Fall of Giants

“That’s a study called textual scholarship-comparing the different versions and coming up with an agreed text.”

Billy was shocked. “You mean there isn’t an indisputable book that is the actual Word of God? Men argue about it and make a judgment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how do we know they’re right?”

Da smiled knowingly, a sure sign that his back was to the wall. “We believe that if they work in prayerful humility, God will guide their labors.”

“But what if they don’t?”

Mam put four bowls on the table. “Don’t argue with your father,” she said. She cut four thick slices off a loaf of bread.

Gramper said: “Leave him be, Cara my girl. Let the boy ask his questions.”

Da said: “We have faith in God’s power to ensure that his Word comes to us as he would wish.”

“You’re completely illogical!”

Mam interrupted again. “Don’t speak to your father like that! You’re still a boy, you don’t know anything.”

Billy ignored her. “Why didn’t God guide the labors of the copiers, and stop them making mistakes, if he really wanted us to know His Word?”

Da said: “Some things are not given to us to understand.”

That answer was the least convincing of all, and Billy ignored it. “If the copiers could make mistakes, obviously the textual scholars could too.”

“We must have faith, Billy.”

“Faith in the Word of God, yes-not faith in a lot of professors of Greek!”

Mam sat at the table and pushed her graying hair out of her eyes. “So you are right, and everyone else is wrong, as usual, I suppose?”

This frequently used ploy always stung him, because it seemed justified. It was not possible that he was wiser than everyone else. “It’s not me,” he protested. “It’s logic!”

“Oh, you and your old logic,” said his mother. “Eat your dinner.”

The door opened and Mrs. Dai Ponies walked in. This was normal in Wellington Row: only strangers knocked. Mrs. Dai wore a pinafore and a man’s boots on her feet: whatever she had to say was so urgent that she had not even put on a hat before leaving her house. Visibly agitated, she brandished a sheet of paper. “I’m being thrown out!” she said. “What am I supposed to do?”

Da stood up and gave her his chair. “Sit down by here and catch your breath, Mrs. Dai Ponies,” he said calmly. “Let me have a read of that letter, now.” He took it from her red, knotted hand and laid it flat on the table.

Billy could see that it was typed on the letterhead of Celtic Minerals.

“‘Dear Mrs. Evans,’” Da read aloud. “‘The house at the above address is now required for a working miner.’” Celtic Minerals had built most of the houses in Aberowen. Over the years, some had been sold to their occupiers, including the one the Williams family lived in; but most were still rented to miners. “‘In accordance with the terms of your lease, I-’” Da paused, and Billy could see he was shocked. “‘I hereby give you two weeks’ notice to quit!’” he finished.

Mam said: “Notice to quit-and her husband buried not six weeks ago!”

Mrs. Dai cried: “Where am I to go, with five children?”

Billy was shocked, too. How could the company do this to a woman whose husband had been killed in their pit?

“It’s signed ‘Perceval Jones, Chairman of the Board,’ at the bottom,” Da finished.

Billy said: “What lease? I didn’t know miners had leases.”

Da said to him: “There’s no written lease, but the law says there’s an implied contract. We’ve already fought that battle and lost.” He turned to Mrs. Dai. “The house goes with the job, in theory, but widows are usually allowed to stay on. Sometimes they leave anyway, and go to live elsewhere, perhaps with their parents. Often they remarry, to another miner, and he takes over the lease. Usually they have at least one boy who becomes a miner when he’s old enough. It’s not really in the company’s interest to throw widows out.”

“So why do they want to get rid of me and my children?” wailed Mrs. Dai.

Gramper said: “Perceval Jones is in a hurry. He must think the price of coal is going up. That’ll be why he started the Sunday shift.”

Da nodded. “They want higher production, that’s for sure, whatever the reason. But they’re not going to get it by evicting widows.” He stood up. “Not if I can help it.”

{II}

Eight women were being evicted, all widows of men who had died in the explosion. They had received identical letters from Perceval Jones, as Da established that afternoon when he visited each woman in turn, taking Billy with him. Their reactions varied from the hysterics of Mrs. Hywel Jones, who could not stop crying, to the grim fatalism of Mrs. Roley Hughes, who said this country needed a guillotine like they had in Paris for men like Perceval Jones.

Billy was boiling with outrage. Was it not enough that these women had lost their men to the pit? Must they be homeless as well as husbandless? “Can the company do this, Da?” he said as he and his father walked down the mean gray terraces to the pithead.