How Green Was My Valley

  There is first of all surprise that a grown-up can cry properly, and then curiosity to see how they cry, and that causes a cold scrutiny in which all feeling is lost, even when it is realised that this is your own mother who is crying.

  You are intent upon the details.

  The shaking hands, swollen blue veins, smeared cheeks, hair coming loose under the stress of an almost rhythmic sobbing, of points of light flicking from brimming lashes, and you are amazed at the growing wetness of the handkerchief and the never-ending flow of big tears.

  This is your mother, you think.

  This poor, huddled woman over there, is your mother, who has told you so many times not to cry. After that, her red face and swollen, wet eyes, so miserable and helpless, come as a shock to make you laugh, and although you know it is wrong, you feel you must laugh outright, or go under the table.

  And when that is past, you will want to cry because your mother is still crying to herself, and cannot find comfort.

  It will seem shame to me, now, but my mother never meant the same to me after that. I could always hear her crying and see her face, though when I grew up, of course, I learnt better. But there it is.

  My father took no notice. I know now how he saw the matter. He was the father and head over all the house, and what came in and went out. His authority had been defied and he had taken the course he saw to be most fitting. For that reason he was clear in his conscience, and he said nothing to my mother for crying, because he knew tears to be a woman’s last refuge. She can go no further, especially if she is a good woman. And I will swear with my blood that my mother was good.

  My sisters were crying with my mother. Ceridwen was looking from the plates to my mother and then to my younger sister who was standing by the fire waiting for the kettle to boil. Angharad was about ten, then, and Ceridwen five years older. I was sure Angharad would say something from the look on her face. If you have never seen the look in the eyes of a cat when you have made a noise to frighten it out of sleep you will not know what was alive in the eyes of Angharad.

  She was as tall as my mother, then, and very fair with grey eyes lighter than a snow sky, and so big and clear you would think it not possible. So when they were full of her spirit, and she looked straight at you, you would feel yourself going small inside yourself.

  “Mama,” Angharad said, loud and clear and in the voice of my mother. “I am going down with the boys to look after them.”

  My mother stopped crying, and turned so quickly she made my father jump.

  “Angharad,” my mother said, and indeed her voice made me all cold, “close your mouth this moment.”

  “Mama,” Angharad said, “I am going down with the boys.”

  “This moment,” my mother said, and stood up. “Outside in the wash-house and get your work finished. Not another sound. If I will hear another word, you shall have a smacking, my lady. Go you, now.”

  My father pushed back his chair and looked at me.

  “Come on, my son,” he said, “we will go up on the mountain and find peace. Beth,” he said to my mother, “I will leave Angharad to you. But I hope she knows how far she can go. I have still got a strap. Come, my son.”

  I got down from the table very thankful, and ran to get my cap and my father’s stick. I loved walking with my father. I have often wondered whether the trouble in our family could have happened if my father had gone walking with the other boys as he did with me. If I had only known my father in the house, perhaps I could have spoken to him as the others had done, but knowing him as he was up on the mountains, I was never able to speak to him other than with respect and with love.

  He never once as far as I remember talked to me as though I were a child. I was always a man when I was with him, so no wonder Bron called me The Old Man. Everything I ever learnt as a small boy came from my father, and I never found anything he ever told me to be wrong or worthless.

  But perhaps the things that he held to be good and right to do, were not the good and right things for our time, or if they were, then perhaps he carried them out with too much force or with too straight a tongue and through that, put men against him.

  That afternoon we walked for miles along the river, first, and then up the mountain.

  Our village, then, was one of the loveliest you could see. I will say it was lovely, because it was so green and fresh and clean, with wind from off the fields and dews from the mountain. The river was not very wide, only about twenty feet, but so clear you would see every inch of rock through the bubbling water, and so full of fish that nobody thought of using a rod. My father taught me to tickle trout up on the flat rock by Mrs. Tom Jenkins’.

  Hour after hour we have sat there, dropping stones to frighten little ones away, and then watching a big one come up and making plans to have him.

  First you would have to roll back your sleeve sometimes up to your muscle, and put your arm right in the water, holding your hand open and steady. Of course, the river would be so cold sometimes, it would almost make you shout to have it in, but no matter, if you wanted a fish you would have to suffer.

  Then the old fish would come along very soft and quiet, and you would almost feel inside you that he was thinking to himself, watching your hand, and knowing that something was the matter and not sure what. Of course, you would not move a fraction, even your eyes, while all this was going on, because a good and sensible trout will swim back out of reach and stay there to laugh at you. Indeed, that is true, for I have seen them do it.

  Well, then, if he was so silly, he would come up to see your fingers and nose round them, and rub himself against them. Then it would be your turn. Quietly, you would bend your fingers to smooth him under his stomach and tickle his ribs. Sometimes he would flash away and you would lose him, but oftener he would stay on. Then you would work your fingers along him until your little finger was inside his gill.

  That was enough.

  Give him a jerk and pull out your arm, and there he would be, flapping on the rock.

  And there is good fresh trout is for supper.

  My mother used to put them on a hot stone over the fire, wrapped in breadcrumbs, butter, parsley and lemon rind, all bound about with the fresh green leaves of leeks. If there is better food in heaven, I am in a hurry to be there, if I will not be thought wicked for saying so.

  But there I am again, see.

  The quiet troubling of the river, and the clean, washed stones, and the green all about, and the trees trying to drown their shadows, and the mountain going up and up behind, there is beautiful it was.

  When birds were nesting we often went out to find the nests and look in at the eggs, though we never took any, mind. My father would never allow me to collect them, and he would stop the other boys, too. I think because of that, our Valley was never quiet of birds. There is strange you will never notice birds till they are gone.

  We caught two trout that afternoon and I put them in leaves in my cap to carry them on up the mountain. There used to be a scent that the wind pushed in front of it in those days, which must have come from all the wild flowers and the sweet grasses that grew up there then. This scent was strong that afternoon, and my father often stopped to breathe in, for he had told me time and time again that trouble will not stop in a man whose lungs are filled with fresh air. He always said that God sent the water to wash our bodies and air to wash our minds. So you would often see us two stop and breathe in and out, and go on walking up the mountain, perhaps pointing at a small bush we had seen coming up last spring, or looking to see if anybody had been at the primrose bed up by Davies the Woodyard’s field.

  We had gone a little way when I started to feel cold inside me, for we were walking across the mountain toward the field where I had seen Davy talking to the men. It was a Saturday and the men would be off, so I thought they were bound to be up here.

  “Dada,” I said, “could we walk into the other valley?”

  “No, indeed, my son,” my father said, “I am only
going to the top. I have got some writing for the Chapel to do. Gracious, what would we do over there?”

  “See Ivor and Bron,” I said, “it will be a nice surprise, Dada.”

  “Yes,” my father said. “If I find myself over by there this afternoon I will have the surprise indeed. To the top, and then home, us.”

  I was trying to think of something to keep my father from that field, even to rolling down the mountain. I would have done that, but the hedges would have stopped me.

  Sure enough, as we climbed the hedge by Meredith the Shop’s field, there we could see the heads of a big crowd of men two fields away higher up. We were getting higher here, and the wind was blowing away from us, so that we could hear nothing of their voices.

  My father stopped at once.

  “Is this where you came?” he asked me.

  “Yes, Dada,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, looking down at me. “So this is why you wanted to go to the other valley, eh? I will give you credit, my son.”

  The look-outs must have seen my father because one of them came running over, jumping the hedge as though it was only a foot high.

  “Mr. Morgan,” he shouted, “Davy wants you to come over if you will be so kind.”

  “What does Davy want with me?” my father asked back.

  “The men are over from all the other valleys,” Mog said, walking up, “and a lot of places. There are big things going on, sir.”

  “Big things, indeed,” my father said, “and empty as drums. Not even fit to put a cap on. Where is Davy?”

  “Over by there, Mr. Morgan,” Mog pointed. “He is going to address the meeting in a minute.”

  “There is lucky the meeting is,” my father said. “Very well, Mog, I will go. Take care of Huw for me, will you?”

  I knew it was no good to say anything, so I stood by Mog as my father went through the other gate into the pasture land where the men were crowded.

  But when he had gone, I told Mog I wanted to go to the back, so he told me to run over to a pile of stones behind some blackberry bushes, and be sure to come back to him in case my father would have his ears for supper.

  Good. So off I went, but as soon as I was behind those blackberries and out of sight, I ran off again through the sheep-gap and into the crowd of men, working my way through carefully up toward the front. As soon as I could see my father through a little space in the men, I stopped where I was.

  There was a lot of talking in whispers going on round about me, as though they had all decided on something serious. Up in front, on a sloping slab of rock, Davy, Dai Griffiths, and a lot of men I had never seen before, were all talking to my father. He was listening to them with his hands folded in front and his eyes shut, so I knew they were talking for the wind to make fun with, and it did make me laugh indeed.

  One by one they set on him, and one by one they gave up. At last Dai came forward to the edge of the rock and held up his hands.

  Everyone became still.

  Only the wind moved the ferns above us, saying shish to everything except itself.

  “Boys,” Dai shouted, “before you make up your minds properly to do what we think is right and best, it is certain you should have a word from Gwilym Morgan. Fair play, now.”

  The men moved about and a deep murmur started, which became a big cheer as my father stepped out and stood on the edge, looking all round, and down at the village, and up at the sky. I knew he was praying, and the others must have known, for there was a low rustle and then every cap was off, and every head was bent.

  “Boys,” my father said, “if you were clear in your conscience about what you want to do, you would not be up here out of the way, but down in the village for everybody to be listening. Wait. I am here by some happening which I will call the Will of God. I did not want to come, but now I am here I will give you what has been in my mind these months. You are right in what you want, but you are wrong in your ways of getting it. Force is no good to you until you have tried reason. And reason wants patience. And if patience wants a tight belt, then tight belt it should have. You cannot ask the help of God with hate in your hearts, and without that help you will get nothing. It is no use to say you will all go together in a Union if you have no notion what that Union is to do. Get better wages? You will have better wages or as good as can be got without a Union. The owners are not all savages, but they will not give you whatever you want just because there are a lot of you and you use threats. Reason and civilised dealing are your best weapons. And if your cause is just, and your consciences are clear, God is always with you. And no man will go far without Him.”

  But the men were becoming restless, and I could hear shouts from all round, though I was so low in the crowd I could hear nothing of the words. I saw my father try to go on, but then a man standing behind me took me by the shoulders and pulled me round.

  “You are Huw Morgan,” he said, bending down to me, “the youngest of them. Can you hear your old man?”

  “My father is not an old man,” I said, “and if he heard you, you would have it.”

  “Oh,” said another man, laughing, “the old man is in him for sure. Morgan, him, indeed.”

  Before I could run, the man who had me had picked me up and was holding me above his head.

  “Morgan,” he shouted, “here is one who will go without when you tighten your belt. And there are five of mine.”

  A roar cut my father’s voice in half. All round me I could see men shouting before I was put down and forgotten. As quick as I could, I wound in and out of the crowd until I reached the sheep-gap and looked back.

  My father was talking to Dai Griffiths up on the rock, and Davy was trying to get the crowd to settle down again. I saw my father shake his head and start to walk down the rock, so I ran back to Mog.

  “Deuce,” he said, “I did think you had taken lodgings, boy. Here is your father, now.”

  One look at my father was enough for me, and Mog was going to say something, but he stopped and began whistling under his breath instead.

  My father was so white there were blue patches under his eyes, and the whites of his eyes were pink, so that his eyes scalded you to look at them.

  And yet he was smiling.

  “Come on, my son,” he said. “Thank you, Mog.”

  “You are welcome, sir,” said Mog, and pulled off his cap.

  Nothing was said until we got to the top of the mountain, though all the way up the men were plain to be heard, and if we had looked back we could have seen them every step of the way. Over hedges and through gates, across fields and pasture, climbing rock outcrop, brushing through gorse and bramble, every second I tried to keep my eyes on my father, watching for some change in him, but even after all that climbing, he had not altered.

  He sat up on the rock at the top of the mountain facing into the other valley, and leaned back on his elbow.

  “Come and sit over here, my son,” he called, for I had gone off a little way to leave him be. “Not afraid of your father, are you?”

  “No, Dada,” I said, “but I thought you would want to think.”

  “I have finished thinking, Huw,” my father said. “My sort of thinking has no place now. Awful, indeed it is.”

  We sat in quiet for a time, looking down into the valley. The wind blew up here as though he had wet his lips to bring them smaller to whistle with more pointed music, but his tune was cold, and before long I was shaking. My father stared down at the Valley, but I did not put my eyes on him for long because I was afraid of waking him.

  I remember how cold was the green down there, and how like a patchwork counterpane with all the browns of the ploughing and the squares of the curving hedges. The farms were small as white matchboxes and sheep were little kittens. Indeed, if they kept still they would look like little rocks.

  Only in our Valley was there a colliery to poke its skinny black fingers out of the bright green. Over in here was all peace and quiet content, and even the wind sounded happier to
be working down there, coming up from our Valley with a joyful rush and pouring down here, passing us sharp and bitter cold, eager to lie along the warm fields and tease the manes of the horses browsing in the sun.

  “Sad it is, Huw, my son,” my father said, after a long while. “Sad, indeed. Here is everything beautiful by here, nothing out of place, all in order. And over with us nothing but ugliness and hate and foolishness.”

  “How is that, then, Dada?” I asked him.

  “Bad thoughts and greediness, Huw,” my father said. “Want all, take all, and give nothing. The world was made on a different notion. You will have everything from the ground if you will ask the right way. But you will have nothing if not. Those poor men down there are all after something they will never get. They will never get it because their way of asking is wrong. All things come from God, my son. All things are given by God, and to God you must look for what you will have. God gave us time to get His work done, and patience to support us while it is being done. There is your rod and staff. No matter what others may say to you, my son, look to God in your troubles. And I am afraid what is starting down by there, now this moment, is going to give you plenty of troubles in times to come.”

  My father spoke with his eyes in the sky, and I was glad he was looking so much better. He had a terrible temper indeed, but none of us ever saw it except me, and that only once and outside the house.

  “Let us go home,” he said. “Say nothing to Mama unless she asks. She has had enough for one day without more to weigh her down.”

  Back down the pasture we went, but not toward where the men were still standing. Perhaps it was through looking at the other valley so long that I got such a worrying shock when I looked again at ours.

  All along the river, banks were showing scum from the colliery sump, and the buildings, all black and flat, were ugly to make a hurt in your chest. The two lines of cottages creeping up the mountainside like a couple of mournful stone snakes looked as though they might rise up and spit rocks grey as themselves. You would never think that warm fires and good food would come from them, so dead and unhappy they were looking.