Friday 21st October 1966. -Aberfan. Part one.

More un work. Did some research on the evets. My Bampi was there so not only is it a part of my heritage but also my family history.

“James! What have I told you about that ball in the house?!” I’m about to lose my rag, I know it. If he doesn’t get out of my sight sharpish he’s getting a slap across the back of his legs. I’ve got Thomas half asleep, balanced in one arm and I’m stuffing Beth’s lunch into her school bag. She’s making moaning noises with her arms wrapped around my leg.

“Mam.” She groans. “My tummy hurts.” I’ve had this all morning. She’s fine, just trying to get out of going to school. James kicks the ball against the door. That’s it. Without a word I drop Beth’s bag onto the kitchen table, clip my eldest son around the ear and shut the ball in the cwtch. The slamming door provokes a grizzling sound from the baby on my arm.

“Right! Get to school, the two of you! Beth, stop whinging and put your coat on! James, help your sister and get out from under my feet. Your brother’s got a cold and I don’t need you two making things worse!” They see that I’m not kidding and James grabs his sister’s hood and drags her backwards toward the door with one last wistful glance at the cwtch where his ball is captive. “Hold your sister’s hand and look both ways before you cross the road!”

With the distractions of his older siblings gone, Thomas’ eyes slide shut and I lay him on the second hand setee my mother gave us when we moved into the tiny house ten years ago. Before the blanket’s even over him his breathing’s deep and slow. His little lips slack and his soft blonde curls falling down onto his forehead. I set about my daily routine of washing the dishes from breakfast. Joe will be home soon and with this thought cheering me I feel bad for snapping at the kids. Joseph switched to night shifts in the mines when Thomas was born a year and a half ago and I work in Mr. Jenkins’ corner shop, well, as much as I can with a baby.

The clock hits 9 o’clock and I know the kids will be at school by now. Making the most of the baby being asleep for a change, I start making Joe’s breakfast. He’ll be home by half past and he’ll want to sleep. The smell of sausages drifts through the kitchen and there’s a nice popping sound to them. I’ll chuck some eggs on in a bit. My face feels a bit too warm with over the pan so I open the window a crack. I mentally prepare myself for the exhausted expression that lives on his face when he comes off shift. The black all over his skin, the bloodshot eyes, dry lips and furrow between his bushy black brows. He always manages a smile for me though. No matter how rough a night he’s had. Brightest smile in Aberfan. No bitterness even though he hasn’t seen his kids before school for over a year. You get what you’re given, that’s what he says. He’ll never complain. I’m looking out the window for him even though I know there’s a while yet. It’s too foggy outside to see his big black boots stamping coal dust down the street but no matter, I’ll hear him whistling. Same as every morning, I think to myself, butterflies playing havoc with my stomach. With fifteen minutes to go there’s a strange rumbling sound. I don’t have time to wonder what it is because Thomas starts screaming from the next room. Top of his lungs, wailing like a siren throughout the house. I can see Joe in his dimples and big green eyes but the blonde came from me. The only one who didn’t get the blonde hair is James. Spitting image of his father.

After a few minutes of trying to calm Thomas I walk back into the kitchen with the baby in my arms, there’s no way I’ll hear Joe coming in over this racket. I’m trying to look out of the window to see where that awful rumble was coming from. Like a tip but louder. Much louder. I turn suddenly as James bursts into the kitchen, back door slamming up against the wall. I’m about to shout at him for mitching and having the cheek to come home while doing it when his expression registers. The sort of expression no ten year old should ever wear. One of terror and devastation. His cheeks, red raw with running through the cold Autumn fog are streaked with still streaming tears. His eyes are wide and dilated with fear. His black hair is soaked to his forehead and neck and his once white school shirt is now drenched with what looks like mud. Only it’s too dark to be mud. He looks more like his father covered in black. Just like coal. Oh. The rumbling. Oh God no.

“Mam!” His next words are coming out too fast, mixed in with his ragged, shallow breaths. He’s choking on the words I don’t want him to say. Something’s wrong. Really wrong. My thoughts instantly go to Joe in the mines and a cold sense of dread consumes me. However his next words shock me out of the sudden grief that’s got me gripping the kitchen table with my free hand. Got me handing him the baby, yelling at him to look after his brother. The words that have got my legs propelling me down the street, stumbling, barely conscious of the strange caterwauling escaping my chest and the freezing cold slurry sloshing up to my knees. Got me sprinting madly towards Pantglas Junior School. “Mam! Help! I don’t know what to do! We were playing in the alley by Moy Road and there was a loud noise and then there was all this black! We didn’t know what to do so we ran, but it fell on the school! Mam, it knocked over the school! The school is flat and they’re all in there! Beth’s in there!” The only thing I can see is my daughter’s face in my head whinging, “Mammy, I don’t want to go to school today.”