Senor Nice (7 page)

There was a knock on the door. It was Marty. ‘I’ve got the car for a couple of days if you fancy a bit of an excursion.’

‘Please come this way, ladies and gentlemen. On the walls of this magnificent dining room are portraits of Morgan family members. As you can see, scattered around the room are various bits of china and silver, some of which are extremely valuable. That Elizabethan salt cellar, for example, is worth almost twenty thousand pounds. These chairs are worth—’

‘Who is that in the picture by the door?’ interrupted Marty.

‘Ah! That’s the black sheep of the family, Henry Morgan the pirate. We try not to mention him. He did disgrace the family quite a bit.’

Marty and I and various tourists were on a guided tour of Tredegar House, a mansion just off the main Cardiff–Newport road and former home of the Morgans, one of the greatest of Welsh families. We were on our way to Cwmaman, from where the Stereophonics hail, and the current home of Bernie Davies, a senior member of both the Valley Commandos and of the Firm, Britain’s largest criminal organisation. I had last seen Bernie at the Glastonbury Festival, where he had expressed interest in my doing a show
at the Cwmaman Institute. I had agreed to visit him the next time I was in Wales.

‘He looks a bit like you, Howard. Don’t you think so?’

‘Who, Marty?’

‘Henry Morgan, of course. Look at his eyes and his mouth. Exactly like yours.’

I could vaguely see what Marty meant, but the portrait was of a teenager.

‘Excuse me,’ said Marty to the woman guide, ‘but he was a bit more than just a pirate, wasn’t he? I mean he was governor of Jamaica. Let’s be fair.’

‘Deputy governor only, I think. And he got sacked. And he was imprisoned in the Tower of London for his crimes against king and country. Henry Morgan was a very cruel man. He was a murderer, a drinker, a womaniser and a thief. I don’t know why they keep his picture here. If I had my way, it would be thrown away. And he was probably born out of wedlock. The family has had to endure shame for centuries because of Henry Morgan’s evil ways and mad behaviour.’

‘But he was knighted,’ protested Marty, ‘and made Sir Henry Morgan.’

‘Well, things were different in the seventeenth century, weren’t they? All sorts of scallywags were made knights. Anyway, let’s not dwell on him, please. On the right there’s a picture of Evan Morgan, the last of the family to live here in Tredegar House. Now he was a real character. He would frolic naked in the pool here at weekends with his three best friends, who were none other than H.G. Wells, Aldous Huxley and George Bernard Shaw. He filled the place with wild animals, including an anteater and a boxing kangaroo called Somerset. His mother was even more of an eccentric. She built bigger and bigger bird’s nests in the house and ended up living in one of them.’

Marty wasn’t about to let the guide get off so easily. ‘Was
Henry Morgan born in this house, then? I suppose he must have been if his portrait is here.’

‘He certainly was not born here,’ answered the guide indignantly.

One of the tour party, an American, suddenly developed an interest in the pirate. ‘Where
was
he born? My name is Morgan. I might well be one of his descendants. I’ve been told my ancestors were Welsh.’

‘There’s no chance of that, sir, I’m afraid. Henry Morgan had no children, thank God. But if you want to see where he was born, go to Llanrhumney Hall outside Cardiff. You’ll have no problem believing he was born there, I can promise you; it’s probably the roughest part of Wales. As you are interested, I should add that a BBC Wales team recently went there and decided that he wasn’t born there but somewhere up in the valleys. I think it was in Blackwood. I can’t see why it matters myself.’

Blackwood was near Cwmaman. Perhaps Bernie Davies would know about this.

In twenty minutes the disappointing tour came to its end. Marty and I decided to visit Henry Morgan’s supposed birthplace at Llanrhumney Hall, less than ten miles away. We drove from Tredegar House towards Cardiff on the A48 and came to what we thought was Llanrhumney, but there was no evidence of the name on any newsagent’s, pub or post office. Crawling down a hill towards the centre of Cardiff, I noticed a pub called Morgan’s. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A notice signalled the pub was open all day and served good food, so we parked and walked to the door. It was closed. We knocked hard for several minutes. A large dog ambled up, placed its front paws on the door, and barked repeatedly. Eventually, a young man in slippers and a chef’s apron unlocked the door. He yelled at the dog, threatening to kick it, and stared at me and Marty as if we were a couple of bailiffs.

‘We’re closed, I’m sorry.’

‘Closed?’ protested Marty. ‘How can somewhere advertising hot food all day be closed at lunchtime? We don’t want much. A sandwich will do.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry. We would like to open, but we just can’t get the staff these days.’

‘Can you tell us where Llanrhumney Hall is?’ I asked.

‘That much I can do for you. Drive back out of here and turn left into the main road. When you come to the Cross Inn, turn left. That’s Llanrhumney Avenue. Then turn left into Ball Road and keep going. You can’t miss it.’

We followed the landlord’s directions and found ourselves in the middle of an inhospitable housing estate. Truanting schoolchildren stared at us menacingly from gardens full of refuse. Most of the homes appeared to have been converted into crack houses.

‘I don’t believe this, Marty,’ I said. ‘That landlord must have been winding us up. There’s not going to be a stately home in the middle of this lot.’

I wound down the window. ‘Where’s Llanrhumney Hall?’ I asked one of the school skivers.

‘You don’t want to go there; it’s haunted.’

‘All the better. Where is it?’

‘Just keep going.’

‘Thanks. By the way, who’s it haunted by?’

‘Henry Morgan.’

This was encouraging. ‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Who was he then?’

‘He was a no-good criminal that lived there ages ago. They killed him and put his body in the cells under the hall. But people kept hearing his screams, so they chopped his body into little pieces and hid the bits in different parts of the walls. But he still haunts the place and sometimes rides his horse at midnight across the rugby field next door. I’ve seen him lots of times.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

We drove another hundred yards down Ball Road. Next to
a rugby pitch was a magnificent old pub. A sign showed it was the headquarters of Llanrhumney Rugby Club. We parked and walked into a huge cold bar called Morgan’s Room. A new pool table dominated, while an old minstrels’ gallery served as a lounge bar. Next to the minstrels’ gallery was a skittle alley. A barman covered with tattoos came over to serve us.

‘A pint of best bitter, please, and what do you want, Marty?’

‘A cup of tea, please.’

‘We don’t do tea or coffee here.’

‘A Diet Coke then, please, or some other diet fizzy drink.’

‘We don’t have any of that either.’

‘Pineapple juice?’

‘Nor that. You want something non-alcoholic do you?’

‘Please.’

‘Well there’s not much call for that round here. I can get you a small bottle of tomato juice, if you like, but I don’t think it’s fizzy.’

‘That will do. Do you have anything to eat?’

‘Plain or cheese and onion?’

Grabbing our crisps and drinks, we sat on stools at the bar. There were two other customers, who glared at us continually. Braving the hostility, I asked the barman, ‘Was Henry Morgan the pirate born here?’

‘No idea; I’ve only been here a few years. But some odd people like you do come here looking for him; and I know the previous landlord used to sell Captain Morgan rum.’

We took a walk outside and found a curiously wrought stone which had apparently been uncovered during recent building work. Sculptures of exotic foliage, resembling both marijuana and banana leaves, adorned the surface. We spent a few minutes arguing about which plant’s leaves the carvings actually depicted but agreed the leaves were definitely tropical and had probably been brought from the Caribbean by Henry Morgan.

‘Let’s get out of here, Marty. I don’t want to keep Bernie waiting longer any than necessary. It will be dark soon.’

Henry Morgan, son of a scullery maid and a gentleman farmer, was born in 1635 at Llanrhymney Hall. He spent most of his childhood on a farm in Princetown, a small village lying between Merthyr Tydfil and Tredegar, and later moved to his family’s estate in Pencarn. An energetic and ambitious young man, Henry embraced pleasure and detested any claims to the moral high ground, especially those made by bigoted Puritans or the Roman Catholic Church. Seeking adventure, fame and fortune, he went to Bristol and spent his time there gambling, brawling and getting into trouble. Sailors were scarce, and if there weren’t enough volunteers, the press gangs went to work. There was also great demand for British labour in the plantations of the colonies, much of which was satisfied by indentured servants. Most of these were offenders sentenced to penal servitude overseas, but some were tricked into indentured service by the promise of retirement in a tropical paradise. Whether as an indentured servant or the victim of a press gang, records show that on 3 May 1655 Henry boarded a ship bound for the West Indies.

The road from Tredegar House to Cwmaman wound through valleys that during my childhood had throbbed with coal mines, rain-drenched rugby games, male voice choirs, chapels and pubs. There was little left to remind me of those days – just the rain. Following Bernie’s instructions, we arrived at the Falcon, which resembled a Swiss ski lodge with its views of mountains, cascading waterfalls and a furiously flowing river. All that was missing was the snow.

‘All right, butt?’ Bernie, a gentle mountain of a man covered with tattoos, climbed off his Harley Davidson.

‘Fine thanks, Bernie. You?’

‘Excellent, butt. Excellent.’

‘It’s good to see you, Bernie. This is a nice spot.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Is it all right if you stay here tonight? I would put you up in my place, but I’ve got Dave Courtney, Charlie Breaker and that lot coming down
sometime tonight or tomorrow morning. I’d better keep them under wraps in my place. Don’t want to frighten the locals too much, do we?

‘No problem, Bernie. Do the rooms have phones? I’ve no signal on my mobile.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s not really a hotel; it’s the Falcon, like. But you can get a signal just up the hill.’

Marty and I checked into the Falcon. In the crowded bar Bernie and I discussed terms for doing the show. A date was set. I brought up the subject of Henry Morgan.

‘Is Tredegar House heavily guarded?’

‘I don’t know, Bernie. It didn’t appear to be. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, I’m sure that a lot of people, like you, would rather see a bit more respect given to the old boy’s picture. I think it would look great in the Valley Commandos’ headquarters, for example. There’s no shortage of pirate lovers there.’

‘What are you suggesting, Bernie?’

‘Nothing at all, butt. Nothing at all.’

‘Do you know Blackwood, Bernie?’

‘Well, aye, of course I do. It’s just over the hill.’

‘Do you know anyone from there?’

‘Loads. There’s one for a start. Old Emrys in the corner there. He’s a Blackwood boy, bred and buttered. Come and join us, Emrys.’ He brought his pint to our table.

‘What do you know about Henry Morgan, Emrys?’

‘Only that his family home is in Blackwood. The house used to be a farm called Plas Newydd. A few years ago it changed into a pub. It’s called the Monkey Tree now. They do a nice Sunday lunch there, I’m told.’

‘Was Henry Morgan born there?’

‘I haven’t heard that, no. But they say he brought the monkey tree there from Jamaica or somewhere. It’s still right in front of the pub. Huge, it is. Amazing how long trees live, isn’t it? They also say that Mary Morgan’s ghost still haunts
the place. Quite a few of the boys from Blackwood have seen her.’

‘Who was she?’

‘You’ve got me there. I think his sister, was it? I’m not sure. Bernie, any chance you can buy me a pint? I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’

‘I’ll buy you a pint, Emrys,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to pay me back.’

The next morning Marty and I drove back to Cardiff, where we had arranged to pick up Leroy, who was busy in the City Arms trying to find his long-lost family. ‘Shit, mon. Everybody a say no Tiger Bay no dyah agen.’

The Welsh shipping boom began in my grandfather’s day in the 1880s as a result of the worldwide demand for Welsh anthracite coal, the best fuel for the ships, factories and railways of the new steam revolution. Cardiff, gateway to the South Wales valleys thick with coalfields and iron mills, was the hub of this maritime expansion. The city briefly became the greatest shipping centre in the world and the site of its only coal exchange, where international prices were fixed by a coal cartel. During the first quarter of the twentieth century people from all over the world were drawn to Cardiff by the work available but the sailors remained chiefly Welsh. The area straddling the docks that housed the seamen between voyages was known as Tiger Bay, the first multiracial community in Britain. Most immigrants were Chinese or Jamaican. As a child, I remember exploring the streets of Tiger Bay, eating my first ever Chinese meal at a restaurant named Dai Hong, and gazing transfixed at groups of Jamaicans playing craps in the street, New Orleans style. Now the streets of houses had been knocked down and replaced with glass and chrome monstrosities peppered with the usual inner-city paraphernalia of shopping malls and expensive coffee bars. The old docks had been converted into marinas
of middle-class doll’s houses. No wonder Leroy couldn’t find his family.

‘They’re probably around somewhere,’ I said, trying to lift Leroy’s mood, ‘in the suburbs or in little towns up the valleys.’

‘Aright. Mi wi come down de agen. Now mi afi go back a London. Mi afi work a night move club tonight as security.’

Marty and I went for a stroll around what was now called Cardiff Bay. Nothing was the same. Even nostalgia refused to return.