3

Spring is the most mysterious season, they were saying. The trees break into green song. Each leaf opens like a baby’s fist and grows towards the sun. Nothing can withstand our growth, today’s foot already too big for yesterday’s shoe. Observe our steady stretching in the air about us. We grow daily and nightly, and we are plants equipped to draw sustenance from all the elements.

Our heads grow bigger to contain more information. In school our faces among rows of faces each have two ears down which funnels are poured the measured gallons of knowledge. In each face two bright eyes stare at a map of the world. The mouths in the row of faces are shut until the bell rings and then they open and out in the asphalt yard voice the singing music of all the released limbs.

I go to bed at night, said Albie, with a meccano world shifting in my brain like the rails at Chester station, and my head on the pillow can hear a beautiful train steaming out into the night along sweet, shining rails to run through new worlds; or, more often, the street lamp glows in the street and out in the darkness a train that never stops, whistles to announce its swift and terrible passing.

I go to bed, said Iorwerth, to dream of Jesus Christ conducting me through orange groves on the edges of a dusty desert. “Here,” he will say, “is your field of work.” A cow perhaps will bellow for its calf, or a horse stamp his itching feathery leg on the cobbled floor of the stable.

I go to bed with a loaded mind, said Michael, filled like an omnibus with schoolboy stories. I am attached to the real and possible, dreaming possible dreams of schoolboys in which I may play a prominent part; escapades at the tuck shop and booby traps for unpopular masters: scoring ninety-nine before being run out because of a lazy partner. The rooks in the rectory trees caw as I put on my Eton jacket and slip into the quad of St James’s School.

My sister has gone to my aunt at Llandrindod Wells to be brought up there as a young lady. I had hoped that I would have been allowed to go to some kind of a public school, but my father says I must try the scholarship for the County School like everyone else. I resent having to compete, especially since I am aware that Iorwerth Hughes, who is also trying, is better than I, and will therefore appear higher in the lists. Why, when I know in my own mind that I am good, should I be forced to make myself appear dull and stupid? Why can no one else see the injustice of it?

Mam and Dad have wished me luck, said Iorwerth, and I have walked, jumped, and run to the Cross Roads to meet the bus. I have a satchel on my back which contains my lunch, a ruler, pencils, a pen and a bottle of ink. I stand alone and put my hand out proudly to the big-nosed bus. Obediently it stops. I clamber up. It bears me onward on a wave of excitement, until we reach the village, where Michael Edwards with a satchel too gets on board and comes to sit beside me. As the bus moves (but not before, because the driver is his uncle) I catch a glimpse of Wil Ifor inciting his followers to make rude gestures. Michael is very cool at first and says, “Damn this scholarship.”

The bus driver changes gear and turns to smile at us.

“You two going to try the Scholarship?”

We nod our heads fairly politely.

“My boy is trying, too. Albie his name is. Very tall for his age. Taller than both of you. Very dark like he is. Doesn’t talk much.”

We nod again politely. The driver resumes his duties, staring at the road ahead. Michael says to me, “If I happen to fail, you know, I expect I’ll be sent away to boarding school. So I don’t care really whether I pass or not.”

But by the time the bus reaches the town he is just as excited as I am. We descend all trembling, at the gates of the County School.

“Hwyl boys!”¹⁷ the driver shouts, as the bus moves off. “Tell Albie you saw me now!”

We follow a stream of boys through a door marked Bechgyn.¹⁸ We stand uncertain, my confidence and expectation is giving way to fear and despair. I seem to be the only lonely boy, because all the others are talking and laughing and smiling at each other. Michael is smiling and talking to a strange boy. We are rounded up like stray cattle by prefects and made to stand in rows.

The headmaster appears before us, like the hero of a myth, direct from heaven. He is a tall, thin-faced man in spectacles, drawing his long black gown tightly about him as if he were very cold in spite of the bright sunshine. In sharp English he tells us where to go and what to do, and not to cheat. He then wishes us luck. Abruptly he turns away, drawing his gown yet more tightly about him, and like a distant cloud of glory, disappears.

Oh, the minutes of pain and apprehension, pain in the stomach sitting in a large, strange, yellow desk in a strange well-windowed yellow room. The white virgin papers and the question papers are in the arms of a gowned young man who walks authoritatively between the desks.

“Who wanted this paper in Welsh?” He looks around, eyebrows and paper raised.

I, Iorwerth, suddenly remember, it seems the last moment, that I had been told that I did. In the room my arm alone is raised and as I look around I meet all faces turned for a moment towards me, expressing amusement, surprise, curiosity, disdain. And why does the master smile as he hands me the paper? My vest is sticking to my back as I grow hot with embarrassment. It is a relief to pick up my pen and plunge into the work.

The English paper was easy, said Michael, and I wrote a lot about Long John Silver.

The Arithmetic was simple, said Albie. I finished first and walked out of the room between perplexed boys, quietly triumphant. I am able to go home early before the others come out, but I wish to wait for company in order to compare notes and answers. “What did you get for No.6?” “Five pounds, two shillings and fourpence three farthings?” “That’s it! That’s it!” “Did you get this for No.4?” I shall be among the first group going home for dinner along the broad concrete slabbed pavement, and I shall be able to tell my mother over dinner how many sums I have worked out correctly.

The Arithmetic was awful, said Michael. My mind was matted and mazed like the hair of a newly-awakened restless sleeper, like wool on thorns. My new watch thudded on my wrist like a giant pulse. It was a relief to peel the problems off my eyes, and free my limbs from the stocks, and allow my tongue to express or transmute my late discomfort, and make excuses.

We eat our lunch in an empty classroom, Iorwerth and I. The children from town walked off in a superior manner to their various homes. Some even had bicycles and we watched them wistfully as they passed the classroom window. They seemed to us the élite.

We were allowed to wander about the school fields and watch senior boys of the school play cricket and the senior girls play hockey. These bigger people completely ignored us, but the boys only a few years older than ourselves chased us and tried to catch us. We saw them spread one small boy on the grass and holding on to his legs and arms, bump him. “I am determined,” I say to Iorwerth, “that they shall not do that to me.” “So am I,” he answers. We link arms and are more friendly now than ever before, standing together watching the big boys play cricket, at last real friends, shedding unworthy thoughts.

I forgive you for being superior and copying my sums from me, thought Iorwerth.

I forgive you for being better than I at school, and for talking Welsh to me, thought Michael.

I forgive you for calling me a Methody quack-quack and a goody-goody, and for choosing Wil Ifor’s company before mine.

I forgive you for looking hurt when I make fun of you, for looking pained when I swear in competition with Wil Ifor, and for making me feel uncomfortably guilty.

A party of boys came strolling up towards us, spreading out as they approached, deploying in order to surround us, camouflaging their intentions by hands-in-pockets and whistling. The leader has reached us and put his hands on my shoulder, said Michael.

“Excuse me,” he says laughing, “but we shall have to bump you.”

We are surrounded.

“No,” I say unsteadily, casting my eye around for an outlet.

“Oh yes!” he says pleasantly, giving me a push on the chest so that I tumble over a boy who has knelt behind me for this purpose without my seeing him. I am deafened by laughter and hands grasp my legs which do not even kick and grasp my arms which are like unresistant rubber.

I lie still on the grass, conscious of an ache of body and spirit and of grinning faces around me. I look around for Iorwerth. Iorwerth has gone, has fled, and, alas, I, only I, am left. I see his back making for the boys’ lavatories. I think bitterly “he has deserted me”, and get up, brushing my clothes with my hand, walking slowly away with tears in my eyes, towards the far end of the playing fields. I turn about to survey the innumerable children bigger than I, running about the field, each with a definite place in the large red building which stands as a background to them. I am moved to tears at the thought of my own unimportance.

I stood by the side door, said Iorwerth, waiting for it to open, among other early arrivals. I was safe here from any attack, within the shadow of authority, away from the lawless field. The tall well-built boy with jet-black hair who walked out of the examination first this morning was standing next to me, answering questions addressed to Albie with a small confident smile. This no doubt was Wil Ifor’s cousin. I, too, entered into conversation with him about the morning’s exams. I expect being so much taller made him stand quietly and not hop and skip about as we did. And standing still gave him a knowledgeable air. To be tall is to look over other people’s heads and to stand out among crowds, an obvious figure, and the watched do not indulge in antics, but conscious of stares, are still. I liked standing near him. Who is not pleased and flattered when the most outstanding person in a crowd gives him some particular attention; who does not bask in reflected glory?

I intended to say that I had met his father and that I knew his cousin, Wil Ifor. But somehow it did not seem meet. For Albie was a prince among boys, tall, stately and quiet, and so much better than his connections. In any case I am at ease now, no longer among strangers entirely, and not being completely ignored.

Michael has joined the queue a little way down from us. He is within speaking distance, but he makes no attempt to speak or draw near. I should like him to watch me talking to my tall distinguished new friend, Albie Jones, and share my unmitigated pleasure. Look, Michael, this tall boy has taken notice of me. Come here and let me tell him who you are. Come here! Come here! Michael continues to stare straight in front of him; his eyes are red.

When the examination was over, said Albie, I knew that I had done well; the questions were easy to answer, some of them even childish. I walked into town light-hearted, accompanied by two boys from the country, Iorwerth and Michael. Iorwerth has curly hair, a flat half-moon, girlish face and thin legs. Michael is a little taller than he, sturdily built, parting his hair and brushing it back like a grown-up. They both seem to like me, and listen to me with respect. They do not jeer and push and run away; they are not dirty; their noses do not run – they are clean and tidy and talk sensibly with the country accent, not with the town drawl.

“This is where I turn down for home.”

“Where do you live then, Albie?” Iorwerth says.

“Down there, Prince Edward Street.”

“That’s a posh name,” says Michael.

“They are council houses.” I blush and they look at each other.

“There’s a pub in Gorsedd called the Prince Edward Arms,” says Michael.

“Let’s hope we’ve all passed, yes?” says lorwerth.

“Hope so. Well, so long now.”

“I haven’t passed,” says Michael. “And I don’t care either. I’ll get sent away to boarding school and I’d like that.”

I lift my hand in gesture of farewell. “See you in September,” Iorwerth calls. And Michael calls, rather louder.

“Won’t you come up and stay with Wil Ifor in the village? We could play together then on the Gop.”

“P’r’haps. Don’t think so though. Mother won’t let me.”

“So long then.”

“So long.”

Michael and I go on to the bus station, said Iorwerth.

“Do you think Albie’s father will be driving tonight? He’s a good driver, isn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

Michael stares ill-humouredly at the row of buses in the petrol-and-fish-and-chips-smelling-yard. He is so cold towards me there must be something I have done to offend him. I do not want him to be vexed with me.

“Pity Albie can’t come up and stay with Wil, isn’t it?” I say.

“Too much of a mammy’s baby, I’m afraid,” says Michael.

I wish he would put himself in a better humour. I am happy. We climb into the empty bus.

When I arrived home, said Albie, Mam had a nice tea ready for me; a boiled egg, and then two eccles cakes to enjoy. I see how big I am in her eyes, Albert Thomas Jones,¹⁹ known as the cleverest boy at the British School,²⁰ accustomed now to being top of my class, and very capable too at football and cricket, which earns me respect among other boys. In the warm light of her love, I become beautiful, like a lily that blooms on a stagnant pool. Tall, clean, healthy and intelligent, I stand out among a classroom full of generally unhealthy untidy boys and girls (some suffering from curious diseases and from malnutrition). My mother sees in her vision a divine system of education select me for praise and distinction out of the side streets and the council houses, and save me from becoming an errand boy and cycling down blind alleys. It will mark me out for a career which takes into account the fullest flight of my knowledgeable imagination. Was it my mother who whispered first, “You get on, my boy, I want you to get on.” Was it my father who said, “You are better than a pension”? And was it I who dreamt of a wonderful job, superintendent of this or that, manager of a bank, a high official? I am tall and quiet, the object of admiration among grown-ups, the candle of my parents’ eyes. My father is quiet and content in his pride, going regularly to work. My mother, unceasingly proud of me, careful of my dress and manners, remembering all she had learnt as a girl when in service about the upbringing of a young gentleman. I am given sixpence ungrudgingly, having described the excitement of the day and my enjoyment of it.

“You deserve to go to the pictures,” my father said. “Indeed you do.”

I was still vaguely unhappy when I got out of the smelly, clattering bus by the Rectory gate, said Michael, and walked down the drive through the sweet air that blew between the trees. My mother was out to tea, at a big house in the next parish, and my father was in his study when I came in. Mary made my tea and asked me how I had enjoyed myself, what the County School²¹ looked like inside, and who was the conductor on the bus coming home. Mary knew all the bus conductors.

After tea I knock at the study door and go in. My father is at his desk, writing letters; as usual to do with the S.P.C.K.²²

“Well, my boy,” he asks me in English, looking at me over his glasses. “How did you get on?”

“Not so bad, Dad,” I say as cheerfully as I can, not wishing to appear anything but self-possessed and successful.

“Hum. Have you got your examination papers with you?”

They are all folded inside my pocket, the horrible Arithmetic paper in the centre. I never want to look at it again. The sight of it makes my eyeballs ache.

“Put them on the table, Michael. I’ll have a look at them as soon as I finish these S.P.C.K. letters. Was the History paper easy?”

“Oh, yes, Dad. Oh, yes. Oh, yes!” I see again those kind questions provoking my pen which only stopped over the spelling of long words which I can pronounce but cannot spell. I know that my father will go over it in detail later on, and I shall enjoy displaying my knowledge in the light of the Aladdin lamp on the study table.

I spend the evening on the square in the village, relating between games the trials of the day to Wil Ifor and the boys, very glad for once to hold the stage.

“Do you think you’ll go to the County School?” says Wil.

“I don’t care. I’d sooner stay here. More fun here.”

This was well received, and the boys escorted me to the Rectory gate, much to my pride.

But later, in the dark, after going over the Arithmetic paper with my father, questions and doubts assail me, and load my hot pillow with needles against sleep.

At our farm, said Iorwerth, we milk at five o’clock in the afternoon and when I arrived home, tired but still excited, I ran to the cowshed to relate my story to my father, who smiled at me while he listened, his head pillowed the cow’s flank, his hands rhythmically milking. Llew y Gwas²³ poked his large head out between the cows to look and listen every now and then and to laugh as he felt the occasion needed.

I ran in to my mother who was ironing on the kitchen table, who listened to my story as she cleared away a corner of the table to lay out my tea. When I sat down I realized how hungry I was and how thirsty, and I could not talk while I crammed my mouth with home-baked bread and butter and home-made jam, and lifted my large bowl to my face and drank deeply, making a sucking noise like Llew. As usual my mother said, “Don’t make that noise”; but today, without reproof in her voice.

After tea, refreshed, I go out into the yard and follow Llew as usual taking the cows to the field for the night. I know now that I cannot hang by their tails nor ride on their backs, therefore my whole endeavour is to imitate the experienced herding of Llew; a sharp cry to a wayward cow, a cut along a broad hide with my stick, or a general hoarse shout to inspire bovine fear and hasten them on their way. Hoi-hoi-hey-hwli-hwp!

My father calls me, whistles for Carlo, and we go to look around the sheep and the fast growing lambs.

“When will you be washing the sheep, Father?”

“In a week or two maybe. We’ll see how things go.”

Oh, these patient replies, signifying always no need for haste, foolish unwise haste. Will I never learn not to panic, not to be afraid of forgetting, of losing, of being left behind? Will I never learn to take my time, assured of my memory, skill, and, above all, the abundance of time?

The sun is setting behind the clump of fir trees at the far end of the field. Everything is quiet except for sporadic bird-song, the last song of the day, and the bleat of a lamb left behind by its mother. My father stands still, leaning upon his stick, reading the signs of the earth in an alphabet I have not yet mastered. Carlo lies down at his feet, tongue out, eyes turned towards his master’s face, watching for any signal. I talk more about the exam and my father listens, without ever taking his eyes off the ever-shifting flock. As we walk back through the sweet-smelling fields my father asks me:

“What do you want to be, Iorwerth, when you grow up?” And I think what a beautiful question. The choice. I may pick an occupation, a career, like a chocolate out of a handsome box of chocolates at Christmas or a birthday.

“A Preacher, father. A Preacher, I think.”

Chosen to please us all, mother, father and me. To stand in a red plush pulpit and finger the gilt-edged paper of the large black Bible, and talk and be listened to reverently by many people; to be one of the servants of Jesus, doing good, succouring the wounded, helping the needy; or a missionary perhaps, in hot lands. To be a man of note and importance among the groups of Welsh Divines hanging on the sitting room wall.²⁴ This is the prince of occupations, being among the chosen of God and the prophets of Israel, my nation.

That night for the first time, aged eleven and a half, I took my turn at reading a chapter of the Bible, before we went to bed. Candle in hand, I climbed the stone stairs to my bedroom like Dante up the stairs of heaven in the Children’s Encyclopaedia, and the air of heaven lay about me as I fell asleep and dreamt of my kingdom to come.²⁵

On a bright Saturday morning in June, said Michael, I was about to go out after breakfast when my father entered the kitchen, his spectacles in one hand and a paper in the other.

“You’ve passed, Michael,” he announced, “you’ve passed, but only just.”

Whoop! My joy and relief burst like a flare in my mind, drowning the darkness and the small daily thoughts in my mind in joyful light. The relief was as thrilling, as beautiful and as consoling as a new dawn.

Shall I dance about, shall I run into the garden and race around the lawn? Shall I climb a tree and leap from branch to branch? I execute a figure on the kitchen floor, and grab Mary, who is bending over the kitchen fire, lifting up a heavy cast-iron kettle of boiling water.

“Look out!” she screeches, “you silly foolish boy! Do you want me scalded and burnt?”

I am sobered. My thoughts and temperature return to normal.

“May I see it, Dad? May I see the list? Oh, look, the boy from town we met on scholarship day is top: Albie. Albie Jones. I thought he would be. Iorwerth is ninth. Where am I. Oh, dear, thirtieth!” (What is there to console me!) But my father smiles, more jolly than I have seen him for a very long time. There were two hundred trying! Thirty-two get scholarships. I am among them – only just. Compare the markings. Iorwerth has done well. What brought me down, oh, Arithmetic of course -only 40 out of 200 – and Iorwerth 165. If I had had 165 I would have been ... let me see ... eighth!

“If I’d had the same marks in Arithmetic I would have beaten him!”

“But you didn’t, my boy, so it’s stupid talk.”

“Yes, but ...”

“‘But’ is a very big word, Michael.”

That horrible paper, my hatred of Arithmetic is intense, and at the same time I long to belittle the science with some new casuistry of my own that would express my special personal hatred.

Oh, but the cloud on my mind has finally arisen, and I may now go out to play unmolested by torturing thoughts of failure. I have invented a new game and I shall call for Raymond and Wil Ifor; we shall play it on the hillside this morning. It is a beautiful day, soon the heat will be crackling in the gorse-bushes; the dew is rising and soon I may roll on the short, dry grass and put my ear to the ground for enemy footsteps and Wil or Raymond will leap suddenly on my shoulders, and we shall roll on the ground laughing in a life-and-death struggle, and the hillside will vibrate under our stamping feet.

Later we shall explore the cave higher up on the hillside where my father did excavations when I was still a baby. It is low, mysterious and lovely, and inside water drips down the slimy walls. Nothing could be more secret and yet from the green rampart that hides the cave’s low mouth there is a stirring view of the wide valley, of the roofs of the town on the coastal plain, and a glimpse of the bright sea. It is a good place for smoking. Wil Ifor will demonstrate his special trick, inhaling deeply and then filtering the smoke through a dirty handkerchief which he holds across his mouth so that it leaves a sinister brown stain. It is going to be a beautiful day.