How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn Read Free Book Online

dressed, and sitting on my bed.
    “Up the mountain, Dada,” I said, though it is a mystery to me to this day how I got
     it out.
    “Did I tell you about minding your own business?” he said.
    “Yes, Dada,” I said.
    “Do you expect your mother to clean that mess you are in?” he asked me.
    “No, Dada,” I said.
    “Go downstairs and clean yourself and be sharp about it,” he said.
    Off I went like a black-beetle, dripping all over the floor, expecting a clout that
     would stretch me senseless. But nothing happened.
    The kitchen fire was banked all night, so I had no trouble drying my clothes. But
     blacking and polishing my boots was another matter. For minutes I stood there rubbing
     and brushing my boots, naked in front of the fire, knowing my father was still sitting
     upstairs, wondering what I was going to get from him, and what Mama would say in the
     morning, and if Gwilym would come in before I could give him a sign to wait on.
    When I went upstairs again I carried my dry clothes and my polished boots to show
     my father. He looked at them all very carefully one by one, nodding.
    “Look,” he said, when he had finished, pointing to the puddles on the floor. “Look
     at the mess Mama will have with her in the morning. Go you and get a cloth.”
    Down I went again and up I came with a cloth and rubbed all the puddles dry, and very
     careful I was to look along the floor to see if I could find any more wet places,
     knowing all the time that those grey eyes were upon me, and on that account being
     so careful in my work, and so vigorous when I found some to do, that my father got
     impatient.
    It is strange how you will do a job with more than ordinary care when you have a fault
     upon your conscience. It is almost as though you thought to make your industry a form
     of penitence.
    “Come here, Huw,” my father said at last.
    I put down the cloth and stood in front of him, hanging my head.
    “Why did you go up the mountain when I told you not?” my father asked, and to my surprise
     his voice was quite ordinary, and not angry a bit.
    “I wanted to help Davy, Dada,” I said.
    “Help Davy?” my father said. “And how about your poor Mama? What would have happened
     to her if you had come to harm? Did you stop to think?”
    “No, Dada,” I said.
    “Think in future,” he said. “Now go to bed and sleep. And mind you, no more of this
     Davy nonsense out of you.”
    “No, Dada,” I said.
    My father lifted me into bed and put the clothes over me, and patted me on the head.
    “You will be a man soon, my son,” he said, “and you will find all the troubles you
     are wanting in plenty. Plenty, indeed. I am afraid you will have it more than us,
     now. So till then, be a good boy and think of your Mama. She is the one to help. Good
     night, my son. God watch over you.”
    “Good night, Dada,” I said.
    I was so glad he had gone before Gwilym came in through the window. I fell off to
     sleep at once then.
    But thinking back now, I hear my father’s voice as he spoke then, so sad and soft,
     as though he had known and seen.

Chapter Five
    I T WOULD TAKE a lot to upset my mother, but she was quiet and worried when I came back from school
     at dinner-time next day. Gwilym told me that my father had given Davy a talking to
     that morning, and Davy was off down the Hill to live with Mrs. Beynon, who had four
     lodgers already, all of them Davy’s friends.
    My mother never said a word about it, but it showed the first Saturday when Davy came
     up to put his money in the box and have his dinner. She was not crying, but the tears
     were rolling down her cheeks when he kissed her. Davy and my father acted as though
     nothing had happened and were talking quietly as they had always done. It was Owen
     who caused the trouble.
    Owen was a quiet boy then. He had nothing to say to anybody, and of course everybody
     thought he was a fool. He would stay quiet for hours by himself, reading, or out in
     the