Fall of Giants

Ethel picked up Lloyd. “I’m sorry, Mam,” she sobbed. “I thought perhaps… ” She choked up and could not finish the sentence. With Lloyd in her arms she pushed past her father. He did not meet her eye.

Ethel went out and slammed the door.

{II}

In the morning, after the men had gone to work down the pit and the children had been sent to school, the women usually did jobs outside. They washed the pavement, polished the doorstep, or cleaned the windows. Some went to the shop or ran other errands. They needed to see the world beyond their small houses, Ethel thought, something to remind them that life was not bound within four jerry-built walls.

She stood in the sunshine outside the front door of Mrs. Griffiths Socialist, leaning against the wall. All up and down the street, women had found reasons to be out in the sun. Lloyd was playing with a ball. He had seen other children throw balls and he was trying to do the same, but failing. What a complicated action a throw was, Ethel reflected, using shoulder and arm, wrist and hand together. The fingers had to relax their grip just before the arm reached its longest stretch. Lloyd had not mastered this, and he released the ball too soon, sometimes dropping it behind his shoulder, or too late, so that it had no momentum. But he kept trying. He would get it right, eventually, Ethel supposed, and then he would never forget it. Until you had a child, you did not understand how much they had to learn.

She could not comprehend how her father could reject this little boy. Lloyd had done nothing wrong. Ethel herself was a sinner, but so were most people. God forgave their sins, so who was Da to sit in judgment? It made her angry and sad at the same time.

The boy from the post office came up the street on his pony and tied it up near the toilets. His name was Geraint Jones. His job was to bring parcels and telegrams, but today he did not appear to be carrying any packages. Ethel felt a sudden chill, as if a cloud had hidden the sun. In Wellington Row telegrams were rare, and they usually brought bad news.

Geraint walked down the hill, away from Ethel. She felt relieved: the news was not for her family.

Her mind drifted to a letter she had received from Lady Maud. Ethel and Maud and other women had mounted a campaign to ensure that votes for women would be part of any discussion of franchise reform for soldiers. They had got enough publicity to ensure that Prime Minister Asquith could not duck the issue.

Maud’s news was that he had sidestepped their thrust by handing the whole problem over to a committee called the Speaker’s Conference. But this was good, Maud said. There would be a calm private debate instead of histrionic speeches in the chamber of the House of Commons. Perhaps common sense would prevail. All the same she was trying hard to find out who Asquith was putting on the committee.

A few doors up, Gramper emerged from the Williams house, sat on the low windowsill, and lit his first pipe of the day. He spotted Ethel, smiled, and waved.

On the other side Minnie Ponti, the mother of Joey and Johnny, started beating a rug with a stick, knocking the dust out of it and making herself cough.

Mrs. Griffiths came out with a shovelful of ashes from the kitchen range and dropped them in a pothole in the dirt road.

Ethel said to her: “Can I do anything? I could go to the Co-op for you if you like.” She had already made the beds and washed the breakfast dishes.

“All right,” said Mrs. Griffiths. “I’ll make you a list now in a minute.” She leaned on the wall, panting. She was a heavy woman, and any exertion made her breathless.

Ethel became aware of a commotion at the bottom end of the street. Several voices were raised. Then she heard a scream.

She and Mrs. Griffiths looked at one another, then Ethel picked up Lloyd and they hurried to find out what was happening on the far side of the toilets.

The first thing Ethel saw was a small group of women clustered around Mrs. Pritchard, who was wailing at the top of her voice. The other women were trying to calm her. But she was not the only one. Stumpy Pugh, an ex-miner who had lost a leg in a roof collapse, sat in the middle of the road as if knocked down, with two neighbors either side of him. Across the street Mrs. John Jones the Shop stood in her doorway sobbing, holding a sheet of paper.

Ethel saw Geraint the post office boy, white in the face and near to tears himself, cross the road and knock at another house.

Mrs. Griffiths said: “Telegrams from the War Office-oh, God help us.”

“The battle of the Somme,” said Ethel. “The Aberowen Pals must be in it.”

“Alun Pritchard must be dead, and Clive Pugh, and Prophet Jones-he was a sergeant, his parents were so proud… ”

“Poor Mrs. Jones Shop, her other son died in the explosion down the pit.”

“Let my Tommy be all right, please, God,” Mrs. Griffiths prayed, even though her husband was a notorious atheist. “Oh, spare Tommy.”