The evening meal was almost ready. Neat in her black dress Granny Lewis sat in her high-backed wooden chair in the little stone house in James Street – part of a terrace which straggled up the hill overlooking the docks which gave employment to that little Irish community. She patiently turned the heel of yet another sock. She prided herself on her knitting. On the shiny black hob beside her a pot of stew simmered gently. The plates on the dresser shone in the cosy light from the old oil lamp on the table. Paddy would be starving when he came home from the docks.
She had not been too pleased when her only daughter Annie had met and married this big, quiet Irishman – happily accepted his faith and settled into their community. No, indeed, she had felt almost betrayed. But when young Pat was born she had come just to help for a week and had stayed ever since helping to bring up the rest of the family.
She and Paddy had come to respect each others ways and beliefs – and had found each other a staunch ally.
Many an evening, when Annie was visiting a neighbour or maybe helping out when a baby was born Paddy would hold out a handful of coppers with a wink and say “Put on your old plaid shawl Gran” and away she would go giggling like a schoolgirl.
With one hand she clutched her shawl about her and in the other she carried a jug as she toddled down the hill to the jug and bottle of the Golden Lion on the corner. Then the pair of them would enjoy a quiet drink together and have the glasses and the jug washed up and put away before Annie came home.
Granny Lewis was proud of her capable daughter Annie, but Paddy and she were pals.
She heard the latch of the front door click and put down her knitting to busy herself with the meal. But it was a lad of 19 who came in to greet her. Tall, dark like his father but the innocence of youth still evident on his face.
“Hello young Pat,” she greeted the newcomer. “I thought you were away fighting the war.”
It was an old joke between them. Patsy had rushed to volunteer at the first hint of war only to find himself posted to the fort on Penarth Head – barely 500 yards from his own front door. Whenever his off duty permitted, he came home for his tea as usual.
This evening however there was news at last and he was anxious to tell it.
“Dad not back yet?” he he queried.
“He won’t be long,” she answered. “Your mother is down at the Buckleys with Moll. She’s a sensible girl there’ll be no trouble there.
The latch clicked again. This time there was no mistaking the heavy tread of a big tired man.
Paddy O’Brien came into the room. “Hello Gran,” he said. “Hello Pat.
“Will you eat or bath first?” said Granny busying herself with his clean clothes.
She had made it her own special duty to see that the copper was full of hot water and his clean clothes aired and waited for him to change out of his Best Black.
“I’ll just wash and eat,” said the big man quietly. “They’re going to finish loading this boat tonight. I’ll be going back after tea.”
“I’ll walk back with you Dad,” said Patsy eagerly. “I’ve got some news for you.”
“It’ll wait until after tea,” said his grandmother. “Go and wash Paddy, I’ll put your tea out. Pat you call your brothers in.”
So it wasn’t until tea was over and they were walking back towards the dock that Patsy was able to break his big news.
The orders had come at last, they were going to France. Patsy couldn’t wait to go.
The two men walked down the hill together and stopped where the path divided. Paddy looked at his son so eager to leave home. “Patsy,” he said. “Promise me you’ll remember you’re a Catholic when you go out there. I’ve heard terrible stories about the goings on in these foreign places.”
The lad shuffled his feet uncomfortably. This wasn’t like his father. “Of course, Dad,” he said impatiently.
“No! no!” his father insisted. “I want you to promise me you’ll never do anything to disgrace your name.”
“I promise,” he said.
They parted, one to walk down the steep cobbled road to the docks, the other to climb the hill and return to the fort.
Next day his brother brought him the news his father was dead.
No-one was sure how it happened. Maybe he had slipped on the wet quay, or perhaps he had been distracted for a moment and missed his footing climbing the rope ladder. Somehow he slipped in between the quay and the side of the boat. The gentle swell of the tidal basin had been enough to hold him captive until he drowned.
The funeral procession made its slow way down the hill. The big burly coal trimmers carried the coffin on their shoulders. Behind with her sons walked Annie, straight-backed and dry-eyed. Death was no stranger to her. Hadn’t she stood with the other women when a telegraph boy cycled past waiting to see to whose door he’d take the awful news? Hadn’t she helped nurse children dying with Scarlet fever or diphtheria? She held her head high as she walked behind the coffin, and if she should weep at night because her man was gone only her pillow would share her secret.
Granny Lewis walked beside Katie Buckley, Annie’s best friend. She wished she could show the same dry-eyed courage. The scalding tears that cascaded down her face shamed her, but she was too powerless to stop them. She glanced once at young Patsy, the last person to speak to his father. What was the boy feeling now?
The procession had reached the main road to Cardiff. There waiting was a black hearse drawn by two black-plumed horses and a cluster of horse drawn carriages to complete the sad journey to the cemetery in Cardiff where he lay with other members of his family.
Patsy tried not to look towards the dock. If he’d been anxious to go before, now he was desperate.
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