Another autobiographical episode as accurate as I can make it even to the dialogue. Set in Abercynon, South Wales, just after WW2 about two years after CASTLES IN THE AIR my previous upload. -------------------------------- SHOW ME YOURS, SOLDIER BOY The boy gazed rapt, fascinated. How lovely! he thought, just like the little pink and pearly shell his uncle had brought back from the tropics, or like the apple blossom, pale pink flushing to rose. All those pretty whorls and curlicues, much nicer than his silly old thing – which was just like a bald headed wriggler in a roll-necked boring brown sweater. Ginette shifted her leg slightly to one side, and her flimsy floral skirt freed itself from her scuffed knee and slid a little further down her thigh. More light and a clearer view. Their gooseberry bush ‘den’ was too cramped, too dark, and too scratchy. Oh, thought the boy, all moonshine and candy-pink and pretty. Ginette snapped her knees shut. "My turn now," she said impatiently, peering anxiously up and down the gutty. All clear. “Hurry up 'fore someone comes" The boy fumbled with his fly buttons, nervous, all thumbs. "O, here!" reaching out her hand, "I'll do it for you. Boys are hopeless ….." Her hand poised halfway, Ginette glanced up, blanched and gave a little fearful cry. Before he could turn to follow her look, the boy was stunned by the impact of a work-hardened hand across the side of his head. The pain seemed to hesitate and then sweep in agonisingly, swiftly followed by an all too familiar voice: "Ach y fu, mwchyn ddu" … in Welsh, so she was very angry. The boy cowered and covered the other ear. His gran's cracks usually came in pairs. Ginette had surreptitiously risen to her feet and was sidling towards her back gate just down the gutty. Gran glared at her, "and you, you dirty little girl …." Ginette began to run. "Come here, now just!" shouted gran, "your mam might be expecting you to be wearing these." The girl halted instantly. Gran stooped, retrieved a small scrap of white cotton edged with daisies, ["O Duw, Ginette's knickers," thought the boy] and threw them contemptuously at the girl, who caught them and slipped them back on with ease, despite the circumstances and the tears. The boy, sobbing now as the ache across his ear and cheek intensified, was lifted to his feet by the injured ear. "How could you do this," the tirade began, as he knew it must, "today of all days. Your Mam’s wedding day, and you to go to chapel in a new soldier suit. And why? why this mucky business on the back step in the gutty for all to see." She flicked her eyes briefly across the gutty to Tilly Twitch's back bedroom window. The boy, noting the target of her glance, now knew what – or, rather, who - had given them away. Tilly Twitch-and-Peek, nosing through her net curtains and telling tales, again. Gran continued, no pause for breath, "we'll have to keep this from your mam. I'll have to sweet-talk Ginette's mam, too. And your Granddad would turn over in his grave if he knew the shame of it!" ["O no," groaned the boy, inwardly, "not granddad Ifan, she'll never stop, now!"] She marched the boy, ear as a leash, towards the back kitchen steps, pulled him painfully into the stone-flagged kitchen, indicated his own little rickety wooden stool and – at last – released his ear. He sat. And listened. To the Litany …. "Your granddad Ifan, was a saint, you know, funeral cortege three mile long. Catholics there too, built their grotto he did, Chapel all his life as he was. All creeds there behind the cart. Black men, too, union rights for them he fought for, lost his job six months for that, and us on bread and borrow. Mine-owners, too, yes, for the shame of it. Killed him for a penny worth of brake-bolt, they did. But they showed respect. Yes, they all showed respect for Ifan Williams. Gentle was the word for him … yes … gentle man indeed. And a scholar," she concluded. The boy watched as his gran, shuddering as she always did at this point shook herself and hardened her voice which had softened gradually during her eulogy. “Now, down the gutty to Thomas’s with you and fetch your auntie Wynne. She’s to get you dressed for the wedding, with your mam busy with the food and all. And no visiting any old girls on the way, mind.” The boy, with immense relief, slid off the stool and was out of the door, down the garden path and into the cobbled and rutted gutty before there was any change of mind. Trying to ignore his stinging ear, he skipped along the cobble-tops avoiding the cracks – “had enough cracks off gran today!” he mused – and made his erratic way [no skip, but creep head down past number 21, Ginette’s house, all shouts and sobs] towards the dog-leg half way down. Before he reached it, his auntie Wynne appeared around the bend, laughing, hanging on Dai Whole-Half-Egg’s arm. As soon as they spotted the boy they sprang apart, Wynne pretending to pick some fluff from Dai’s arm. The boy grinned, he wasn’t fooled. Wynne scowled, she knew he wasn’t. Dai just looked embarrassed, and kicked a stone absently at the nearest gate. “Bore da, cari … Wynne,” he said as turned back down the gutty, “later?” Wynne nodded briefly, waved hesitantly, turned back to the boy and frowned. “Don’t you go carrying clecks to gran, hear?” she said, “Be my lovely boy and don’t mention Dai, now just.” She smiled appealingly at the boy, then leaned forward and looked more closely at his face. She took his chin in her hand and turned his injured cheek to the light. “Oho!” she exclaimed, “no, I don’t think you will be telling gran anything just now! In her bad books I see. Now tell your auntie Wynne what you did, eh? What got you in the Red Hand Gang?” The boy dipped his head, turned his toes inwards, then outwards and mumbled, “Ginette…” “Yes, Ginette … what about Ginette?” The boy replied as if the words were lead weights “Er … I was only looking, that’s all … just looking …” Wynne responded impatiently, “Do I have to drag it out of you?” No response. She changed tack and wheedled, “Come on, my lovely boy, tell your auntie Wynne…” The boy’s eyes filled and threatened to spill, and sobbed all in a rush, “Well, it is was dark in the goosegog bush, and it scratched Ginette’s bum, and we was careful on the back step for no one to see, and Tilly Twitch told gran and …” tears now, “gran cracked me one and said granddad Ifan would be ashamed and my Mam’s wedding would be spoiled and you’ve got to get me dressed” he finished lamely. “Oh, you naughty boy” suppressing a giggle, “did you like what you saw? was it worth the crack?” The boy nodded, a tiny smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “Well, Mr Casanova,” the boy looked up inquiringly, but Wynne waved this away and continued, “better get the soldier boy ready for the wedding” She thought a moment and then said, teasingly with, perhaps, a little malice, “I wonder how long it’ll take Tilly Twitch to spread the scandalous news to Myfanwy Parry’s house, eh?” The boy’s head, already dipped, drooped lower. Myf was his sweetheart, at least she was yesterday. Myf was petite and pretty with black, black eyes and long wavy hair, old beyond her years in a household of eight older brothers with just her and a bone-weary mother to keep them in order. Myf was his lady-love. He prayed that Tilly Twitch would be too busy snooping at the wedding preparations to do her usual gossip round, which would certainly include the Parry household. Tilly Twitch knew everything. The pair swung in through the gate and made their way up the uneven path past the rows of vegetables – and the gooseberry bush – to the open lean-to shed which served as a bathroom. Gran was waiting with a kettle of boiling water, ready to pour into the big white enamel bowl. She was not quite as stone-faced, the boy noticed with considerable relief. In fact, there might have been just a tiny trace of a smile when she asked Wynne, “Told you, has he?” Wynne, keeping a straight face with some difficulty, nodded. “Well make sure Megan knows nothing. I’ve warned Tilly Twitch to keep away till after the wedding, else I’ll find some gossip about her!” She turned and filled the bowl. “Scrub his face till the finger-marks blend,” she said, “no need to be too gentle.” She mounted the back steps and left them to it. The boy’s wedding outfit dangled on a makeshift hanger. It was wondrous – a perfect replica soldier’s uniform complete with Glengarry, made from lovely smooth American soldiers’ cloth, not the scratchy coarse British soldiers’ khaki wool. His new dad-to-be, Rob, had had it made in Belgium by a ‘master tailor’ who ‘owed him a favour or two.’ Auntie Wynne fingered the cloth and said, “There’s lovely now! Your new dad surely knows how to get things done, but” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “he’s not half as nice as your real dad was. Don’t forget that, my lovely boy, don’t ever forget.” The boy nodded solemnly, and the scrub-up and dressing began. ---------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- ------------------------ The wedding itself passed in something of a blur. In later years, the boy would remember only brief snatches, cameos, of the whole event. He remembered his mam, so pretty in her silk two-piece suit, hand-dyed and hand-sewn from a parachute [“Don’t ask where I got it,” said Rob]. He remembered her excited, then pensive, then angry with Rob who had returned from the Royal Oak somewhat the worse for wear, trailing Sion Francis behind who was even more inebriated. Francis Farm drove the cart to and back from the Mynydd Sion, the chapel on the hill – or, more accurately, Blodwen, the docile white horse, was pointed in the right direction and made her own way. There was enthusiastic singing in the chapel, tears from the women and much back-slapping and guffaws at bad jokes from the men. And there was the food! And what food – despite rationing, all the neighbours [including the local poacher] had contributed meat and eggs and bakery of all kinds. A feast, a real feast in these austere times. After the meal Rob and the men settled – with yet more beer – back in any available seat, Rob seemingly oblivious to the clamour outside the front door. Rob’s best man, Jim Ryan, a descendant of the Irish navvies who had built the canals and then settled in South Wales, nudged Rob [almost asleep] and urged him awake, “It’s the kids – they’re waiting for the groom’s bounty. Did you save some change like I told you?” Rob, puzzled, asked, “What for? I’ve paid everybody … chapel … even Sion Francis, though he’s still got to get us to the station to catch the Fishguard train!” he ended with a tipsy laugh. Jim explained to him that the groom’s bounty was the scattering of small change to the neighbour’s children. “Oh God,” said Rob, “I’ve only got notes left … can anyone change a fiver?” All the men laughed …. who would possibly carry that much change? But it was gran to the rescue, gran and her rainy-day pickle jar full of tanners, and bobs and threepenny joeys and threepeeny bits. “Here,” she grumbled, “there’s nearly five pounds here. Give me the note and I’ll keep the change. Be a lesson to you!” So, equipped with a pocketful of the precious bounty, Rob went out into the street with all the other men and the boy. He was amazed at the sight! There were at least fifty madly-excited children aged from five to about fifteen arranged in a ragged semi-circle around the front door all cheering madly or singing ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’ or shouting ‘Hail the Groom’ in English and in Welsh. Jim Ryan, doing Rob’s job for him really, but who cared, raised his hand for silence and was instantly and expectantly obeyed. “The groom would like to pass in peace, and take his bride. Here’s the bounty price,” he nudged Rob, who took out a handful “You’ll need three handfuls,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Here’s once” proclaimed Jim, nudge again. Rob scattered the coins and there was pandemonium – children [including Myfanwy, noticed the boy, but not Ginette] scrambling across the cobbles pushing and shoving for as many coins as they could grab. Myfanwy, used to tussling with rough brothers, as successful as any. “Two” and the grasp and grapple began again. “Three and last!” the remaining coins were fought after as avidly as before. The boy joined in with the other children, collecting coins and making his way sneakily towards Myfanwy. “Can we pass, now, free and clear?” “Yes, yes, the bounty’s paid!” yelled the children. The men, grinning, returned indoors. The boy stayed outside, having reached Myfanwy’s side. She looked meaningfully up at Ginette’s forlorn face pressed against the bedroom window. The boy, pretending not to notice the gesture, asked, “Did you get much?” nodding at her hand, “Will you show me?” Myfanwy smiled, a little tightly, and replied, “First, show me yours, soldier boy!”