The cold swill of air and the sudden blare of a lorry make him look up. It’s the navy blue coat and the tall figure of the Salvation Army man who served him, striding in with a black box in both hands.
‘Thought you might like a bit of background something,’ he says. ‘Batteries are fresh in and I’ve got more if they run out.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Jimmy stops work and points to a window ledge at William’s back. ‘Could you put it there and tune it in to something? That would be grand.’
‘You’re welcome.’ The man walks to the window, holding the radio out slightly before him. ‘There we are.’
His deep voice and roly-poly vowels remind William again of Tom Jones and, as the radio static fills the air, knobs are twisted and voices swoop in and out of clarity, William half hopes to hear ‘What’s New Pussycat?’， or ‘It’s Not Unusual’。
‘I’m guessing music would be the thing,’ the man says, peering at the dial.
Orchestral music snaps into focus, purer and louder than William would have expected from a small transistor.
‘Marvellous, thank you,’ says Jimmy.
‘Anything we can do to help. Anything at all,’ the man says on his way out.
They finish cleaning the body in half the time it had been taking William. When Helen’s parents walk in, the mother clutching the piece of skirt fabric, and see their girl, Betty is there with her strong arms. Over the next two and a half hours, they clean the bodies of two more girls and a boy.
8
‘The two of you go and get a bite to eat and a well-deserved cuppa now,’ Harry says, once William returns from walking another set of parents back onto the street. ‘I’ll deal with this one.’
William and Betty fasten their coats and walk out into the night towards the refreshment station at the end of the street. Although it’s no longer raining, the October air is sodden. Aberfan is black, white or grey. The lights on the site are harsh and bright again, picking up the stark white stonework, like bared teeth, around the windows of the nearby terraced houses. There’s a gaping hole in the row directly in front of the school.
Betty pauses, hooks her arm in his and stares at the glistening rubble.
‘That was my home. Twenty-five years we’ve lived there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ William says.
She pulls at his arm to move him on. ‘We weren’t in it, that’s something.’
As they walk past houses, he can see dark shadows through the windows; mini mountains of slag in sitting rooms. From one, the top of a chair pokes out alongside a stiletto heel. They pass the school on their left, and a sharp wail turns their heads as a man folds in two at the sight of something being pulled from the debris. He presumes it’s the mother behind him, her hand still at her mouth, and there’s Jimmy, already lifting the body to get it to the chapel before it starts to decompose.
‘If I had a home, I’d have invited you in for a cuppa,’ Betty says, tightening her grip on his arm, ‘but my sister-in-law’s already got a houseful to look after.’ She raises a short leg to show William her wellingtons. ‘These are hers, they’re two sizes too big.’
‘That’s OK, we can’t stay away for long anyway.’
The lorries are still on the move, to and fro, to and fro. The rescuers, fewer in number than when he arrived, work on. The clang of shovel into slurry is quieter and calmer, but persistent. William and Betty stand on the edge for a moment. He imagines the initial adrenaline shot of horror that powered their shovels, stung their muscles into action, must surely have drained from their bodies after two days. There’s no hope of finding any life, but they can’t stop. Laundry that should have been taken down days ago criss-crosses the alleys in between the house backs; ghostly bedding ripples in the breeze. Shirts and jumpers, skirts and trousers not needed now.
‘Thanks, Betty,’ William says, as they lean against the sacks with their tea and sandwiches. ‘It’s a big help, having you there.’
They sip whisky tea, tangy and oily. Betty blows ripples across the top of hers, but William lets his burn his throat.
‘She was a naughty little thing.’ For a moment William doesn’t know what Betty’s talking about. She turns and leans her hip into the sacks to face him. ‘Helen. She was in trouble last week for pinching a packet of Spangles from the newsagent, and last Christmas, in the chapel nativity, she moved the chair when Mary was about to sit down, and she hit the floor with one hell of a bump. Bruised her coccyx!’ All that’s left of Betty’s lipstick is a faint red line outlining her smile. ‘And she was a right little giggler.’ Betty stares past William and takes an other gulp of tea. ‘I hope she’s giggling now.’ The shine is back in Betty’s eyes. ‘There can’t be anything worse than losing a child.’ Her gaze drops to the ground, then she breathes in sharply and looks up at him again. ‘How old are you, William?’