“Come here, boy.”
I went to her and she straightened. “There now,” said she. “It has passed. There is a swine of a sister for you, cursing and swearing, and not your fault. Don’t tell Mam, is it?”
I shook my head.
“No living soul?”
“Nobody, but you are leaving the pit.”
She did not hear me. “Jethro …” she whispered, smiling. “Hold me. Do not let me go.”
I held her, and she was trembling.
“You listening, boy?” she whispered, and I nodded against her face.
“Jethro, I am going into coal – as Liam Muldooney, and Towey, and Gwallter – and Dada. …”
“O, for God’s sake!” I said, and tried to throw her off but she clung as if sewn to me.
“I have seen the leaf,” she said. “I saw it yesterday – down in Number Six, before old Towey came down with the others. O, clear as day was that leaf in every vein, with a million years engraved on the shine! You heard what the old ones say about Number Six? As the leaf is pressed in coal, so will I become part of coal. Terrible is that Number Six. Day after day the props go down, it will have us for sure. First leaf seen for ages, this one.”
I held her off. “You will never see it again,” I said. “Forget the leaf.”
She smiled then, changed. Brilliant was that smile.
“Not bloody having me, is it?”
I looked at her.
“Not sharp enough by halves, eh?” And she whistled a note or two and snatched at her bonnet, tying the ribbons under her chin, turning her head at me, dimpling, changed. “You like this old hat, Jethro Mortymer?”
“Seen worse,” I said. “You are leaving Gower today, understand?”
“Gracious, no. I am seeing out the year now I’ve started, I am having my wages. But never mind about Gower. What you say about this new bonnet?”
“Wonderful,” I said to please her.
She put her hand to her waist and postured, swinging her hips. “Not bad for thirty-two, is it? Come on, boy, be honest. I still get the eye, mind, when I walk down the village. Very cosy, still drive the chaps demented. Reckon I might meet Willie O’Hara tonight; give the boy a treat, begging like a dog, poor soul.”
“That is better,” I said, relieved.
“Down on the Burrows. You ever gone courting on the Burrows down by the sea?”
“My business,” I said.
“O, beautiful is summer! And the moon comes up over the sea very tidy, very romantic, and the air is warm and sweet. Gentleman is Willie O’Hara, remember. Don’t let them tell you otherwise, Jethro. Might even marry little Willie, all two yards of him, you astonished?”
“No, Morfydd.”
“Cowman over at Kidwelly, good job, and ambitious. Might do worse, come to think of it.”
“Bring him home, then.”
“Eh, steady,” said she. “Mam would have him in bits. And I am trying him first, anyway, to see what stitches him together. Let you know later. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I said.
“Give my love to Mam and Mari. Back before midnight, God willing.”
As a young girl she went, bonnet tilted back, ribbons fluttering, and I stood by the door watching her as she went towards the Reach.
I covered my face.
As long as I live I will remember that May night, but not because of Morfydd. Strange it is how Fate strikes twice, sometimes within the hour; as if it brings its clenched fist to the face, crouched for the felling blow. With the house empty save for the boys asleep upstairs I was wandering about the kitchen lost, dying for Mam or Mari to come home, when a tap came on the door, and I opened it.
Effie Downpillow stood there.
Fresh from Monmouthshire was Effie; come back home to her county when the Top Town furnaces blew out, and scrubbing for Osian Hughes and his mam this past week, no more. Last Sunday at Chapel we all saw Effie, a little rag of a woman no older than Morfydd but belted by iron into skin and bone. She made spare money, she said, by selling her hair for wigs to gentry; sitting at home for weeks bald as a badger, rubbing in oils until the next harvest, but I never had the proof of it for she was pretty well shod when Osian took her in. Strange little woman this, and with dignity, though her legs and feet were bare. And at her first chapel Sunday I saw her eyeing me from the back pews, treating me important.
“You Jethro Mortymer?” she whispered now, hugging herself.
“Yes,” I said.
“The man of the Mortymer family, is it?”
I nodded, wondering.
“You asking me in, man?”
“Aye, come on,” I said.
Wandering in, hugging herself for winter, looking around with a vacant stare, and bags under her eyes like the fleshpots of Jerusalem.
“Over at Osian Hughes, I am,” she said.
I nodded, watching.
“Sit down, is it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sit down.” And she sat, perched as a bird, with her white hair hanging down either side of her face.
“You called to see my mam, Effie Downpillow?” I asked.
“Called to see you,” she said, so I sat down opposite, wishing her to the devil. Her eyes drifted around the room.
“Used to scrub here once,” she said. “For old Grandfer, before I took my two-room tumbledown up by Osian Hughes. Been away years, see – following the iron up to Monmouthshire, where you come from.” And she smiled of a sudden, leaning towards me. “You heard about my man, Sam Miller – his dad being in flour?”
“No,” I answered.
Strange, those eyes. In repose one moment, wild with their inner madness the next.
“Good grief, man. And my Sam foreman puddler over at Blaina – next place to yours – Nantyglo, isn’t it?”
“Who told you that?” I asked, more interested.
“Never mind who told me. Strikes me I’m on the wrong chap – you’ve never seen
