These Poor Hands

The Autobiography of a Miner Working in South Wales

Bill Jones, Chris Williams

• Publisher: University of Wales Press
• Year: 2002
• Print ISBN: 9780708315637
• eBook ISBN: 9781783160853
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: Literature

"These Poor Hands: The Autobiography of a Miner Working in South Wales", was first published in June 1939. It was an instant bestseller, and its fame catapulted its author into the front rank of 'proletarian writers'. B. L. Coombes, an English-born migrant, had lived in the Vale of Neath since before the First World War, but only turned to writing in the 1930s as a way of communicating the plight of the miners and their communities to the wider world. "These Poor Hands" presents, in a documentary style, the working life of the miner as well as the author's experiences in the lock-outs of 1921 and 1926. It demonstrates Coombes' desire to offer an accurate account of the lives of miners and their families, and carries a sincere moral charge in its description of the waste of human potential that is industrial capitalism in decline. Long out of print, "These Poor Hands" has been recognised for over sixty years as the classic miner's autobiography.

Chapter One

I was fascinated by that light in the sky. Night after night I watched it reddening the shadows beyond the Brecknock Beacons, sometimes fading until it only showed faintly, then brightening until it seemed that all the country was ablaze.

The winter wind that rushed across the Herefordshire fields where the swedes rotted in heaps, and carried that smell of decay into the small farmhouse which was my home, seemed to encourage the burning, until the night sky would redden still more. Sometimes I felt sure that I could see these flames and feel their warmth, but it could only have been fancy, for they were more than sixty miles away from us.

Then in the cold and wetness of the winter evenings, when we had finished feeding the animals and had cut enough chaff for the next day, we crowded near the fire of damp logs that Mother was coaxing into flame with the bellows. I would look at our feeble fire and think, with longing, of the heat and brightness that must be about those distant flames.

We could not get a good enough price for our swedes to make it worth the six miles of cartage to the station, and the grass was spoiled in the orchard where the unwanted apples had fallen, but every night we shivered in our damp clothes because coal was too dear for us to buy. We did get some before each Christmas, because some years before a lady had left a sum of money sufficient ‘for eight poor families to be given one half-ton of coal each and the carter thereof to have one ton for his services’. We had the contract to be the ‘carter thereof’, so we had coal at Christmas time and as long after as carefulness made possible.

I can remember how I stood minding the horses while my father loaded the coal at the station, and how I pushed my hands under the horse’s collar so that my fingers would keep warm. I was astounded to see several full trucks of coal and was puzzled as to how they managed to get it into a truck. I asked the porter about this mystery, and he did not seem to be any more of an expert on coal-loading than myself.

By the time I was eighteen years old I had decided that I must get away somewhere. There was plenty of work at home, but little pay. It was a very dear holding that we rented, and all ready money had to be saved for rent. New clothes were very rare, and pocket-money was something to imagine.

This did not suit my ideas of life. I wanted good clothes, money to spend, to see fresh places and faces, and – well, many things.

I had a deal of advice about my future from our two nearest neighbours. They were time-expired soldiers, and lived next door to one another about half a mile from our place. Both were bachelors, and did their own house-work – occasionally. They were often at our place, and it was usually about four o’clock in the morning when they arrived, laden with as many dead rabbits as they could carry. I have seen them bring seventy between them. They would throw them into the back of the pony-trap, and my father would get away early to town to sell them. They always called before he returned, and it was my job to give them some weak cider to soothe their thirsts until father returned and brought the money for them to have a real drink at the Comet Inn.

During one of these waits I told them of my determination to go away. Both agreed that the part of the country was ‘as dead as a doornail, so it be’.

‘Yuh oughter join the Army same as we did’ – the one named Jack Elton was definite – ‘an’ it’s in the Lancers as yuh oughter be. They’d make better’n six foot on yuh if yuh was ter join now. They w’ud so.’

‘Like a bolted cabbage you’d be, all length and no heart,’ George Jones – he was known as Tiger Jones – disagreed emphatically, as he always did; ‘it’s in the Hussars as a lad the likes on him should be by good rights. That be the outfit as the real men joins.’

Jack Elton drew his two yards and two inches to their straightest. He felt more confident that way, because Tiger was four inches shorter.

‘If there’s any bloke as ‘ave got something disrespectful to say agen the Lancers’ – Jack looked very threateningly at Tiger – ‘then he’d best say it when I’m not a’hearing, so he did.’

‘They’m a lot o’ booby fighters,’ Tiger insisted; ‘they’ve got ter be narrer in that outfit so’s they kin hide a’hint them lances. That’s what them lances is for: so’s they kin pop behind them if they gets into danger by mistake. This youngster kin whack me with his left lead three times out on fower, and me as spry with me hands as when I was runner-up for the championship of the Army in India. Me feet ain’t so quick maybe, but I’m too good fur any scraggy Lancer, even now.’

Tiger noticed my interest in the glare on the sky one morning and was sympathetic.

‘If so be as you’m got no liking for the Army,’ he told me, ‘then up there in the works is the place for a young feller. Shorter hours and good money, not like as it be hereabouts – gotter graft all the hours as God sends. Ain’t got to call no manner of man sir up there – no, yuh ain’t.

‘That be the Bessemer Works* a’lighting up,’ he explained the light on the sky; ‘an’ yuh could see to read in the streets of Dowlais now, so yuh could.’

I had a friend, a little older than I was, who had gone to work in a colliery some months before. He was one of a family of nine who had been reared on a wage of sixteen shillings a week. His father was a good workman who started his work before five o’clock each morning and kept on at it until eight o’clock at night, caring for the horses after doing the eight hours’ work on the fields. I have seen this old waggoner take off the poor socks that he was wearing and hold his feet in cold water to ease them. His feet were the colour of liver, because all the skin had been rubbed off by walking all day across ploughed ground.

At sixty years of age he had a wonderful stroke of luck, so wonderful that he could hardly believe it. He was given work on the roads at eighteen shillings a week, and would only have to work from seven to six.

I wrote to the son, Jack Preece, telling him what I thought and asked how things were going with him. He answered by return. His only complaint was loneliness, and he hoped I would come to him. He had already asked for work for me, and got good lodgings ready.

I decided to go. My parents did not like losing their only son, but they realised that things were hopeless at home, so they consented.

When I hear people extolling the joys of country living I think of the struggles of the small farmers, as I knew them. Starting work at five in the morning and leaving off just in time to go to bed about ten at night. Every footstep hampered by mud in the wintertime. I recall how my father had to work. He was alert, active, always hurrying to do something, but was handicapped by the limp caused by a horse falling on him during the South African War.* He had to make long journeys to the fields he rented, for we had only small patches of ground, and the big fields and meadows near our place were farmed by bigger owners.

We paid three pounds an acre for our land, and looked over the fences at land held by big farmers for seventeen and sixpence an acre. Day and night we were afraid that the big herds of our neighbours would burst through our fences and eat up all our crop. We knew that we would get no fair recompense, yet we had to keep friendly with the wealthier farmers, because they sometimes loaned us implements we could not afford to buy.

My father once asked a gentleman farmer to rent him a piece of ground that had been allowed to become covered with hawthorn bushes and did not look to have any value. My father wanted to clear these bushes, drain and fence the meadow, and make it all look neat again – he was that sort of man. He was given a definite refusal: ‘Certainly not. That’s the most valuable piece of ground I have got.’

Some months later the same gentleman stopped my father and said, ‘I suppose you have heard that I am standing at the next election. We’ve been neighbours for some years. Can I count on your vote?’

It was not my father’s way to avoid the truth. ‘Certainly not,’ he replied; ‘my vote is the most valuable thing I have got.’

I have since wondered did he realise the truth of this statement. It has taken me several years to find out how true it is.

My mother too – like all women of her class – with her work never finished. Hunting for eggs in the barn and hedges; skimming the milk and taking all day – in the winter – to coax reluctant cream to become solid butter; helping to rear and tend animals until they learned to love them, then compelled to sell them at any sacrifice so that the rent should be paid. No holiday, week-day or Sunday, and no other prospect but to get greyer and weaker with the years, until the grave soothes with its long rest; and then even that last bit of ground having to be paid for very dearly, despite the tithe they had been forced to pay all their lives.

Yet there were others living around us who were worse off than we were – the farm labourers. They had no right to call a word their own.

Candlemas day* – the second of February – is moving day in the country. It is selected because of the gardens. Every year at that date many processions went past our gate. Usually it would be a large waggon drawn by three horses and containing as much furniture as could be pushed on a handcart. These waggons would be taking the goods and families of the labourers from our locality or bringing others in their place. The women and children were covered by oilskin sheets inside the waggon, or peeping out from under the sheets as do the animals on the way to market.

Often they could not afford to visit their new home before moving, and on arrival the worried mother would find that the roof leaked; the oven was broken and the chimney smoked; that the nearest shop was two miles away along a cart-track and would not trust strangers; and that there was not a dry stick to be found to get supper with or to get early breakfast for the man and the toddlers who had to struggle through all weathers to the strange school.

They suffered most of the discomforts of gypsies, but had none of the joys which must compensate those wanderers.

I would like to feel that the old tied-cottage system* is finished, but I know that things have not altered greatly. They had to spend long days at the work of a farmer who had the man and the woman – and growing daughter sometimes – under his control. He could, and often did, make them homeless and wageless for the least opposition to his wishes.

I was down in that part last year, and was told of a young married man who was instantly dismissed by a farmer for going into a public-house one night after he had finished work.

I felt like a walk around on my last evening at home, and went to watch the people going to church – it was the only bit of excitement there. It was a very large church for the small parish and had a fine set of bells. I noted that the ringers seemed to go very easy until the carriage-and-pair of the squire rounded the turn by the old preaching-cross and the great man began to struggle out of his carriage. Then they pealed in earnest. Every worshipper had to wait outside until the squire had walked to the widening of the path and had made that dramatic flourish when he pulled out his gold hunter watch and looked up at the church clock. When he was satisfied that the clock had not dared to contradict the time shown on his watch he would nod to the clock, smile at the admiring people, and hold out his hand to the vicar standing in the doorway to welcome him.

Then the bells would ring merrily and from the other direction the staff of another big house marched to the church: housekeeper and butler in front, two footmen next, then about fourteen girls walking in pairs. They were paraded to church every Sunday, but were only allowed one free evening a month. This rule was considered very harsh by the young men of our village and probably by the girls themselves.

I did not relish being one of the few worshippers in that large church on such a fine evening, so I walked away until I came to the main roadway. It was well named – Stony Street. At the lower end it joined the Hereford Road, and near this junction was the Comet Inn. Outside the window of the inn Tiger Jones was sitting, with his pint mug on top of a tree-trunk that had been sawn to table height.

Knowing Tiger so well, I guessed what had happened, and very soon found I was correct. He had not been at all Sabbath-like in his language, and the landlord had wisely gone from sight and left his wife to order Tiger outside. So outside he was, looking as miserable as a disgraced schoolboy, and was dodging the decision that he should have no more beer on those premises that night by getting Elton to pass it through the opened window when no one was looking. It seemed, though, that Elton was too interested in the gossip inside to attend properly to the thirst of Tiger outside.

‘That there Elton,’ Tiger greeted me, ‘he be quite as much a scoundrel as that there Porter as calls himself the landlord. Mark my words, young ’un, an I’ll be doing the lot on ’em some depredation afore this day be gone, I will that.’

‘Have a drink with me?’ I asked the unnecessary question.

‘I’ll be everlasting obliged to yuh,’ Tiger agreed, ‘if so be as yuh can get it out ter me without that old witch of a Mother Porter a’seeing of yuh.’

When I returned with the full pint I paused in the shadow of the porch, for another man was approaching Tiger. This was an evangelist on his way to give a service at a local chapel, and he saw in Tiger a possible convert. Tiger looked up when the other came near, and that look checked the greeting of the newcomer. He felt in his pocket hurriedly, found a tract, and handed it to Tiger, who studied it as an owl might study a notice that stated ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’.

‘Well,’ – Tiger spoke first – ‘an’ what might you reckon to call this ’ere, hey?’

‘My friend,’ – the evangelist was nervous under Tiger’s glare – ‘that’s for you. It’s a letter, you see.Yes, a letter from God.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Tiger studied the printing with interest. ‘It’s a heck of a time since I heard from him, so it is.’

After the evangelist had hurried away, uncertain whether he could count Tiger as a victory or a defeat, I took out the drink.

‘It’ll be a farewell drink,’ I explained, ‘I’m off to-morrow.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’ Tiger was so surprised that he held the mug in his hand and did not start to drink. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m off to-morrow,’ I repeated, trying to be casual.

‘To-morrow?’ he repeated. ‘Are you now? Well, I’m proper sorry, I am. Yet it’ll be nice to have some one from here in the old crush. It’s a credit to ’em you’ll be.’

‘No, thanks,’ I said, ‘no army for me. I’m going up to Jack.’

He took one drink from the mug and left enough to cover the bottom. He handed the mug to me and insisted that I finish it off.

‘We’ve allus been pals, you an’ me,’ he said slowly, ‘and right to the end we shares. Wish as I wus a bit younger so’s I could come with yuh. Look after yourself, and whatever yuh does keep away from them Welsh gels. Lord! They do say as some on ’em is holy terrors, so they be.’

Next morning we lifted my tin box on the two-horsed carrier’s brake and started for Hereford. I hated leave-taking, and made it as brief as possible; besides, it would not be so long before I returned on holiday with good clothes and money to spare.

I looked back from the turn at the old home and heard the dog barking his sorrow at the parting. I carried the smell of the wood fire with me, and it has hung in my senses ever since. Little things like the thud of a falling apple, the crackle of corn being handled, the smell of manure drying on a warm day, the hoot of the owl from the orchard at night, and the smell of the new bread when my mother drew it from the stone oven on a long wooden ladle, are still very sweet to me. Every year the smell of drying grass makes me crave for the hayfields, but I have never since worked in them or been in my native place for anything more than a short visit.

We travelled slowly townwards, and had frequent stoppages while housewives gave detailed instructions to our driver about goods they wanted from town and exchange...

Table of contents

• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Dedication
• Introduction
• A Note On the Text in this Edition
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Glossary Notes for these Poor Hands