onto the washhouse roof, and come in through the window.
Grigori opened up and Lev climbed in. He was dressed smartly, in a jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a cap with a velvet band. His waistcoat sported a brass watch chain. His hair was cut in the fashionable “Polish” style with a parting at the side, instead of down the middle as the peasants wore it. Katerina looked surprised, and Grigori guessed she had not expected his brother to be so dashing.
Normally Grigori was pleased to see Lev, and relieved if he was sober and in one piece. Now he wished he could have had longer alone with Katerina.
He introduced them, and Lev’s eyes gleamed with interest as he shook her hand. She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Grigori was telling me about the death of your mother,” she explained.
“He has been mother and father to me for nine years,” Lev said. He tilted his head and sniffed the air. “And he makes good stew.”
Grigori got out bowls and spoons, and put a loaf of black bread on the table. Katerina explained to Lev about the fight with the policeman Pinsky. The way she told the story made Grigori seem braver than he felt, but he was happy to be a hero in her eyes.
Lev was enchanted by Katerina. He leaned forward, listening as if he had never heard anything so fascinating, smiling and nodding, looking amazed or disgusted, according to what she was saying.
Grigori spooned the stew into bowls and pulled the packing case up to the table for use as a third chair. The food was good: he had added an onion to the pot, and the ham bone gave a hint of meaty richness to the turnips. The atmosphere lightened as Lev talked of inconsequential matters, odd incidents at the factory and funny things people said. He kept Katerina laughing.
When they had finished, Lev asked Katerina how she came to be in the city.
“My father died and my mother remarried,” she said. “Unfortunately, my stepfather seemed to like me better than my mother.” She tossed her head, and Grigori could not tell whether she was ashamed or defiant. “At any rate, that’s what my mother believed, and she threw me out.”
Grigori said: “Half the population of St. Petersburg have come here from a village. Soon there will be no one left to till the soil.”
Lev said: “What was your journey like?”
It was a familiar tale of third-class railway tickets and lifts begged on carts, but Grigori was mesmerized by her face as she talked.
Once again Lev listened with rapt attention, making amusing comments, asking the occasional question.
Soon, Grigori noticed, Katerina had turned in her seat and was talking exclusively to Lev.
Almost, Grigori thought, as if I was not even here.
CHAPTER FOUR – March 1914
“So,” Billy said to his father, “all the books of the Bible were originally written in various languages and then translated into English.”
“Aye,” said Da. “And the Roman Catholic Church tried to ban translations-they didn’t want people like us reading the Bible for ourselves and arguing with the priests.”
Da was a bit un-Christian when he spoke of Catholics. He seemed to hate Catholicism more than atheism. But he loved an argument. “Well, then,” said Billy, “where are the originals?”
“What originals?”
“The original books of the Bible, written in Hebrew and Greek. Where are they kept?”
They were sitting on opposite sides of the square table in the kitchen of the house in Wellington Row. It was midafternoon. Billy was home from the pit and had washed his hands and face, but still wore his work clothes. Da had hung up his suit jacket, and sat in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, with a collar and tie-he would be going out again after dinner, to a union meeting. Mam was heating the stew on the fire. Gramper sat with them, listening to the discussion with a faint smile, as if he had heard it all before.
“Well, we don’t have the actual originals,” Da said. “They wore out, centuries ago. We have copies.”
“Where are the copies, then?”
“All different places-monasteries, museums… ”
“They should be kept in one place.”
“But there’s more than one copy of each book-and some are better than others.”
“How can one copy be better than another? Surely they’re not different.”
“Yes. Over the years, human error crept in.”
This startled Billy. “Well, how do we know which is right?”
“That’s a study called textual scholarship-comparing the different versions and coming up with an agreed text.”
Billy was shocked. “You mean there isn’t an indisputable book that is the actual Word of God? Men argue about it and make a judgment?”
“Yes.”
“Well, how do we know they’re right?”
Da smiled knowingly, a sure sign that his back was to the wall. “We believe that if they work in prayerful humility, God will guide their labors.”
“But what if they don’t?”
Mam put four bowls on the table. “Don’t argue with your father,” she said. She cut four thick slices off a loaf of bread.
Gramper said: “Leave him be, Cara my girl. Let the boy ask his questions.”
Da said: “We have faith in God’s power to ensure that his Word comes to us as he would wish.”
“You’re completely illogical!”
Mam interrupted again. “Don’t speak to your father like that! You’re still a boy, you don’t know anything.”
Billy ignored her. “Why didn’t God guide the labors of the copiers, and stop them making mistakes, if he really wanted us to know His Word?”
Da said: “Some things are not given to us to understand.”
That answer was the least convincing of all, and Billy ignored it. “If the copiers could make mistakes, obviously the textual scholars could too.”
“We must have faith, Billy.”
“Faith in the Word of God, yes-not faith in a lot of professors of Greek!”
Mam sat at the table and pushed her graying hair out of her eyes. “So you are right, and everyone else is wrong, as usual, I suppose?”
This frequently used ploy always stung him, because it seemed justified. It was not possible that he was wiser than everyone else. “It’s not me,” he protested. “It’s logic!”
“Oh, you and your old logic,” said his mother. “Eat your dinner.”
The door opened and Mrs. Dai Ponies walked in. This was normal in Wellington Row: only strangers knocked. Mrs. Dai wore a pinafore and a man’s boots on her feet: whatever she had to say was so urgent that she had not even put on a hat before leaving her house. Visibly agitated, she brandished a sheet of paper. “I’m being thrown out!” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”
Da stood up and gave her his chair. “Sit down by here and catch your breath, Mrs. Dai Ponies,” he said calmly. “Let me have a read of that letter, now.” He took it from her red, knotted hand and laid it flat on the table.
Billy could see that it was typed on the letterhead of Celtic Minerals.
“‘Dear Mrs. Evans,’” Da read aloud. “‘The house at the above address is now required for a working miner.’” Celtic Minerals had built most of the houses in Aberowen. Over the years, some had been sold to their occupiers, including the one the Williams family lived in; but most were still rented to miners. “‘In accordance with the terms of your lease, I-’” Da paused, and Billy could see he was shocked. “‘I hereby give you two weeks’ notice to quit!’” he finished.
Mam said: “Notice to quit-and her husband buried not six weeks ago!”
Mrs. Dai cried: “Where am I to go, with five children?”
