Bread and Buttermilk

By Helen Payton

Escape into the deceptively tranquil world that is North Wales in 1922.

The rural community of Carreg-y-Bedd, accustomed to the comforting familiarity of chapel traditions and the cyclical rhythms of farming life, is stunned by a shocking, unexplained death.

In the shadows cast by World War One, three siblings, all with hidden motivations, struggle for independence: Tŵm, dependable and sensible, determined to uncover the truth about his friend’s death; Bethan, steely and practical, pursuing a husband with dogged persistence; Caron, romantic and naïve, engulfed in a passionate love affair that threatens to splinter her family.

Will they have the courage to pursue and fulfil their ambitions or will family loyalties and social pressures prevent them from following their chosen paths?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Payton
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781739913519

Helen Payton

I was born hard wired to write.Books and horses were my first loves. I read early. Very early. I began with Enid Blyton. Doesn't everybody? I didn't discriminate, progressing to Black Beauty, Biggles and the Beano. Then the teaching gene reared its head. Do genes have heads? At five I taught Teddy and Easter Bunny to read Beatrix Potter.Writing became my second love but it was a close-run thing. By the age of 7, I was supplementing my pocket money by winning writing competitions run by 'Uncle Mac' in the local paper.My parents wanted me to become a nurse; I told them that I wanted to become an author. The love affair continued. English was my favourite subject in school. In my teens, I relished writing essays. I know, I know. Other people were clubbing and I was writing essays...I didn’t have to choose a subject to study at university. It chose me. English of course. After I was awarded my degree, the teaching gene kicked in again. I wanted to awaken a similar excitement in others. So, I turned to A Level teaching and became a teacher not an author.I loved it. Sharing a passion is intoxicating. And I was successful. Students achieved excellent results. More studying followed as did my Master’s Degree, this time in Education. Then promotions into management roles furthered my career.My twin passions continued to drive me. My enthusiasm for helping others to learn, led to specialising in learning effectiveness. I helped to breach the dam of learning blockages, led an extended learning project and delivered presentations at conferences in the UK and the USA.But you know what they say, ‘Those who can do; those who can’t teach’. I wanted to write. So, throughout the years, I did that as well. In downtime I produced advertisements, theatre programmes, magazine articles and travel brochures for commercial companies. My publications included articles in the Times Ed. and academic research. Finally, I set up my own copywriting company producing marketing materials, web pages.But top of my bucket list was writing a novel. So, I retired, researched and wrote ‘Bread and Buttermilk’. It took me years but I loved every minute of it. At last, I can call myself, Helen Payton, author.

Book preview

Month of the Rain

The morning that the body, which had once been Gwyn Parry, floated to the surface of Pwll Berw was the same Sunday the Gypsies arrived in Carreg-y-Bedd. It was the special Sabbath so there was no-one to see the corpse emerge through the weed, which clung to the head in green, feathery strands. One arm reached out, gently nudging the donkey grey sedge growing on the banks of the pool. Spiky rushes, their blades pointing skywards, nestled in between the knees; two stray water snails clung to the sodden wool shirt. A dragonfly hovered, taking advantage of the weak sunshine, oblivious to the unfolding story beneath its wings.

The three caravans drew up just before dinner time on the common land which bordered the Ebenezer chapel on one side and the ‘Lamb and Lion’ tavern on the other. Favouring the holy flank for the caravans but tethering the horses on unholy territory, it seemed the Gypsies were settling in. Soon a wisp of smoke could be seen eddying upwards from a camp fire. Urchins began carrying water from the village pump.

Abram could just hear the strains of ‘Christ the Lord is risen today’ as he strode over to help his sister who was struggling to give the horses a well-earned drink. They had been travelling for days through Snowdonia and Hiraethog after passing much of the winter on the Llŷn, near the coast. The Gypsies would not come as a surprise in Carreg-y-Bedd since they usually spent spring and summer in the village. Neither would they be unwelcome, bringing with them as they did, unique talents much valued by the community.

Abram was restless, poised at the age of limitless possibilities. Ahead of him lay his journeys, his horses, his music and his women. He was impatient for his adventures to begin. Revelling in his lithe athleticism, he vaulted over the hindquarters on to the back of Sal, a rather portly piebald who took no notice of the intrusion whatsoever.

A shout from Moses prevented Abram from enjoying a canter round the green. Leave thet pony alone. She’s done enough fer today. Come an’ ‘elp wi’ settin’ up. I need ‘nother pair of ‘ands fer t’ bender. Get some ‘azel branches from t’ wood. Tek young Matthew wi’ yer an’ show ‘im what’s what. It’s about time ‘e learnt. An’ don’t forget yer knife.

It was enough. His Da was not to be disobeyed. Abram called to Matthew and the pair set off, Abram none too pleased about being accompanied by his young cousin. It would make the task that much longer, especially since he had to instruct him.

Inside Ebenezer, Tŵm Tudor closed his hymn book. He had tried and failed to focus on the message of the sermon which, for once, was uplifting, a welcome relief from the usual oppressive weight of sin. Tŵm, musing rather than praying, could not rid himself of the nagging unease which had been an unwelcome lodger for the past three years. God had allowed Gwyn to return from France but not Evan. Tŵm tried to rationalise that fact. Millions of fathers, sons and brothers had not returned from the war. It wasn’t just Evan. Many had been obscenely mutilated and Evan would have despised a deformity; not in others but certainly in himself. Better dead than broken, whether physically, or worse, mentally. But somehow the logic didn’t help. He still struggled to handle the reality that Evan’s God had deserted him.

Gwyn had opened up to Tŵm about his time at the Front on only a couple of occasions but for the most part it was as though he had detonated a wall of slate to block the tunnel of his memory. Tŵm had found out more about the war from going to a lantern lecture in Denbigh Town Hall than he ever had from Gwyn. In 1918 with both his friends at the Front and minimal news in the ‘Denbighshire Free Press’, Tŵm had found the search for more information less than easy. To find out what his friends were living through, he gleaned his knowledge from a combination of listening to the lectures and poring over national newspapers. Hearing news of a local hero, he had been with his Tad, Emyr, to watch the mayor present a young Ruthin soldier with the Military Medal and a gold watch for bravery in the field.

We must go to applaud him Tad, he’d said. The paper said he’s in the 9th Battalion of the Royal Welch. That’s the same one as Evan and Gwyn.

The day after Gwyn’s homecoming at the end of June 1919, he had visited Evan’s Mam and Tad to tell them of Evan’s courage, his fortitude, his gallantry; to share some memories and some tears. Since then, Tŵm could only recall Gwyn once allowing a glimpse into his ordeal, praising Evan’s heroism and loyalty. Tŵm, with the tactless curiosity of youth had asked Gwyn all manner of questions at first but quickly learnt that all he would get in reply was, Better not go there. Let the dead stay dead. Allusion to the fighting often resulted in Gwyn becoming even more withdrawn. Always reserved, he now verged on taciturn. Spending much of his time in the chapel, Gwyn was prominent at every service as well as attending Bible reading and prayer groups. Tŵm supposed Gwyn found comfort in God’s arms after the horrors of France. It was more than unusual then, on this Easter Day, to see Gwyn’s mother, Ruth, solitary in a side pew.

Gwyn and Evan had been friends since their first day in school. Three years later when Tŵm arrived, in all his stocky seriousness, the older boys, attracted to an intelligence beyond his years, had ‘adopted’ him. He, in turn, relished the glory of being friends with the big boys, the ‘bechgyn mawr’.

The final Amen drifted upwards. At the door the minister waited to pass on his Easter tidings.

‘Well-chosen hymns, Mr. Ellis." Emyr Tudor always felt the need to make a comment on the service.

Thank you, Mr. Tudor. I’m glad you enjoyed them.

Mali Tudor interrupted. It’s not a case of enjoyment Mr. Ellis; the proper hymns nourish the soul.

Quite. That’s what I meant. Daniel Ellis was more than a little discomfited. Mali Tudor always made him feel like a gauche youth. He wondered whether she singled him out for special treatment or whether she made everyone feel inadequate.

The congregation clustered around Ebenezer’s open oak doors. Since it was Easter Day, socialising for a short time was obligatory. Mali, aware of the celebratory joint of lamb awaiting her attention, would have preferred to return home. Social exchanges with the neighbours she viewed as irksome. But duty was duty and Mali Tudor was not one to shirk it. Feeling obliged, she stopped to speak to Ruth Parry.

Only Mali could turn commiseration into a massaging of misfortune. A hard day for you Ruth I know. It must bring back memories.

I try not to think like that, Mali. Instead, I thank the good Lord for saving my son.

Mali was not to be deterred from her satisfying excursion into someone else’s misery. Yes, but it must still bring it all back to you. It was Holy Week you got the news about Thomas wasn’t it?

Yes, Maundy Thursday 1916. Six years ago, now. Gwyn was nearly seventeen.

It’s hard to lose a provider but at least you have the comfort of knowing that he died for King and Country.

Two of the younger children, bored with grown up conversation had wandered off across the road in the direction of Pwll Berw, collecting some stones on the way to skim across the surface. The pool lay still as the silent voice that had been mentioned in chapel that morning.

Don’t you get your Sunday best wet and muddy now. Their Mam had spotted them out of the corner of an eye, while she was admiring a particularly fetching straw hat adorned with canary yellow flowers. And stay away from the edge. You know how deep it is.

I’ll keep an eye on them, Tŵm offered.

Intent on counting bounces, the lads did not spot what lay in the water. Tŵm, standing by them, sensed rather than saw, that something was amiss. He edged closer. The weed-strangled body danced gently into his consciousness. Realisation took only a few seconds; significance a little longer. Instinctively, Tŵm knew whose remains were bobbing like a fishing float on the surface of Pwll Berw. Keeping the unspeakable firmly in his sights, Tŵm triggered his mind into action. He grabbed both protesting boys by the back of their shirts and led them away back to the crowd outside the chapel. Emyr’s face changed as his son whispered in his ear. Determined to prevent panic, he asked men from the congregation to form an impromptu cordon. Women and children, kept decently away from the spectacle, were ordered to wait by the chapel entrance.

Forcing himself to walk with a measured pace, Tŵm accompanied Emyr back to Pwll Berw. He felt strangely distanced as though he were watching himself perform the necessary actions.

Emyr took charge. Tŵm, help me. He may still be alive. Heaving the body out by its shoulders, they rolled it over as they hauled it out on to the safety of the bank. Tŵm, who had never seen death, looked into the face of his friend who had seen too much and knew that his father was simply voicing what he felt he must.

Men from the chapel carried Gwyn to the doctor’s house, laid him gently on the bed in the surgery and covered the body with a white sheet. Richard Owen was not there. He had been called out to a difficult confinement early that morning.

Tad, we can’t leave him alone. Tŵm’s quiet certainty was evident in his voice.

We’ll sit with him until Dr. Owen returns. Emyr wondered how exactly his son had developed this quiet air of authority at such a young age so that even his father accepted rather than argued.

If you don’t mind being alone for a while Tŵm, I’ll go back to the pool and see if there’s any clue as to what happened.

Tŵm nodded. I think I’d like some time alone with him Tad. You go.

He sat in silence across the room from the shrouded figure that had once been his friend. In later years Tŵm could not say with any certainty what had been his thoughts during the three hours before the doctor’s return. A few memories lingered. The thrusting reality that two out of the three friends were now gone; the overwhelming anxiety about how the widowed Ruth would cope with the loss of her only child, just a few short years after losing her husband; the anger he felt at himself for craving the roast lamb dinner waiting for him at home; but above all the uneasiness about what Gwyn had told him had happened the previous Thursday evening.

When Emyr returned, he shook his head at Tŵm’s enquiring look. Nothing. Nothing to be seen. Just plenty of footprints in the wet ground and a few broken plants but they’re likely to be from us pulling Gwyn out of the water.

When Emyr and Tŵm finally arrived back at Cwyn-y-Gwynt, late afternoon, it was to find that there was no lamb dinner after all. Mali was still at Ruth Parry’s house. Bethan, as elder sister, taking over her mother’s role, had made them some cheese sandwiches, helped by Nain.

We didn’t know what time you’d be back, they said by way of a reason when the men queried the lack of sustenance.

Has the doctor returned? asked Bethan.

Yes. We waited until he reappeared, explained to him what had happened and left him to examine… Emyr, realising that his youngest son, Sîon, was there, stopped in mid-flow, then added, Not now Bethan. Later. Siôn is listening.

Bethan looked at her little brother. I can send Siôn to feed the chickens.

No, we’ll get all the jobs done first and talk later.

Since it was the Sabbath, it was only a question of feeding the animals. Often, after dinner they would return to chapel. Today was not normal. It was the first time Tŵm could ever remember services being cancelled. Even during the war, they continued as usual. But today Daniel Ellis had decided God would wish him to stay with Ruth Parry.

Later that evening when Mali had eventually arrived back and Siôn, in bed, was safely hidden away from any hint of infamy, the Tudor family sat around the rectangular kitchen table that was the hub of family life, used as it was for preparing and eating meals, for gossip and, as now, for serious debate.

No-one seemed prepared to open the conversation. In the silence, the tick of the long case clock seemed louder than usual. An ember dropped from the fire into the grate.

Emyr began. Mali, how is Ruth?

How do you expect her to be? Shocked, disbelieving. But Ruth is Ruth. Refusing to cry and saying that it is ‘God’s will’. She looks as though she has aged twenty years in one afternoon but her faith is keeping her going.

Caron’s chair creaked. She had little space since her chair backed on to the oak dresser. Adorned as it was with lusterware and blue and white china, she had to be careful not to knock a cup or a jug off the hooks. She tried to sit very still, staring fixedly at the maxim proudly displayed on the wall opposite her:

Christ is the Head of this house;

the Unseen Guest at every meal;

the Silent Listener to every conversation.

Caron wondered whether Christ would be listening to this conversation and whether, if he were, he would help Ruth in her suffering. She knew that Mam might send her away. At nearly eighteen, this was the first time she had been present for an important conversation. Her brother Brad scowled. He did not approve of her female presence she knew. He thought of important issues as male business even though he was a year younger than her. Tŵm smiled at her reassuringly. At least he would not want her to be sent upstairs.

What time did the doctor get back? Mali asked.

About three I think. Emyr looked at his son inquiringly. Tŵm nodded his agreement.

Did he say anything?

Just that he would ask Idwal Edwards from the village to ride into Ruthin and tell the police what had happened as the body would have to be taken away for a post mortem. He hadn’t examined Gwyn when we left but it’s obvious that he died from drowning. It’s just an accident I’m sure.

It’s a terrible tragedy. I knew there would be a death in that family. Ruth Parry had a crow down the chimney last week. Emyr looked a little startled. Nain had not said anything much since his return. He had almost forgotten she was there.

Superstitious nonsense Mam! Mali sounded very sure of herself. God giveth and God taketh away. If there is anyone who can endure this, then that person is Ruth Parry.

Even so, Nain went on. To have both her husband and her son in the grave before her is more than any woman should have to bear. She is all alone in the world now.

Mali leapt on her mother at once. You are never alone when Jesus is with you, as you well know.

Yes, but Jesus isn’t going to put his arms round her at night and chop the firewood during the day, is he?

Mam, that is positively blasphemous.

Nain, unperturbed, continued. It’s not blasphemous. It’s just a fact. She more than struggled when Gwyn was away at the Front. If you remember, you used to send Tŵm to help out. After Gwyn was discharged, he took over all the heavy jobs. I don’t know how she’ll manage now.

She’s not the first woman to have to manage alone, replied Mali, and she won’t be the last. Not all women are lucky enough to have men to look after them, even more so after the war. She stretched out her legs to warm them in front of the fire. It was her favourite position, evidenced by her fire-scorched skin, which closely resembled corned beef.

That may be so Mali, Emyr intervened. But your Mam’s right. Ruth is going to find it difficult alone.

Caron could feel her anger rising at her mother’s attitude but knew better than to say anything. She would only be sent to her room if she argued. Yes, Mali had gone back home with Ruth but only out of duty and mainly for the sake of appearance. Caron could imagine the gossips now. Mali Tudor went back with her. Such a good person she is. Always ready to help when she’s needed. Yet as Caron knew from her own experience, genuine sympathy lay well beyond the realm of Mali’s practical help.

Later when Caron and Brad had gone to bed and Nain had followed, Emyr tried to voice the unspeakable.

What if…?

Mali jumped in to stop him. Don’t say it. I’m sure it wasn’t.

Wasn’t what? asked Bethan. Missing the point, she asked, Do you think he was murdered?

In Carreg-y-Bedd? Don’t be ridiculous. This is Wales, not Liverpool. And your Tad didn’t mean that. He meant the death might’ve been self-inflicted. Mali was indignant.

Well, something strange must’ve happened, Bethan replied.

I’m sure it was just a tragic accident, Mali went on.

Emyr tried again. It could’ve been an accident but… well it’s difficult to see how he could have fallen into Pwll Berw. Everyone in the district knows how dangerous it is. Gwyn knew that as well as anybody.

See, said Bethan triumphantly. Someone might have pushed him.

Emyr had been acutely aware of Tŵm’s silence during the conversation so his son’s first words made quite an impact. Ashen-faced, Tŵm’s first direct contact with death had left him unable to think clearly. Gwyn couldn’t swim. He was scared of water.

Emyr, looking at his son, realised that he had had enough for one day. No point in speculating. We need to wait for the doctor to tell us what happened. It’s been a long day. I think we should all get some sleep.

Tŵm thought sleep would be impossible but shock and exhaustion worked their magic and he slept soundly until Mali called him early the next morning.

After the stock was fed and the cows milked, breakfast was a subdued affair. Over porridge and oat cakes, Mali declared her intention of collecting some rhubarb to take over to Ruth. I’ll make her a bara brith as well, she announced. It would also allow her to be in the right place at the right time if any news emerged from the infirmary. I do feel responsible for her, she told Emyr. After all, Thomas and Gwyn did work for us.

Leaving Bethan and Caron in charge of yesterday’s lamb dinner and with strict orders to heat the bread oven, Mali left about ten. Tŵm knew that tragedy would not disturb the sowing of barley scheduled for every day that week. Human adversity could not be allowed to interrupt Nature’s cycle.

Tŵm didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed the mechanical task that awaited him. He could put his energy into physical rather than mental effort. Re-ordering his fragmented thoughts would be as impossible as restoring the shattered ice on the winter water troughs. As Tŵm took handfuls of seed from the straw lip to broadcast over the land, Emyr controlled the cob’s pace with the drill. They worked in perfect harmony, instinctively aware of each other’s rhythm.

Back in Carreg-y-Bedd, Moses, setting up camp, had watched the Easter drama unfold with much curiosity. Realising quite quickly that a death was involved, he stayed well away feeling, as an outsider, he was not entitled to intervene in village affairs. He was more than stern with the children when they wanted to run over to see why a crowd was gathering and when Abram finally returned with the hazel, Moses told him that it was his job to make sure the younger ones did not go near the pool.

T’ere may be signs t’ere of what ‘appened, he said to his son. Thet water’s dangerous fer t’ little ones. Springs feed into it from t’ bottom. Even in a drought t’ere’s always water fer t’ ‘orses. One yeer a sheep fell in, struggled an’ then dis’ppeared. Pwll Berw’s not only deep, it ‘as t’ick mud like quicksand near t’ bottom. T’ ground underneath is like a sponge. It draws t’ings into ‘t.

The families concentrated instead on building the two benders with a balk in the middle. Since they intended to stay a while, the tents would give them extra space while the covering of the balk would protect the fire against the elements. Though Easter was not early that year, there was still time for some late frosts and heavy rain. Once the curved rods were securely fixed into the ridge pole, Moses, Solomon and Abram wired overlapped blankets firmly in place. When it was finished, the women, Grizell and Valentine, spread out a heap of straw on the ground, covered it with a bright red rug and piled up extra blankets at one end. With Abram and three other children, the extra room would mean the caravans were less cramped.

Easter Monday was unusually quiet in Carreg-y-Bedd. The football match against Clocaenog was cancelled as a mark of respect but the competition for the best decorated Easter egg, organised by Lady Eleanor Craddock, did take place as usual. Bryn-y-Castell was far enough away from Ruth Parry’s cottage for the sound of the children’s laughter not to reach her. Every child had spent a lot of time decorating the eggs so Lady Craddock thought it best not to disappoint them. It would be such a shame for them not to have a winner. They’ve spent so long using onions, vinegar, oak bark and even beetroot juice to dye their eggs and then they’ve painted on their patterns. I think it’s better to take their minds off what happened yesterday so this year I’ll hide hard boiled eggs in the garden for them to find and give a special prize to the child who finds the most. That should keep them occupied for most of the afternoon.

While the children of Carreg-y-Bedd were searching through the shrubbery and peering down into the ha-ha, Ruth Parry could enjoy some peace and quiet. Deluged with visitors, she had rid herself of Mali Tudor saying, I know everyone is being very kind but I really do need some time alone to think and pray.

You know Ruth that I’m not far away. If you need anything at all then just send one of the village children to get me. And you make sure you eat that bara brith I brought. It won’t do you any good to starve yourself.

Left alone, Ruth did as she said she would and prayed. She had a tendency to speak to the Lord as though he were drinking tea in the parlour with her. God, please look after Gwyn for me until it is my turn to pass. Please make sure he meets up with his father because I know he will look after him. And Jesus please help me to bear my suffering as you did yours. Amen.

A while later she climbed the stairs to Gwyn’s room. His bedroom was tiny, stuffed under the eaves. She sat down on the bed and looked about her. His drawings were everywhere, pinned up all over the walls and the beams. There he was laughing with Tŵm and Evan the day they caught a trout in the river. She recalled when he won the school prize for Art. It was unusual for him to draw a building, though he had the skill. Not interested in landscapes or still life, Gwyn’s pictures were nearly always peopled with the inhabitants of Carreg-y-Bedd. The winning picture of the school, with its thick, grey stone walls and thatched roof, now hung in the headmaster’s room. Ruth looked closely at a drawing of Gwyn being presented with the prize by Lady Craddock. Gwyn himself was often central in his drawings. His pictures were his pictorial autobiography.

Ruth smiled at his first efforts. Gwyn had begun to wield a pencil when little more than a baby. Next to his bed were his portraits, labelled ‘Mam’ and ‘Tad,’ produced when he was about four. Even though the childish scribbles lacked his later sophistication, his talent was obvious even then. Ruth gazed into her own eyes and then into those of Thomas. Gwyn had been so proud of his father. She saw that Gwyn had pinned the British War Medal on to the picture itself. A big man in every sense of the word, big built, big hearted, generous to a fault, Ruth couldn’t imagine how Thomas would ever have brought himself to fire upon the enemy. But he knew his duty and his duty was to fight the Hun. Not waiting for conscription and knowing God was on the side of the King, he had joined up soon after war was declared.

I know there are those in the chapel who say they’d prefer to be shot rather than enlist but I think they’re misguided. Pacifism is all very well but if we turn the other cheek we’ll be overrun by the Germans. Lloyd George himself has told us that we should rescue poor, little, peaceful Belgium from the barbarism and brutal bullying of the Boche. Wales is a little country just like Belgium. The ‘mailed fist’ he spoke about may well strike us next. Powerful speech it was. No wonder it was printed in the papers. Certainly convinced me. He said enlisting was a great opportunity to defend honour, duty and liberty. It was nothing less than a call to arms and I’m going to answer that call.

There was never any question of which regiment he would join. The oldest infantry regiment in Wales, with a reputation for outstanding gallantry: The Royal Welch Fusiliers. Thomas’ grandfather and his great-uncle had fought in the Crimea; his father in the Third Ashanti War. Thomas had been the first of his line not to join up as a youth. From a child, he had loved the land. Never happier than helping Emyr Tudor with lambing, hay-making or harvesting, Thomas had opted for a farming life in Carreg-y-Bedd. A man of few needs, he was more than content with his wife, his son and tilling the soil.

Later, a while after Thomas had sworn allegiance to George V and been sent for training, Ruth and Gwyn had watched the 3rd battalion march through Wrexham on St. David’s Day with bearskins, scarlet tunics, white leather gloves and sword belts, golden buttons and braid that glinted in the hard, cold sunlight. The drummers and the fifers, as part of the regimental band, played ‘Men of Harlech,’ the sound reverberating from the Victorian buildings, while the Goat Major escorted the regimental goat, resplendent with gilded horns and a silver headplate. Clad in an embroidered khaki coat, the goat escorted the battalion through the crowded streets. The mêlée of colour, the beat of the footfalls, the stirring music brought an emotional lump to Ruth’s throat. Pride suffused her soul.

Tad told me that the goat is actually an officer of the regiment, not a mascot, she explained to her son.

What do you think his name is Mam?

Ruth laughed. Billy, I expect.

Moving to her own bedroom, Ruth pulled open a drawer and lifted out a bundle of letters tied with a narrow black ribbon. It had been a while since she had read them. Spreading them out on the patchwork counterpane, she searched until she found the one she had in mind.

December 30th 1914

Basingstoke

My dearest Ruth

I hope that this letter finds you and Gwyn both well. I am going on fine though naturally I miss you both and hope to have some leave before I quit the country for foreign parts.

I began training in Wrexham but have now been moved here to Basingstoke. I’m learning how to use the weapons of war but I shan’t bore you with the details. It’s not a matter for women.

I haven’t been given a uniform as yet. The war took everyone by surprise and they’re busily making us the right clothes for the battlefield. For the moment I’m wearing blue serge overalls. My only complaint is that I feel the cold and hope the new khaki will put an end to that.

Well, those who said the war would be over by Christmas have been proven wrong. I wonder how much longer it will last. Not that long I don’t suppose. Once we get more troops over in France, we’ll soon send the Boche packing.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get home for Christmas. None of us have had any leave as yet except for my pal Rob. His mother died suddenly and he was allowed to go to the funeral. I hope to get some leave though before I go over the Channel.

I hope you and Gwyn enjoyed the Yuletide services and the carols. I recall how the three of us used to gaze at the stars in a clear sky on a frosty Christmas Eve after going to chapel. You always used to tell Gwyn to look for the special star that meant Jesus was on his way.

Your parcel landed with me on Christmas Eve and real glad of it I was, particularly the plum cake and the fruit gums. That was a tidy bit of money you sent me too. You should have kept more for you and Gwyn. The 15 shillings the army sends you is not much to live on.

Joining the RWF was of course the right decision. I have mates here from Ruthin, Wrexham and Cerrigydrudion, though some have been transferred from the 2nd to another battalion, the 4th, I think.

Morale is excellent. We’re all excited though apprehensive. It’s a great adventure and a great cause.

It’s likely that we’ll have many weeks of training. We need to be fit as well as knowing how to handle ourselves when we have to fight.

Give my love to Gwyn. Tell him that, while I’m away, he’s the man of the family and I know that he’ll look after you.

Don’t worry about me. I am in the pink, enjoying the army food (though of course it isn’t as good as your home cooking!) and the splendid companions.

All my love

Thomas

Ruth smiled. So typical of Thomas. He loved them both but was not overly sentimental. Not for her the love letters that some wives would have received. And she would not have wanted them because they would not be true of Thomas. Despite the seeming lack of sensibility, Thomas’ strength of feeling lay within every word. If necessary, she knew he would have given his life for his family. Well, in a sense he did, she reminded herself.

Thomas had eventually been granted the hoped for leave in October 1915. A precious few days when life returned to normal. He’d not talked about the fighting at all, simply telling her, I had several weeks more training when I got to France and then was put in a unit digging supply and communication trenches. I think they thought I’d be good at digging being a farmer! Of course, I’ve taken my turn on the Front line but you don’t need to know about that. I just want to forget it for a few days. I’m just thankful that Gwyn isn’t old enough to be there. I hope the war will be over soon so that he doesn’t have to go.

Once he’d had a bath and changed his clothes Thomas spent his time cycling round Carreg-y-Bedd, exploring old haunts and visiting friends. I just want to remind myself how beautiful it all is, he’d said. The three of them had taken the train to Chester for a day out, walking round the walls and taking a trip on the river; a golden memory to be held close for ever.

Ruth shuddered as she remembered washing Thomas’ filthy, grey flannel shirt. It had practically walked to the sink itself. She’d had to pour disinfectant in the water. The rags that had once been underwear were past rescuing and she had to buy new.

Parting for a second time was worse than when Thomas joined up. Then there had been excitement; a sense of adventure. This time Thomas had seemed resigned, stoical. Hugging them, he hadn’t wanted to let go.

She was glad now that Thomas hadn’t lived to see this day. He would have found it almost impossible to bear his son being taken before him. She hadn’t imagined that she would ever be grateful for the official notification. She picked that up now.

(If replying, please

quote above No.)

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Record Office

Madam

It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of:

(No.) 13487 (Rank) Private

(Name) Thomas Elwyn Parry

(Regiment) ROYAL WELCH FUSILIERS

which occurred in the field France.

on the 8.4.16

The report is to the effect that he was Killed in Action

By his Majesty’s command I am to forward the enclosed message of sympathy from Their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen. I am at the same time to express the regret of the Army Council at the soldier’s death on his Country’s service.

I am to add that any information that may be received as to the soldier’s burial will be communicated to you in due course. A separate leaflet dealing more fully with this subject is enclosed.

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A couple of days before the letter arrived, Ruth had received a letter from ‘my pal Rob’. When it arrived, she had been puzzled by the strange writing on the envelope. Since she hadn’t yet received the official missive, the shock had been immense. Rob had explained that it was a tradition amongst the soldiers for a friend’s letter to break the news first. That way ‘Killed in Action’ at least had some explanation.

Thomas, in Rob’s words, had ‘died instantly’.

He had written, ‘We were in countryside near That morning we heard a cuckoo and spotted a German soldier shooting at a hare. Earlier that week we’d been digging communication trenches to link some captured craters with the front line. Then on 8th April Thomas volunteered for a raid. Though I’m not allowed to give you information about that, what I can say is that it was a daring one and that Thomas displayed conspicuous gallantry and determination in the face of strong enemy resistance and heavy fire. He was a magnificent example of courage and devotion to duty. The only comfort I can give you is that he did not suffer. He was shot through the head and died instantly.’

Ruth hoped that this last line was true. At the time she hadn’t doubted it. In the years that had passed, however, she had heard tales from soldiers who had returned. Cadoc Morgan, glorying in notoriety, had volunteered information that she would rather not have known. I were fightin’ in a trench alongside a lad called Alf from Manchester. Only nineteen ‘e were. Told me ‘is Mam and ‘is sisters was fillin’ shells in a munitions fact’ry. We’d jus’ bin given the order to ‘man the fire step’ and Alf were quicker than the rest of us. That’s why ‘e bought it. A shell burst straight in front of us an’ the shrapnel scattered like hailstones strikin’ a tin can. Alf’s leg were blown clean off. Stretcher’d away ‘e was. I ‘eard later that gangrene set in. It took ‘im two weeks to die.

But Rob had said of Thomas, ‘he did not suffer’. Ruth clung on to that like survivors from the Titanic clung to the lifeboats.

At least Thomas was killed before the Somme and Passchendaele, the terrible battles she had heard about. She just hoped Rob had told her the truth. She did not doubt that he would try to protect her if Thomas had endured a long, agonising death, as so many did. If she had been a soldier writing to a grieving wife then she would have done just the same.

With Rob’s letter came a photo of the three of them. They had it taken just before he joined up. She rather wished it had been buried with his body. Thomas had a grave somewhere in France. The army had told her that Thomas’ final resting place was Cambrin Cemetery and she had the letter carefully stored away. Dying as he did, at least he was properly laid to rest. How lucky she was, she thought to herself. At least he wasn’t missing like so many others, buried where they had fallen with unknown comrades in an unknown grave. To find solace, their loved ones could only visit the Unknown Soldier in Westminster Abbey. She and Gwyn had intended to go to France together to find Thomas’ grave, once they’d saved enough money. She doubted now that she would go on her own.

After his return to France, Thomas had written a few times. Short letters just assuring her that he was well and she had no need to worry. His last letter was longer. It was this she found hardest to read.

My dearest Ruth

Please don’t worry about me. I know you must have been reading newspaper reports about casualties but there has been little fighting going on here for a while. We think there’s something coming off soon though so it’s likely to get a bit more lively. A few men have been wounded by artillery fire but I promise you I am safe and feel strong and healthy.

The countryside in France is very different from home. It is so flat here compared with the hills and mountains of North Wales. It keeps me going to think about the few days we had together last October when the trees were blazing gold, yellow and orange. There has been very little sun here. Everything is grey: grey sky, grey houses, grey trees, even the grass is grey, not at all like the green of Wales. They don’t have hedgerows as we do. Fancy that! But they do have spring. Behind the front lines there are anemones flowering, violets emerging and I heard a lark only yesterday. If I were working at Cwyn-y-Gwynt, I would already be well into the sowing. When I think of Carreg, my hiraeth is overwhelming; I ache for the sounds and scents of home.

I am looking forward to the warmer weather. Though we have thick woollen uniforms and greatcoats, it has still been very cold. A few of the men have had ‘flu but I’ve been fortunate and have escaped it.

Life’s got a routine here but it can be boring. We have a few days on the front line, then some time on the support line and then a week’s rest from soldierly duties. I have to admit it’s a relief to get away from the Front. As we move around there’s a lot of foot slogging, carrying the heavy kit that you saw when I came home. You wouldn’t believe what I have hanging off my body. I’m sure it weighs as much as I do! There’s my pack, smoke helmet, rifle, ammunition and that’s just the start.

We keep up our spirits by singing. ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ is a real favourite. Then during our ‘rest’ week we still work hard strengthening bridges, improving roads and so on, though we do have some free time to watch boxing matches and play football. I’m pleased to say that so far, our battalion is unbeaten! On rare occasions we have performances with magicians, singers and joke tellers. These all help to raise our spirits. St. David’s Day was not forgotten either. We woke to the sound of bugles, enjoyed a rendition of ‘Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’ and all wore a leek in our caps. We had to parade without a goat though as our battalion doesn’t have one here in France.

We are indeed fortunate to have a regimental chaplain with us so I can receive Holy Communion on a Sunday morning. It provides me with the courage and fortitude I need to face possible danger and it’s a great comfort to feel that God is as active here in France as he is in the hills of Wales.

We had an inspection a couple of weeks ago. The General was good enough to stop and speak to me. I was tickled pink! He asked me where I was from and on hearing I was from a tiny village near Ruthin he said, What a lucky man you are! I responded, I am doubly lucky sir because I have a wife and son of whom I am so very proud. He replied, I expect they are proud of you too. I felt honoured that he had singled me out like that.

I’m looking forward to receiving some more letters and if you could send me an extra couple of toothbrushes (one for cleaning my gun!) and some chocolates, they would be most welcome. Strawberry jam would be nice too. We do have jam if we’re lucky but it’s always plum and apple, never strawberry. Our main diet is bully beef and hard biscuits though we do get eggs, beans, cheese and bread and butter. Well, they call it butter but it’s more like axle grease! Mustn’t grouse though; they do us well enough.

God willing, I will have some more leave soon and will be able to spend a few days at home. I’m sure I must be due some soon. Tell Gwyn that he must do the heavy work for you Ruth. I don’t want you carrying the water or the coal or digging the potatoes. He’s a good strong boy and must do all that for you. Of course, I miss you both very much. I carry your pictures with me at all times. More importantly, I carry your love in my heart.

God bless you both

All my love Thomas

The final sentence was extraordinary for Thomas. Ruth had never known him say anything of that kind, even when they were courting. She couldn’t recall him even asking to marry her. He had mumbled something about ‘speaking to her father’ and that was that. Reading between the lines, he had been more troubled than he cared to admit, Ruth thought. But that was typical too. He would not have wanted his family to worry about him.

Taking a tour through such bitter-sweet memories took its toll on Ruth. Exhaustion took over. She had not slept since Gwyn had been found. Giving in for once, she lay on Thomas’ side of the bed and fell asleep.

She was awoken the next morning by a knocking on the door. Still slightly dazed she went to answer it, pinning up strands of hair as she walked downstairs.

Dr. Owen, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep early yesterday evening. I haven’t had chance to prepare myself for the day. What time is it?

It’s ten o’clock and please don’t worry Mrs. Parry, I’m sure you needed the rest. I have come to offer you my sincere condolences. Please may I come in? I do also need to speak with you about an important matter.

Ruth ushered the doctor into the parlour. May I offer you a cup of tea?

Yes please but only if you have one with me. Looking at her, Richard Owen was aware that Ruth was in need of sustenance and thought that she was more likely to partake of it if he accepted her hospitality. Once Ruth had brought the tea with a slice of Mali’s bara brith, he ensured that she ate by declaring that he hoped she would share bread with him since he did not like to eat alone. It was the first food that had passed Ruth’s lips since Sunday and she was surprised how it cleared her head. She had been feeling slightly dizzy. To be fair to Mali Tudor, it was an excellent bara brith.

Ruth opened the conversation. The minister was so kind to me yesterday. He stayed for over two hours. I could see that he was personally affected by… She paused and then, with a catch in her voice, continued, "by what had happened. He spoke very highly about