Shoes for Anthony by Emma Kennedy Page A

ours. I wasn’t concentrating. Two lads went over the rail. Broken legs, both of ’em.’
    â€˜One was Penwyth Collins,’ said Father from the back step, where he was standing staring up at the mountain. ‘He’ll not work again.’
    Mam clutched the dirty work clothes to her. ‘Oh, no, Davey. His wife’s expecting.’
    â€˜Perhaps you can put together something,’ said Father, turning to Mam. ‘Anything extra you might have. We should give them what we can.’
    Mam stared at him. ‘I don’t know if we have got …’
    â€˜Whatever we can, Em,’ said Father.
    A heavy silence filled the kitchen.
    â€˜It’s only a matter of time before something worse happens,’ said Alwyn, who was now stretching out a discarded rabbit skin onto a wooden board. ‘Mark my words. More coal needed. Not enough men. We’re going too deep into seams. Blasting without manholes. Cutting corners. When men are told to speed things up, safety is the first thing out the window. Pit owners don’t care. All they care about is shifting seams and reaching quotas. Well, bugger that. It’s not worth it.’
    â€˜Without us, the war effort grinds to a halt,’ said Father, his expression dark and his brow furrowed. ‘No engine runs without coal. No machinery builds armaments. Everything needs power, energy. This is how we serve. Never lose sight of that, Alwyn. There are men, neighbours, people we know, fighting in fields abroad. They risk their lives gladly. We can do the same. Don’t tell me it’s not worth it.’
    â€˜Tell me it’s worth it when one of us is in a wooden box,’ Alwyn grumbled, taking a nail and piercing the stretched rabbit skin.
    Mam cast a glance towards me. ‘Pass me the hot water, Ant,’ she said, softly.
    She let the clothes in her arms fall into the washtub. She’d let them soak overnight, scrub them in the morning, hang them on the line if it was dry, hang them by the fire if it was wet. I had never known any different. Neither had she. There were comforts to be had in the familiar, the everyday rituals of our lives, and yet … I passed her the pan of water. Our eyes met and I felt consumed with a small, burning terror that something bad was going to happen.
    I snuck upstairs, tucked the banana under my jumper, took it out into the garden and threw it down the outtie.

CHAPTER FIVE
    â€˜Fancy coming to the pictures?’ said Bethan, hand on hip, head tilted to one side.
    I stared up at her from under the bed.
    â€˜Thought you could do with a treat, what with all the scraps you’ve been in.’
    â€˜What’s on?’
    â€˜Dunno,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we? Besides, I need a beau to take me. May as well be you?’
    I slid sideways and pushed myself up. ‘Thought Alf might be your beau,’ I said, following her from the room.
    Bethan stopped and turned to face me. ‘Are you mad? What gave you that idea? I’ve not stepped out with him. Nor am I going to.’
    â€˜Dunno,’ I said. ‘He’s asked after you, been round, like. Reckon he’s sweet on you. Alwyn says so.’
    â€˜Yeah, well,’ said Bethan, with a snort, ‘he can be as sweet on me as he likes. Doesn’t mean I’m going to like him back. Come on. If we get a lick on, we can make the six-thirty. You’ve got a proper shiner coming up.’ She stood back and regarded my face. ‘Does it hurt?’
    â€˜Bit,’ I said. I was in a strange mood. I felt out of sorts. So many thoughts swirling through me, full of feelings I didn’t know what to do with. Bad things happen. I felt haunted by the idea.
    As we came down the stairs, I could hear my brothers laughing. ‘So he bites into his sandwich,’ said Alwyn, ‘and there’s no filling. Instead, there’s a handwritten note. And he spits it out, opens