The Emerald Valley (18 page)

But that was only one year out of many. Mostly the Labour Party Fete was something to look forward to – and Harry was certainly looking forward to it this year, and not only because of the celebrities who would be attending.

It had occurred to him that there was a chance Margaret Young, the girl he had met walking to school during the strike, would be there. More than a chance, if it came to that. With her father, George Young, being the secretary of the local Labour Party, it was almost a certainty.

The day of the fete dawned dull and heavy, but at least it was fine. The procession which was due to leave the Market Place at one o'clock began forming up soon after noon, and when Harry and the two Clements boys came sauntering down the hill to join in they found the Town Silver Band already playing, the banners hoisted into position and legion upon legion of working men – all attired for the occasion in the ‘uniform' of their best caps and jackets – lined up behind them.

‘Is Mr Cook here?' Harry asked one of those closest to him. During the week there had been some doubts raised as to whether the Federation Secretary would after all be able to come, as he had been taken ill at a rally in South Wales and was reported to be still unfit.

‘Oh ah, he's here,' the older miner confirmed. ‘Said he'd have to be on his last legs before he'd let us down. He's up the front of the band with t'other big-wigs!'

Harry did his best to spot Mr Cook and Owen Wynn-Jones, but with a thousand or more men assembled it just wasn't possible. They were hidden behind the banners and a sea of caps. And he could see no sign of Margaret either, but she was probably already at the field and awaiting the arrival of the procession.

At last they were off and Harry felt as if he would burst with pride as the massed miners followed the stirring notes of the cornets and trombones of the Silver Band across the railway bridge and into the long winding Frome Hill. Behind the men came a hundred and more children, all in fancy dress and riding – for the sake of the little ones – in decorated wagons. Harry had spotted Fred and Bob, Dolly's two little boys, amongst them – Fred resplendent in a pair of dyed bloomers and knee socks, masquerading as Sir Walter Raleigh; Bob, his brother, his chubby face surrounded by a rim of shaped yellow crepe paper, his body clad in green pullover and leggings, purporting to be a sunflower. Today they and all the other children were to be given a free tea by courtesy of the Labour Party, and Harry felt a new thrust of pride and warmth as he savoured the wonderful heady sense of unity.

With a crowd as big as this one, two platforms had been erected in the field and Mr Cook, the main attraction, was to speak on both of them in turn. Having been at the back of the procession, Harry and the two Clements boys found themselves facing the platform where Mr Cook was going to do his ‘second house', but impatient though he was to hear him, Harry was secretly pleased to notice that while the other platform was being chaired by Tom Heron – the worthy, but rather dull miners'agent – ‘his'platform included both George Young and Owen Wynn-Jones.

Digging his hands into his pockets and settling himself comfortably, feet apart, Harry looked at them both with interest. Two men could hardly have been more different. Owen Wynn-Jones was a short, squat man who made up for his lack of height by a head of luxuriant silver-grey hair, an impressive gold watch-chain strung across his ample waistcoated chest, and an undeniable ‘presence', while George Young, father of Margaret, was a gaunt giant, a foot taller than the would be MP though his shoulders were bent into a permanent stoop. Yet both exuded the same sense of purpose – that dynamic determination that was uplifting every man, woman and child in the field today.

‘Comrades and brothers.' George Young, acting as chairman, had begun to speak and his voice, slow and vibrant, carried clearly through the hush that had fallen over the crowd. ‘I can't tell you how delighted I am to see such a large crowd here today to meet Mr Cook, our General Secretary, and also Owen Wynn-Jones, a man who one day without a doubt will sit at Westminster and help to govern our country with far more wisdom and compassion than is being shown at present.'

‘Hooray!' shouted someone away to Harry's left and when the general murmur of agreement had died down, George Young continued.

‘This is a great day for Somerset. We are one of the oldest coalfields in the country and during our history we have seen many stirring times and fought on more than one occasion for better conditions for miners. As far back as 1756 the Somerset men rebelled against their intolerable conditions and from then on, from time to time, we have had to take action in order to improve our position. But throughout our history, I do not believe we have ever encountered such problems as we now face. Yet I am not downhearted. Everywhere people are expressing sympathy with our cause and expressing it in tangible ways. Just today we have heard of a cheque for £270,000 being received from Russia, so Somerset miners will again get some pay this week.'

His last words were lost in loud cheers and he raised his hand to silence them.

‘We mustn't drown old Tom Heron. He's doing his best down the other end,' Harry whispered to Tommy.

‘Now, brothers, I shall not go on any longer,' George was saying. ‘I'm a man of few words, as you well know, but I'm going to introduce you to someone I know will move you greatly by his words. He's a courageous man, a determined man, with a strong sense of right and justice, and he is here to back us in our struggle. Brothers, I have the honour to welcome here a man who embodies all our hopes and the hopes of the Labour Party: Mr Owen Wynn-Jones!'

Once again the applause rang out, echoing like a thunder roll above the heads of the assembled men, interspersed with appreciative whistles.

A large, solid chunk of a man edged in directly in front of Harry, and as he shifted slightly to restore his view of the platform he felt a touch on his arm. Turning quickly, he was surprised to find himself looking into the smiling face of Margaret Young.

How she had got there he had no idea and didn't stop to wonder either. Quick colour was rushing into his cheeks. He had wanted to see her … now suddenly, all he could think of was that the last time she had seen him he was being frogmarched away between two burly policemen after the episode of the level-crossing gates.

‘Oh, hello,' he said, trying to sound a good deal more nonchalant than he was feeling.

‘Hello.' She had such a sweet smile, wide and natural, with hardly a hint of shyness. It lit up her small, even features, making her look even prettier than he remembered her, Harry thought. And today of course, he was seeing her for the first time out of school uniform. The square-cut neck of her dress revealed a slender, creamy throat and a crop of tantalising freckles along the line of her collar bone; the apple-green georgette skimming down to a dropped waist accentuated curves the gymslip had hidden.

‘That's my Dad,' she said proudly, nodding towards the platform.

‘Yes, I know. He spoke very well,' Harry said.

‘He was up half the night practising,' Margaret confessed. ‘Mum says he's not what you would call a natural speaker. It doesn't come easily to him. But I suppose when you really believe in something …'

She broke off, putting a quick finger to her own lips. Owen Wynn-Jones had stepped to the front of the platform and a reverential hush had fallen over the crowd. Even before the first rolling Welsh exhortation he had them spellbound, the magic that emanated from his rotund person silencing even the most irrepressible amongst them. They had heard it all before, of course; there was nothing new in being told that their lot was a hard one, that they were owed more consideration, better money and better conditions by the coal-owners, and that the fight to get these – long and bloody though it might be – must and would result in victory. The sentiments had been expressed in every corner of the coalfield, in pubs and clubs, at rallies, on street corners and at tea-tables over the modest strike-fare of bread and dripping. But oh, to hear it expressed like this in the ringing tones of the born orator!

The hush was complete. Every man, woman and child was silent and listening, holding their collective breath. Not a chesty old miner coughed, not a baby cried, not a dog barked. Even the cow somewhere out in the Co-op fields – who had been lowing all day for her calf – was silent and the cuckoo which flew a ceaseless path of song in the valley through the months of early summer seemed to have taken himself elsewhere.

To Harry, standing there in front of the makeshift platform, it was the most uplifting experience of his life. Thinking back on it in later years he was able to take it apart, separating each facet, each tiny, sensuous part – the sun breaking through the clouds to warm his face, the fresh sweet smell of grass newly trampled underfoot, the ranker odour of body sweat, the occasional tingling heat spreading across his bare arms when Margaret brushed against him, the sound of that deep resonant voice filling each dancing atom of sunlit air making it sing with the music of the valleys. But on that May afternoon he experienced it only as one intoxicating whole, one heady draught that permeated all his senses at the same time so that he felt totally at one with the universe, encompassed as it was here in the football field, and utterly certain that with unity such as this, and right and justice on their side, there was no way they could fail.

Too soon – far, far too soon – Owen Wynn-Jones wound up his speech, finishing on a glorious crescendo that seemed for a moment to take Harry's breath away. Then, as the applause began, he felt the sense of loss seeping in – a trickle that soon became a torrent. While the spell lasted anything was possible. He had even been a part of the group on the platform – one of the leaders, active for the strike, not just a part of the herd waiting patiently to be shown the way. Imagination? Maybe. Or maybe it was premonition, thought Harry as a small flame of excitement flickered within him, fanned to life by the cheering unity of the crowd around him. Maybe one day it would be him up there on the platform urging on the men, fighting for what was right. Owen Wynn-Jones and the others were special, of course – it seemed to him that if it were dark fiery halos might be seen glowing around their heads. He could never hope to be like them; even the thought would be pure sacrilege. But there were ordinary working men like himself who played an active part in the union or the Labour Party or both.

Strange how little he knew about either organisation, he thought. The union was something he had joined when he had been handed his first wages, the Labour Party was the organisation working people voted for in Hillsbridge and had done since the first candidate was fielded. But since he was not yet old enough to vote, that had not made any great impression on him.

Now the fervour that had been smouldering in him since the night of his father's illness flared again and the determination to do something concrete to assist the cause of the working man grew.

‘Do you have anything to do with the Labour Party?' he whispered to Margaret.

She laughed softly and he felt the quick colour rushing to his cheeks again. What was funny – that he would be interested in politics? But a moment later he was reassured.

‘Living in my house, it would be difficult to avoid it,' she explained.

‘Yes, I suppose it would …' He tried to visualise what it would be like to have George Young for a father and failed. ‘Your father talks a lot about politics, I suppose,' he said lamely.

‘Oh, I wouldn't say that. Well, he does, but not all the time,' she defended. ‘He likes lots of other things as well. Music, books …'

‘Oh!' Harry was speechless. Music to him was a good old sing-song composed of music hall favourites, Sankey's sacred songs and modern ditties such as ‘Chick-Chick-Chick-Chicken' with Charlotte at the piano. And books had come into the house with Jack and gone out with him. That anybody should list either as a favourite pastime was beyond him.

‘We do get roped in though,' Margaret went on. ‘We have people to stay sometimes. Owen Wynn-Jones came to dinner and I expect he'll come back for some supper too.'

‘Will he?' The awe that Harry was feeling was reflected in his eyes and she giggled again, causing the large miner in front of them to turn, glare and ‘Shush!' loudly.

It was Margaret's turn to colour, her face going very serious. Harry realised they had committed the heinous crime of talking and laughing while the Labour Party treasurer was following up Owen Wynn-Jones' rousing speech with a mind-bogglingly dull rundown on the facts and figures of the Distress Fund balance sheet – a definite anti-climax!

‘Do you fancy going up in the swing-boats when this part's over?' Harry whispered.

Margaret hesitated. ‘Oh, I'd love to, only … I'm supposed to be helping out on the pound stall. We've got to raise as much money as we can today …'

Harry shrugged. He didn't want to push himself.

‘All right. Maybe see you later.'

‘Yes, maybe.' He did not recognise the tiny edge of disappointment in her voice. Already his mind was returning to the speeches, to the feeling of unity and the spirit of determination.

I want to be a part of it, thought Harry. I want it more than I wanted a winning homing pigeon, more than I have ever wanted anything. I don't want to experience this comradeship just once or twice in a lifetime – I want to live and breathe it –
be
it. And I want to do my bit, however small, to help the cause.

What breeze there was on that Whit Tuesday afternoon was easterly, and from time to time it wafted the sound of the cornets and trombones of the Town Silver Band towards Hope Terrace, where Amy Roberts was attempting to do some ironing in the kitchen of her home.

Each time she heard it, sharp shafts of pain penetrated the thick fog of her grief and she wished she could slam the windows and doors and shut it out. Like the rest of her family she had always gone to the Labour Fete and it held for her, as it did for Harry, memories of carefree days that now seemed to her to have gone for ever. But the thought of the stifling heat which would result if she did shut up the house around her was almost as unbearable as the nostalgic sound of the band, so she told herself: You have to put up with it. You have to get used to life going on without Llew.