Rubbing my itchy stinging eyes, I struggled to shut the carriage window. Familiar specks of smudgy soot settled on my new coat. The chugging locomotive belching out filthy black steam and the acrid yellow smog from the steel works combined to veil the landscape. One day, I thought, this valley will spring green again, will fight back against all the blemishes inflicted on its pristine primordial hills from generations of humans striving to make a living.
It had been a long day winding up the valley, squealing around bends, cutting through villages displaying rows of orderly terraced houses with identical facades. Some, higher up – standing to attention – hugging the mountains – parading themselves upwards to the sun and clear fresh air on the mountain tops.
The pistons venting high pressured steam synchronised with the clickety-clack rhythm of the wheels and the gentle hiss as we pulled into stations, had lulled me into a state of happy contentment and calm.
I had had time to daydream, to think of Blodwyn, the farm and my dreams for the future. The re-greening emergence of a flourishing valley where the air was sweet and fragrant – where flowers, herbs and plants grew happily in uncontaminated soil, where wild ponies and sheep grazed on nourishing pastures.
The whole journey had been wearying travelling from the English counties where I had been studying and gaining qualifications. Two years studying Botany and sustainable farming; a brand new movement that had stirred my soul. But now I was coming home, and my mind was full of happy expectation.
Stray strands of dark hair tickled my cheek as I brushed my new green woollen coat, I took extra care not to make smudge marks, then satisfied, I screwed up my eyes and peered through the grimy window. A sigh escaped my lips and I had to remind myself – everything in good time. The slower pace of life in the Welsh valleys will contrast with the intense, goal-centred nature of city life.
The train arrived at my home station with a blast of hissing steam, before gently rolling to a stop.
Home again! My stomach lurched and my heart skipped a beat as I waited – anxiously scanning the platform.
Where was he? – then, a warm glow spread through my body as I spied a familiar figure.
There he was, checking each carriage whilst puffing on his beloved stained pipe. Nothing had changed – it seemed like yesterday when we had hugged goodbye. I waved, flapping my arm in rapid motion whilst trying to stand up and struggle out with my bulky suitcase. I nearly tripped down the step in my excitement to reach him.
Grandad had a corpulent figure – today his waistcoat seemed to be bursting at the seams. He was decked out in his well-worn Sunday best suit, sporting a white, smartly pressed shirt and a loud, bright blue spotted tie – not usual attire for a church warden in a conservative Welsh valley. Where did he find it? The Co-operative Store wasn’t that outlandish. I smiled – it was surely in honour of my return . . .
Grinning happily, I fell into his strong arms.
‘Hello Grandad, so nice to be back’, my voice was muffled as I nestled into the hollow of his neck.
‘It’s been a long two years my girl.’ His face was wet, and I felt his shoulders heaving.
I hugged him tightly, then pressed his knobbly fingers to my face as our eyes met.
I was an only child, brought up by Mam and Grandad. Nan had passed away many years ago, but I had hazy, happy memories of clutching her hand in church. She always had a fresh handkerchief peeking out of her coat pocket and gloves on for reverence. Religion for me had died a natural death in that family church. ‘Sinners burn in hell!’ thundered the vicar one day. I tugged her hand, looked up at her earnest face and said, ‘I don’t believe a word he’s saying!’ My startled Nan whispered, ‘Shush child, someone will hear you’. Funny how I never set foot there again.
And Pa – well Pa – the least said the better but I can disclose that he worked long hours in the local brewery and only stayed around until I left kindergarten.
Grandad was a man of few words, so I kept my chatter to a minimum., but inwardly I felt like exploding, I had so much to share. His hand stroked my hair lovingly as he stooped to pick up my bulging suitcase, grunting as he heaved with one hand. I winced – but there had been so much to bring home.
We trudged our way slowly uphill. Grandad had his teeth clamped on the slanted pipe which was dangling at a dangerous angle from the corner of his mouth, his breathing was laboured, his face contorted and dark, when suddenly he let out a frenzied attack of coughing and the suitcase dropped from his hand with a thump.
‘Ah. that’s better’, he gasped, picking up his pipe from the road and stuffing it in his top pocket before hauling the suitcase up again.
Reaching the bridge, he again plonked the suitcase down – his chest heaving and squeaking like a pair of bellows.
‘Shall we go to Luigi’s then?’
I thought he would never ask . . .
An ice-cream parlour – the pride and joy of an Italian immigrant and the talk of the village.
Delectable flavours wafted through the open door with its old fashioned bell. My mouth salivated until I was forced to swallow and lick my lips.
I’d waited a long time for this . . .
‘Hey! Hello!’, beamed Luigi, ‘Couldn’t stay away then?’ He enveloped me in a squeeze that took my breath away.
‘Home is where the heart is’, I replied – delighted to see him again.
‘Welcome back then, and how was life studying in the big city?’ he asked with a whimsical look.
‘Oh, I see Grandad has filled you in with all my news. Two years was a long time; it should have been three but . . . well – I just needed to get back.’ I turned my eyes away to the ice-cream selection. Too many questions and I might give something away.
‘Ah, we all know each other’s business as you know, that’s why a place is called home,’ he mumbled, bending over to stir my favourite crunchy vanilla ice – not white, smooth and creamy like commercial ice but an alabaster, crunchy buttery masterpiece. Luigi’s dark skinned, large expressive head swathed with scraggy greying hair was bent low under the counter.
‘Same as always’? His face crinkled into a questioning smile as he popped up holding a double cone.
The Italian in Luigi was as evident now as all those years ago when he came looking for work in the Welsh valleys – an exotic creature, treasured by the locals for his open friendliness and family values. He had worked hard for years to provide scrumptious welcome treats for weary families and exhausted pit workers.
‘A bit greedy having a double’– but why not – it’s a special day.’ He nodded, his eyes twinkling with pleasure.
The exquisite taste of vanilla lingered long after the crunchy, creamy ice reached the nether regions. I particularly enjoyed the sensation of crunching scented ice fragments. How did he make it so aromatic and fragrant?
We lingered outside until our hands were free, then continued on upwards to the long, smart line of terraced houses adorning the hillside. Grandfather, with his head down was taking small quick shallow breaths, I noticed he had at least kept his pipe away in his top pocket. I looked at him now with different eyes since my studies.
Sheep had trotted obligingly in the small front garden, munching away at Mam’s prize flowers. He always forgot to close the gate; Mam would be cross.
I threaded my hand through the narrow, shiny brass letterbox. The scrubbed red floor tiles shone in the dying sunlight beneath my feet. I smiled, the industrious Welsh! nothing changed. I felt the thick chain – Grandad’s invention – and gave it a firm yank.
As the green door opened there was a welcoming bustle from within. My excitement couldn’t be contained. ‘I’m back, I’m back Mam!’
‘Here she cometh’, crooned Mam scuttling from the dark recess of the hall with open arms.
Pinny dusted with flour, warn cinnamon and mixed spice wafting around her face – she enveloped be in a big squashy bear hug.
‘Come into the kitchen, I’ve got a treat for you’, and I just knew what she meant – delicious Welsh cakes were waiting. She clung on to my hand, her face infused with pleasure as she pulled me into the modest back room. Our house was a standard three up, three down with a long garden joining a communal back yard. The small cosy kitchen was the hub of all activity.
I sat there transfixed, watching Mam bustling about. Going away had been exciting but that was nothing compared with the joy of coming home.
‘I’ve missed you so much, come and sit by me Luv’, she made space on the sofa squashing the cushion in the small of my back before snuggling up and linking her arm in mine. How I had missed my Mam.
We sipped dark, sweet thick tea, nibbled sugary, spicy Welsh cakes straight from the oven, and all the time I opened out my heart. My Mam was always a good listener – and I even had the budgie listening after initially trilling out a welcome. The kitchen, Blodwyn, Mam, and Grandad. This is what I had missed most for two whole years – and now I was back with my head buzzing with ideas.
Later, I was too hyped up to sleep so lay awake thinking of tomorrow.
I couldn’t wait to climb up the mountain – get above the smog to the old farmhouse. To sit and have tea with Blodwyn in her homely rustic kitchen.
‘Be back late afternoon Mam’, I called out next morning after breakfast, as soon as the first sunrays had hit the front door.
‘Be careful Luv’, she called back as always. It was common knowledge that unseen fissures caused by coal mining posed a danger on the mountainside. Sheep sometimes disappeared without trace.
