Aberfan Tip 7 – A Man of God
written by: Celia In Underland
51″41″41″N 3″20″51″W
He was a man of God. My grandfather.
When he wasn’t terrorising the townsfolk with placards warning of the second coming, their imminent death and subsequent banishment into the depths of hell, he was reading the scriptures. Just to be sure.
There is very little that can sway a man from such conviction.
A nine-stone weakling, by his own admission. It shook him to the depths of his faith. To his very essence.
More by accidental anecdote than actual admission, we learned that his heart was frail, a ventricle awry. It often skipped a beat or two in his childhood experiences. Which begs the question, I suppose. Did the heart maketh the man? Or did the man maketh the heart? Who are we to know whether his abiding faith was what held him long in this world or whether he had outgrown the ills of the juvenile twangs of an infant heart? And, was it his beloved deity that had made his recovery so miraculous?
He was a proud man, even then, his brother recalled after the funeral. He would tire easily when they used to play, his aorta heavy from the air of the hills. But he would remain resolutely silent. He would just slowly slip away when no-one was watching. It was his way. His brother said.
***
Slumped between the camber of the River Taff and the eastern side of Mynydd Merthyr, the village bore the scars of gluttony. The surrounding hillsides were tarnished by the already rich man’s shameless pursuit of wealth. But life does not consist of an abundance of possessions. They knew that. The villagers, they did not care for such pretence.
Amidst this malevolent stage, the village was an unassuming place. Traditions were sacrosanct. Sundays saw its residents clad in their finest regalia, ready to present their best face to the congregation. Their hymns were their communion. Intimacy binding them in sacred unity. Even the non-believers, the heathens, could not resist partaking in a village favourite. And oftentimes, the tiny chapel would seem to shake as one of the altos became a little too fervent in belting out their best rendition of, “Give me oil in my Lamp.”
After school had elapsed for the day, children would play frivolously on grubby streets; jumping on hopscotch squares fashioned out of chalk. The lucky few had a bicycle and they would peddle the narrow pavements, whooping with joy as freedom tousled their hair.
To an outsider, this village might seem like countless others in the Welsh valley – unremarkable, insular, and set in its ways. But, as any local would attest, if prompted, there’s an acute contentment to be found in the ordinary. The village’s allure lay not in its exceptionality but in its familiar, routine rhythm. A lullaby of sorts, that they all knew and could remember. It was forgiving and tender and reminded them that they were home.
On God’s barren earth some might pray for the weather that had unleashed those unrelenting October weeks. But this rain did little to quench the thirst of a broken land. Instead, it pelted the mountain face across the valleys like the bombs the Germans sent, saturating the drab, grey sky and drowning the spirits of the Celtic homeland.
Under the black earth, water and spoil duelled imperceptibly with primordial wrath.
Saturated air mingled with the noxious emissions from the mines, growing heavy with the smell of sodden stone as streams formed gullies that snaked their way down the mountain’s rugged walls, slithering sinuously through the paths of least resistance.
***
That morning, you left before the moon had time to dissipate into day. Before your son and daughter had arisen. You had kissed Vera on the cheek and thanked her for your lunch.
If you were the air, a breeze swirling seamlessly through branches, always looking skywards for hope, then Vera was the earth: grounded and steadfast, not one to chase fleeting dreams. She was a fierce matriarch, determined to raise her children right, with or without the scriptures.
Predictably, you had met at the chapel. You, shy and reserved; she, bold and perpetually chatty. Your paths converged during a Sunday school gathering. While she was forced to attend by her devout parents, you came of your own volition. You ended up sitting next to each other on the pew. She sang with all her might, loudly, perhaps a tad too loudly. Maybe you both knew it then. Each, the perfect counterpoint to the other’s duality.
You had been married for seven good years. And this morning was no different to any other.
There was nothing amiss. No omen. No sign.
You had thrown on your work boots hurriedly before trudging down the sodden path to the bus stop just up the road. Once settled onto the bus, in the half-light, you would read your beloved Corinthians from a dog-eared copy of the holy book.
“11 For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ. 12 If anyone builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw, 13 their work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light.”
At the workshop, you would nestle into the labour, comforted by the routine and consoled by the certainty. You liked working with your hands. At the very least, it provided a brief reprieve for your mind from your rather weighty contemplations of human existence. More than that, the patterns offered you reassurance.
Humans.
We seek equilibrium in the everyday. The symmetry from one day to the next gives us meaning.
Your father had been a toolmaker before you. You inherited the sacred art from generations past, a lineage of skilled hands and sharpened eyes. The workshop was your boyhood sanctuary; a place where metal met wood, and your heart was free to beat. When you were tired, your father let you sleep in the crib reserved for the night watchman.
You knew how to craft before you knew how to speak. You would listen intently as your father instilled the magic of the trade. A keen apprentice you relished in the precision. And you relished in every word your father incanted.
The smell of oil and the earthy scent of sawdust, like petrichor after a long spell of rain. And, the rhythmic chords of the saw across wood were your other God.
When I discovered your profession, much later than perhaps I should, I found it poignant that you would be the creator of tools that man could use for good. Or ill. The architect for the creator. It seemed like some kind of poetic justice. Or irony. I’m not sure which.
During your break, as usual, you’d quietly sip on dark tea and nibble on a leftover bakestone from Sunday lunch. And, as was customary, you would snatch a peek at your well-thumbed book, just a psalm or two, before returning to your bench.
After all, you were a man of God.
October, 1966
The wrath of rain.
In Aberfan, the villagers went about their day in synchronicity with nature and the weather. As it always was. As it had always been. Umbrellas wielded to combat the wet, clothes were draped on the airer inside instead of the washing line outside. Wellington boots replaced dappers. Nothing untoward.
Looming and omnipresent the spoil tip cast a fragmented shadow over the sodden streets. The miners, loyalists of their trade, the custodians of their legacy brought down from their fathers and their fathers before them, began their slow trudge up to the mountain face. Coal dust lined their lungs, a remnant of the relentless hours spent beneath the earth’s surface, toiling in the dampness of the mines. Every breath bore the weight of their sacrifice. But they did not resent it. They were dedicated to their heritage. Beholden to their families and tied by the manacles of economics, but still, they were grateful for the work.
After all, who could deny that the coal had provided dependable nourishment. A dinner table bearing a warm pot of cawl on a cold night or a summer’s afternoon tea of bara brith, spread thick with freshly churned butter. The children pummelling each other to grab the first bite, unfettered by the burdens of man. A comforting, familiar laughter would blanket their modest homes.
And there were simple pleasures too. Away from the family. The other men, the camaraderie at the local public house after a day spent slogging in the night. Over an occasional pint of ale, if the ‘better half’ allowed, they would recount the local legends who had passed on to higher things. Old man Thomas, who once got so inebriated he fell flat off the park bench and slept the whole night in a puddle, offered many habitual tales. Moments of levity that brought them closer together. Brothers connected by the blood and the heritage and the soul of the valleys. They would not escape. Even if they could. The coal dust might have seeped into their lungs, but the life it gave was worth every black speck. A small price to pay, they would say.
A small price to pay indeed.
The mountain of waste had piled higher, with each passing year, a testament to the grind of the community men and the insatiable appetite for the black gold that fired the meagre Welsh economy.
8:45. 21 October. 1966
A morning mist loitered around the village, intertwining with chimney smoke and rain. Mothers hurriedly adjusted collars and straightened ties, before lovingly tucking lunches of apples and shrimp paste sandwiches into leather side satchels.
Unhurriedly, the butcher set up shop, and the baker carefully stacked freshly baked cobs in a wicker basket before placing them in the window front to entice the passers-by. Not that she needed to. Her grandmother had taught her well. Marketing was for the city folk down in Cardiff. Not for the likes of her. No. Not she. She no longer needed to examine the old copybook to make her orders. Today was Friday. Gwyn Morgan would be in for his supply of cheese scones for Mair. Mums and grandmothers would steadily slip in throughout the day, picking up their weekend treats. Staying to chat for just a little bit longer than they should. A little titbit here and there. She knew all the sordid secrets of village affairs. But no one in the village was ‘one to gossip.’ Naturally. Gingerbread men would be gone by 1 o’clock. At 3 o’clock, the shop would be empty, and she could leave earlier than the other days. No one came to the bakery past 3 o’clock. And certainly not on a Friday.
At the school, the village children had begun to congregate: playing exuberantly in the schoolyard – jump rope, tag, and a few boisterous boys kicked about a football. Their teacher looked on through the window. She had taught most of their parents and had known most of these children all their lives. She watched Mary Kate spinning in childish fantasy, her laughter echoing across the concrete, casting a joyous spell over the school. Thomas Jones was nestled, as usual, in the nook of the old oak tree, removed from the lively throng of his peers. But, he was content in his world, turning the pages of his book slowly, ensuring he hadn’t missed a word. “He’s such a gentle soul,” she mused to herself, “It won’t do him good in this world, mind.”
She had been at the school for twenty-five years. First as its student, and now as its teacher. “Twenty-five years,” she murmured in disbelief, astounded at how quickly time had flown. Shaking off the weight of nostalgia, she moved towards the store cupboard to pick up the bell that would signify the start of the school day.
Life was as it always had been. Always was.
Before the school bell rang.
And it would change forever.
Utterly change.
9:05. 21 October. 1966
My grandfather could not have known.
There was no sign that could have told him so. No omen.
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