Fall of Giants

The service was held on Sunday afternoon at half past two in a municipal park known as the Reck, short for Recreation Ground. A temporary platform was built by the town council for the clergy to stand on. It was a fine, sunny day, and three thousand people turned up.

Ethel scanned the crowd. Perceval Jones was there in a top hat. As well as being mayor of the town he was now its member of Parliament. He was also honorary commanding officer of the Aberowen Pals, and had led the recruiting drive. Several other directors of Celtic Minerals were with him-as if they had anything to do with the heroism of the dead, Ethel thought sourly. Maldwyn “Gone to Merthyr” Morgan showed up, with his wife, but they had a right, she thought, for their son Roland had died.

Then she saw Fitz.

At first she did not recognize him. She saw Princess Bea, in a black dress and hat, followed by a nurse carrying the young Viscount Aberowen, a boy the same age as Lloyd. With Bea was a man on crutches with his left leg in plaster and a bandage over one side of his head, covering his left eye. After a long moment Ethel realized it was Fitz, and she cried out in shock.

“What is it?” said her mam.

“Look at the earl!”

“Is that him? Oh, my word, the poor man.”

Ethel stared at him. She was not in love with him anymore-he had been too cruel. But she could not be indifferent. She had kissed the face under that bandage, and caressed the long, strong body that was so woefully maimed. He was a vain man-it was the most pardonable of his weaknesses-and she knew that his mortification at looking in the mirror would hurt him more than his wounds.

“I wonder he didn’t stay at home,” Mam said. “People would have understood.”

Ethel shook her head. “Too proud,” she said. “He led the men to their deaths. He had to come.”

“You know him well,” Mam said, with a look that made Ethel wonder whether she suspected the truth. “But I expect he also wants people to see that the upper classes suffered too.”

Ethel nodded. Mam was right. Fitz was arrogant and high-handed, but paradoxically he also craved the respect of ordinary people.

Dai Chops, the butcher’s son, came up. “It’s very nice to see you back in Aberowen,” he said.

He was a small man in a neat suit. “How are you, Dai?” she said.

“Very well, thank you. There’s a new Charlie Chaplin film starting tomorrow. Do you like Chaplin?”

“I haven’t got time to go to the pictures.”

“Why don’t you leave the little boy with your mam tomorrow night and come with me?”

Dai had put his hand up Ethel’s skirt in the Palace Cinema in Cardiff. It was five years ago, but she could tell from the look in his eye that he had not forgotten. “No, thank you, Dai,” she said firmly.

He was not ready to give up yet. “I’m working down the pit now, but I’ll take over the shop when my da retires.”

“You’ll do very well, I know.”

“There’s some men wouldn’t look at a girl with a baby,” he said. “Not me, though.”

That was a bit condescending, but Ethel decided not to take offense. “Good-bye, Dai. It was very nice of you to ask me.”

He smiled ruefully. “You’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.” He touched his cap and walked away.

Mam said indignantly: “What’s wrong with him? You need a husband, and he’s a catch!”

What was wrong with him? He was a bit short, but he made up for that with charm. He had good prospects and he was willing to take on another man’s child. Ethel wondered why she was so unhesitatingly sure that she did not want to go to the pictures with him. Did she still think, in her heart, that she was too good for Aberowen?

There was a row of chairs at the front for the elite. Fitz and Bea took their seats alongside Perceval Jones and Maldwyn Morgan, and the service began.

Ethel believed vaguely in the Christian religion. She supposed there must be a God, but she suspected He was more reasonable than her father imagined. Da’s ardent disagreements with the established churches had come down to Ethel merely as a mild dislike of statues, incense, and Latin. In London she occasionally went to the Calvary Gospel Hall on Sunday mornings, mainly because the pastor there was a passionate socialist who allowed his church to be used for Maud’s clinic and Labour Party meetings.

There was no organ at the Reck, of course, so the puritans did not have to suppress their objection to musical instruments. Ethel knew, from Da, that there had been trouble about who was to lead the singing-a role that, in this town, was more important than preaching the sermon. In the end the Aberowen Male Voice Choir was placed at the front and its conductor, who belonged to no particular church, was put in charge of the music.

They began with Handel’s “He Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd,” a popular anthem with elaborate part singing that the congregation performed faultlessly. As hundreds of tenor voices soared across the park with the line “And gather the lambs with his arm,” Ethel realized that she missed this thrilling music when she was in London.