Ken Follett: Fall of Giants

There was no change in the size of his penis, which he called his peter. It was still the childish stub it had always been. He had hoped it might have started to grow on the night before his birthday, or perhaps that he might see just one black hair sprouting somewhere near it, but he was disappointed. His best friend, Tommy Griffiths, who had been born on the same day, was different: he had a cracked voice and a dark fuzz on his upper lip, and his peter was like a man’s. It was humiliating.

As Billy was using the pot, he looked out of the window. All he could see was the slag heap, a slate-gray mountain of tailings, waste from the coal mine, mostly shale and sandstone. This was how the world appeared on the second day of Creation, Billy thought, before God said: “Let the earth bring forth grass.” A gentle breeze wafted fine black dust off the slag onto the rows of houses.

Inside the room there was even less to look at. This was the back bedroom, a narrow space just big enough for the single bed, a chest of drawers, and Gramper’s old trunk. On the wall was an embroidered sampler that read:

BELIEVE ON THE

LORD JESUS CHRIST

AND THOU SHALT

BE SAVED

There was no mirror.

One door led to the top of the stairs, the other to the front bedroom, which could be accessed only through this one. It was larger and had space for two beds. Da and Mam slept there, and Billy’s sisters had too, years ago. The eldest, Ethel, had now left home, and the other three had died, one from measles, one from whooping cough, and one from diphtheria. There had been an older brother, too, who had shared Billy’s bed before Gramper came. Wesley had been his name, and he had been killed underground by a runaway dram, one of the wheeled tubs that carried coal.

Billy pulled on his shirt. It was the one he had worn to school yesterday. Today was Thursday, and he changed his shirt only on Sunday. However, he did have a new pair of trousers, his first long ones, made of the thick water-repellent cotton called moleskin. They were the symbol of entry into the world of men, and he pulled them on proudly, enjoying the heavy masculine feel of the fabric. He put on a thick leather belt and the boots he had inherited from Wesley, then he went downstairs.

Most of the ground floor was taken up by the living room, fifteen feet square, with a table in the middle and a fireplace to one side, and a homemade rug on the stone floor. Da was sitting at the table reading an old copy of the Daily Mail, a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his long, sharp nose. Mam was making tea. She put down the steaming kettle, kissed Billy’s forehead, and said: “How’s my little man on his birthday?”

Billy did not reply. The “little” was wounding, because he was little, and the “man” was just as hurtful because he was not a man. He went into the scullery at the back of the house. He dipped a tin bowl into the water barrel, washed his face and hands, and poured the water away in the shallow stone sink. The scullery had a copper with a fire grate underneath, but it was used only on bath night, which was Saturday.

They had been promised running water soon, and some of the miners’ houses already had it. It seemed a miracle to Billy that people could get a cup of cold clear water just by turning the tap, and not have to carry a bucket to the standpipe out in the street. But indoor water had not yet come to Wellington Row, where the Williamses lived.

He returned to the living room and sat at the table. Mam put a big cup of milky tea in front of him, already sugared. She cut two thick slices off a loaf of homemade bread and got a slab of dripping from the pantry under the stairs. Billy put his hands together, closed his eyes, and said: “Thank you Lord for this food amen.” Then he drank some tea and spread dripping on his bread.

Da’s pale blue eyes looked over the top of the paper. “Put salt on your bread,” he said. “You’ll sweat underground.”

Billy’s father was a miners’ agent, employed by the South Wales Miners’ Federation, which was the strongest trade union in Britain, as he said whenever he got the chance. He was known as Dai Union. A lot of men were called Dai, pronounced “die,” short for David, or Dafydd in Welsh. Billy had learned in school that David was popular in Wales because it was the name of the country’s patron saint, like Patrick in Ireland. All the Dais were distinguished one from another not by their surnames-almost everyone in town was Jones, Williams, Evans, or Morgan-but by a nickname. Real names were rarely used when there was a humorous alternative. Billy was William Williams, so they called him Billy Twice. Women were sometimes given their husband’s nickname, so that Mam was Mrs. Dai Union.

Gramper came down while Billy was eating his second slice. Despite the warm weather he wore a jacket and waistcoat. When he had washed his hands he sat opposite Billy. “Don’t look so nervous,” he said. “I went down the pit when I was ten. And my father was carried to the pit on his father’s back at the age of five, and worked from six in the morning until seven in the evening. He never saw daylight from October to March.”

“I’m not nervous,” Billy said. This was untrue. He was scared stiff.

However, Gramper was kindly, and he did not press the point. Billy liked Gramper. Mam treated Billy like a baby, and Da was stern and sarcastic, but Gramper was tolerant and talked to Billy as to an adult.

“Listen to this,” said Da. He would never buy the Mail, a right-wing rag, but he sometimes brought home someone else’s copy and read the paper aloud in a scornful voice, mocking the stupidity and dishonesty of the ruling class. “‘Lady Diana Manners has been criticized for wearing the same dress to two different balls. The younger daughter of the Duke of Rutland won “best lady’s costume” at the Savoy Ball for her off-the-shoulder boned bodice with full hooped skirt, receiving a prize of two hundred and fifty guineas.’” He lowered the paper and said: “That’s at least five years’ wages for you, Billy boy.” He resumed: “‘But she drew the frowns of the cognoscenti by wearing the same dress to Lord Winterton and F. E. Smith’s party at Claridge’s Hotel. One can have too much of a good thing, people said.’” He looked up from the paper. “You’d better change that frock, Mam,” he said. “You don’t want to draw the frowns of the cognoscenti.”

Mam was not amused. She was wearing an old brown wool dress with patched elbows and stains under the armpits. “If I had two hundred and fifty guineas I’d look better than Lady Diana Muck,” she said, not without bitterness.

“It’s true,” Gramper said. “Cara was always the pretty one-just like her mother.” Mam’s name was Cara. Gramper turned to Billy. “Your grandmother was Italian. Her name was Maria Ferrone.” Billy knew this, but Gramper liked to retell familiar stories. “That’s where your mother gets her glossy black hair and lovely dark eyes-and your sister. Your gran was the most beautiful girl in Cardiff-and I got her!” Suddenly he looked sad. “Those were the days,” he said quietly.

Da frowned with disapproval-such talk suggested the lusts of the flesh-but Mam was cheered by her father’s compliments, and she smiled as she put his breakfast in front of him. “Oh, aye,” she said. “Me and my sisters were considered beauties. We’d show those dukes what a pretty girl is, if we had the money for silk and lace.”

Billy was surprised. He had never thought of his mother as beautiful or otherwise, though when she dressed for the chapel social on Saturday evening she did look striking, especially in a hat. He supposed she might once have been a pretty girl, but it was hard to imagine.

“Mind you,” said Gramper, “your gran’s family were clever, too. My brother-in-law was a miner, but he got out of the industry and opened a café in Tenby. Now there’s a life for you-sea breezes, and nothing to do all day but make coffee and count your money.”