Dead Man's Embers by Mari Strachan Read Free Book Online Page B

never feel safe again, never. A Bolshevik!’
    â€˜He’s not a Bolshevik, Mrs Davies.’ Gwydion makes the mistake of laughing at her.
    Catherine Davies narrows her eyes at him. ‘I don’t want him mentioned in my presence, whatever he is – or isn’t.’
    â€˜Listen, Mother.’ Davey looks at everyone around the table, as if he is addressing them all.
    Non puts down her own knife and fork; she can’t keep up the pretence of eating. What is Davey doing?
    â€˜The world is changing. It has changed,’ Davey says. ‘Working people aren’t going to put up with the sorts of conditions they had before the War. We have to . . . to band together, and look after each other.’
    â€˜No one knows better than I that the world is changing. I, whohave lost so, so much.’ The napkin comes into play again as Catherine Davies dabs her eyes with it.
    Gwydion turns slightly in his chair so that he faces Davey. Osian is seated between them. Over the boy’s head Gwydion says, ‘You think the workers in England care about the workers in Wales, Davey?’
    â€˜They’ve more in common with us than with their own upper classes, Gwydion. I saw that over in France. Think about it.’
    â€˜Well, you have the advantage, Davey. You were there. But those aren’t the stories I’ve heard. What about the bigotry? What about the name-calling? What about not being able to write home in Welsh?’
    Davey shrugs. ‘That was ignorance, not malice, Gwydion.’
    Gwydion shakes his head. ‘The English have bled us dry, Davey. And you think they’re going to stop? Hah!’ He hits the table with the flat of his hand, causing everyone except Osian to jump. Osian is intent on his food and oblivious to the argument raging above his head.
    â€˜Can I have the rest of these potatoes if no one else wants them, Non?’ Wil, too, has been eating steadily. ‘And some more meat?’
    Non nods at him. She looks at Meg who is sitting with folded arms, her plate clean and pushed to the side. She gives her a little conspiratorial shrug but Meg ignores her.
    â€˜It’s time we took our fate into our own hands, Davey. The Irish are doing it. So should we.’
    â€˜It won’t work for them,’ Davey says. ‘And it wouldn’t work for us. What would we gain?’
    â€˜Freedom?’ Gwydion says. ‘Self-respect?’
    â€˜They’re just words,’ Davey says. ‘They don’t mean anything. Solidarity between working men of all nations, Gwydion – can’t you see the strength it would give us?’ He turns around in hischair to the bureau behind him and rummages inside the top until he brings out a fat notebook, which he waves at Gwydion.
    â€˜You’re saying that working men aren’t as greedy as their employers,’ Gwydion says, ignoring the book being shown him. ‘There’s always going to be someone who wants more than his fair share.’
    Old William Davies rouses himself out of whatever alternative world he occupies and bangs on the table with his knife. ‘Hear, hear,’ he calls, but there is no telling who or what he is agreeing with.
    Gwydion picks up his fork from the table and wags it at Davey as he orders his thoughts, and Davey jabs his forefinger at one of the pages in his notebook and shouts, ‘Clause Four, Gwydion. Clause Four. It says it all. Listen . . .’ He begins to read, in English, from his notebook. ‘To secure for the workers by hand or by brain – see, it means you, too, Gwydion – the full fruits of their industry and the most equitable distribution . . .’
    As Davey reads on panic surges through Non. How will this end? Fisticuffs? She gulps down a hysterical giggle. She wants to join in the argument, she wants to shout at them to be quiet, she wants to push Catherine Davies off the chair where she sits like a martyr, she wants to smack Meg