How Green Was My Valley

  “Anything but what is sense,” Ianto said. “Sliding scale, that is all you will hear. The fools say that sliding scale wages allow them steady work. They cannot be got to look at figures. Nobody will look at the royalties going to butterbellies and lordlings.”

  “Why not?” asked Owen. He was broader, blacker in the beard, shorter and curlier in the hair, but the same strong grey eye. “The men of the valleys are not fools.”

  “No,” said Davy. “Not fools, but too damned well behaved.”

  “I will thank you not to use any language inside the house,” my father said. “Please to remember that we made a bargain with the owners on sliding scale. It is for us to honour it. So be silent about your Union. Plenty of time for it when you find yourself cheated.”

  “Now, now,” my mother said, “no more words. Did you go to Chapel in London, Owen?”

  “Yes, indeed we did, Mama,” Owen said. “Every single Sunday.”

  “Castle Street,” Gwilym said, “and good too. The choir is singing before the Queen soon.”

  “There is beautiful,” my mother said, and smiling at us, but not seeing any of us. “Singing before the good little Queen. I would think their voices might come to be like angels to sing for her. Pray day and night to be in good voice for her, I would.”

  “When is the Eisteddfod, now?” Owen asked.

  “Six weeks,” said my father. “Ivor is in with his choir.”

  “Choir?” Gwilym said, with big eyes. “Ivor? Since when, Dada?”

  “Weeks, now,” said my father. “And I shall look to see all of us standing in it, too. Davy is soloist.”

  “How many in the choir?” asked Gwilym, laughing. “If I will see Ivor waving a piece of stick, it will be my death. Twenty-five all told?”

  “One thousand, three hundred and fifty male voices,” my father said, and suddenly the room was still. “Such mightiness has not been heard since the Coming of the Dove.”

  “Bigger than Caradog?” Owen said, and hummed in surprise. “We heard good choirs at Crystal Palace, too. But the tenors were no good.”

  “Tin trumpets,” Gwilym said. “Mice could shout louder.”

  “Wait till you hear our tenors,” my father said. “Gabriel have put aside his trumpet in shame.”

  “I will enjoy to open my lungs again,” Owen said. “But where is Mr. Gruffydd?”

  “Working,” I said. “He will be glad to see you to-morrow, he told me to tell you.”

  “O,” said Owen, and looked at my mother, and we were all quiet again.

  “Dada,” Gwilym said, “how is it Angharad came to marry young Evans? Was she senseless?”

  “Why senseless?” my father said, in quiet, looking at his pipe, and my mother making a face at Gwilym and making it straight again when my father looked up at her.

  “Well,” Owen said, “he was always a lout.”

  “A purse-proud ninny, him,” said Gwilym. “And no better for a bit of Oxford, either.”

  “He is your brother-in-law, now, at all events,” said my father, “and Angharad has made a good marriage. She will never want, neither will her children.”

  “I hope he does something about his property when he comes back,” Ianto said. “Old Evans could do what he did because he spoke his men’s language. They will stand no nonsense from this one, though.”

  “There is a petition going in this week,” said Davy.

  “What is the use of a petition?” Owen asked, and a new note coming to his voice. “John Burns has shown you what to do. Worry the Government. Make a nuisance of yourself.”

  “And have six months of starvation for nothing but loss, and death to children,” my father said. “Nonsense, boy. It do look very good in books, but hard on the mind and belly. Leave it, now.”

  “Will you starve for ever, one day, then, Dada?” Owen said, and stern in the eye. “Markets are closing every day. Prices are rising. What will you do when they close the pits?”

  “I will tell you when there is danger of it,” my father said. “For the second time, leave it, now. Let us sing. I want to hear if London have taken the bells from your voices.”

  So Wyn went to the harp, and Ceridwen to the piano, and my mother and father sat in their chairs on each side of the fire, and we all had places about them.

  And we sang.

  Then the neighbours began to come in, front and back, and then Ivor and Bron came in, with cheers from everybody, and Owen trying to squeeze the life from her, and Gwilym looking in Ivor’s pockets for his baton, and shouting from all for him to conduct us.

  By that time we were so hot and so close together that there was no room for Wyn to play, so outside we all went, into the street, with chairs and stools.

  A fine night it was, with the moon pulling silver skirts behind her to brush the top of the mountains, and the wind humble to have our voices and saying only a little bit himself to show he had one still, and the Valley waiting quietly for us to fill it with song.

  Fill it we did, for hours, sitting in the street, with all the windows open and people leaning out to sing, and Ivor conducting from the top of a chair in the middle of the Hill. Sometimes you would see a few women go into the house, and a couple of minutes later come out with big teapots, and home brew in jugs, and others again would come out with bread and cheese and cake. But the singing never stopped, end one, start the other, till Wyn was coming to have blisters on the fingers from pulling the strings, and Davy took her from the stool and sat with his arm about her on our window sill, with her head on his shoulder and his coat on her knees.

  Beautiful is the voice rising to the quiet of night. Nobody, now, to cough, or rattle paper, or come in late and make the noise of the devil with a chair or a dropped umbrella, and put heavy feet on loose boards.

  Quietness, and blueness, and faces in white light where the moon smiles upon them, and darkness that moves where she does not. And in the quiet, O, hear the sweet, the gentle voice, those pretty sounds of many tones that live in the shivering strings of the harp. Wait now, for the slow pluck of deep chords, and feel them filling your heart and bring yourself to be ready against the coming of the swift, strong mounting, chanting melody that brings fire to the blood, and a command to raise up the voice that shall not be denied, and sing, hearing about you the sharp edge of clean notes struck in that moment when fingers touched the single string and the baton arm flew down.

  Hear you, then, the voice of your brothers and sisters, deep as the seas, as timeless, as restless, and as fierce. Tenors spear the clouds with blades that had their keenness from the silversmiths of heaven. Baritones pour gold, and royal contralto mounts to reach the lowest note of garlanded soprano. And under all, basso profundo bends his mighty back to carry all wherever melody shall take them. Sing then, Son of Man, and know that in your voice Almighty God may find His dearest pleasure.

  I felt Bronwen looking at me a couple of times outside there, but when I looked at her, even though I looked quickly, she always looked away and never once did she smile. But when I went in the house to help my mother with the teapots, I went to the cupboard and took out her cup and saucer and filled it to take to her, first of all.

  “Tea, Bron,” I said.

  “O, Huw,” she said, but in the voice of a stranger, “there is a good boy you are. Dying, I am, for this.”

  “What is the matter, Bron?” I asked her, in a whisper, and thankful for the singing all round us. “Did I say something or do anything to-night?”

  She was in darkness, and the cup was big, covering her face, but I saw the moon put her finger on a tear, then she turned away from me.

  “To-morrow, Huw,” she said, in her own voice. “It was nothing.”

  But again I felt the foolish newness busy within me and I went from there, and did the work of two among the teapots, and helped with the little, pleasant kindnesses that my mother was busy to do of cutting bread and butter and spreading milk cheese, for old ladies with few teeth, and putting a hot poker with
honey in home-brewed beer, for Old Mr. Jones, who wanted to sing but felt the cold, yet could not be pushed to go to his bed.

  Most of the men on the Hill had a bit of sleep in chairs till early morning, but I went up the mountain with Ianto for mushrooms, and took a basketful back, with flowers for Ceridwen and Wyn, and some for my mother and Bron.

  My father and Ivor, with Ianto and Davy, went down to the colliery to work the morning shift. As soon as they were gone, the real business of the day began. The house was cleaned from top to bottom, all the furniture was outside to be polished, clean curtains were hung and the knives and forks and spoons were given a shine. Then all the cooking started, with the neighbours helping, and I built fires in troughs outside to take the pots and tins overflowing from the stoves and grates.

  Then we peeled potatoes and sliced vegetables, stripped chicken and duck, cut steaks and chops, sliced bacon and forked sausage until I was sick at the sight of food. Then we laid all the tables, and some of us went down to the Chapel hall to lay up down there for the Eisteddfod in the evening, and set chairs and hang curtains.

  When the hooter went at noon we ran back up the Hill, and I put baths for my father and brothers out in the back, and put the buckets of hot water near, then I had a dip, and went upstairs to put on my long trews.

  Well.

  I wonder does anything feel better than to put on the first pair of long trews.

  In this very room, here, where I am sitting, I took the paper from the suit, and pulled little bits of cotton from it, and held it up to feast upon it. Off with my clothes and into a clean shirt, with a stiff collar, and careful to tie my new white tie, that Bron had given me, in a wide knot, and pin it with my father’s pin. On with the socks, new too, that Ceridwen had made for me, and then to work with the comb and water to have my hair with a parting, and flat.

  Now for the suit. Pity that the coat and waistcoat cannot go on first, so that the trews can be saved till last, as you will eat potatoes and meat first, and save the new peas till the last. But there it is, trews first.

  So, careful, not to spoil the crease, or get the ends on the floor, you balance to have one leg in and draw it on, and then the other, and stand to button them to the braces, and you feel the cloth covering your legs all round and down, and you look and see the creases falling sharp to the top of your foot. On with the best boots, polished to see your face, and careful in bending again to lace them. Then stand, feeling the trews bearing down upon the braces, and put on the waistcoat, and feel it snug about you, then on with the coat, nothing to fold over, no palmful of cuff, tight, but not too tight under the arms, and flaps all flat, and the collar rolling down to button over at the top.

  Royal, royal is the feeling, to be standing in your good long trews, and well I understand the feeling of gentlemen with sashes round their middles and feathers in their hats. You are brave with glory, and with fear for none.

  Up on the bed I got then, to try and see my trews in the little bit of glass. But it was too small and this little room was too dark, and I could only see some shining boot and a bit of turn-up. But I was feeling elegant, and that was enough for me. Even old Napoleon never felt so good, and when I went downstairs, very careful again, no Queen’s Ambassador to the Court of the Tsar had more straightness in his back, or lift to his nose, or firmness to his feet, than I had.

  I felt good inside and out, a feeling not to be had many times in your life, indeed.

  Then my mother saw me.

  She was just putting on her hat, with the pins ready to stick in.

  Her eyes went big, and she opened her mouth to speak but no words came, and the pins dropped from her hands and the hat hung upon her head, with the veil caught in a comb at the back.

  “Well,” she said, and put her hands together, and with a smile that was nearly crying, “Huw, my little one. Who will tell you from a lord, then?”

  “Is it fitting me, Mama?” I asked her, and going hot.

  “Fit?” Mama said. “Like the green in trees. And I should think so, too. A sovereign and a bit it cost us for Hwfa. Do you like my costume, then, Huw?”

  So I knew my mother felt about her costume as I felt about my suit, and I looked at it from the front and back to give it proper respect, though my mind was on what the boys and girls outside would say about me.

  “Beautiful, Mama,” I said, and she smiled again, very pretty.

  In came Wyn and Ceridwen then, but not in their wedding dresses, and another turn round and look, and hand claps and kisses, and trying to tickle the backs of my legs, but I ran from them, and out in the back to meet my father.

  “Well, well, Huw, my son,” he said, and looking me up and down, and turning me about, and looking at the linings of the coat, and the buttonholing and the way the buttons had been stitched on, “Hwfa have done a creditable job, indeed. No pig fits his skin better.”

  “How do I look, Dada?” I said, a bit disappointed he had gone to look at the work instead of me.

  “The same as yesterday, with long trews extra,” my father said, flat. “Take your brothers’ coats down to the field when you have had dinner, and remember the extra candles for the hall.”

  “Yes, Dada,” I said, very thin.

  So into the house again, and smelling the richness of new baked cake and bread crusty from the oven. But I was afraid to eat much in case to spill, so I was off down to the field with the coats long before the match started, and everybody poking fun and saying I was too proud to eat. And indeed, going down the Hill with the boys all staring and taking off my cap to the women, that is what I was, proud as proud, and glad to have something to do with my hands. But I could do nothing with my nose and mouth, for they were all shapes and twitching like the tail of a cow, until, long before I got to the field, I wished I was back in my old clothes with nothing to feel except hot or cold.

  I was glad to be by myself on the field for a little bit and I went to find a good place to see the match, up on a mound half-way between the goal posts. There I put the coats, and sat down, with care again, and there is good to sit down with long trews and give the fronts a hitch so that the knees will be free of bag. It is almost a sign that you are a boy no longer, and then it is that you will think of a pipe and tobacco to round you off.

  The other team came in a brake with four good horses and changed behind the hedge, with a couple of boys to tell girls to keep clear. By that time our team were leaving their houses and there is pretty to see their jerseys coming down the street, and prettier still when the other team ran on to have some kicking practice. Now the field was filling, with crowds of people coming down the Hill, and dogcarts and traps and gigs coming along the mountain road every minute, until the square was full of wheels, and the fields up the mountain full of grazing horses, with some of the men looking after them to earn an extra pint.

  Ivor went on to referee and spin the coin, and when we won the end with the wind a big cheer went up, for the wind always dropped low toward sunset, so what there was of it, we would have for the first half.

  A healthy sound is the tamp of the leather ball on short green grass and pleasant, indeed, to watch it rise, turning itself lazily, as though it were enjoying every moment of the trip up there, against blue sky, and coming down against the green, in a low curve right into the ready hands of a back.

  A whistle from Ivor, and the captain on the other side takes his run and kicks, and as you watch the ball climb you see the teams running into position to meet one another underneath it.

  A forward has it, but before he can so much as feel it properly, he is flat on his back, and the two sides are packing over him. A whistle from Ivor, and the first scrum, and shouts for Davy as he lifts his arms to bind his front men. In goes the ball, and the tight, straining muscles are working, eight against eight, to hold one another and then to push each other the length of the field. But the ball comes free behind the pack, and their fly-half has it, so fast that nobody knows till he is on his way toward our touch l
ine with his three-quarters strung behind him and nothing but our full-back in his way. Shout, crowd, shout, with one voice that is long-drawn, deep, loud, and full of colour, rising now as the fly runs pell-mell and Cyfartha Lewis dances to meet him, and up on a rising note, for inches are between them, louder with the voice in an unwritten hymn to energy and bravery and strength among men.

  But Cyfartha is like a fisherman’s net. The fly has been too clever. He should have passed to his wing long ago, but he is greedy and wants the try himself, and on he goes, tries to sell a dummy, and how the crowd is laughing, now, for to sell a dummy to Cyfartha is to sell poison to a Borgia. The fly is down, and Cyfartha kicks the ball half-way down the field to our forwards, and has time to offer his hand to poor Mr. Fly, who is bringing himself to think what happened after the mountain fell on him.

  And my father is laughing so much that his glasses are having trouble to settle on his nose. Owen and Gwilym are shouting for all they are worth, for Davy has the ball and his forwards are all round him to push through the enemy. Shoulders and knees are hard at work, men are going down, men stumble on top of them, fall headlong and are pinned by treading, plunging boots. Red and green jerseys are mixed with yellow and white, and mud is plenty on both. On, on, an inch, two inches, bodies heave against bodies, hands grab, legs are twisted, fall and crawl, push and squirm, on, on, there are the white posts about you, but red and green jerseys hide the line and form a wall that never shows a gap. On, yellow and white, pack up behind and keep close, pull the ball into the belly and shield it with your arms, down with your head, more shoulder from the back, keep closer at the sides, push now, push, push, push. A red and green down in front, another, who carries away a third. Another push now, and the ball is slipping from him. A hand has come from the press below and grasps with the strength of the drowning, but a wriggle to the side and a butt with the hip loosens it and on, on, half an inch more, with an ankle tight in the fist of red and green who lies beneath two yellow and white and only enough of sense and breath to hang on.

  Down with the ball now, fall flat, with eight or nine on top of you, and there is the whistle.