“Why is it strange, boy?” my mother asked, with the knife half in and out of the pie.
“Because I am his son,” said Davy, “and living in the same house. I am the union rebel to the owners, and Dada is known to be against me. Why did they choose him instead of Tom Davies or Rhys Howells? They are both senior, though they cannot do the job better, it is true. Dada was picked to slap my face and the boys who are with me.”
“There is nonsense, boy,” my mother said, and putting the plates down with a noise. “You are like a lot of children with you. Dada has always done what was good and for the best. There is no better man in all the valleys. If you do grow up to be one like him, God will smile indeed. You tell those fools of men that your father is as much for them as he ever was. Wait you till he do have a chance.”
“The men will wait till then, Mama, I am afraid,” said Davy. “It is useless to talk to them now. And you had better warn Ivor that his life will be in danger if he do go about talking so silly as he have. He had better keep his mouth shut or he will have it closed for him.”
“David Morgan,” my mother said, “you can talk of your good brother in such a way? Indeed, I never thought to hear it. If anything do happen to Ivor while he is doing his duty by his father, I will curse you with my last breath.”
“Mama, Mama,” said Davy, and he got up to put his arms round my mother, but she wanted to push him away. “Saying nothing against Ivor I was, only warning. The men are ugly and they are in a mood to be dangerous.”
“If Davy had not been strict with them,” said Owen, “they would both have been put over the bridge days ago.”
My mother was standing as though in sleep, and new lines coming into her face, and her eyes going wide with a feeling worse than worry.
“Is it like that with them?” she was whispering. “Oh, Davy, my little one, I thought it was only talk.”
“No, Mama,” said Davy, kissing her. “It is serious. The men will have what they are after this time, and if they thought anybody would stop them, they would have them, my father or not. There is a move to strike for a new Super to take Dada’s place.”
“Will you allow it?” my mother asked.
“Who am I against twenty thousand and over?” asked Davy.
“Twenty thousand?” my mother asked, and her eyes were lighting and shading while she tried to think how many it was.
“Twenty thousand, Mama,” Davy said, and very sad he was, “and likely to be a hundred thousand before the month is out.”
“Oh, Davy, my little one,” my mother said, and she sat down in the old chair by the fire. “Where will you end? What trouble will you cause?”
“There is no end, Mama,” Davy said, staring down at her. “Only a beginning.”
“In the beginning was the Word,” said Owen, and deep was his voice to shake, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
“We shall be late,” said Davy, and looking at the clock. “Mama, nothing will happen to Dada or Ivor if I will have anything to do with it. That is all I can say.”
He kissed her on the forehead and signed to the boys to be moving. When they had gone, my mother looked over at me.
“Huw,” she said, “say nothing to Dada about this.”
“No, Mama,” I said.
“Come here,” my mother said, and I went to her. “Do you know where the men are meeting at night?”
“Yes, Mama,” I said. “Up by Jones the Chapel’s field.”
“Oh,” she said. “Up by there, is it? Now look you, Huw. Your father is late shift to-night. You shall take me up there. And you will say nothing, do you hear?”
“Yes, Mama,” I said, and my stomach was turning to see the look in her face.
“Good,” she said. “Angharad and Ceridwen will be here in a moment. Not a single word, my boy.”
I had been in bed about three-quarters of an hour with the curtains drawn when my sisters went to bed. As soon as they had gone, I heard my mother opening the cupboard to bring out her cloak and bonnet, and the rustle as she brought them from the paper.
Then she pulled the curtains aside and looked down on me, hiding the light.
“Huw,” she whispered, “are you sleeping?”
“No, Mama,” I said.
“There is pity to bring you from the warm,” my mother said, with tears. “Sleep you, my little one. I will find it by myself.”
“No, indeed, Mama,” I said. “You will be bound to fall in the river.”
“Yes,” she said, “I was thinking of that. I have been inside the house so long, indeed, I would lose my way from here to the Chapel.”
“Let me dress, Mama,” I said. “And I will have you there in a minute.”
“Come you, then,” she said, and holding up my trews. “There is your father in you, indeed.”
“Good,” I said, and Mama sat down to laugh.
When I had dressed we went through the back door and down the back alley behind Dai Ellis the Stable, and crossed the river by the little wooden bridge that was higher up than the stones.
The river was almost frozen and full right up to the top of the banks. We had nearly come through winter, but cold was still with us and snow was bound to come, and indeed that night I could smell it like rain only colder, and with a sour flavour that seemed to burn my nose right up between my eyes.
“Careful, now, Huw,” my mother said, as we crossed the logs. “You are so small you could slip through. Give me your hand.”
I put my hand in my mother’s muff and up we went, with me under my mother’s cloak and just my face showing to see the way.
There was no question in my mind why my mother was going. I cannot remember thinking about it. But I could feel her warmth all round me, and I could hear her speaking under her breath when the way was not too hard.
It was darker up this way because there were more trees, but the sky was so black there was no chance to see the tops, and we could see the path only because it was blacker than the grass at the sides. My boots struck the hardness like a hammer and often gave up little sparks, and I tried to make more till my mother gave me a pull.
“Boots cost,” my mother said, with her breath like a veil about her face. “Lift your heels, boy. You are like a tinder, with you.”
Higher up the mountain we had to stop many times while my mother took her breath, but always she went on. There was no hope to turn back once my mother had started. Even when the snow was dropping wet when we came out of the trees into the pasture she said nothing, though she held me tighter. We had not gone far when it was snowing so thick it was like trying to go through a rain of bits of paper, but I was sure of the way and I never stopped once.
“Are you sure, Huw?” my mother asked me, and let snow fall on me from her bonnet as she bent. “Is this where it is?”
“Yes, Mama,” I said, and surprised to be questioned. “I would tell you if not.”
“Oh, Gwilym,” my mother said. “Go you, then, Huw.”
Up and on we went, but my mother was tired and leaning on me, and I felt proud to be leading her and helping her like this. So you will know how I felt when we saw the fires the men had made only a little way above us, looking like big red blooms through hosts of blown, streaming, snow shadows that whispered as they fell and squeaked beneath our feet.
“There you are, Mama,” I said, “there they are, look.”
“Right you are,” she said. “Go quietly, now.”
We went round to the side of the two biggest fires and when we got nearer I saw that they were built on the rock, and more fires were burning in the field, and the men were standing round them.
Somebody was speaking, not Davy, from the front of the rock, but just as we got to the foot, he finished and went back.
“Quick,” my mother said, “help me up here, now.”
Indeed I have never been more surprised to this day. My mother was scrambling up the rock, with her cloak dragging in the snow. Up and up she went, and turned wh
en she reached the top to look down at me.
I could hardly hear what she was saying because the men were still cheering the last speaker.
“Huw,” she shouted, through her hands, “wait you by there.”
“Right you, Mama,” I shouted back, and I watched her going carefully across the front of the rock to where the last man had stood to speak.
The cheering fell when the men saw her standing there, but nobody could see properly who it was because of the snow and being blinded by the light and smoke of the fires. Some men down in the front saw it was a woman and started to shout to others, but they could see only the shape of her cloak. Her face was hidden in her muff to keep the snow from hurting.
I had run round the front of the rock to see what my mother was going to do, when she took the muff away and started to speak. Some men had come from one of the fires on the rock to see who it was, but when she started to speak, they stopped where they were.
“I am Beth Morgan,” my mother said, and her voice was as deep and strong as any man. “I have come up here to tell you what I do think of you all, because I have heard you are talking against my husband. Two things in this world I do hate. One is talking behind the back, and the other is lice. So you should know what I do think of you.”
The only sounds when my mother stopped were the crackling of wood and the hushing of snow.
“You are a lot of cowards to talk against my husband,” my mother said with a full voice. “He has done nothing against you and he never would and you know it well. He is Superintendent of the colliery now because every man will have his reward for working, and that is his. And for you to think he is with the owners because he has had his reward is not only nonsense but downright wickedness. How some of you can sit in the same Chapel with him I cannot tell. I would look for a flame of fire upon me, indeed. But there is one thing more I will say and that is this. If harm do come to my Gwilym, I will find out the men and I will kill them with my hands. And that I will swear by God Almighty. And there will be no Hell for me. Nobody will go to Hell for killing lice.”
“Mama,” Davy called from the back of the rock.
My mother turned round to look for Davy, but she could not see him at first.
“I am not your mother,” she said, “when you are with these. You are lice with them. And if your father comes to harm, you shall be the first to go.”
Davy came out of the darkness to go to my mother but she turned away and started to stumble down the rock. I ran round to help her find her footway, and Davy stood at the top watching in quiet. There was low talking from the men and not a sound else, and indeed if ever I heard the voice of shame, then it was, while my mother was crying as she felt her way down.
I only knew she was crying when we had gone a little way down and she took my hand from her muff to blow her nose.
“Mama,” I said, “would you kill men?”
“Yes, Huw,” she said, “I would.”
“But Dada said the Bible says you shall not kill,” I said.
“What is in the Bible and what is outside is different,” my mother said. “But if they do touch your Dada I will keep my word. Be quiet now, and find the way down. Are you cold?”
“No, Mama,” I said. “Except my feet, and they are like stones with me.”
“Huw, my little one,” my mother said, and stopped, “come here and I will carry you.”
“No, Mama,” I said, and I could have shouted. “You shall not. I can walk with the next. Come you, and I will show you.”
“There is like an old mule you are, boy,” my mother said. “Go you, then. And be careful. I can see nothing, indeed.”
The snow was falling faster now, and we were still out in the pasture, so the wind and snow were both busy about us, and the darkness was thick. I knew my way only because of the slope of the ground, and the sound of the earth under my feet, hard in some places and soft in others, but I knew where it should end being hard and where it should start to be soft.
Down we went, with my mother leaning heavily upon my shoulder, and stopping often to have breath, and the wind beginning now to have the voice of a woman in grief. It was better, and we went faster when we came to the trees, but snow was piling as we reached the river level, blown down from the branches, so we had to pick up our feet and feel them sink again and not know if we were in deep till we touched ground.
Just before we got to the bridge, I fell in a mound right up to my shoulders and my mother fell in on top of me when she came to pull me out. I was lying face down, and I could feel her trying to get up, but the more she tried the farther I went down, face first, and I fought to have my breath. I must have lost my sense then, because when I woke up, I was on my mother’s lap and she was sitting in the drift with her bonnet off and her hair all covered with snow, and looking down at me.
“Huw,” she said.
“Yes, Mama,” I said, and I wanted to cry but I stopped.
“Are you hurting?” she asked, in the same voice, as though she was sore in the throat.
“No, Mama,” I said. “But there is cold.”
“Come then,” she said, and she tried to lift me, but she fell back.
I was able to stand up but I felt as I had when I won the race, all giddy and willing to fall over. But I was sure to stand up straight because my mother was wanting help, so I went to her and caught her hand.
“Come you, Mama,” I said. “Up a dando.”
“Up a dando?” my mother said. “Yes, indeed, and who was up a dando just now and frightening his Mama sick?”
“Not my fault it was, Mama,” I said. “It was the old snow.”
My mother took me to her and squashed me so tight I was nearly giddy again.
“Huw, my little one,” she said. “Your mama thought the old snow was going to keep you, too. And it will be having us both if we will not go from here. Up a dando, now.”
I found her bonnet while she was tying her cloak, and went on in front, but carefully this time until we reached the bridge.
But by the bridge we met the full wind and it carried snow with it so thick that nothing could be seen through it. I felt my way across the logs by holding on to the plank rail, and my mother holding me by the hand. Careful and slow we had to go, and all the time the wind was alive to push us in the ice.
But we found the other side and then we were lost, except to guess.
From where we were was not far to our house but we could see nothing except the blackness knitted with snow. From the bridge I was sure I knew which way to go but after we had been walking a few minutes my boots touched stones and I knew that one more step and we would be in the river.
“I am sorry, Mama,” I said. “I am wrong here.”
“Very well, my little one,” my mother said, “you had a good try, indeed. Shall we turn round, now?”
“These stones are down nearly by the Chapel, Mama,” I said, “so if we go across from by here, we will go straight in Morris the Butcher’s.”
“Go you, then, Huw,” my mother said, “you are the man, here.”
So hot I went when my mother said that, I was fit to shine in the sun. It gave me a new spirit indeed, and I struck out to where I thought Morris the Butcher’s lay as though it was three o’clock on a spring afternoon.
But if I was strong and sure, my mother was not.
We had got about half-way across the rocks and gravel, and she was heavy on my shoulder and having her breath in pain with her, when she put her hands to her chest and fell down on her face flat, soundless, not moving.
Fright took me.
I looked at her, black in the snow, and snow going white upon her, and I was afraid. But I remembered she had called me a man, and I made tight my fists. What to do, I was asking myself. If I ran for my father, perhaps I would not find my mother again. If I stayed here with her, perhaps we would both not be found and then she would die of cold. Perhaps if I went, leaving her here, I would not reach my father.
And all the
time I was thinking what to do, I was kneeling beside her, brushing and scraping the snow from her, hating each piece and handful as though it were living and able to understand, the white, quiet, cold, cruel snow.
Then I thought of the boys. They would all be coming down soon, and some would be coming over the bridge. If I could have my mother down by there I would be bound to meet somebody. As soon as I thought, I started.
But there is heavy my mother seemed to me. I tried and tried but her arms were loose and slipped through when I tried to lift her by the shoulders. And it seemed too rude to take hold of her by the leg as I would have done with a boy. So I tried and tried, and I cried in rage to be so weak and I wished the snow had been harder and with shape to throw myself upon it with my teeth.
At last I got my arms about my mother’s waist and, kneeling in the snow, clasping her like that, I crawled backwards toward the bridge, pulling and dragging her as I went.
Hours it did seem, and no feeling or sense was in me, but I was crying to God to help me to save my mother, and I was helped for sure, or I cannot tell where I found the strength.
I knew I had reached the bridge when my shoulders came against the rail. I pulled my mother into the shelter of the post and tried to sit her against it but she was far off and her mouth was open and I had to keep closing it. Then I found I could not stand up. Strength had gone from my legs. So I had to crawl to find the middle of the bridge and scratch away the snow to feel the logs to be sure that I would be near when the boys crossed over, and then crawl back to my mother. She had slipped sideways and almost she was falling in the river. I pulled and pulled to have her back, but she was too heavy, and my arms were weak and there was nothing to be done with my fingers, they were so frozen.
And when I knew I would lose her in the river, I knew there was only one thing to be done.
I held her flat by lying on her and pressing her, while I rolled over her into the river. I knew it was not deep by there, only about up to my waist because that is where I had learnt to swim.
But now it was up to my chest and when I went in, so cold it was, it seemed to open its hands and grip, and so strong that I was without a good breath for minutes. I had my mother with my head in her middle, and my hands holding her chin and leg, so she could not slip, but I was afraid my legs would go from under me, for I was not standing but kneeling against the rocks, and the ice was cutting my chin.