A Million Tears by Paul Henke Page B

trying to say, Evan, is despite how strongly we feel we don’t think what the men are doing will do any good. Our only hope is to try our luck with the courts. I know we might not win, but anything else is utter madness. Christ Almighty, you know how they’re talking. What was it one of them said? Something about tightening the belts for a long fight. And for what, for God’s sake? Some sort of bloody principle they aren’t too sure of anyway,’ he leaned back on his chair, looking worn out. ‘I think I’m getting too old for this.’
    ‘There’s years left in you yet, Lewis Lewis, so don’t talk daft, man. I know how you feel,’ said Huw Shepherd. ‘The point is Evan, we can’t afford a strike and you know it. I don’t mind admitting I’m frightened what might happen, see. I remember the past only too well. We’ll spend what little savings we have, eat like . . . like animals, too hungry to waste even rotted food . . . Remember, Peter?’
    The old man nodded sadly. ‘It’ll get to the stage when our pride won’t let us give in. We’ll lose any ideas of being reasonable and stick it out for everything we demand. You know what’ll happen then, boyo?’ Peter was addressing me, much to my surprise.
    I shook my head, fascinated and horrified at the same time.
    ‘Then the strikebreakers will come. The owners know that if they don’t do something quick then it’ll not only take a hell of a lot of money to put right but some shafts may even be beyond saving. Before they bring in the scabs they’ll let us know what they’re doing and give us one more chance to go back. The men will get angrier and angrier, an anger fed by their families’ hunger and they’ll be more determined not to return like whipped dogs with their tails between their legs. There’ll be fights with the scabs, splintering amongst the villagers as some will try and get the men back to work. There might even be killing. The stinking militia will be with the scabs, with their guns and batons. And do you know what’ll happen in the end?’
    I shook my head again. The others knew what was coming. They had not only heard it all before but had seen it too.
    ‘I’ll tell you, boyo,’ went on Peter Lloyd, ‘we’ll end up going back, some time, God knows when. And the strikebreakers will return to their homes. And the village will be bitter, counting the cost. Some men will be sent to Coventry, neighbour not speaking to neighbour. There’ll be more fights, all the more frightening because instead of being a fight with strangers it will be friend against friend, family against family. Actions and attitudes during the strike will be remembered forever, and for what? Tell me that, for what? Nothing. Less than nothing if there’s such a thing.’ He broke off as Mam returned with tea and cakes. The curtain by the stairs moved and Sion put his head through, his eyes heavy with sleep.
    ‘Oh, hullo,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I heard voices and wondered who was here.’
    ‘Well, now you know off you go! Back up the wooden hill,’ said Da. ‘And go to sleep.’
    Sion pushed out his bottom lip in a pout. ‘Can’t I have a cake, like Dai?’ he said, suddenly smiling as all heads turned to me as I bit into my second Welsh cake. I paused and looked guiltily at Mam.
    ‘All right. Take it up to bed with you,’ she said. ‘And no crumbs, there’s a good boy.’ He nipped in, grabbed the cake and was back up the stairs in a twinkling of an eye.
    There was a further interruption as Grandad arrived fresh from talking to a few of the other miners.
    ‘Still up, Dai?’ he greeted me. ‘Thanks, Meg.’ He took the cup Mam offered, sipped, grimaced and added a teaspoon of sugar. ‘It wasn’t good,’ he shook his head. ‘Not good at all. I spoke to Evan Evans, look you, Robert Jones, the two Jones brothers and Henry Wilks. I dunno, look you, what the hell they think they’re playing at. Evan Evans started in on me by claiming I didn’t