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

footsteps had
     gone down the Hill with them. My mother was looking at my father all the time as if
     she was sure he would call them back.
    But he went on eating his dinner, looking up through the kitchen window at the rock-face
     outside. I was trying to be as quiet as I could while I was having my dinner, but
     then my spoon grated on the plate and brought his eyes to me.
    “Yes, my son,” my father said, “I know you are there. It do seem I will have only
     Ivor and you, now then.”
    “Gwilym,” my mother said, in her ordinary voice, “how long, now, will those boys be
     from home?”
    “The only boys I have got, my girl,” my father said, “are twenty-three years of age
     and six. That is Ivor and Huw. Those are the only two, and Ianto is away. I have no
     other sons, and there is nobody else entitled to call himself my son unless I own
     to him.”
    “Oh, Gwilym,” my mother said, and started to cry. I had never before seen my mother
     cry really and properly as I had cried and had seen others cry.
    I wish now I had not. There is supposed to be something noble about the tears of a
     mother, but it is a pity that real, well-meant tears cannot come without the sounds
     that go with them. The scrapings in the throat, the fullness of spittle, the heavy
     breaths and halting, gulping sighs, are not fitted to be the servants of heartfelt
     grief, so there is that about them making for laughter and contempt, especially in
     the mind of a child.
    There is first of all surprise that a grown-up can cry properly, and then curiosity
     to see how they cry, and that causes a cold scrutiny in which all feeling is lost,
     even when it is realised that this is your own mother who is crying.
    You are intent upon the details.
    The shaking hands, swollen blue veins, smeared cheeks, hair coming loose under the
     stress of an almost rhythmic sobbing, of points of light flicking from brimming lashes,
     and you are amazed at the growing wetness of the handkerchief and the never-ending
     flow of big tears.
    This is your mother, you think.
    This poor, huddled woman over there, is your mother, who has told you so many times
     not to cry. After that, her red face and swollen, wet eyes, so miserable and helpless,
     come as a shock to make you laugh, and although you know it is wrong, you feel you
     must laugh outright, or go under the table.
    And when that is past, you will want to cry because your mother is still crying to
     herself, and cannot find comfort.
    It will seem shame to me, now, but my mother never meant the same to me after that.
     I could always hear her crying and see her face, though when I grew up, of course,
     I learnt better. But there it is.
    My father took no notice. I know now how he saw the matter. He was the father and
     head over all the house, and what came in and went out. His authority had been defied
     and he had taken the course he saw to be most fitting. For that reason he was clear
     in his conscience, and he said nothing to my mother for crying, because he knew tears
     to be a woman’s last refuge. She can go no further, especially if she is a good woman.
     And I will swear with my blood that my mother was good.
    My sisters were crying with my mother. Ceridwen was looking from the plates to my
     mother and then to my younger sister who was standing by the fire waiting for the
     kettle to boil. Angharad was about ten, then, and Ceridwen five years older. I was
     sure Angharad would say something from the look on her face. If you have never seen
     the look in the eyes of a cat when you have made a noise to frighten it out of sleep
     you will not know what was alive in the eyes of Angharad.
    She was as tall as my mother, then, and very fair with grey eyes lighter than a snow
     sky, and so big and clear you would think it not possible. So when they were full
     of her spirit, and she looked straight at you, you would feel yourself going small
     inside yourself.
    “Mama,” Angharad said, loud and clear and