worthless.

But perhaps the things that he held to be good and right to do, were not the good
and right things for our time, or if they were, then perhaps he carried them out with
too much force or with too straight a tongue and through that, put men against him.

That afternoon we walked for miles along the river, first, and then up the mountain.

Our village, then, was one of the loveliest you could see. I will say it was lovely,
because it was so green and fresh and clean, with wind from off the fields and dews
from the mountain. The river was not very wide, only about twenty feet, but so clear
you would see every inch of rock through the bubbling water, and so full of fish that
nobody thought of using a rod. My father taught me to tickle trout up on the flat
rock by Mrs. Tom Jenkins’.

Hour after hour we have sat there, dropping stones to frighten little ones away, and
then watching a big one come up and making plans to have him.

First you would have to roll back your sleeve sometimes up to your muscle, and put
your arm right in the water, holding your hand open and steady. Of course, the river
would be so cold sometimes, it would almost make you shout to have it in, but no matter,
if you wanted a fish you would have to suffer.

Then the old fish would come along very soft and quiet, and you would almost feel
inside you that he was thinking to himself, watching your hand, and knowing that something
was the matter and not sure what. Of course, you would not move a fraction, even your
eyes, while all this was going on, because a good and sensible trout will swim back
out of reach and stay there to laugh at you. Indeed, that is true, for I have seen
them do it.

Well, then, if he was so silly, he would come up to see your fingers and nose round
them, and rub himself against them. Then it would be your turn. Quietly, you would
bend your fingers to smooth him under his stomach and tickle his ribs. Sometimes he
would flash away and you would lose him, but oftener he would stay on. Then you would
work your fingers along him until your little finger was inside his gill.

That was enough.

Give him a jerk and pull out your arm, and there he would be, flapping on the rock.

And there is good fresh trout is for supper.

My mother used to put them on a hot stone over the fire, wrapped in breadcrumbs, butter,
parsley and lemon rind, all bound about with the fresh green leaves of leeks. If there
is better food in heaven, I am in a hurry to be there, if I will not be thought wicked
for saying so.

But there I am again, see.

The quiet troubling of the river, and the clean, washed stones, and the green all
about, and the trees trying to drown their shadows, and the mountain going up and
up behind, there is beautiful it was.

When birds were nesting we often went out to find the nests and look in at the eggs,
though we never took any, mind. My father would never allow me to collect them, and
he would stop the other boys, too. I think because of that, our Valley was never quiet
of birds. There is strange you will never notice birds till they are gone.

We caught two trout that afternoon and I put them in leaves in my cap to carry them
on up the mountain. There used to be a scent that the wind pushed in front of it in
those days, which must have come from all the wild flowers and the sweet grasses that
grew up there then. This scent was strong that afternoon, and my father often stopped
to breathe in, for he had told me time and time again that trouble will not stop in
a man whose lungs are filled with fresh air. He always said that God sent the water
to wash our bodies and air to wash our minds. So you would often see us two stop and
breathe in and out, and go on walking up the mountain, perhaps pointing at a small
bush we had seen coming up last spring, or looking to see if anybody had been at the
primrose bed up by Davies the Woodyard’s field.

We had gone a little way when I started to feel cold inside me, for we were walking
across the mountain toward the field where I had seen Davy talking to the men. It
was a Saturday and the men would be off, so I thought they were bound to be up here.

“Dada,” I said, “could we walk into the other valley?”

“No, indeed, my son,” my father said, “I am only going to the top. I have got some
writing for the Chapel to do. Gracious, what would we do over there?”

“See Ivor and Bron,” I said, “it will be a nice surprise, Dada.”

“Yes,” my father said. “If I find myself over by there this afternoon I will have
the surprise indeed. To the top, and then home, us.”

I was trying to think of something to keep my father from that field, even to rolling
down the mountain. I would have done that, but the hedges would have stopped me.