here's a rather tasty slice (modesty they call it) of a short story I'm writing in breton/english about suicide and ghosts in the suicide and ghost Rhondda Valleys in South Wales :
... I then socialized with the « keepers of the game », mainly retired folks who always had time to spare for a pint and a talk. I immediately felt at home with the old miners. Some of them had spent 50 years down the pit. They made you feel as if they had just dropped their helmet and their front lamp down by the entrance. I could but lend them a respectful ear. They had many a tale in store about death down the pit or survival outside the pit. I was told how Churchill the old lion had sent the army against their fathers in the streets of Tonypandy, killing a dozen of them and then in Llanelli causing another four of them to pay the price of their life. I was told how Ian Jenkins, Taffi Evans or Glynforr Edwards were never to see the light of day again when they got stuck 200 ft down after an explosion. Then there was the tragic fate of those horses that were shafted down the pit to work and stay in the dark corridors for the rest of their lives. And they also had it that a canary could save thousands by offering his life in sacrifice. The miners would hurry back up on to the ground as soon as the birdy dropped dead in his cage, showing the gases were high, and thus warning that an explosion was imminent. Tough people these Valley men … tough with their pets and with themselves. But in the end there was also a lighter side to the mining valleys : time for singing, dancing, boxing, plenty of things that made it a little less painful having to go down the pit again before daylight and coming up for air again when it was pitch dark outside.
Once the mining tale had been told they carried on with their little piece of enquiry about my humble self. When I mentionned the fact that I lived in the house round the corner, this side up the street, a tall thin man who hardly ever opened his mouth exclaimed : number 2 Foundry bloody Road, you must have met him ! To which I found no better response than : « and who would that be sir ? Sorry, I don’t see ». Without giving me the slightest hint they all started to laugh and one of them fired again : « who is the only one allowed to stay in a house once it’s been sold ? come on butt ! you must have a clue ! »
This time I wouldn’t look so dumb : « well, the ghost I suppose ». The old cronies approved and felt an urgent need to look at their empty pint, then they all tried to catch my eyes, which I kept glued to my own glass. Well, here we went again with the old trick, ghosts once more. Thirsty creatures these ghosts ! What they were after was their pint of Welsh bitter, the old bunch of not-so-anonymous boozers. And Friday evening meant double rounds, night of the living dead. Better be quick-witted. « I’m sorry but I don’t believe in ghosts, I think they’re just figments of sick imaginations ». I had set my ideas on a shrugging attitude, best way out.
The tall thin man shrugged back : « You won’t believe in that ghost until he comes to speak to you. And then he added in a chortle « You don’t have to answer to him, mind ! No one forces you ! The thing is the gentleman might be upset. » The landlord approved : « I tell you now butt, they’ve always lived with ghosts at number two and so will you, whether you like it or not, got it now boyo ? »
End of argument, better stay humble and listen to the voice of the valleys. I started to feel weak in the knee. I had to find a swift way out, some formula that could hide how uneasy I was feeling now. « I’m on my way gentlemen ! I’m off for a game of strip poker with him, I wish he was a she though ! »
This is what you got from listening to these old farts, I wouldn’t have blamed them though. Some were losing track after a lifetime looking for that seam in the dark.. I shuddered with excitement at the thought that I had found some big news to share with sweet Sian in front of the Moroccan Tajine tonight. I was sipping herbal tea to the sound of Hopkinstown Choir rehearsing nextdoor when I heard my house mate go up the stairs. « Hi ya butty, have you seen the size of that Welsh lamb in the fridge ? Just to prove my knowledge of Welsh history, I answered : « I have, give me an old bed-sheet and I’ll fix you a flag ». She gave me a scornful look that meant as much as « wrong Mr Teacher » and there she made an interesting point :
« Well chuck, the legend said they used fresh blood. » That was a delightful way to start the week-end as we were getting everything ready for our Friday night treat. The Choir leader had just declared a state of emergency and they were now heading to the tavern. ...
