A Million Tears
A MILLION TEARS
by
Paul Henke
Good Read Publishing Ltd
Copyright ©
1998 Paul Henke
The right of Paul Henke to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1998 by Good Read Publishing A Good Read Publishing paperback. Reprinted in 2003, 2006 and 2009 by Good Read Publishing
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The exceptions to this are the historic characters described.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 1 902483 08-1
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
Printed and bound in Poland by Polska Books www.polskabook.pl
Good Read Publishing Ltd Balfron, G63 0RL
Paul Henke
“
An unquenchable thirst for daring and creativity”
The Sunday Times
The Tears Series:
The Nick Hunter Adventures:
TURMOIL
Also by Paul Henke
NEVER A WINNER
Visit Paul Henke on his website for current titles and future novels at:
http://www.henke.co.uk/home.html
or email Paul at
This book is dedicated to Richard and Louise
I write fiction about heroes and heroines. Yet I am privileged to know two people who fall into that category – they are my brother, Phillip Henke and his wife, Lynda. Over the years they have shown the greatest courage and compassion it is possible to possess in their dedication to look after their seriously handicapped son, Christopher. It is people like them who are the true heroes and heroines in this world of ours.
Prologue
DAVID EVAN GRIFFITHS stood next to the large bay window, looking out over the rolling grounds of the Sussex estate. He was 87 years old, stood with a stoop, was still slim and had a shock of white hair, his vanity in old age. He was waiting for a reporter from Time magazine who wanted to write the story of the Griffiths family. A wry grin cracked his lips as events and people flashed through his mind like a kaleidoscope.
He moved away from the window towards the open door of the walk-in safe, where the journals, diaries, letters and the other papers he had acquired over the last seven decades resided. The history of the Griffiths family in one location. The loss didn’t bear thinking about should something happen to it all. The information contained in the safe was a microcosm of the twentieth century. Hardly an event of any importance that had impacted on the world in the last fifty years or more hadn’t been influenced or in some cases caused by a member of his family. In many cases, indeed, he had been the prime mover of events. He looked back out of the window, enjoying the sight of the deep frost sparkling in the sunlight, the sea, his ruling passion, was a dark blue in the distance.
There was a noise behind him and the door swung open. A young man stood in the doorway, a briefcase in his hand.
‘Come in, come in,’ Griffiths repeated. ‘Good of you to come all this way.’ As always, in spite of the fact that the interview was taking place at the request of the magazine, Sir David made it appear as though the favour was for him. The young man walked purposefully across the wide expanse of carpet, his hand outstretched.
‘It’s very good of you to see me, Sir,’ he said in a soft east coast American accent which Sir David placed immediately as Bostonian. The reporter tried hard not to be overpowered by the wealth surrounding him nor by the sheer presence of the man standing in front of him. He realised that he was shaking hands with a legend of the twentieth century. Sir David’s achievements sprang to mind and in spite of himself the young man cringed inwardly. He’s just another man he thought.
They settled opposite each other in leather wing-backed chairs and the reporter took out his tape recorder and asked permission to switch it on. With a gleam in his eyes Sir David nodded his acquiescence. Coffee was served by a butler who then silently withdrew.
‘I’ve been thinking how to start,’ Sir David said. ‘It’s easy to say I’ll begin at the beginning but it’s difficult to know where that is precisely. In retrospect and believe me, young man, at my age you spend a great deal of time in retrospection, it was the events of 1890 that changed our lives irrevocably. I’ve been looking through the files and papers of the period, reminding myself about the early years. It’s strange how in our arrogance we think that we have total control over our destinies. We haven’t. Destiny controls us. Decisions we make play a part, but each tiny event builds on the last and affects the next. This goes on until we have lived out our lives, for better or for worse. For many of us, we hope it is for the better. I have outlived my contemporaries, friends and, thankfully, my foes. My family is still around me. That has always been the source of our strength, the family.’ He lapsed into a meditative silence for a few seconds and then focused his considerable intellect on the man opposite.
‘When I look back on the early days, I think what a pretentious and precocious ten year old I must have been. But there again, in those days we grew up a lot faster than children do nowadays. It was not unusual for a twelve year old to be working down a coal mine, as most of my friends did, and at fifteen you were a man. I think it gave me an insight into the adult world. Childhood should last as long as possible. Naturally, no child agrees with me but most octogenarians do!’ Sir David gave a chuckle which turned into a mild coughing fit. ‘Blasted bronchitis. The wretched doctors said it’ll be another fortnight at least before I can get out. That’s why I agreed to the story. You wanted a short, sharp interview.’ The reporter nodded. ‘Instead, I’m offering you a chance to use that lot,’ Sir David waved his hand in the general direction of the room safe, ‘to put together the full story. It’ll take time but I think you’ll find it worth your while.’ Before the reporter could say anything Sir David went on. ‘I estimate that interviewing me will take the next two weeks at least. The papers are yours to browse through whenever you want but they must not,’ he emphasised his words with a shake of his right index finger, ‘be taken from here. If you put together the story to my satisfaction I will arrange publication. I have read some of your work and I think it’s good. You show an insight into events that is sadly lacking with most journalists nowadays.’
The reporter was surprised and excited at the same time. Publication of a book or a series of books about the Griffiths family would make him famous, even wealthy. Knowing some of the history of the man sitting before him he knew that he was being offered a ringside seat at the story of events and people that had shaped and changed the century.
‘What if you don’t like what I find?’
Sir David chuckled. ‘Twenty years ago I would have reserved the right to edit anything I didn’t like. Now I am only interested in the truth being told, warts and all.’ He held up his hand. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, as far as the family is concerned there are few warts. I believe that we have acted as honourably and decently as we could. We’ve cut a few corners, trod on a few toes and made a few enemies, but on the whole I think history will judge us favourably. So, in answer to your question, you can use anything you find.’
‘Fair enough, and I must say that’s mighty generous of you.’ The reporter sipped at his coffee, giving himself time to think the matter through. ‘I’ll need to clear it with my editor.’
Sir David looked at the young man and tapped his steepled fingers together before saying, ‘I’ve already agreed with your editor. He says you can stay as long as it takes.’
The reporter grinned warily. The cunning old fox, he thought, still as sharp as a tack even at his age. ‘Where will I stay?’
‘Here, of course. There are twenty bedrooms and we have better facilities than a five star hotel.’
At that moment the door opened and a beautiful black-haired girl entered the room, smiling sweetly. Sir David’s heart stopped beating for a second as it seemed that his beloved sister had walked into the room. He collected himself and made the introductions.
The reporter was tongue-tied. The girl was slim, had a vivacious if cheeky smile and was perfectly at home in her jodhpurs and hacking jacket.
‘Gramps, I’ve been told to tell you that we’ll be out for dinner and don’t forget that the Foreign Secretary will be here for tea.’
Sir David nodded. He hadn’t forgotten. In April Dr. David Owen, Foreign Secretary to the Wilson government would be visiting South Africa to hold talks with Ian Smith on the future of Rhodesia. Sir David had a great deal to contribute to those talks. His granddaughter waved the riding crop she was holding by way of farewell and breezed out of the room.
‘My granddaughter,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Sian.’
‘How’s that again? Did you say Sharn?’
‘That’s how it’s pronounced but we spell it S. I. A. N. She’s named after my sister.’ A faraway look came into Sir David’s eyes and then he pulled himself together. ‘Why don’t you rewind that contraption,’ he pointed at the tape recorder, ‘and let’s begin. I think we need to start in early 1890 . . .’
Dai’s Story
1890
It was a typical wet autumn day. I was in the front room with my nose pressed to the window looking up the road trying to see my father. In spite of the heavy rain and fading light I could see still the glow from the colliery furnaces, a constant reminder of the hell on earth the people of Llanbeddas endured in order to extract a meagre living, digging into its bowels.
Long streets, six deep, stretched along the valley and up the hillside. On the other side of the river, a mile away, was the colliery, the reason for the existence of our village and many more like it. They ran into each other, one house in one village, the next door house in another.
I was ten in 1890 and I had never been further than five villages to the north although once I went as far south as Pontypridd, the market town where the rivers Taff and Rhondda meet. I had bought a small present for myself at one of the market stalls, a little tin soldier in a red jacket and black breeches. I carried it in my pocket or took it to bed with me, a constant reminder of that wonderful day.
Today I heard my brother and sister squabbling in the living room. They were twins and always fighting. I wanted to tell them to be quiet; they were disturbing my concentration as I willed Da to come into sight. If I did not wish him to come home now, I knew he would do a double shift, and I would not see him for at least another twenty-four hours.
I turned from the window to shout and as I did they fell silent. I let out a deep breath and turned back to my vigil. I was in the front room, not used much except when the vicar called which was not often, or at birthdays and Christmas. It was small with a settee along one wall and a chair either side of the fireplace. Recessed either side of the chimney were shelves, one with Mam’s best china, the other with the family Bible and brass ornaments she had acquired in ten years of marriage. Their eleventh wedding anniversary was next month, the twelfth of November. The room would be in use then; everybody would be there. Sion, Sian and myself were more excited at the prospect than our parents were.
I pressed my nose harder against the window and strained my eyes looking along the road, wishing with all my heart for him to come. It was a week since I had last seen him – he was working double shifts to make extra money – but he had promised to come home early tonight. I knew he would be tired but he would play with us for a while, ask us about school and in a stern voice tell us to finish our greens.
