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ements, waiting, but there were no flags, and they did not cheer, just bowed and curtsied, as the cavalcade pulled up outside no. 19.
Ethel jumped down and spoke quietly to Sir Alan. "Sian Evans, five children, lost her husband, David Evans, an underground horse wrangler. " David Evans, known as Dai Ponies, had been familiar to Ethel as an elder of the Bethesda Chapel.
Sir Alan nodded, and Ethel stepped smartly back while he murmured in the ear of the king. Ethel caught Fitz's eye, and he gave her a nod of approval. She felt a glow. She was assisting the king-and the earl was pleased with her.
The king and queen went to the front door. Its paint was peeling, but the step was polished. I never thought I'd see this, Ethel thought; the king knocking on the door of a collier's house. The king wore a tailcoat and a tall black hat: Ethel had strongly advised Sir Alan that the people of Aberowen would not wish to see their monarch in the kind of tweed suit that they themselves might wear.
The door was opened by the widow in her Sunday best, complete with hat. Fitz had suggested that the king should surprise people, but Ethel had argued against that, and Sir Alan had agreed with her. On a surprise visit to a distraught family the royal couple might have been confronted with drunken men, half-naked women, and fighting children. Better to forewarn everyone.
"Good morning, I'm the king," said the king, raising his hat politely. "Are you Mrs. David Evans?"
She looked blank for a moment. She was more used to being called Mrs. Dai Ponies.
"I have come to say how very sorry I am about your husband, David," said the king.
Mrs. Dai Ponies seemed too nervous to feel any emotion. "Thank you very much," she said stiffly.
It was too formal, Ethel saw. The king was as uncomfortable as the widow. Neither was able to say how they really felt.
Then the queen touched Mrs. Dai's arm. "It must be very hard for you, my dear," she said.
"Yes, ma'am, it is," said the widow in a whisper, and then she burst into tears.
Ethel wiped a tear from her own cheek.
The king was embarrassed, but to his credit, he stood his ground, murmuring: "Very sad, very sad. "
Mrs. Evans sobbed uncontrollably, but she seemed rooted to the spot, and did not turn her face away. There was nothing gracious about grief, Ethel saw: Mrs. Dai's face was blotched red, her open mouth showed that she had lost half her teeth, and her sobs were hoarse with desperation.
"There, there," said the queen. She pressed her handkerchief into Mrs. Dai's hand. "Take this. "
Mrs. Dai was not yet thirty, but her big hands were knotted and lumpy with arthritis like an old woman's. She wiped her face with the queen's handkerchief. Her sobs subsided. "He was a good man, ma'am," she said. "Never raised a hand to me. "
The queen did not know what to say about a man whose virtue was that he did not beat his wife.
"He was even kind to his ponies," Mrs. Dai added.
"I'm sure he was," said the queen, back on familiar ground.
A toddler emerged from the depths of the house and clung to its mother's skirt. The king tried again. "I believe you have five children," he said.
"Oh, sir, what are they going to do with no da?"
"It's very sad," the king repeated.
Sir Alan coughed, and the king said: "We're going on to see some other people in the same sad position as yourself. "
"Oh, sir, it was kind of you to come. I can't tell you how much it means to me. Thank you, thank you. "
The king turned away.
The queen said: "I will pray for you tonight, Mrs. Evans. " Then she followed the king.
As they were getting into their carriage, Fitz gave Mrs. Dai an envelope. Inside, Ethel knew, were five gold sovereigns and a note, handwritten on blue crested Ty Gwyn paper, saying: "Earl Fitzherbert wishes you to have this token of his deep sympathy. "
That, too, had been Ethel's idea.
{VIII}
