window slid the man’s papers toward him.
“Before I look, let me take a wee guess. Manchester?” the clerk asked.
“You got it right, mafe. First time, too. Nice job of it.”
“Never miss, me,” the clerk said. “Come across you Manchester lads right regular now, I do. What with the redundancies and
all that sort of rot, what?”
“I say you can stick old Maggie into the North Sea is what!”
“Only way Her Nibbs is going to know the meanin’ of the word uncomfortable is the way I see it.”
The job applicant was growing impatient with the small chat.
“Is it true?”
“What. Is what true?”
“The work, out Rhondda?”
The clerk frowned and shuffled the papers in front of him a bit more.
“There’s one colliery open and hiring now, but jobs go first to those what live there. Cannot be any guarantees I’m givin’
you.”
“Oh, but I love the land out there.”
The clerk frowned again.
“Some don’t, not at all. Those that live up over the valley look down at mid-afternoon and they see nothing but dark, the
houses all lit up like it’s the middle of the night because the sun won’t get to their level.”
“It’s the spirit of the place I’m discussin’, though.”
“Aye. And there’s that singer from Rhondda…”
“Jones, Tom.”
“And the writer?”
“Follett, Ken. An American now, I hear.”
“Now that’s the way to have it, what?”
“I’ve always fancied myself an American some day,” the job applicant said. “Some day, maybe.”
The clerk finished stamping his papers, wrote down the name of the foreman at the St. John’s Colliery, and shoved the material
back across the desk.
“There you be now, off to the Rhondda. Do you have lodgings?”
“No.”
“Try a place in a little village called Trealaw, near Tonypandy. The Colliers Arms. Run by a funny pair, the Warrys. Watch
yourself with her is my advice.”
“Ta, mate.”
The young man left the Labour Exchange, his employment card stamped approved for work as a miner. The name on his card was
Randall Monckton, but it was a fake. His real name was Ben Slayton.
TREALAW, South Wales
He was able to drop the Manchester accent and slip into one that was easier for him—middle-class Londoner. The landlady, Mavis
Warry, was immediately fascinated.
“How long will you be staying with us, flower?” she asked. She fussed over the linens on his bed while he unpacked one of
his two bags.
“I don’t really know. The work is so sketchy these days, you see.”
“Here’s what you’ll learn about me, right off the bat,” Mavis said. She had left her job at the bed and was standing now very
close to Monckton—Slayton. “I just ask a man whatever is on my mind, and I’m asking you this: why is it you don’t seem like
a collier?”
“It wasn’t my life’s ambition, love. But then, neither was living on the dole, you know. So, I became a sooty face.”
“Well, it’s not so terribly sooty now, is it?” Mavis ran a hand across his cheek, then under his chin. She smiled at him,
almost girlishly, then stepped even closer. Her breasts grazed against his chest.
“You’re the one they told me to keep a look-out for,” Monckton said.
“I am indeed.”
Monckton took her into his arms and embraced her, softly and correctly. When he released her, she was breathless.
“Come with me,” he commanded.
She followed him to the bed. Monckton lowered her to the bed, with only a sheet for dressing, and lay down beside her. She
closed her eyes while he covered her face and neck with embraces.
Then slowly—she nearly couldn’t feel his gentle tugging—he began removing her clothes. He unbuttoned a high blouse, revealing
her small, firm breasts, warm and quivering to his touch.
He traced a finger down the length of her abdomen, lingering at her navel, then roughly pulling downward at her skirt. Beneath,
she wore the garments most British women wear still—hosiery and garter belt.
“Before I look, let me take a wee guess. Manchester?” the clerk asked.
“You got it right, mafe. First time, too. Nice job of it.”
“Never miss, me,” the clerk said. “Come across you Manchester lads right regular now, I do. What with the redundancies and
all that sort of rot, what?”
“I say you can stick old Maggie into the North Sea is what!”
“Only way Her Nibbs is going to know the meanin’ of the word uncomfortable is the way I see it.”
The job applicant was growing impatient with the small chat.
“Is it true?”
“What. Is what true?”
“The work, out Rhondda?”
The clerk frowned and shuffled the papers in front of him a bit more.
“There’s one colliery open and hiring now, but jobs go first to those what live there. Cannot be any guarantees I’m givin’
you.”
“Oh, but I love the land out there.”
The clerk frowned again.
“Some don’t, not at all. Those that live up over the valley look down at mid-afternoon and they see nothing but dark, the
houses all lit up like it’s the middle of the night because the sun won’t get to their level.”
“It’s the spirit of the place I’m discussin’, though.”
“Aye. And there’s that singer from Rhondda…”
“Jones, Tom.”
“And the writer?”
“Follett, Ken. An American now, I hear.”
“Now that’s the way to have it, what?”
“I’ve always fancied myself an American some day,” the job applicant said. “Some day, maybe.”
The clerk finished stamping his papers, wrote down the name of the foreman at the St. John’s Colliery, and shoved the material
back across the desk.
“There you be now, off to the Rhondda. Do you have lodgings?”
“No.”
“Try a place in a little village called Trealaw, near Tonypandy. The Colliers Arms. Run by a funny pair, the Warrys. Watch
yourself with her is my advice.”
“Ta, mate.”
The young man left the Labour Exchange, his employment card stamped approved for work as a miner. The name on his card was
Randall Monckton, but it was a fake. His real name was Ben Slayton.
TREALAW, South Wales
He was able to drop the Manchester accent and slip into one that was easier for him—middle-class Londoner. The landlady, Mavis
Warry, was immediately fascinated.
“How long will you be staying with us, flower?” she asked. She fussed over the linens on his bed while he unpacked one of
his two bags.
“I don’t really know. The work is so sketchy these days, you see.”
“Here’s what you’ll learn about me, right off the bat,” Mavis said. She had left her job at the bed and was standing now very
close to Monckton—Slayton. “I just ask a man whatever is on my mind, and I’m asking you this: why is it you don’t seem like
a collier?”
“It wasn’t my life’s ambition, love. But then, neither was living on the dole, you know. So, I became a sooty face.”
“Well, it’s not so terribly sooty now, is it?” Mavis ran a hand across his cheek, then under his chin. She smiled at him,
almost girlishly, then stepped even closer. Her breasts grazed against his chest.
“You’re the one they told me to keep a look-out for,” Monckton said.
“I am indeed.”
Monckton took her into his arms and embraced her, softly and correctly. When he released her, she was breathless.
“Come with me,” he commanded.
She followed him to the bed. Monckton lowered her to the bed, with only a sheet for dressing, and lay down beside her. She
closed her eyes while he covered her face and neck with embraces.
Then slowly—she nearly couldn’t feel his gentle tugging—he began removing her clothes. He unbuttoned a high blouse, revealing
her small, firm breasts, warm and quivering to his touch.
He traced a finger down the length of her abdomen, lingering at her navel, then roughly pulling downward at her skirt. Beneath,
she wore the garments most British women wear still—hosiery and garter belt.
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