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Their naked faces showed history plainly, it mixed in their faces like ancient paint to make a curious synthesis of over-refinement and paradoxical coarseness. One received a hint, even as they prayed, a hint of that unbearable core of sensual suffering. As they murmured 30 their long incantations, I saw in their large dark eyes that infinite, that mute animal sadness, as in the liquid eyes of fugitives everywhere. I was eleven years old then: I could not have named all of this but I knew it...
A grown-up man wetting his trousers,’ I said. Keith didn’t answer. ‘Perhaps we should have pulled the communication cord,’ I said. ‘We didn’t have five pounds,’ Keith whispered. Then Keith ran off. It was the end of a long summer’s day. ‘He spoilt it, the man spoilt it,’ I said to myself. Young people passed by, happy and talkative, with tennis racquets over their shoulders. You could see the sunset reflected on the window-panes, an orange coloured glitter. My hands still smelt of the salty sea.
Glory be to God for dappled things,’ my brother read. Alun and Gwennie had climbed the hills in the early morning to pick mushrooms. Then the bad rain fell, and they found a cave to shelter in. ’ asked Alun. ‘Work is more regular. Safe work. ’ ‘You’d like it there,’ he said vaguely. ’ But they wouldn’t go. He knew it. A man has to keep his roots or he’s lost. Alun’s father had been a miner. The family always had been miners. And that was his life 26 too, to come up blinking into the sunlight, or the rain, with the coal dust lathered on his face and black lines under his fingernails.