The Reverend Henry Kewley, Rector of St Andrew’s, Presteigne, is in full flow. Tall, silver-haired and supremely self-confident, he has been holding bi-monthly meetings for the town’s business community for the past year. There has been a lengthy and tedious debate about the calibre of the town’s police force and the condition of its jail, but Kewley is now addressing the issue of Presteigne’s future livelihood.
‘… So, as I said, because of the sterling efforts of all concerned, we have fought off attempts to remove the assizes from our town. Let us give thanks for that great victory. But let me also address our deeper, longer term problems.
‘Gentlemen, I now come to a matter of great importance. The appallingly low prices our farmers are receiving are continuing to have a dreadful effect on us all. Let me give you some harsh facts. Although the town is now on mains water, almost all our houses are still waiting to be connected to a fresh, running supply. We have at least twenty cases of diphtheria every year, and the numbers of other serious illnesses – polio, in particular – remain stubbornly high. Our school population is still down, and the issue of recruiting quality teachers is as urgent as it was ten years ago.’
Henry Kewley has his audience of more than a hundred of the good men of the area, all neatly turned out with clean, well-ironed shirts and polished boots, in the palm of his hand. A hugely popular preacher, founder of the local football team and doyen of the boys’ club, he is the unofficial leader of the community. He not only has the skills to hold an audience, his subject is of grave concern to everyone in the room. Presteigne has been in the doldrums for almost thirty years; its once prosperous High Street and pretentiously grand Broad Street are now full of boarded-up shops, closed pubs and empty commercial premises. The town looks grey; its people are disheartened, and many are pitiably poor.
‘We are now a town of barely one thousand souls, far fewer than when we were all boys. Rather than bringing trade to the town, the railway has taken business away. The big houses now go to Hereford, or even London, for their fancy goods. The tannery, brickworks, nail factory and sawmill have all closed. Leominster and Ludlow’s streets are full of motor cars and their grating horns. But, at the last count, we have only nine registered motor cars and three motorcycles in our entire area. Although I hardly relish the thought of their ungodly noise and dreadful fumes polluting our streets, motor vehicles are a good gauge of a town’s affluence. Regrettably, our main modes of transportation remain the sturdy horse and the human locomotion of Shanks’s pony!’
Kewley pauses to read his audience. Shopkeepers, small businessmen, artisans, farmers; he can see the anxiety on their faces, but also the expectation in their eyes, hoping that he is about to announce a new panacea to rid them of their woes.
‘Coal has to be our future!’ he cries.
There are audible moans from around the room as heads are thrown back in exasperation. Two years earlier, a wily prospector, Aaron Griffiths, formed a company and began to sink shafts in the local area in search of coal, the ‘Black Gold of Wales’. The first shaft was sunk at Folly Wood, which many of the older and more cynical locals believe is a name which offers an all too apposite moniker.
Surface coal has been found in the area over the centuries, and it has often been said that there are rich seams underground. Griffiths has sold over 800 shares in his company but, so far, little of consequence has been found and the locals, not known for having a generally optimistic outlook on life, have become increasingly sceptical.
With Aaron Griffiths sitting directly in front of him on the front row, and undaunted by the groans, Kewley continues.
‘I know we have not yet had a positive result, but we must support Mr Griffiths. He is offering more shares and is prepared to sell some in exchange for credit from his suppliers.’
Kewley is suddenly interrupted by an old farmer, who rises to his feet with a broad but contrived smile on his face.
‘Reverend, you be a persuasive cove, there’s no doubt o’ that, but those drillings have brought up beggar all, bar a few ton o’ stone and hundreds o’ gallons o’ water.’
There is laughter all around the room, but Kewley is unperturbed.
‘Carwyn, dear old friend, we all know of your misgivings about the project. But we need something new to bring prosperity to the town. I appeal to you to be more patient and much less pessimistic.’
Carwyn’s fabricated smile disappears, to be rapidly replaced by a sneer.
‘Henry, you’ve called us ’ere again. We were a-thinkin’ you had somethin’ new to tell us, but yer just makin’ another appeal for Aaron Griffiths, who’s had enough outta us already.’
A large, handsome man just turned forty, resplendent in his frock coat and towering top hat, jumps to his feet. He is Philip Davies, the local auctioneer, Urban District Councillor and Reverend Kewley’s most ardent supporter. Half a head taller than any man in the room and with a voice like a growl of thunder, he gives old Carwyn a withering look.
‘Carwyn, you should temper your remarks. The good reverend is only offering his advice in the best interests of the town.’
The old farmer sits down, shaking his head. He is muttering a response as he does so, his comment just audible to those with a good ear.
‘In the best interests of Griffiths and his bloody shareholders, more like.’
The meeting starts to break up as men leave from the back of the room. They have heard enough about Presteigne’s coal escapade and are annoyed that Kewley and Davies have nothing new to offer to improve the town’s prospects. Not only that, two hours of depressing town business and speeches – most of which have been dreary – have made the audience thirsty. The Duke’s Arms, just down Broad Street, is the town’s most popular rendezvous. It is a fine hostelry with a renowned bar and a revered home-brewed ale.
Already seated in a quiet corner of the low-ceilinged, timber-framed saloon bar are the three Thomas boys: Hywel, aged nineteen, the eldest, and his two younger brothers, Morgan and Geraint. All three work on their father’s farm to the west of Presteigne. Once the source of a modest living, Pentry Farm is going through hard times, which have had a devastating effect on poor old Rhodri, their ageing and all but bedridden father.
Hywel’s brow is etched by furrows of anxiety. His stare is vacant; his eyes do not register the simple furnishings and usual accoutrements of an archetypical British hostelry. His thoughts are elsewhere, seeing the lush green fields of Pentry populated by fewer and fewer sheep, its cottage farmhouse in urgent need of repairs to its roof and its barns increasingly dilapidated. Then his Da comes into his mind’s eye. He used to worship the ground he walked on; now he has to carry him to his bed every night and change him when he soils his pants. He closes his eyes momentarily to stem the tears that are beginning to form.
With the Thomas boys is a friend from school, Tom Crisp, who, unlike them, is from English stock and proud of it. Tom is the first to comment on the sudden influx of the well-to-do of Presteigne.
‘Putting the world to rights again?’
Hywel smirks disdainfully.
‘Aye, as usual. Trouble is, they couldn’t hit their own arses with a shovel.’
Tom responds in defence of two of them, men he admires.
‘I know most of them are busybodies who act like sheep, but old Kewley’s a good man, and Davies is all right. They’ve been good to us young ones.’
‘Aye, but the other buggers make me choke on me beer.’
The Duke’s Arms used to be one of three pubs on Broad Street, a wide, elegant thoroughfare of medieval and Georgian structures that reflects Presteigne’s better days. There were six more drinking haunts on the High Street, which has a similar mix of buildings. Now the Duke and two rivals are the only survivors.
It is Presteigne’s hard times that have closed the pubs, not austere Welsh Presbyterianism. Although it sits in a small valley amid the picturesque rolling hills of Radnorshire, the least ‘Welsh’ of Wales’s counties, it is also surrounded on three sides by the English border. Offa’s Dyke is to the west, not the east, placing the town in England’s domain since antiquity. Indeed, the Welsh name for the town, Llanandras – the holy place of St Andrew – has all but been forgotten.
England is within touching distance at several places around the town and begins at the small bridge on the River Lugg at the bottom of Broad Street, only a few yards from the ancient church of St Andrew. The Lugg is but six yards wide at the bridge. On its east bank is the cottage of the Lewis family, of Welsh descent, but who live in England. While on the other side is the Browns’ cottage, who are English through and through, but reside in Wales.
Despite the porous border and the dominance of the English colossus next door, those locals who are Welsh, especially the hill farmers, are ferociously proud of their Celtic heritage. They speak their antique language at every opportunity, either privately within their families, or very publicly to affirm who they are. It is a badge of honour.
But, in the main, the language of Presteigne is English and its accent contains only a hint of a mid-Wales lilt, leavened by the rustic drawl of neighbouring Herefordshire. Even the Welsh-speaking farmers sound like rural English folk when they speak the language of their Anglo-Saxon neighbours.
The Thomas boys all speak Welsh, but only at home, or except when they want to annoy Tom Crisp, who invariably responds with the habitual litany of ‘Taffy’ jokes and insults about hill farmers’ supposed carnal appetites for sheep.
Geraint, a lithe seventeen-year-old, a year younger than his brother Morgan, and two years Hywel’s junior, is at the now crowded bar, having just ordered more beer.
Suddenly, the door of the Duke is flung open and a distressed young woman rushes up to the boys’ table. It is their sister, Bronwyn, Morgan’s twin. She has run the five miles from their farm and is flushed pink, her thick black hair clinging to a face soaked in tears and perspiration.
‘It’s Da … I canna wake ’im!’
The three Thomas boys are on the move in an instant. They tumble into their horse and cart moments later, leaving Tom to pay for the beer. But Bronwyn calls after him, pleading.
‘Tom, come with us, please!’
Tom throws a shilling on to the bar, forgoes the change and chases after the Thomas clan.
The ride to Pentry Farm is a torture for the four Thomas siblings. They fear the worst. Da has been ill for years and, after his wife died suddenly two years ago, has become mentally as well as physically ill. He is morose and difficult to live with.
After only a hundred yards, Bronwyn grasps Tom’s hand and begins to sob. They have been lovers since the winter, but have managed to keep it to themselves. Hywel has had his suspicions and, seeing the clasping of hands, realizes its significance. He smiles and rests his hand on theirs, a gesture which is a comforting acknowledgement for both of them. The younger boys do not even notice, they are too focused on the farm track ahead and getting home as quickly as possible.
When they reach the quaint but ramshackle cottage, Da is still slumped where Bronwyn left him, in his chair by the fireplace. His head is resting on his shoulder; trickles of saliva have run down from the corner of his gaping mouth and dripped on to his shirt. His face is cool to the touch, his pallor exaggerating the thick black stubble on his chin.
Hywel feels his father’s forehead and checks for any hint of breath from his mouth, or the glimmer of a pulse at his neck.
‘He’s gone.’
His voice is clear, trying to control his emotions. Both the younger brothers walk out into the farmyard to hide their tears and Bronwyn collapses into Tom’s arms.
Hywel goes over to comfort her.
‘Bron, I know it’s ’ard, like, but go and ’elp the boys. They need someone to mother them.’
He guides her gently to the door, hugging her as he does so.
‘Tom, will you help me get Da on to the cart and take him to the undertaker? Bron will stay ’ere with the boys.’
Bronwyn watches as her father’s body is taken away to Presteigne. It follows the same winding route the livestock take on their way to the slaughterhouse. But this is her Da. She tries to remember him before he became crippled in mind and body by age and anxiety. When he whistled while working in the yard, or when he told her wonderful stories about his own Da and Tad-cu, both of whom refused to speak English and could neither read nor write.
She wants to be strong for Geraint and Morgan but cannot stop the tears or the awful sense of foreboding about the future.