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 fathe
r’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
IT 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.
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.