Six: November 1920

"Yes, I've been looking. There's no work! I can't hear well enough any longer for the factory line. Those damn shells, whizzing past my ears for four bloody years." Peter's father, gone all day, was finally home. Waking up in the dark room off the kitchen, Peter could hear the church bells chiming – eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock.

"You have your strength, Alfred. You have your four good limbs. Our Gladys's Arthur is hauling scenery in the flies at the Hackney Empire three performances a day. It's something. Couldn't you talk to him?" His mother was up late, as always, ironing other people's shirts and blouses and handkerchiefs.

"Talk to him!" Alfred scoffed. "That pious old git! No, thank you, Mary, I'll do this my way."

Nights were for sleeping, except when Da came home long past dark. In the days when it was just Peter and Mam in the tiny two-room flat, he'd curl up next to her all night, warm and comfy. But now the voices from the kitchen jostled him awake most nights. He stretched in his camp bed and tried to concentrate on his baby sister's soft breaths. Mavis slumbered inches away, in the middle of the big bed that belonged to their parents.

"You've got to try, Fred. I'm taking in all the sewing and washing I can, but I can't be on my feet all day. Not with another one on the way."

CRASH. It was a cup or a saucer, toppling to the floor as a fist slammed into the old red table. "Damn it, woman, enough! I am trying! There's nothing for me."

His words reverberated, and the wailing started. "Ma-ma! Ma-maaa!"

Peter crept to his baby sister's side on the bed and stretched out beside her. "Now, hush," he whispered. "Shhh. Don't make a fuss, Mavis. He'll hear us." He stroked her curls and gave her a tickle on the tum and a kiss on the cheek, but it wouldn't do. Not in the middle of the night. He'd have to get Mam.

The boy cracked open the door to the kitchen and peered at the scene: Mam on her hands and knees, cleaning up broken porcelain. Da at the table, clutching his head in his hands and murmuring, "I'm sorry, love. I'm truly sorry." Mam rising to her feet, resting a hand on his slumped back and shaking her head wordlessly. She looked over her shoulder to see her small son, blinking into the light at the bedroom door.

"Mam, Mavis woke up. She's crying for you."

"I'm coming, Peter. Let's get you back to bed, son. You have to be in school tomorrow. Tsh, tsh, Mavis." She looked back at her husband, who was still cradling his head. "I'll be back out as soon they're settled, Alfred."

Mam lay down on the big bed, snuggling little Mavis in her arms. Peter rested his head on his mother's oddly swelling midsection, wondering for a moment why it wasn't as cushy as usual. She sang softly, a Welsh song he knew well.

Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes,
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat,
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron.*

Peter was halfway asleep when he heard the creak of the door. It was his Da, peering in from the doorway.

"I'm going down the pub," Da said.

"It's past closing time, Fred," Mam responded sharply.

Her husband hesitated, then spoke softly. "Jack will give me something if I help him clean up," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure he will, Fred. I'm sure he will," Mam replied. Her irritated tone made plain that she thought Jack had "given" Alfred quite enough already.

Her husband looked at his little family on the bed: The sleeping baby with her golden curls. The pregnant wife whose lullaby he had interrupted. The six-year-old school boy, nuzzling his mother like a puppy.

"Peter, get off your Mam. You're getting too big for that, lad." No answer from the boy, his eyes shut and his small body limp.

"Let him sleep, Fred," Mam snapped. "Go and give us some rest. I'll move him later." She sighed deeply as her husband left. Peter felt her hand stroking his hair as the door to the flat clicked shut.

"I'm still awake, Mam," Peter whispered the minute his father was gone.

"I know you are, son," Mam said. "I know. But you can rest now." And in a matter of minutes, he was smiling gently in his sleep, protected and warm.

Notes:

*The traditional Welsh lullaby, Suo Gân. Translation:

Sleep child upon my bosom,

It is cozy and warm;

Mother's arms are tight around you,

A mother's love is in my breast.