“Yes,” I said.
Seven years old now, ten by the bite of his teeth on his lip and he looked at me, his eyes large and blue, misted with tears.
“Where’s my mam, Uncle Jethro?”
“Richard, come to me,” I said.
Quite still he stood, hands clenched by his sides, his hair alight in a shaft of the window sun, then he lowered his face, weeping without sound.
“Richard,” I said, and reached out and drew him against me.
Just held him, pressing him hard against me, feeling useless, cursing coal, the county, the country; cursing the world. No need to tell this one, no explanations begged. Just held him while he wept, thinking of the soldier.
“Aunt Mari now,” I said. “Richard …” and I held him away, smiling. “With Jonathon for your brother, and Aunt Mari and me for your mam and dad.”
“Took by the coal, is it?” Lips trembling, he faced me.
“Yes.”
“Eh, the bloody old coal,” he said, eyes slanting away from me. “Mam did say the coal would be the end of it, one night in prayers.”
I nodded.
He said, hands screwing, “Staying with you, is it? Not going to the workhouse or the Hirings like Ianto Vaughan when his mam passed on?”
“No, Richard. We would not allow it.”
“Tea now, is it?”
The simplicity of the grief of childhood.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then I will help Aunt Mari bring it up.”
“I am coming down,” I said, getting out. “Would you have me lying for days like a lazy old lump?”
“Head bumps, is it?” he asked, feeling.
“Aye, but most of them going down. Away like a good boy while I dress, Dick.”
He got to the door, turned and flashed me a smile, but I heard the stuttering breath of his sobbing as he went down the stairs.
“Jethro,” said Mari when the boys were in bed, “you have got to get away. The soldiers will come back.”
“Yes,” I said.
Agitated, walking the kitchen for the last two hours, she was pulling at her fingers, encircling the finger that had once held her wedding ring, out of habit, for the ring was there no more. Face strained and pale she walked and turned, head switching to the slightest sound of the night.
“I have written to Mam and Tomos – Osian Hughes got it on the mail coach,” she said. “Had to say both of you had gone, in case it was opened. Policemen are opening all letters, they say. When she hears of the pair of you Mam will go mad.”
“But you were wise,” I said.
She was wandering from window to window, pulling the curtains tighter, hands trembling, her lips dead white, and I longed to hold and comfort her.
“Mari,” I said, and she turned as if struck.
“O, God,” she whispered, and wept.
Up then, pulling her against me. She did not fight free as I expected but clung to me, her fingers as claws on my back. Cold her face when I kissed it and she twisted away when I tried for her lips.
“You have got to get away, do you understand? There is no time for this. O, but a damned child you are, Jethro! They will drag you off as they dragged off Flannigan and the others. Transportation, that will be the end of it.”
Death, I thought.
“Talk sense,” I said, pushing her off. “I have less than a pound saved – how far will I get without money? Best to wait here till things cool down.”
“I have money,” she said.
“You will need every penny you’ve got.”
“I have fifty pounds all but two shillings. Fifty pounds. I told you before.”
Me staring now.
“Grandfer’s money,” she said.
I sighed. “You kept it pretty dark.”
“I told you down on the Burrows but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Yes,” I said, “I remember.”
I sat down, sweating, trying to get the size of it. Me setting three years aside to save fifteen pounds and her standing here with fifty.
I rose. “Then come away with me, Mari. We will take the boys and leave this damned place. There is a ship lying at Saundersfoot. …”
“Not with you, Jethro,” she said.
And she came nearer, standing above me as I sat down before her. Soft her voice now, every word as measured, her eyes unflinching on mine. “Time was when I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you, but not now. The women of you Mortymers are solid gold, Jethro, but they bring forth sons of solid iron – fighters all – one word and the blow, the fist before the word always, seeing but one side of the argument. Up workers, down gentry, isn’t it – and there are gentry folk in America as well as in Wales. And where you find gentry you will find the Mortymers to stand against them to take that which is theirs by right.” Her voice rose now, her eyes grew large and she swept her arm to the window. “Some damned good gentry people live in this county – not the puffed up little magistrates who have thieved ten fields – these are the people who have raised your gates, the absentee landlords who jump in to buy and jump back to London to live on their rents – these are the enemies.” She folded her arms and smiled down at me. “But there are other kinds of gentry, boy – gentlefolk whose ancestors have made their roots here – who were great in this county and decent to their workers before you damned Mortymers turned an eye to light. And that is your trouble, you Mortymers. You tar and feather every gentleman in sight, never choosing, never dividing the black from the white – everything with a foot of lace or a carriage is branded by the Mortymers as enemies of the people, but you are blind. Look towards Squire’s Reach – hasn’t Lloyd Parry treated us decent – did you not give your love to a gentry girl? Look North and West to the great mansions that were built by the Welsh as the beating
