Old Peg-Leg Thomas hobbled in, grinning a toothless smile, his hand already out for a mug of tea. He gasped and heaved for breath, but he rolled a cigarette as soon as he had sunk into the most comfortable fireside chair.
‘Who’s yer butty-mum?’
Mike wiped his mouth and told him it was Danny Williams.
‘Ahhh, now there’s a good butty-mum … yer know, if yer get allocated a butty that don’t know the ropes then yer can spend maybe two years learning what should’ve been taught yer in the first week, an’ there’s the truth. Good butty, Danny Williams, knows what’s what, you got a good lad ter teach yer … is there another drop of tea fer me?’
Evelyne wiped her plate with some bread, washed it, and refilled it from the stewpan. She poured a fresh mug of tea and loaded a small tin tray.
Her mother, Mary, was lying in the big double bed. Hanging from the ceiling and all around the room were sheets drying and the men’s work clothes washed for the following day. The bedroom was above the kitchen, so the big fire kept the room hot and stuffy. Mary was dozing, her thick black hair loose, her cheeks flushed, and Evelyne saw she was sweating. Softly, she put the tray down, and went to the washstand, rinsed a cloth and crept quietly to Mary’s side. Evelyne mopped her mother’s brow as gently as she could, but Mary stirred, opened her eyes and smiled. Evelyne helped her to sit up.
Mary was in her ninth month, and very ungainly. The baby made a huge mound in the centre of the bed, a mound that didn’t seem to belong to the woman who carried it. Mary’s once-strong arms were thin, her hands bony, as was the rest of her body apart from her belly. It was as if all her strength and energy had been drawn from her and given to the unborn child. Evelyne propped up the pillows behind her Ma, and Mary leaned back. As Evelyne put the tray carefully on the bed, she noticed the tea and bread she had brought earlier had not been touched.
‘How’s our Mike, he get on all right, Evie?’
Evelyne nodded and began to tidy the room, patted the drying sheets.
‘Are you feeling any better, Ma? You not been sick?’
She watched as Mary used both hands to lift the mug of tea.
‘You eat the stew if you can, Ma, you need your strength.’
‘Get along with you, Evie Jones, treating me like I was a baby.’ Mary lifted the spoon and tried to eat but couldn’t, she felt too exhausted. ‘Spend some time with Mike tonight, it’s always bad on their first day. I’ll maybe finish my supper later … have you been in to see little Davey?’
‘I’ll go to him now. You try and eat, Ma, there’s not too much salt is there?’
Mary put her hand out to take her daughter’s, gripped it tight. ‘You’re a good daughter, and the stew’s just perfect… I’ll have a little rest now.’
She felt so weary, and her eyes closed. She was more than worried, she’d not felt as bad as this even with little Davey.
Little Davey was in his cot, his nappy wet, his shining face red and blotchy. He banged his rattle against the sides of the cot. Evelyne picked him up. The sheets were sodden, she’d have to wash them out in the morning. She put Davey on the floor while she changed the bedding and grabbed him just before he crawled out of the door, laid him on her knee and took off his wet things. The little fellow lolled in her lap, sucked her arm. She held him close, smelling his baby smell, his soft, downy hair. Little Davey was always happy, gurgling away, but his lolling head and drooping mouth revealed that he was spastic. The full extent of his problem was not yet defined, old Doc Clock putting it down to Davey being just that bit backward. Davey was three years old, but he could not walk by himself or say more than ‘Dada-dada’ …
By the time Evelyne had cleared the table and washed the dishes, filled the kettle for the tea caddies in the morning, it was nine o’clock. She made sandwiches for her brothers, packing them in their tins. The mines were plagued with rats so all food had to be carefully packed. She then washed the rest of her brothers’ clothes. They had already gone to bed as they had to be up at four for the five o’clock shift. Their beds would be taken by their Da and their eldest brother Dicken when they came home from the night shift.
It was after ten before Evelyne had a moment to sit alone by the big kitchen fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tiredness, she could hardly see her school books. She read by the firelight, careful not to get dust on the books that Doris Evans had lent her. This was Evelyne’s favourite time, the only time of the day or night when she could be alone. She treasured it, hungered for it, and used it. This was when she did her writing, when she could dream her dreams.
Mary woke and tried to ease her bulk into a more comfortable position. She sighed, this was one she could well do without, especially with Davey as he was. As she turned she saw Evelyne standing by the bedroom window. She said nothing, just lay and watched her daughter brushing her hair. ‘You awake, Mama?’
‘I am, lovely, I was just looking at you. Like a mermaid you are.’
Evelyne slipped into the big bed beside her mother.
‘It won’t be too long then I’ll be back on my feet.’
Evelyne snuggled closer, loving the smell of her mother. She kissed Mary’s neck then looked up anxiously.
‘I’m not too close, am I? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable … can I feel your belly?’
Mary laid her daughter’s hand on her stomach, so she might feel the baby kick.
‘Can you feel him? He’s a big one.’
Gently, Evelyne ran her small hand over the swollen belly, then she yawned and her eyes began to droop.
‘Goodnight, Mama, sleep tight, mind the bugs don’t bite.’
Mary eased her body into a more comfortable position and Evelyne’s hand slipped away as she fell into exhausted sleep. Mary stared at the ceiling, imagining mermaids reaching to her from beneath crystal-clear water.
‘I’ve never even seen the sea.’
Her own voice startled her, as if she had spoken to herself from the grave, and she was enveloped by an overpowering sense of loss. She sighed a deep, shuddering sigh, and two tears, like dew on a flower petal, slipped down her gaunt cheeks.
In the cold light of dawn Mary could just make out the fading photograph of herself. She was not alone, she was standing arm-in-arm with Hugh Jones on their wedding day. The love she still felt for Hugh couldn’t warm her. Her whole body felt as if it was growing colder and colder. ‘Where did I go?’ she wondered. ‘When was I last just Mary? Not Ma, not wife, but Mary.’ She couldn’t remember, and the harder she tried the deeper became her sense of loss. She wept because she couldn’t remember herself, could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t tired, when she wasn’t carrying or worrying about one child or another. Had her whole life just been rearing children? Cooking, washing, bak ing? When was the last time she had been up the mountain?
The pieces fell together in her mind like a jagged jigsaw puzzle. The blazing colours, the flowers … Mary remembered, oh, the mountains … the green fields, the clear, ice-cold water. Havod, the wondrous gardens at Havod, the peacocks. Then, like a picture postcard she saw herself as she had been before all these worn years. She was so free, so carefree, and she was laughing … her big, blown-up body felt light … she was running like a hare, running on long, strong legs, a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, throwing them up into the bright, warm, blue sky, they were cornflowers …
Then there was Hughie Jones. She saw him as he had been all those years ago, so tall golden they had nicknamed him ‘The Lion’. Hugh was the one she had set her sights on, although he was a real lady-killer with all the girls chasing him. But Mary had been the one, the only one, to give him not so much as the bat of an eye in church. She had felt his eyes on her, and when they all congregated outside the Salvation Army Hall she had turned to her friend and in a voice just loud enough for Hugh to hear she said, ‘Well, I’m going for a walk, going up the mountain.’ No one had wanted to join her, they talked of going to play the piano and have a sing-song. So Mary had gone to the mountain alone. She knew he was following her, way behind and below, but she behaved as if she was completely alone. She found a secluded spot, bathed in warm sunshine, and lay down with the flowers around her, the blue sky and bright sun above. He was close, she could feel him coming closer, but she kept her eyes tight shut. She knew when he sat down only a few feet away, but still she kept her eyes closed. It seemed an age, and when eventually she opened them he had made a crown of cornflowers, and handed it to her. She slipped it on her head and they looked into each other’s eyes.