Ruth Dervla O’Connor was soon to be born at the family home in Senghenydd, south Wales on this ninth day of August in the year nineteen twenty three. Ruth’s mother and father were Irish and had moved to Wales at the end of the First World War in search of work. Her mother, Maeve an old looking twenty three year old was a fearsome woman of large build whose looks gave ample warning to the brave that they should not trifle.
Darragh her father, a colliery worker from the age of fourteen was the same age as Maeve, but the years of mining had ground the black dust into the lines of his face making him look older than his years. He was stereotypical with the build of a jockey, small, slim, and in so far as Maeve was concerned, he was understanding and knew when to speak which was rarely. When it came to the children and any task around the home, he did nothing. He regarded child bearing and child upbringing in the same way, that they were matters that only women could manage always falling back on his favourite phrase “that’s women’s work.”
Darragh had an unpredictable and violent temper which coupled with a love of the drink was a potent mix. For Darragh, fighting and drinking were two things he did exceptionally well and these were generally combined talents.
Darragh’s home was owned by the colliery company and was provided for miners who worked at the nearby mines. The two-up-two-down terraced tied cottage perched on the side of a hill, though small, was no better or worse than the homes of hundreds of other similar miners who lived locally. “A roof over your head, that’s what I work for” Darragh O’Connor would tell his family, and how true that was. Miner’s wages were pitifully low providing enough to feed the family and little more.
The small valley village of Senghenydd was a sad place for Ruth to be brought into the world. The people of the village had learnt to live with disaster and death on a biblical scale in the coalfields of the Welsh valleys over many years, and had also lost many on the battlefields of France in the First World War.
Death descended upon this valley in May nineteen hundred and one, when an explosion deep below ground rocked the village of Senghenydd and in a single moment, eighty one miners, some children, some fathers, others grandfathers lost their lives below ground in what became a precursor to a much greater disaster twelve years later. In that disaster, in nineteen thirteen, four hundred and thirty six men died in an explosion at the Universal Colliery Senghenydd, one of the worst mining disasters in the history of the British coalfield.
Mining ended in the village though some of the mining families remained, those whose husbands or sons were not on shift that day, but in nineteen twenty three when Ruth was to enter the world, many of the Senghenydd families provided men for mines several miles away. The nineteen hundred and thirteen tragedy left a profound sense of loss in the village, which was a mining village with no mine and a community with no heart.
The cottage where Maeve was to give birth was already home to two children, John who was four and Michael thirteen months. Maeve knew that another mouth to feed would stretch what little the family had and to augment the weekly wage, she would take in washing and sewing, working long hours for a pittance. This was a competitive business and throughout her pregnancy she continued the backbreaking work, fearing that if she stopped her few loyal customers would never come back. And, when the labour pains became so regular that Maeve feared giving birth in the back kitchen of her cottage, she simply asked a neighbour to call the midwife.
Motherhood, in these small communities was a rite of passage for the newly married, a mark of achievement bestowed upon those of child bearing age by the matriarchs: Your first-born would earn you the novice award; the second child merited a distinction and the third onwards, the Empire award for outstanding achievement. With each child came the right to move up the hierarchy of experienced and distinguished mothers. A novice with only one child could not even hope to enter the street corner conversation when advice was being given to a nervous first time mother-to-be. It was only when a woman had given birth to three or more children that she became an automatic entrant into the inner circle of real mothers. Such mothers had earned the right to tell of the horrors of childbirth, to relive every second, minute and hour of labour and to describe with chilling clarity the use of unimaginable devices with which to deliver a mother of her stubborn child. And so it was that Maeve was to enter the higher ranks of motherhood, that is, once she had completed this small matter in hand.
Childbirth had little dignity; it involved a midwife if you were lucky, and generally required at least two of the neighbours whose role was deliverance with the greatest speed and the minimum of fuss. These same women, often well into their sixties and seventies would one day bring a life into the world and the next be called upon to lay-out a neighbour who had died. This was woman’s work and there was little or no place for sentimentality.
Ruth’s arrival brought joy into the heart of Darragh her father. Though she was the third child, she was a girl and Darragh saw that as a demonstration of his manhood, a matter to be very proud of and, of course, a reason for a drink. Drink was to feature greatly in the life of Ruth and her other siblings both as a mark of great celebration and of drunken and often violent domestic incidents.
But today was a happy day. Darragh, still black with coal dust from his shift below ground simply looked at the child and marvelled at her beauty. The contrast could hardly be more marked, the whites of his eyes, his glistening white teeth and his coal dust blackened features set against Ruth’s ivory white skin and dark brown eyes.
“So what’s she to be called?” he shouted to his wife Maeve who by now was stoically back at her dolly tub in the back yard attempting to wash clothes that should have been washed and dried hours ago. “Ruth Dervla” she said and that was that. No discussion, no options, and certainly, no debate. Darragh often mused upon the origin of the names but never thought to question, that was not his place and my goodness he knew his place.
Ruth spent the first weeks of her life close to her mother, often wrapped in a shawl secured tightly to her chest Welsh fashion as it was known locally. Her bed for the first few months was the second drawer of a large chest of drawers that stood against the bedroom wall in her parent’s room. Ruth’s few months in this snug secure little makeshift bed was to be the only time until her late teens when she didn’t share a bed with one or more members of the family. Life was hard for her parents even though there were two sources of income, miner’s wages were low. Growing up in an ever-growing family became an increasing strain as each year Ruth’s mother gave birth to yet another child.
In all, Ruth became one of nine children. Each was unplanned but always loved in that matter-of-fact way that so characterised the ways of hard working families here in the valleys.
Maeve rarely touched or embraced her children other than when they were obviously distressed and then she would simply say, “Come to Mam and have a cwtch.” That affection lasted until the next child cried or the next chore needed doing. Never would affection of any kind be visible in front of Darragh nor would he invite or respond to the children’s need for attention or love. But to Ruth this seemed to be the conduct of all families she knew and so to her became the norm.
Words were few in the O’Connor family and conversation seemed limited to short meaningful and oft repeated phrases. Neither Darragh nor Maeve was well educated so it was no surprise that the English language was rarely searched for words with additional meaning to enrich a sentence. Darragh seldom spoke to his children but when he did, he relished the attention given to his few words. He always raised his voice when speaking to any of his children seeming to believe that this gave authority and status. Sadly, it did neither.
It was rare for Darragh to call his children by name and Ruth often wondered if he actually remembered them. Occasionally, he would attempt a name but after reeling off two or three incorrect names, he simply gave up. “You” he would bellow, “you, get my shirt”, and dutifully the child upon whom his eyes had fallen at that time would rush away and fetch the warm shirt from the drying rail by the fire. But then came round two of his ever more cruel games with his children. “The bloody thing isn’t aired,” he would bellow and with that, his hand would strike whatever part of the child’s body was still in range.
But the children were by no means saints and would deliberately have their backs to their father when it was obvious he was about to make a demand of them. This would cause him to try to remember a name to call, which amused the children until they heard him rise from his creaking old chair when they would run giggling into the street. He relished the authority that such anger and aggression displayed.
On a particularly warm summer evening when Ruth was barely five years of age, her father, already drunk from a trip to the pub on his way home from the pit, demanded a flagon of beer. He had no money left and an argument ensued when Maeve told him that there was no money in the house until the Friday, which was payday. Darragh’s limited vocabulary became confined to vulgarity, blasphemy, threats and then violence. Though hardly able to stand, he repeatedly lunged at Maeve, occasionally hitting her but each time he fell to the floor. His anger was by now a rage and it was clear to the five year old Ruth that unless he had his flagon of beer soon, someone, probably her mother would get hurt again.
Ruth ran to the pub and in tears begged the landlord for a flagon. The landlord, known to all in the village as “Dai Feathers”, (he being one of many David’s in the village and the one running the Feathers Pub), was able to hear the commotion for himself. He gave Ruth the flagon but not before inviting several customers at the bar to step out to the back yard to add flavour to the beer. Ruth ran home to find her father blue with rage collapsed on the scullery floor. He snatched the bottle and, as usual, attempted to lunge at her, but her youth and his intoxication left this round to Ruth. He only stopped drinking when he eventually fell over and into a comatose sleep. It was year’s later that Ruth understood the nature of the flavour that was added to the bottle, and the natural justice of the pub regulars seen as being appropriate to the crime of wife beating.
As Ruth came of age for school she automatically became eligible for jobs around the house. Those passed to her by her mother were simple shopping or fetching and carrying tasks. Those that came from her father were personal and aimed at making his life easier at the expense of others. He would demand that Ruth removed his boots when he came home from the pit and any delay in doing this was greeted with an increasing level of irritated anger that progressed to physical violence.
By the age of seven, Ruth had seen the arrival of five more siblings, three boys and two girls. Life was by now very hard. Sleeping arrangements saw all the girls in one bed and the boys in another. Everyone, children and parents slept poorly, ate little and lived in each other’s space and arguments broke out regularly.
Personalities were shaped not from the blossoming of a child’s individuality but by the fight for survival. As each child came into the family so the older ones were left more to fend for themselves. Ruth a seven-year-old first girl was taking on the responsibilities of an adult, preparing food, cleaning and caring for the young ones whilst her mother took on more work to feed the family and her father’s drinking.
Ruth enjoyed caring for the little ones and was soon to show early signs that children would become an important aspect of her personality and her life. She was as happy nursing a baby as she was changing and bathing one. The young Ruth could often be found, sitting on a stool, feeding a toddler whilst at the same time rocking a small makeshift crib with her foot. She was adept at caring for two children whilst at the same time calming the older ones from getting under their mother’s feet.
There were no family members locally as most still lived in Ireland. There were of course local aunties and uncles, neighbours whose special relationship and familiarity with Maeve and Darragh required that the children call them auntie or uncle. All other older acquaintances were always referred to as Mr or Mrs, even by Ruth’s parents.
One such Auntie was Auntie Lott. Auntie Lott, (Charlotte) her name taken from the family bible was a large person who always seemed old but never tired of Ruth’s company. Lott’s husband Arthur, a small cheery man worked at a nearby children’s home as a gardener. He was a man of infinite energy and a heart the size of the valley.
Auntie Lott’s daily attire was always the same, an ankle length black dress, and a crisp white apron. She called her dress six-day to distinguish it from her Sunday dress and of course, you never wore an apron on a Sunday!
Auntie Lott loved Ruth as if she were her own. Rarely did a day pass by without Ruth popping in to see her and there was always a piece of homemade tart or a slice of bread and jam waiting for her and an opportunity to talk and listen. These special moments spent with Auntie Lott and Uncle Arthur became increasingly important to Ruth as her family grew and as time to herself became less possible. Lott and Arthur were what the preacher would call God’s own. They saw life through the eyes of Ruth and hung on her every word as she described the events of the day or shared the things that troubled her.
Lott and Arthur’s own son had long ago left home and to them, Ruth was a daughter, granddaughter and a much-loved friend. Occasionally, Dai Evans, their son would be at the house when Ruth called. He was to the young Ruth a fascinating character who seemed to go to exotic and interesting places like London and Brighton. Lott described him as ‘an honest soul who never seemed to settle to anything’. Dai loved horses and horse racing and would regale Ruth with his stories about horses and horse racing tracks throughout England.
Neither Dai’s parents nor Ruth knew exactly what he did but this simply added to the mystery of this lovable and gentle man who was some twenty years older than Ruth but who always had time for her as she grew up almost as a member of his family.
Dai was to become a lifelong friend to Ruth though at this early stage of her life he was simply Dai Evans the man of mystery.
Ruth was bright but not academic at school. But like so many of her peers her life seen from the grime and poverty of the nineteen twenties and early thirties seemed predestined. Children went to school because parents were told to send them there. There was no real sense that anyone would leave the village for better things, though some did. School was to be completed and school years were not for enjoyment. School like home for Ruth was about male dominated discipline enforced with relish by Catholic priests and teachers who cited God as their authority.
A Catholic upbringing for Ruth in a Baptist mining valley brought education and prejudice in equal measure. But Ruth survived and as the years went by she became a model pupil and upon reaching the age of eleven was even considered for a diocesan scholarship examination.
We will never know if Ruth would have passed the examination. Like so many other valley children, the cost of a child going to a school away from the village was prohibitive and therefore their parents simply asked that their child not be entered for the scholarship. In later life, Ruth’s numeric skills suggest that she had a natural aptitude that was never recognised in childhood.
Tradition decreed that from a very early age boys went down the pit, worked on the railways or if you were exceptionally bright, you might work for the local Council. For girls there seemed no escaping the journey towards marriage and children and a repeat of their mother’s hard and often wasted life. Teenage years and the onset of womanhood brought more burden and responsibility upon the young shoulders of Ruth. Childhood had passed her by and her early teens were merging into a pre-destiny to follow her mother into a life of misery that she knew was not for her.
Ruth left school in the July of nineteen thirty eight one month away from her fifteenth birthday with no formal qualifications. She immediately fell into the fulltime role of assisting her mother with the daily chores and caring for the children. This brought her no independence, no income and no freedom. Whilst her friends were able to go to the cinema in Caerphilly once a week Ruth’s strict regime of family work and child care responsibilities continued.
Ruth often rebelled and her punishment when she was found out was severe. On one occasion having said she was spending her Sunday afternoon with an ex school friend, in itself not an untruth, she was seen by her father sitting on a bench holding hands with a boy.
On seeing her father the boy leapt up from the seat and was gone leaving Ruth to face the anger of her father alone. He took her by the arm and as though to demonstrate her sinfulness to all whom they passed he marched her slightly in front of him all the way home. Their journey took them passed the post office and shop, the recreation ground and the Methodist chapel, a deliberate act of planned and public humiliation on the part of her father.
With tears streaming down her face Ruth was paraded passed the village folk who were gathered in small groups in the street on this holiest of days and to further denigrate his daughter he accused her publicly of sinfulness and impropriety with the boy.
On reaching their home Ruth knew what awaited her. Ruth’s mother, brothers and sisters were gathered to witness the punishment and slowly he took the leather strap from his trousers bent her over the kitchen table and beat her until his own strength to beat her any more was exhausted. This was cruelty, depravity and humiliation in equal measures.
Within a few months of leaving school, Ruth was fortunate to be given a job in the local post office. She knew the owners, Mr and Mrs Thomas well and it was not long before Ruth took increasing responsibility within the shop and then within the post office itself. Whilst she left school without qualifications, Ruth had a good grasp of figures and was meticulous about balancing both the shop till and the books in the post office. Ruth enjoyed the work and the relative freedom it brought her and time passed quickly.
On the ninth of August nineteen thirty nine, Ruth reached the age of sixteen. She was a woman, though still five years away from the age of majority and still seen in the eyes of her father as a chattel. But Ruth was confident and capable and was increasingly seen by Mr and Mrs Thomas at the post office as dependable, honest and a very hard worker.
Ruth was already regarded as a beauty and turned many a head in the village which only added to her self awareness and inner confidence as she blossomed from young girl to womanhood. She was slim as were many young women of her generation but she also had a shapely hourglass figure and had learnt how to dress well and how to carry herself. She grasped any opportunity to look at the latest fashions and would tear designs from any magazine she laid her hand on. Ruth was a modest seamstress and could interpret the cut and shape of expensive clothing and transform a simple piece of material into a figure hugging fashionable dress.
Ruth had come of age, her childhood was behind her and her future and whatever that would bring beckoned her daily.