The pavements fill with black-clad figures oozing from doorways. Keep your head down and your heart hard. That’s your kindness. Earlier, gazing into the purple dawn through the windscreen, William imagined a cup of tea with Betty, hearing about life with her sister-in-law. Now, he tells himself, he mustn’t think like that; he should leave these people alone, drawn tight into the folds of their community.
He turns away from the procession of hearses and overtakes the human tide rolling towards the mountain graveyard; black coats and hats, downcast eyes, flower-filled arms. William strides up the lane to the left of the cemetery gates, over tufts of grass and patches of moss blending with the bitumen. He’s unsure why, four days later, he’s returned, and that’s probably why he’s told no one. Not Uncle Robert, not Gloria, who he has only spoken to once since he got home anyway.
She was so pleased when he called the day after, her warmth and concern so palpable she may as well have been standing next to him. And he knew, as he answered her questions with lone words, like yes, and no, and terrible, and unbearable, that he was building a barricade between them. That when she said she’d love to see him soon, his maybe had made it clear to her as well.
William loves Gloria, has done ever since he met her lodging with her family for his embalming training. He’s loved her without a moment’s wavering through all that happened – things that would have sent other men running. And then, at last, at the dinner dance, with that kiss, he dared to believe they had a future. But Aberfan has scooped out the core of him, stretched it thin and catapulted it into the wild blue yonder. Maybe that’s why he’s here; to try and get himself back.
The path twists to the right, above the graveyard, on top of the mountain. William climbs quickly, heart thudding. Skinny autumn trees stand sentinel every two feet or so, their lower branches reaching straight out, as if to shield him from what’s about to happen. He’s glad of the criss-cross limbs, for he too is obscured. Across the valley, on the opposite hillside, are hundreds, maybe thousands of people gathered in stunned solidarity.
The world has been watching Aberfan, and the floral cross dominating the mountainside above the graves shows that it has also sent flowers. Mourners swarm the hillside. Some add their own bouquets to the cross, before heading towards the gaping wound where the coffins are laid. From up here, they look like beige piano keys, occasionally white; the ones Jimmy brought from Ireland. Two or three rows deep, mourners lean towards the open ground. Some drop a flower, some simply touch the earth, as if to be blessed, or to bless. What boundless capacity for pain, William thinks, is expected of such tiny, frail humans.
A robin lands on a branch to his left at eye level, its twig-legs seeming too delicate to support the plump feathered body. The bird cocks its head at him once, then it’s gone. Jimmy was only half right, William is not one of them, but neither is he merely an observer. He wishes Jimmy were here now, so he could tell him how he’s afraid that part of him is being buried with those children, that the village’s brokenness has broken him.
A violent sawing cuts through the sky, then a thup-thup-thup of dashed air, so loud and close that William drops to his knees on the muddy path. When he looks up he sees photographers at the helicopter window, their giant black lenses trained on the hillside.
He’s indignant at their intrusion, yet along with its racket, a feeling of liberation steals over him. He imagines the bodies within those coffins, some of which he was the last one to touch. He remembers the girl’s hand in his and something in him shifts. His throat clears, his lungs draw in the cold air, as his body prepares to give its best to these shattered families.
‘Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy, Yn llenwi’th lygaid duon di?
A’th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy, Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?’
The memory of Martin’s beautiful voice comes to him so clear and complete, it’s as if they’re singing their favourite duet again right here on this mountaintop. His voice is warm and elastic; his hands unclasp and conduct with smooth, generous sweeps. William sings like he hasn’t sung since he was a boy. It doesn’t matter that no one hears him. It matters that he’s doing it.
‘Anghofia’r oll o’th addewidion A wneist i rywun, ’ngeneth ddel, A dyro’th law, Myfanwy dirion I ddim ond dweud y gair “Ffarwél”。’
As if rehearsed, at the final verse the helicopter pirouettes and whomps away across the landscape with its loot. The smell of soggy bracken and trampled ferns fuses with a sense of being untethered, of floating free across the mountains.