Billy was proud of his da for his boldness, his cleverness, and the fact that he had put his cap back on before leaving Morgan’s office. All the same he wished Da had been more aggressive. He should have talked to Morgan the way he talked to the congregation of Bethesda, predicting hellfire and brimstone for those who refused to see the plain truth.
At exactly seven thirty, Da called for quiet. In his authoritative preaching voice he read out the letter from Perceval Jones to Mrs. Dai Ponies. “The identical letter have been sent to eight widows of men killed in the explosion down the pit six weeks ago.”
Several men called out: “Shame!”
“It is our rule that men speak when called upon by the chairman of the meeting, and not otherwise, so that each may be heard in his turn, and I will thank you for observing the rule, even on an occasion such as this when feelings run high.”
Someone called out: “It’s a bloody disgrace!”
“Now, now, Griff Pritchard, no swearing, please. This is a chapel and, besides, there are ladies present.”
Two or three of the men said: “Hear, hear.” They pronounced the word to rhyme with “fur.”
Griff Pritchard, who had been in the Two Crowns since the shift ended that afternoon, said: “Sorry, Mr. Williams.”
“I held a meeting yesterday with the colliery manager, and asked him formally to withdraw the eviction notices, but he refused. He implied that the board of directors had made the decision, and it was not in his power to change it, or even question it. I pressed him to discuss alternatives, but he said the company had the right to manage its affairs without interference. That is all the information I have for you.” That was a bit low-key, Billy thought. He wanted Da to call for revolution. But Da just pointed to a man who had his hand up. “John Jones the Shop.”
“I’ve lived in number twenty-three Gordon Terrace all my life,” said Jones. “I was born there and I’m still there. But my father died when I was eleven. Very hard it was, too, for my mam, but she was allowed to stay. When I was thirteen I went down the pit, and now I pay the rent. That’s how it’s always been. No one said anything about throwing us out.”
“Thank you, John Jones. Have you got a motion to propose?”
“No, I’m just saying.”
“I have a motion,” said a new voice. “Strike!”
There was a chorus of agreement.
Billy’s father said: “Dai Crybaby.”
“Here’s how I see it,” said the captain of the town’s rugby team. “We can’t let the company get away with this. If they’re allowed to evict widows, none of us can feel that our families have any security. A man could work all his life for Celtic Minerals and die on the job, and two weeks later his family could be out on the street. Dai Union have been to the office and tried to talk sense to Gone-to-Merthyr Morgan, but it haven’t done no good, so we got no alternative but to strike.”
“Thank you, Dai,” said Da. “Should I take that as a formal motion for strike action?”
“Aye.”
Billy was surprised that Da had accepted that so quickly. He knew his father wanted to avoid a strike.
“Vote!” someone shouted.
Da said: “Before I put the proposal to a vote, we need to decide when the strike should take place.”
Ah, Billy thought, he’s not accepting it.
Da went on: “We might consider starting on Monday. Between now and then, while we work on, the threat of a strike might make the directors see sense-and we could get what we want without any loss of earnings.”
Da was arguing for postponement as the next best thing, Billy realized.
But Len Griffiths had come to the same conclusion. “May I speak, Mr. Chairman?” he said. Tommy’s father had a bald dome with a fringe of black hair, and a black mustache. He stepped forward and stood next to Da, facing the crowd, so that it looked as if the two of them had equal authority. The men went quiet. Len, like Da and Dai Crybaby, was among a handful of people they always heard in respectful silence. “I ask, is it wise to give the company four days’ grace? Suppose they don’t change their minds-which seems a strong possibility, given how stubborn they have been so far. Then we’ll get to Monday with nothing achieved, and the widows will have that much less time left.” He raised his voice slightly for rhetorical effect. “I say, comrades: don’t give an inch!”
There was a cheer, and Billy joined in.
“Thank you, Len,” said Da. “I have two motions on the table, then: Strike tomorrow, or strike Monday. Who else would like to speak?”
Billy watched his father manage the meeting. The next man called was Giuseppe “Joey” Ponti, top soloist with the Aberowen Male Voice Choir, older brother of Billy’s schoolmate Johnny. Despite his Italian name, he had been born in Aberowen and spoke with the same accent as every other man in the room. He, too, argued for an immediate strike.
Da then said: “In fairness, may I have a speaker in favor of striking on Monday?”
Billy wondered why Da did not throw his personal authority into the balance. If he argued for Monday he might change their minds. But then, if he failed, he would be in an awkward position, leading a strike that he had argued against. Da was not completely free to say what he felt, Billy realized.
The discussion ranged widely. Coal stocks were high, so the management could hold out; but demand was high too, and they would want to sell while they could. Spring was coming, so miners’ families would soon be able to manage without their ration of free coal. The miners’ case was well grounded in long-established practise, but the letter of the law was on the management’s side.
Da let the discussion run on, and some of the speeches became tedious. Billy wondered what his father’s motivation was, and guessed he was hoping that heads would cool. But in the end he had to put it to the vote.
“First, all those in favor of no strike at all.”
A few men raised their hands.
“Next, those in favor of a strike starting Monday.”
There was a strong vote for this, but Billy was not sure if it was enough to win. It would depend upon how many men abstained.
“Finally, those in favor of a strike starting tomorrow.”
There was a cheer, and a forest of arms waved in the air. There could be no doubt about the result.
“The motion to strike tomorrow is passed,” Da said. No one proposed a count.
The meeting broke up. As they went out, Tommy said brightly: “Day off, tomorrow, then.”
“Aye,” said Billy. “And no money to spend.”
The first time Fitz went with a prostitute, he had tried to kiss her-not because he wanted to, but he assumed it was the done thing. “I don’t kiss,” she had said abruptly in her cockney accent, and after that he had never tried it again. Bing Westhampton said a lot of prostitutes refused to kiss, which was odd, considering what other intimacies they permitted. Perhaps that trivial prohibition preserved a remnant of their dignity.
Girls of Fitz’s social class were not supposed to kiss anyone before marriage. They did, of course, but only in rare moments of brief privacy, in a suddenly deserted side room at a ball, or behind a rhododendron bush in a country garden. There was never time for passion to develop.
The only woman Fitz had kissed properly was his wife, Bea. She gave him her body as a cook might present a special cake, fragrant and sugared and beautifully decorated for his enjoyment. She let him do anything, but made no demands. She offered her lips for him to kiss, and opened her mouth to his tongue, but he never felt she was hungry for his touch.
Ethel kissed as if she had one minute left to live.
They stood in the Gardenia Suite, beside the bed covered with its dust sheet, wrapped in each other’s arms. She sucked his tongue and bit his lips and licked his throat, and at the same time she stroked his hair, clutched the back of his neck, and thrust her hands under his waistcoat so that she could rub her palms against his chest. When at last they broke apart, out of breath, she put her hands either side of his face, holding his head still, staring at him, and said: “You are so beautiful.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hands, and she stood in front of him. He knew that some men
