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It took Lloyd two minutes to unpack. He combed his hair, put on a clean uniform shirt, and went to visit his grandparents.
The house in Wellington Row
seemed smaller and more drab than ever, though it now had hot water in the scullery and a flushing toilet in the outhouse. The decor had not altered within Lloyd's memory: same rag rug on the floor, same faded paisley curtains, same hard oak chairs in the single ground-floor room that served as living room and kitchen.
His grandparents had changed, though. Both were about seventy now, he guessed, and looking frail. Granda had pains in his legs, and had reluctantly retired from his job with the miners' union. Grandmam had a weak heart: Dr. Mortimer had told her to put her feet up for a quarter of an hour after meals.
They were pleased to see Lloyd in his uniform. "Lieutenant, is it?" said Grandmam. A class warrior all her life, she nevertheless could not conceal her pride that her grandson was an officer.
News traveled fast in Aberowen, and the fact that Dai Williams's grandson was visiting probably went halfway round the town before Lloyd had finished his first cup of Grandmam's strong tea. So he was not really surprised when Tommy Griffiths dropped in.
"I expect my Lenny would be a lieutenant, like you, if he'd come back from Spain," Tommy said.
"I should think so," Lloyd said. He had never met an officer who had been a coal miner in civilian life, but anything might happen once the war got going properly. "He was the best sergeant in Spain, I can tell you that."
"You two went through a lot together."
"We went through hell," Lloyd said. "And we lost. But the Fascists won't win this time."
"I'll drink to that," said Tommy, and emptied his mug of tea.
Lloyd went with his grandparents to the evening service at the Bethesda Chapel. Religion was not a big part of his life, and he certainly did not go along with Granda's dogmatism. The universe was mysterious, Lloyd thought, and people might as well admit it. But it pleased his grandparents that he sat with them in chapel.
The extempore prayers were eloquent, knitting biblical phrases seamlessly into colloquial language. The sermon was a bit tedious. But the singing thrilled Lloyd. Welsh chapelgoers automatically sang in four-part harmony, and when they were in the mood they could raise the roof.
As he joined in, Lloyd felt this was the beating heart of Britain, here in this whitewashed chapel. The people around him were poorly dressed and ill-educated, and they lived lives of unending hard work, the men winning the coal underground, the women raising the next generation of miners. But they had strong backs and sharp minds, and all on their own they had created a culture that made life worth living. They gained hope from nonconformist Christianity and left-wing politics, they found joy in rugby football and male voice choirs, and they were bonded together by generosity in good times and solidarity in bad. This was what he would be fighting for, these people, this town. And if he had to give his life for them, it would be well spent.
Granda gave the closing prayer, standing up with his eyes shut, leaning on a walking stick. "You see among us, O Lord, your young servant Lloyd Williams, sitting by here in his uniform. We ask you, in your wisdom and grace, to spare his life in the conflict to come. Please, Lord, send him back home to us safe and whole. If it be your will, O Lord."
The congregation gave a heartfelt amen, and Lloyd wiped away a tear.
He walked the old folks home as the sun went down behind the mountain and an evening gloom settled on the rows of gray houses. He refused the offer of supper and hurried back to Ty Gwyn, arriving in time for dinner in the mess.
They had braised beef, boiled potatoes, and cabbage. It was no better or worse than most army food, and Lloyd tucked in, aware that it had been paid for by people such as his grandparents who were having bread-and-dripping for their supper. There was a bottle of whisky on the table, and Lloyd took some to be convivial. He studied his fellow trainees and tried to remember their names.
On his way up to bed he passed through the Sculpture Room, now empty of art and furnished with a blackboard and twelve cheap desks. There he saw Major Lowther talking to a woman. At a second glance he saw that the woman was Daisy Fitzherbert.
He was so surprised that he stopped. Lowther looked around with an irritated expression. He saw Lloyd and reluctantly said: "Lady Aberowen, I believe you know Lieutenant Williams."
If she denies it, Lloyd thought, I shall remind her of the time she kissed me, long and hard, on a Mayfair street in the dark.
"How nice to see you again, Mr. Williams," she said, and put out her hand to shake.
Her skin was warm and soft to his touch. His heart beat faster.
Lowther said: "Williams tells me his mother worked at this house as a maid."
"I know," Daisy said. "He told me that at the Trinity Ball. He was reproving me for being a snob. I'm sorry to say that he was quite right."
"You're generous, Lady Aberowen," said Lloyd, feeling embarrassed. "I don't know what business I had to say such a thing to you." She seemed less brittle than he remembered; perhaps she had matured.
Daisy said to Lowther: "Mr. Williams's mother is a member of Parliament now, though."
Lowther was taken aback.
Lloyd said to Daisy: "And how is your Jewish friend Eva? I know she married Jimmy Murray."
"They have two children now."
