Chapter 2

Blydwan, 1910


Caged, the men descended the mineshaft until a metallic clatter indicated that the lift had come to a halt. They stepped out into a pool of blackness, lamps held aloft. They walked along a tunnel, interspersed with doors to assist ventilation, until they reached the seams they were due to mine. Pairs of men entered dark alcoves crutched with wooden joists. There was scarcely enough room for the men to fully swing their pickaxes, but they would occupy this space, stooping, while the sun shone over the mountains above.

Eli Jones had dark brown hair, like the mane of a bay pit pony. He was in his forties, with a muscular physique, but also something of a pot belly from pints at the colliery social club. Though he had lived in Blydwan all his life, he was deeply inquisitive about the wider world, which he knew from the papers was teetering on the edge of precipitous change.

‘How’s your Arthur?’ asked Eli’s colleague Tony, once they had settled into a steady rhythm, hacking the coal away from the surrounding rock.

‘He’s fine. He’s going to take the test for grammar school, hope he can make something of his life from that. Apparently there’s a good rugby coach at the grammar as well.’

‘There’s tidy! More of a reason for going than that high-falutin’ stuff they teach ’em. Can’t see the point of some of them things, like Latin and so forth.’

‘But I don’t want him to end up down by here. No life for a bright boy digging coal, is it?’

‘How you going to keep him through all that education, Eli? I’m sure lots of people would like their children flouncing around grammar schools, putting off going to work; but some of them have to get a job to feed their families.’

‘It’ll be worth it in the long run. It would be nice if Philip could go as well when it’s his turn, though that might be a stretch financially… anyway Morgana’s left school now so we’ve got some extra money coming in.’

‘What’s she doing?’

‘She’s been working at David Parry’s shop, but he won’t offer her full time.Bit protective of jobs for the family. Morgana might go into service.’

‘Whereabouts?’ Tony’s deepset eyes narrowed under his black brows, not that Eli could notice in the gloom. Tony did not like the idea of kowtowing to the gentry, but domestic service was still a steady, popular profession, particularly for girls.

‘I’ve heard there’s a job at Harstone. A friend of mine knows Rhodri Owen, the butler; apparently he’s a good bloke.’

‘It’s not so much what the butler’s like you need to worry about. It’s the nobs.’

Eli fell silent and did not converse again until their first stint was completed and the full carts of coal were due to be hurried to the surface. This took place along a network of tunnels as labyrinthine as the London tube, pit ponies facilitating an operation that had once been entrusted to children. Tony was ignorant of history and seemed quite content with his lot; but Eli realised that not long ago, his eldest son Arthur, aged eleven, could have been employed at Blydwan Colliery.

When they completed their eight hour shift, the day was already dimming, as it was early spring and the miners did not have the recompense of a sunlit evening.

They washed in a large communal baths. In this respect Blydwan boasted better facilities than many of its rivals, where workers would be turfed out, blackened, on to the street before wending their way home to a tin tub before the fire.

There was a spirit of camaraderie about the bathing, a relief from the miners’ monotonous daily incarceration. Men would surreptitiously compare their
endowments with those of their colleagues, or try to read the names on tattoos, maybe women they no longer loved. Eli Jones certainly loved his wife, Gwen, but was often
too exhausted from the demands of his job to indulge in amorous activity. His mind was focussed on the prospect of having his tea promptly placed in front of him.

After leaving the colliery, Eli walked along Blydwan’s main street then turned left towards his own house, part of a terrace with a pebble-dash frontage and roofed with slate. The welcoming sight of a glowing fire, flinging shadows across the front room, reminded him why he endured the tedium of mining. Morgana was meticulously laying the table for their evening meal, auburn hair cascading over her face when she leant forward. She wore a coffee-coloured pinafore dress, slightly too large for her slender frame; it sagged somewhat over the line of her modest breasts.

‘Hello!’ said Eli genially, opening the front door.

‘Hello, darling,’ responded his wife, Gwen. She had a clean and wholesome complexion, though with crow’s feet developing around her eyes. Her sandy hair was scraped into a bun at the back of her head.

‘Dinner’s ready soon,’ she said. She kissed Eli mechanically then returned to the kitchen.

They ate their dinner in the front room on a table spread with a cloth like an oversized doily. The meal consisted of bacon and potatoes, though Eli afterwards demanded some bread and dripping, saved from a roast at the weekend. He said little until he had finished eating, then asked his sons, Arthur and Philip, how their school day had been. When he turned to Morgana, who was clearing away the dinner plates as silently as she had laid them, Eli felt embarrassed and hesitated for a moment before speaking.

‘Busy at the shop today?’

‘Not particularly,’ replied Morgana in a terse and defensive manner. However, this gave Eli an opening for his next move.

‘I really think you should take up that vacancy at Harstone. It’s one of the most prestigious places to work in the valleys. Lovely surroundings…’

‘And work for the Ashen-Hills?’ interjected Gwen fiercely. ‘Don’t you think that’s hypocrisy? You’re in the union - you’re meant to be fighting for better conditions for the miners – then you want Morgana to go off and serve the idle rich.’

‘Service is still a good solid profession,’ said Eli. ‘Morgana’s not getting anywhere at the Parrys’ shop. This’ll be a great opportunity for her. She could rise up to become a housekeeper or a cook: they earn quite a decent wage.’

‘Are you going to listen to my views at all?’ demanded Morgana, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. She felt, since her parents were conducting a
conversation over her head, that she was already in a situation similar to a domestic servant. ‘Or are you just trying to get rid of me?’

‘Of course we don’t want to get rid of you,’ said Gwen, reaching out and clutching Morgana’s hand. ‘Eli’s only concerned that he’s struggling on his wages to keep us all.’

‘Yes, think of the family,’ said Eli. ‘I really want the best for all of you.’

‘I’ll consider it. But I want to know what I’m letting myself in for by there.What will it be like?’

‘Well, the Ashen-Hills are very wealthy and have owned the land the colliery stands on for generations. I’ve occasionally seen Lord Edward, the head of the family, visiting the mine, but he wouldn’t talk to the likes of me. He tends to get shown round by George Lawrence, who tells him whatever he wants to hear.

‘Apparently, a lot of extravagant parties are held at Harstone - that’s when your role becomes particularly important. The Ashen-Hills wouldn’t make a good impression on their guests if there wasn’t a high standard among the domestic staff, ensuring everything’s running smoothly. All the plate would have to be polished, never mind the furniture, and I expect you’d be scrubbing the floors as well…’

Morgana stood stony-faced, then retreated into the kitchen where she and her mother would wash up. Her father was not sure whether her silence conveyed acquiescence into the role he had suggested or resentment at the thought of it. He followed his daughter into the kitchen and leant on the edge of an oak dresser.

‘Please, my dear. It might be for a couple of years - I know that seems a long time to you - then you could move on. I’ve been down the pit more than twenty
years of my life.’

Dark. Damp. Dust. The threat of explosion. What her father had told her of the mines reminded Morgana that domestic service was almost appealing by comparison.

‘All right. But if I didn’t love you, I’d never do it, never.’

Eli felt a sense of relief and embraced his daughter. When the dishes were put away, he, Gwen and Morgana sat by the fire. The boys were playing outside on a scrubby strip of grass, flinging a semi-deflated ball at each other.

Eli perused the paper, which was headlined with an article about Edward VII. The king, a famously heavy smoker, had collapsed whilst staying in Biarritz and his
health was in a very fragile state. Meanwhile, in London, Herbert Asquith, the prime minister, was trying to get a finance bill passed. He was encountering opposition from
the House of Lords, who were displeased about the proposal to enhance the nation’s revenue by increasing land taxes. Such an imposition was hardly liable to ingratiate the Liberal government of the day with the aristocracy, who still dominated the upper chamber of Parliament. The budget that had dared to contain this proposal had been overseen by David Lloyd George; Chancellor of the Exchequer, reformer, Welshman.

‘Oh dear, the old devil’s not very well,’ Eli declared, displaying the page about King Edward to his wife.

‘What is it? Syphilis?’ asked Gwen bluntly.

‘Don’t say that in front of Morgana!’ exclaimed Eli.

‘I think if someone lives a life of sin, it’s bound to catch up with them in the end.’

‘I’ve heard he’s affable beyond, very nice fellow. Lot of folk call him the “Peacemaker”.’

‘All very well what folk say. Say he’s also against votes for women.’

‘Right little suffragette you are!’ laughed Eli. ‘ I don’t know if I could cope with you with more power!’

The comment was directed at Gwen, but Morgana also felt stung by it. She looked beyond the reach of the firelight, at a chink in the curtains that revealed a swatch of sootblack sky. She would soon be gone from this place.

Eli did not return to the subject of politics that evening. Though many changes were afoot in society, some he welcomed but not others. He approved of the social reforms of the ‘People’s Budget’, the rising power of the trade unions and the creation of labour exchanges to assist the unemployed. But he was not so sure about female emancipation. The prospect of a man’s patriarchal dominance being eroded, whether it was in his own home or the workplace, was not a pleasing one to contemplate.

‘I’ve been asked to do a reading in chapel this Sunday,’ said Morgana, turning towards her father and trying to rouse him from his postprandial slump.

‘Oh, that’s great, girl, I’m very proud of you.’

‘A passage from the Psalms. The minister says I’m doing very well at the scripture class.’

‘All right, I’ll try and be restrained Saturday night so I look my best for the service. I’m expecting Blydwan to beat Pontypridd in the rugby - easy match that - so I had been fancying having a few beers after.’

‘I certainly don’t want you getting blotto,’ Gwen commented censoriously.

‘As it says in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, “Know you not that you are the temple of God?”’

‘All right, we know you’ve already got your scripture knowledge certificate! Don’t try and steal Morgana’s thunder.’

Morgana decided she had had enough of her parents debating for that evening. She retreated to her bedroom, where she sat down on the counterpane. Dark furniture cluttered the confined space; floral paper covered the walls. Shelving beside a wardrobe propped up a few books: the Bible, a Methodist hymnal and some hand-me-down copies of Victorian novels. Morgana had recently started reading one that featured a young woman who, after a deprived childhood and a spell at a hateful school, became a teacher and governess. Such stories gave Morgana a visceral thrill.

She shut the door and lay down on the bed, just as her brothers thudded upstairs to the adjacent room. Voices burbled constantly for the next half hour until their mother came up to hound them to bed. Morgana could not quite make out the conversation, but the boys seemed to be playing marbles, which involved the added intricacies of concealing the gleaming, glass balls behind the legs of the beds or avoiding losing them down cracks between the floorboards. She felt too distracted to concentrate on reading until her brothers had quietened down. She brushed out the tangles from her hair and gazed at her reflection in an oval mirror, set upon the wall. She disrobed to her petticoats and scrutinised her figure, wondering whether her bust had grown to its full amplitude or whether there was still some enhancement to come.

Morgana eventually settled to her book, opening it at the following passage:

“It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth, to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from every connection, uncertain whether the port to which it
is bound can be reached and prevented by many impediments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me became predominant…"

‘Morgana!’

Eli was striking the door.

Morgana got up and, stuffing the book below the counterpane, let her father enter.

‘How about you write a letter,’ he said, ‘explaining your interest in the position at Harstone? Then your mother can drop it to Evans the post tomorrow.’

‘Not tonight, it’s too late now…but I’ll do it as soon as I can.’

Eli seemed satisfied and left to retire to bed himself.

Noise drifted up from the streets outside, young men returning home from the local. Their voices carried over the slag heaps at the edge of the colliery, over the
austere frontages of the Baptist and Methodist chapels, even over the sports ground that lay on the fringes of the town, further down the valley. The main road twisted as it left Blydwan, then straightened, chasing a river, heading for a lush, green fold of meadows that marked the boundary of the Ashen-Hills’ estate.