I sat down and felt a river of fright rushing through my stomach. I wondered what would be done to me. I had thoughts of the policeman coming from over the mountain to take me down to the jail. My father’s voice was deep from the kitchen, then it was quiet.
My mother came in to get plates from the cupboard. There was more pink in her face than usual, and I thought for a moment she was too angry to speak. But in the middle of reaching to get a plate she looked round at me and a smile was on her mouth and tears were in her eyes. Her skirts made circles with hurry as she ran to me and knelt with her arms about me, almost lifting me from the chair.
“Good,” she said. “Good, my little one. Your Mama is so glad, she could scream.”
My father came in and stood to put his hands in his pockets, helpless as helpless.
“Well, Beth,” he said, as though the air was going out of the world, “you are as bad as he is, girl.”
“Yes, Gwilym Morgan,” my mother said, up on her feet and going to the plates, “and you are as bad as that pack down by there.”
“There is a nice thing to say,” said my father. “No wonder. Now I know.”
“What, now?” asked my mother, stopping by him, both looking at each other, and neither of them a bit angry.
“Why I have got such a tribe of sons,” said my father. “It is you. That is the trouble. Beth Morgan is the cause.”
My mother looked at him and he looked back at my mother. And Mama smiled.
“Go and scratch,” she said, and went quickly to the Kitchen.
My father clucked his tongue and looked across at me, and the laugh in his eyes ran down the cuts in his cheeks and poured in his mouth.
“There is a family, we are,” he said. “Come and wash, my son, and let us eat.”
Chapter Eleven
WHEN we were almost on top of the mountain that Sunday afternoon my father stopped to fill his pipe while he was having back his breath and looked down into the Valley.
“You see, my son,” he said, “you cannot say what you like. There are things to be done, and things not to be done. Things good and things bad. And the best judges are those who have lived longest, and thought most.”
“Yes, Dada,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “I am not liking the sound of that, at all. What you mean is no, Dada, is it?”
“Yes, Dada,” I said.
“Say your mind, boy,” my father said, with anger. “Always say your mind to me. How will I help you if you speak lies?”
“But, Dada,” I said, “you called me a rascal when I said my mind this morning.”
“Yes,” said my father, “but that was another story. Then, you were speaking of things outside you. You had no business to speak this morning. If your legs were right with you, you would have gone home with your mother and Angharad.”
“Then poor Meillyn Lewis would have had all that and worse,” I said, “and nobody saying a word to help.”
“Meillyn Lewis is a bad girl,” said my father, and pulling on his pipe.
“Because she had a baby?” I asked him.
“Be quiet, now,” said my father, “you are talking of things you know nothing about.”
“Yes, I do, Dada,” I said. “Meillyn Lewis went up on the mountain with young Chris Phillips, and now he lets her be spoken to in Chapel like that.”
“How do you know?” my father said.
“How many times have they passed our window?” I said. “And how many times have the women said there would be trouble before long if he saved his money, instead of buying a ring and the furniture.”
“Well, indeed,” my father said, “you are an old mother’s meeting on your own. I will have you out of that kitchen in future. Your ears are like a donkey’s with chat.”
“This morning is the first time I have opened my mouth,” I said.
“I have hopes it will be the last,” said my father. “One more set-to like that and we will be thrown out of the Valley.”
“Why, now?” I asked him.
“Because, my son,” he said, and earnest indeed, “it is not fit and right for a boy like you to make remarks. We have never had trouble in the Valley because we have always been strict. Men have thought twice before doing a wrong. The same with women. If all the women like Meillyn Lewis were allowed to go their own way, what would happen to us?”
“What?” I asked.
“You would have a police station in the Valley, for a start,” said my father, “there is a nice thing for you. As though we were all a lot of jail-birds waiting to be taken off. And what about our homes and your mother and your sisters? Would you like Angharad to have the same as Meillyn Lewis?”
“Oh, Dada,” I said. “Not Angharad. She never goes up the mountain.”
“Gracious God,” said my father, and dropped his pipe. “There is a boy you are, man. I never meant to talk about Angharad. Only saying ‘if,’ I was. And if I caught her I would strangle her.”
“Would you, Dada?” I asked him.
“Yes, indeed I would,” he said, and he was meaning it. “Let all things be done in order, with right and decency. Those things are worth a man’s life or two. Life without would be a hell, indeed. Meillyn Lewis was an example. I will swear that what happened this morning will make many a girl think twice before she makes a slut of herself.”
“She is a slut,” I said, “because she went up on the mountain with a man, instead of to her bed with her husband. Is it, Dada?”
My father was quiet for a little, with his back to me, looking down into the Valley.
Bright shone the sun, but brighter shone the Valley’s green, for each blade of grass gave back the light and made the meadows full of golds and greens, and yellows and pinks and blues were poking from the hedges where the flowers were hard at work for the bees. May and almond were coming, and further down, early apple was doing splendid in four tidy rows behind Meirddyn Jones’ farm. His herd of black cows were all down in the river up to their bellies in the cool quiet water, and their tails making white splashes as they dropped after slapping flies, and up nearer to us, sheep were busy with their noses at the sweet green. When the wind took breath you could hear the crunching of their jaws.
Beautiful was the Valley this afternoon, until you turned your head to the right. Then you saw the two slag heaps.
“Yes,” my father said. “That is why she is a slut.”
“Then what is Chris Phillips, then?” I asked.
“He did very wrong,” said my father, but there was no body in his voice. “Mr. Gruffydd will have a word with him.”
“But not in front of all the people,” I said. “If Meillyn Lewis is a slut, Chris Phillips is a coward. And I know which of them is the worst.”
“Tongue again,” said my father. “Leave it, now. And say no more on the matter. You are not old enough and you have said too much as it is. More sums and books, and less tongue. Let us go back for a cup of tea.”
Half the women on the Hill had been in to see my mother while we were out, so my mother said when we got back to the house. All of them had come to say how sorry they were, and they had all gone away with the same answer.
“Nothing to be sorry about, I told them,” my mother said, while she was cutting bread and butter, with the knife flashing red in the firelight, and the kettle having a little whistle on the hob. “And nothing to be done.”
“Was that all you said?” asked my father, looking up at the lamp.
“Well,” said my mother, “I said that, and other things, of course.”
“Good,” said my father. “I will hear them later. But now, the matter is ended. He can go into Bron’s to-night and do his lessons while we are at Chapel.”
“I am going to no Chapel to-night,” said my mother, and put the dripping down flat on the table to make the cups jump.
“Are you starting, now then?” asked my father, but with no surprise. “Chapel, Beth, for both of us to-night. And no nonsense. Never mind about the people and
what they say. It is the home of the Word of God. Chapel for us both to-night.”
“Yes, Gwilym,” said my mother.
Next morning I was waiting for Mr. Gruffydd long before he came, for I wanted to know what he would say. I had slept nothing all night, making ghosts for myself, filling my mind with them and giving myself pale frights. And the ghosts had a different punishment for me, some of them shocking, indeed.
Foolish is the mind of man to make bogeys for itself and to live in terrors of fear for things which lack the substance of truth.
But Mr. Gruffydd called as though nothing had happened. Indeed, the only sign that something was wrong was made by my mother. She was shaking so much that she had to put down the pot, and Angharad poured Mr. Gruffydd’s tea for him.
Up on the mountain we went higher than usual for I was stronger and using only one stick, now. So to the top we went, where we could see the Valleys all covered with pale blue mists, and with long rolling grey shapes and deeper blues where the mountains rose up to guard them.
Cold it was, and wonderful the song of the north-east wind.
“Now, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “good lungfuls, now. Breathe deep, and count five slowly before you are full. Then count five full up. And then five to breathe out. Is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
So we breathed, both of us up on top of the mountain, while the mists went to purple and rose, and the sun burnt through and covered us both with warmth and came out across the Valley in such strength that we could not bear to look. So it may be, I think, when we meet God. But worse.
The wind was doing all sorts to Mr. Gruffydd’s hair, and his nose had grown a gem that glistened to fix your eyes, making you count how many before it would fall. But he took out his handkerchief for a good blow, and then I knew he was going to speak.
Big in the shoulder was Mr. Gruffydd, and in his black clothes a figure to make you afraid. But I never felt any fear of him, though I was always afraid of losing his goodwill, and having the sharp side of his tongue.
“Huw,” he said, “let us sit by there, my son.”
We went over to the rock that marked the top of the mountain, where everybody using the path stopped to have their breath, and thank the stars the road was downhill all the way after.
We sat in the sun, on a turf as soft as my mother’s tablecloth and greener, with the wind kept away by the rock, and angry because of it. You could tell by its voice how angry.
“Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “I want to speak very seriously to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said.
“Something happened yesterday in the House,” he said, “which I still think I dreamt. A boy spoke in a matter of which he was ignorant. He raised his voice. He spoke without permission. He interrupted. He was offensive.”
“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said.
“Why?” he asked me, and looking over the Valley as though it was of no consequence.
“Because,” I said, trying to make my voice small, “I was sorry for Meillyn Lewis. It came out of me. I was sorry after, sir.”
“You did wrong, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, taking me by the chin and looking at me, “and you must make up your mind not to do such a thing again. Once is more than enough.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, but feeling like No, Sir.
“Make up your mind,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “There is a right way and a wrong in everything. Your father was very worried about you. If you will do that in Chapel, what will you do outside? What will become of you?”
“They were cruel to her,” I said, and the heat was in my throat again to think of it. “And all those men were groaning and nodding to make her hurt more. That was not the Word of God. Go thou, and sin no more, Jesus said.”
“You know your Bible too well and life too little,” said Mr. Gruffydd. “Let there be moderation in all things, Saint Paul said, and a more sensible man never trod the earth.”
“But why did you allow it, Mr. Gruffydd?” I asked him, and I was feeling injustice stiff in me.
“Because I am a pastor,” said Mr. Gruffydd, with sadness in his voice. “But I will change their foolishness in my good time and without the help of Huw Morgan.”
For a little time the wind snarled and tried to put cold fingers on us round the rock, but always the sun pushed him back.
Mr. Gruffydd looked far across the Valley above the tops of the mountains, and his eyes were blind with thought.
“You must realize, Huw,” he said, speaking in his blindness, “that the men of the Valleys have built their houses and brought up their families without help from others, without a word from the Government. Their lives have been ordered from birth by the Bible. From it they took their instructions. They had no other guidance, and no other law. If it has produced hypocrites and pharisees, the fault is in the human race. We are not all angels. Our fathers upheld good conduct and rightful dealing by strictness, but it is in Man Adam to be slippery, and many are as slimy as the adder. The wonder is to me that the men of the Valley are as they are, and not barbarians all. I was sorry for Meillyn Lewis, too. But that session of the deacons was helpful as a preventative. It was cruel, but it is more cruel to allow misconduct to flourish without check.”
“It is not right to do it before all those men,” I said.
“It is not, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, “but we must act according to the times, and I am just as much a servant of the Chapel as of God. And the deacons are my masters. I must make alterations slowly. I must think, and then speak. I must consider what is to be done and then choose my time to do it. Not like Master Huw Morgan, or I would be out in the street to preach in the hedges. And no chance to make changes or to do good. Now, do you see?”
“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said. “And I am sorrier, now, too.”
“Well, now, Huw,” said Mr. Gruffydd, smiling wide and showing good long teeth. “For that handsome apology I will tell you that I thought you were a brave boy, but misguided in your bravery. Never mind what you feel. Think. Watch. Think again. And then one step at a time to put things right. As a mason puts one block at a time. To build solid and good. So with thought. Think. Build one thought at a time. Think solid. Then act. Is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Gruffydd,” I said.
“Come, you,” he said, up on his feet. “Home. I can smell your mother’s good bacon from by here, indeed.”
Chapter Twelve
THEN IANTO came home.
If there was a fuss made over the prodigal son I cannot think what he could have had more than Ianto.
Ellis the Post pulled up the white mare right outside the door while we were having breakfast, and called to my mother.
With all the boys away, my mother looked to Ellis as to an angel, with joy but also in fear, in case his letters brought bad news.
“A good fat one, by here, Mrs. Morgan, my little one, for you,” Ellis said, laughing out loud. “And fourpence to pay for no stamp, too.”
“Come you in, Mr. Ellis,” said my mother, running for her purse. “Angharad, put the pan on and bacon, quick. A good cup of tea, Mr. Ellis, to warm you.”
“Well, indeed, this will be the third breakfast I have had this morning,” said Mr. Ellis. “There is good to have a belly to hold it.”
“Hisht,” said my mother, and gave him the money and snatched the letter to cut it open.
“From Ianto, indeed,” she said, holding the letter to the window. “Wait, now. My dear Parents, I am sure you must have thought I was dead, but I have been in London.”
My mother put a hand to her head and looked at us in shock.
“In London,” she whispered. “London. All that way and not a word. There is brave.” She looked again at the letter, and softly screamed: “Coming home he is. Coming home. Ianto is coming home. My Ianto is coming home to us. Oh, Ianto, my little one.”
Ellis started to shout and hit the table with his knife and fork, and my mother danced round th
e table holding Angharad and jogging from side to side, with her eyes full.
“Wait, now,” my mother said, and wiped her eyes. “Angharad, down to the pit and tell your Dada, and call in Bron’s. Then back, straight, and we will settle the house.”
If there is one thing that happened to the house when Angharad came back, settle is not the word. The house was in uproars all day with soap and water, and the next day Angharad and me whitewashed front and back.
Ianto was coming the next day, so the night before, everybody who knew him met at our house, and walked down with my father to the Chapel house to make up their minds what to do for the welcome.
Ellis had sent telegraph messages to Davy and Owen, and Gwilym he had told on his way over the mountain. Ceridwen had come home for a couple of days, Ivor and Angharad and me were home, so there was the family together all one again.
There is pleased was my father.
As soon as he got in the door when he came back from the meeting, with Mr. Gruffydd, he went on his knees in prayer to give thanks. The very skin of his face seemed to shine, and his moustache was like pure silver, with him.
“Oh, Father in Heaven,” he said, with his knuckles on the edge of the table, “how you feel when your sons return to you, so I feel, now, in my little way. I give thanks to have seen this day. I give thanks that my boys and girls are in health. And, O God, I thank Thee for to-night and for to-morrow. Amen.”
Then we all sat down to supper and after, Mr. Gruffydd and my father drew up the procession, starting with the band and ending with Twm Pugh’s coal-cart to carry the bottles and casks.
Up early next morning, and my father home an hour before the night shift finished to go with Thomas the Carrier in the wain down to the railway station to meet Ianto and the boys, with Ivor.
No climb on the mountain for me that morning, indeed. Washing cups and saucers and plates and cutlery out in the back, me. All the women on the Hill were bringing their own, but for the people coming from over the mountain, we always borrowed china to have enough, and my mother would always have it washed before using. That was my job, and though I had no liking for it, I did it because of Ianto and the boys.