Winter of the World

‘Not entirely. A few rooms have been reserved for their private use. But they don’t bother us at all. So you came here as a guest?’

‘Goodness, no, I don’t know them well. No, I was shown around the place as a boy, one day when the family weren’t in residence. My mother worked here at one time.’

‘Really? What, looking after the earl’s library, or something?’

‘No, as a housemaid.’ As soon as the words were out of Lloyd’s mouth he knew he had made a mistake.

Lowther’s face changed to an expression of distaste. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘How very interesting.’

Lloyd knew he had instantly been pigeonholed as a proletarian upstart. He would now be treated as a second-class citizen throughout his time here. He should have kept quiet about his mother’s past: he knew how snobbish the army was.

Lowthie said: ‘Show the lieutenant to his room, sergeant. Attic floor.’

Lloyd had been assigned a room in the old servants’ quarters. He did not really mind. It was good enough for my mother, he thought.

As they walked up the back stairs, the sergeant told Lloyd he had no obligations until dinner in the mess. Lloyd asked whether any of the Fitzherberts happened to be in residence right now, but the man did not know.

It took Lloyd two minutes to unpack. He combed his hair, put on a clean uniform shirt, and went to visit his grandparents.

The house in Wellington Row seemed smaller and more drab than ever, though it now had hot water in the scullery and a flushing toilet in the outhouse. The decor had not altered within Lloyd’s memory: same rag rug on the floor, same faded paisley curtains, same hard oak chairs in the single ground-floor room that served as living room and kitchen.

His grandparents had changed, though. Both were about seventy now, he guessed, and looking frail. Granda had pains in his legs, and had reluctantly retired from his job with the miners’ union. Grandmam had a weak heart: Dr Mortimer had told her to put her feet up for a quarter of an hour after meals.

They were pleased to see Lloyd in his uniform. ‘Lieutenant, is it?’ said Grandmam. A class warrior all her life, she nevertheless could not conceal her pride that her grandson was an officer.

News travelled fast in Aberowen, and the fact that Dai Union’s grandson was visiting probably went halfway round the town before Lloyd had finished his first cup of Grandmam’s strong tea. So he was not really surprised when Tommy Griffiths dropped in.

‘I expect my Lenny would be a lieutenant, like you, if he’d come back from Spain,’ Tommy said.

‘I should think so,’ Lloyd said. He had never met an officer who had been a coal miner in civilian life, but anything might happen once the war got going properly. ‘He was the best sergeant in Spain, I can tell you that.’

‘You two went through a lot together.’

‘We went through hell,’ Lloyd said. ‘And we lost. But the Fascists won’t win this time.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Tommy, and emptied his mug of tea.

Lloyd went with his grandparents to the evening service at the Bethesda Chapel. Religion was not a big part of his life, and he certainly did not go along with Granda’s dogmatism. The universe was mysterious, Lloyd thought, and people might as well admit it. But it pleased his grandparents that he sat with them in chapel.

The extempore prayers were eloquent, knitting biblical phrases seamlessly into colloquial language. The sermon was a bit tedious, but the singing thrilled Lloyd. Welsh chapelgoers automatically sang in four-part harmony, and when they were in the mood they could raise the roof.

As he joined in, Lloyd felt this was the beating heart of Britain, here in this whitewashed chapel. The people around him were poorly dressed and ill-educated, and they lived lives of unending hard work, the men winning the coal underground, the women raising the next generation of miners. But they had strong backs and sharp minds, and all on their own they had created a culture that made life worth living. They gained hope from nonconformist Christianity and left-wing politics, they found joy in rugby football and male voice choirs, and they were bonded together by generosity in good times and solidarity in bad. This was what he would be fighting for, these people, this town. And if he had to give his life for them, it would be well spent.

Granda gave the closing prayer, standing up with his eyes shut, leaning on a walking stick. ‘You see among us, O Lord, your young servant Lloyd Williams, sitting by here in his uniform. We ask you, in your wisdom and grace, to spare his life in the conflict to come. Please, Lord, send him back home to us safe and whole. If it be your will, O Lord.’

The congregation gave a heartfelt amen, and Lloyd wiped away a tear.

He walked the old folk home as the sun went down behind the mountain and an evening gloom settled on the rows of grey houses. He refused the offer of supper and hurried back to Tŷ Gwyn, arriving in time for dinner in the mess.