A Million Tears (74 page)

There I found a decent hotel and stayed sober long enough to arrange my passport. By coincidence, by the time my passport was ready, the first ship sailing for Europe would be calling at Cardiff. I arranged a first class berth. I had plenty of money and if I ever managed to spend it all I could always send for more. I did not go and see John Buchanan and two weeks after arriving in New York I was aboard the ship. Amid cheering and weeping crowds, paper streamers fluttering in the sharp, snow laden breeze, and the sound of the tugs’ whistles signalling to each other, we left the dock side. I did not see the event, I was too busy in the bar.

I ate in my cabin, drank too much in the bar and fell into a painless sort of oblivion in my bunk. It was usually in the early morning hours of four and five before I finally fell asleep, and the middle of the afternoon before I got up. I remained meticulous in the way I dressed and even went to the barber’s for a haircut and beard trim.

It was late in the evening of the fourth day when it all changed. I was in the bar getting on a warm glow, the room beginning to sway a little, when the old man came in. He was bleary-eyed, scruffy-dressed, in need of a shave and when he stood next to me, stank like an old brewery. I was surprised he was in the first class lounge and even more surprised when the barman served him. He was skinny, about five feet six inches tall, with thinning grey hair and I guessed he was about sixty-five or seventy years old, but I didn’t look too closely. The barman half filled a glass with brandy, the old man gripped it in both hands, smiled weakly at me and drained it. He thumped the glass back on the counter and received a second. Two of the waiters caught him as he passed out, a second after he replaced the empty glass on the counter. I watched them carry him carefully through the door.

‘Who’s he?’ I asked the barman who was standing close by, wiping the counter with a towel.

‘A rich bum,’ he replied with a sneer. ‘If he had been a poor bum we’d have thrown him out. He’s worth a fortune. He’s a year younger than me and all he can do is drink himself to death, the fool,’ and with a curled lip of disgust he moved down the bar, to serve another customer.

The barman was short, fat and about fifty. The thought of the way the other man looked by comparison was a shock. I sat and looked at my glass of whisky, a special malt from Scotland. My thoughts were in a whirl but one thing was uppermost. I did not have it within me to drink myself into some sort of everlasting stupor because of a woman. I was young, reasonably well off, a trained lawyer and acting like a fool. I felt better as the thoughts took shape and I realised I had not even enjoyed my drinking bout. With that thought came another one; I was also hungry. It was time I had a meal in the restaurant.

They were still serving, in spite of the fact it was nearly 10.00 p.m. I found a quiet table in a corner of the ornate saloon. The white electric lights artfully surrounding the walls cast a subdued glow over the room. The cutlery gleamed like an array of surgeons’ instruments before a delicate operation and the single red rose in the centre of each table completed the effect of richness. There were still twenty to thirty people dining, filling half the tables. I ordered a filet mignon with salad, a bottle of red Burgundy, and while I waited for the order I looked around to see if there were any interesting women. There were but they appeared attached to men.

I noticed one in particular. She had black hair, a pretty but hard face and was wearing a dress cut low enough to prove her breasts were better than adequate. She was sitting two tables away and when I looked she turned her head slightly and smiled. I smiled back.

Later, after I had finished my meal and we had exchanged numerous glances and small smiles, I lingered over my last glass of wine and wondered how to approach her. There were four people at her table, two men and a woman. I guessed the man on her left, with his back to me, was her husband from the way he kept patting her hand. He was running to fat, his hair thinning and greased down to hide a bald patch. I watched them leave and from the way he weaved he was obviously the worse for drink. The woman paused at the entrance, looked back at me and smiled once more. The invitation was unmistakable and I followed them into the bar.

While the other three drank gin the brunette drank soda water and I sat at the bar drinking coffee. The time dragged and I was thinking about going to bed, regretfully alone, when there was a commotion at the table where they were sitting. The man I thought was her husband had apparently passed out. A couple of waiters helped to carry him out while the others followed. The second man could barely stand and the brunette helped him along. She turned her head and smiled again. I waited, deciding to give her fifteen minutes. If she did nor reappear by then, I told myself, the whole thing had been with no promise at all. I need not have worried because she was back within ten minutes. She slid onto the stool alongside me and ordered a brandy and soda.

‘Him,’ she said with a curl of her lips. ‘The pig has passed out as usual. And as usual I’ve put him to bed.’ She looked steadily in my eyes. ‘He won’t wake up until morning.’

I nodded. ‘Good. Cabin 8A. I’ll leave now and you follow in a few minutes.’ I did not wait for a reply but left the bar. I was not sure she would follow, but what the hell, I had nothing to lose. I had only just removed my coat and poured a whisky and water when the door opened and she came in. I handed her my drink and poured a second one. We touched glasses and exchanged smiles. I took a mouthful of my drink and stepped close enough to kiss her. She had a nice figure, though a little plump around the waist and backside, but warm and vibrant. Her dress was all frills, cut low on her shoulders. I pushed it lower and her breasts sprung free.

She helped me get her clothes off and then undressed me while we were still standing in the middle of the cabin. The night was one I remembered for a long time.

More nights were spent in a similar way until we reached Cork. There, she and her travelling companions were leaving the ship. I was only partly sorry to see her go. We had spoken very little, neither of us interested in the other in any way except sexually. I did learn her husband was a wealthy land owner in Ireland and that they were returning to their estates. I did not bother to ask where in Ireland and she did not bother to tell me.

On Friday morning at eight o’clock we arrived at Cardiff. I had been in a quandary about what to do when I got there and though I did not want to see any of the family I felt it would be churlish not to do so. Mam and Dad would never forgive me if they ever learnt I had been there and not visited everyone. Reluctantly I came to the conclusion I had to break my journey and stay at least a few days. As I disembarked I had a sudden impulse. Instead of going to Uncle David’s shop in Rhiwbina I grabbed a cab at the customs shed and went to Cardiff Central Station. There I bought a first class ticket for Llanbeddas.

As the train pulled out I watched the city unfolding with interest, trying to remember what it had been like when we had left. It seemed to me that the grey squalor, the cramped houses, row after row of them, were unchanged. After America the first thing I noticed was the lack of space, everything so crammed together. Even New York, by comparison, had seemed more open somehow.

The train travelled alongside the Taff, winding up the valley, stopping every few miles at small junctions with barely more than a few houses and a church nearby. The depressing air of the valley altered my mood and I began to regret the impulse that had brought me there. After all, what was I going back to see? An old house I had lived in years ago, an uncle and an aunt with whom we exchanged Christmas cards and occasional letters? There was little else apart from one thing. I changed trains in Pontypridd. My mind wandered back and I remembered incidents long forgotten in the excitement of being in America. I remembered the strike and the attack on the militia train. I thought of how we had come to know and love Uncle James but most of all that day intruded and I tried to keep it away. I played back every second of the other times, like when Grandma and Granddad died. I noticed there were no longer any gaps in the houses between the villages. Instead, the rows of houses were endless, boring, box after box of grey slated and grime covered walls.

I left my case at the station and trudged the familiar road towards Llanbeddas. God, how the memories continued washing over me. I passed the old house with hardly a glance and went up to the chapel.

I stood at the graveside and looked sadly at the headstone. Somebody was looking after it, as there were no weeds and a sprig of holly sat in an earthenware pot.

Sian

Dearly beloved

Daughter of

Evan and Megan Grif
fi
ths

Born 29
^th
July 1882

Died tragically 14
^th
October 1890

“
Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

The engraving was still legible. ‘You’d have loved America,’ I whispered. ‘It was meant for you, little sister. You would have had a pony, and lots of boy friends, and gone on picnics like you always wanted to. I wonder what you would be today. Married? With children? Would you have gone to university? What would it have been like to have had a sister with us? I suppose Mam and Dad have often wondered. Especially Mam, now Sion and I have our own lives. Think how much of a friend you could have been to her,’ I said sadly. The memories continued, mixed with make believe of what if . . . I heard footsteps coming along the path and looked up guiltily.

It took me a couple of seconds to recognise the old man as Lewis Lewis and I felt a little surprised that he was still alive. I had no wish to stop and talk to him, so I began to walk towards the gate, intending to pass him by. I could see the ruined building of the old school, now clear of sludge but with the roof collapsed and the walls a heap of rubble. I had tried not to think about it but now that day came back to me. The day it had all started for us. If it hadn’t been for the terrible accident at the school our lives would have taken a different path entirely.

I stood and looked over the valley. My thoughts now a kaleidoscope of memories. I had noticed Lewis Lewis looking strangely at me but he said nothing and I didn’t acknowledge him. As my eyes scanned from the turning gear at the mine, along the river, over the houses towards Pontypridd I realised that the past was a foreign country. Down the valley was the way out. The way of escape. I realised that I had changed not only in appearance but, more significantly, mentally. My horizons had been broadened to a world that few of the people here could comprehend. I felt superior, a greater being than those we had left behind. As I turned to go I looked back at Lewis Lewis. He was kneeling at Sian’s grave, picking weeds, tidying it up and immediately I felt a burning sense of shame. I had no right to feel superior or even different. I turned back, a lump of contrition in my throat.

Epilogue

The reporter surreptitiously wiped his eyes, the picture of David Griffiths at the cemetery alive and fresh in his mind. It had been two weeks but, my God, this was going to be a story and a half. Just then the door opened and the butler entered. ‘The Prime Minister is waiting in the drawing room, Sir,’ he told Sir David and then withdrew.

Sir David had nodded his thanks, also too emotional to reply for a few minutes. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, ‘That was the beginning. You’ve seen some of the written evidence of it in the safe,’ he waved his hand at the open safe door. ‘It began around the day a million tears were shed. It changed everything for all of us. It led us onto the world stage of events and for the last fifty years we have helped to shape the world. I thought it was important for you to know where we came from, how it is that my parents laid the foundations for the family which have guided us, or more specifically, have guided me, all these years. In 1912, thanks to my father, I began . . .,’ Sir David stopped. ‘No. That can wait.’ He heaved himself up out of his chair. ‘I mustn’t keep the PM waiting any longer. Help yourself to a drink,’ he waved his hand in the general direction of a cut glass decanter containing amber liquid, ‘and I’ll send Sian to entertain you.’

With that Sir David left the room while the young reporter poured himself a stiff malt whisky. He stood at the window and peered into the darkness; night had fallen early with a gathering of low dense clouds as snow was forecast. The door behind him opened and Sir David’s granddaughter entered.

‘What did you think of his story?’ she asked, helping herself to a glass of whisky which she promptly drowned with lemonade and ice.

The reporter hadn’t seen much of Sian during the past fortnight, the phrase ‘ships that pass in the night’ sprang to his mind. He pursed his lips in thought before answering. ‘We’ve only just begun. I think we’ve reached about, em, 1910, when the old boy returned to Wales.’

Sian nodded. ‘I persuaded Gramps that it was time to tell the story properly. After all, there have been loads and loads of rumours over the years and none of them have even come close to the real story. When you think what it was like back then – all that the family had to go through to get us here today – it makes you wonder.’ She broke off, tilted her head to one side and looked penetratingly at him. ‘Are you going to write the story?’