Black Valley by Charlotte Williams Page B

much more than a child – looked
lonely and neglected; her shoes were too big for her, her clothes rough.
    Jess took a step back, so that she could see the two paintings side by side: the Millet small, delicate, and vibrant with colour; the Morris huge, brutal, and coal-black. She thought she could
see a connection. Perhaps Morris was implying that nothing much had changed over the centuries, that the miners who had dug the coal from the South Wales valleys were the direct descendants of
Millet’s peasants: poor, oppressed, exhausted, yet with a kind of ageless dignity in their toil. Jess peered into the gloom of the black hole, and wondered whether Morris was perhaps making a
further point: that the last shred of dignity afforded the miners, of selling their labour to live, had been stripped away from them, leaving nothing behind but a great void, like the interior of
the disused mines that still existed up in the valleys.
    ‘What do you think?’
    Jess gave a slight start as the man next to her spoke. He’d been standing beside her for a while, but she hadn’t noticed.
    She turned back to the painting. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe it’s to do with the mines closing down.’ Jess paused. ‘But I don’t think I’d have got the point if
it hadn’t been for the goose girl.’
    ‘Hmm.’
    They both continued to look at the two paintings, side by side.
    ‘I mean, you’re never sure what you’re seeing with this kind of painting.’ Jess spoke quietly, as if to herself. ‘You could just be reading things into it,
couldn’t you?’
    ‘Isn’t all art like that?’
    Jess turned to look at the man. He was taller than her, but not much, with dark curly hair, brown eyes, and a day’s stubble on his chin. He was dressed in a blue jacket, with a striped
scarf around his neck.
    Jess was slightly nonplussed. He looked like someone from the art world, clearly not just a gallery-goer like her. However, she persevered.
    ‘I suppose so. But this contemporary stuff seems to be all about context, doesn’t it? Commenting on what’s gone before. Trying to do something different.’
    She looked back at the painting.
    ‘I’d say all important artists do that.’ He followed her gaze.
    ‘Millet was certainly commenting on the romanticism of his contemporaries when he started to paint common peasants, like this little girl. He was scorned at the time. Nobody wanted to see
the reality of what was going on. Morris is the same, I think.’
    He knew his subject, Jess thought. But he didn’t seem to be a snob about it.
    She turned and gave him a look as if to say, I’m not entirely convinced.
    The man laughed.
    ‘Are you . . . connected to this in any way?’ She hazarded a guess.
    ‘Kind of. I’m giving a speech tonight—’
    There was a shout from the other corner of the room and the sound of people shushing. Jess turned to see Elinor and Blake walk in. Isobel was nowhere to be seen. They took their places beside a
banner advertising the exhibition, with a microphone and lectern in front of it, surrounded by a crew of young women stylishly dressed in black.
    ‘Ah. That’s my cue.’ The man smiled at her. ‘See you later perhaps.’
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Blake stepped forward to the microphone and his voice rang out around the room. ‘Tonight is a momentous occasion. We’re here to celebrate the
purchase by the National Museum of Wales of this painting’ – here he waved a hand at the huge canvas at the end of the room – ‘by the most talented Welsh artist of his
generation, Hefin Morris.’
    There was a small burst of applause. Jess noticed that Elinor, standing behind him, didn’t join in.
    ‘Now, as you know, Morris doesn’t make public appearances, so he can’t be with us tonight. But he’s asked me to say a few words on his behalf. He is delighted that the
National Museum has finally bought the magnificent
Heb Ditel Deuddeg ar Hugain
’ – Blake didn’t stumble over the words, but he had