aturday afternoon and Dai Griffiths sits with his finger-polished roll-up tin. He is patient, fixated, listening. His tongue protrudes slightly as he makes his careful, half dog-end tobacco, half Old Holburn, delicate, thin cigarettes. It is raining outside the pub and along the valley side snake-terraced roofs glisten. The afternoon light closes.

Rivers run down from the top of the mountain, down the steep side roads, black with coal dust. The rain is like stair-rods now and the Cwm road is welly deep. Running bootsteps crash-splatter past the open pub door and Dai Griffiths' black and white terrier looks up. The dog is spotted with splashed black water and moves slightly. Without looking, Dai puts out a hand. The dog lowers its head back onto Dai's feet.

Pimple Roberts is laughing. He has a rolled up Western Mail in his massive fists and he is arguing the toss about something and nothing with Jones eighteen-months. Both of them have arms like pit-props.

From the crowd by the bar there comes a shout of, "Bloody 'ell, yer daff bugger!" A young apprentice called Merthyr Jenkins has just knocked over someone's drink. It is Meredith Toop Williams' Pint of Ansells and Toop has just given young Merthyr a good clip round the yur. Merthyr is a big lad and thinks about answering back, but Toop just looks at him and says in his slow, slow voice, "Doanbe darf, son, bugger off inta y'corner and drink yer beer." Toop's face is dark and his eye-brows are darker still. The boy turns back to the bar.

Everybody in the pub knows that if he wanted to, Toop Williams could kick young Merthyr from where he stands clear to The Arms Park. And they all know no one else would dare too. Merthyr is Toop Williams' buttee and no-one but Toop himself would give a clip to Toop's boy.

Evan Pritchard, the shop steward is in love again but this time it's pretty bad. Dai listens to him talk. Evan wants to take his Arfona on the trip to Murrayfield. He's started drinking shandy with low-cal lemonade because Arfona says he's getting fat. The boys think this is funny but Dai Griffiths is sad. Merthyr takes four pints over to a side table and Toop Williams stays by the bar. Merthyr is looking for support.

"But ee's a funny bugger, that Toop. I oanlee tripped."

"With fists like ee's got," Pimple says, "Toop can be as funny as he fancies," and Jones-eighteen-months says, "You are not bloody kiddin!"

Now they are talking rugby.

"So anyways," someone says, "this number eight, thickuz two short planks, ee wuz, no neck, shoulders like tallboys. Ee 'its Gareth who's flying down the wing about an undred miles 'n hour. Swack, base over apex—Gareth's in the third row of the stand and on the Mayor's lap, over goes the bench with the Lady Mayoress, legs up in the air, all drawers and no pension book."

Someone asks seriously, "Gareth all right?"

"Oh, yeah, rightuz ninepence. Birruv wet sponge un Gareth cum back on. Five minutes after, ees made a try under the posts fer Phil."

"That Phil's a good un," someone says.

"Then five minutes from time he gived their number eight, the great big bleeder, a good raking."

The conversations begin to criss-cross like the scissors moves that once opened up the Twickenham defence. Dai hears it all but the words are not important, only the music, the lack of direction.

"S'bloody wet out there."

"So Merthyr, Ironworks, wassit like working for Toop?"

"Twenty-five six in the end. Comfortable, but it was touch an go till the last quarter."

"Meredith's OK," Merthyr says.

"Ee as toop as they say, is ee?"

"Whadda you think?"

Someone else, "They reckon Arthur Scargill's gunna av us all out before it's finally sorted. We av to do it, ee sez. Ee sez iss the miner's last chance."

Another voice. "Oo're the boys playin' next week?"

"No one, yer dull bugger!"

"Oh, yeah, iss the International, innit? I fergot."

"And, yuv just paid yer last five quid for yer seat, yer soft git!"

"I wasn't thinkin,"

Someone laughs, "Shoulda bin English MP then."

"Bog off."

"Toop's all right," Merthyr says defensively.

Evan, "If you don't want t'go, Pimple, Arfona wuz..."

"No wimmin on the rugby bus, Evan. Doan be bloody darf!"

"She mightn't let..."

"Oh, Jesus-Mary! Someone get im a pint will ya? Merthyr?"

"Why me?" Merthyr says.

"Cuz you are a useless streak a piss, Ironworks. When there's someone younger, more useless, then you can send im to the bar!"

"Ay, Gaynor, givvus five more Ansell's, there's a love."

"Bugger off, Eighteen-Months," the barmaid says. "You want five pints you cummun up ere and ast proply."

Half the pub knows that Eighteen-Months is seeing Gaynor and trying to pretend he isn't. Eighteen Months is miffed.

Someone laughs, "Hey, Jonesey, doan get yer tongue wet when it's anging all over the bar"

"I thought Merthyr was goin?" he says.

"You urd the boss," the voice says," She wanns you."

Dai manages to smile but all this is sad, still.

"And Thatcher, the cow will bring the police in sure as eggs is eggs."

"Toop's not that daff, jest slow-talking," Merthyr says.

"Ee's slow all right."

"Tories and Maggie Tee, they're like bloody Nazis."

"Suh what's new? Worrabout Churchill firing on the miners?"

"Coal's s'cheap."

"I wouldn't mind that Gavin Hastings behind our backs."

"Ee's a good un but ee int JPR is he? So Ironworks..."

"What?"

"Worrabout Toop?"

"Meredith's a good bloke, the best. I forgot me snap one day last week and he gived me is. Not shared. I ad alluvit. Toop sed I wuz too skinny, and ee cud do without for one shift."

"He gived you is snap?"

Someone says, "So you reckon Phil was berra than Gareth?" "Not much in it. Neither was as good uz Barry John though."

Someone else says, "When we ad the roof fall and there was no air. You remember that? When Toop got everyone to get off their backsides and made em start walking?"

"When ee put Bill Thomas's lights out?"

"Bill tried to tell everyone they should sittun wait."

"But Toop said they ad t'move. They were all getting sleepy."

"No one tole me that." Merthyr says, "What's it about?"

"They're on about Toop's medal," someone says.

"Ee never said nuthin to me about a medal."

"Toop never says nuthin, Merthyr."

"Yes ee does."

"About the accident, Merthyr."

"Oh," Merthyr says.

"They reckon that everyone would uv died, dark air, monoxide. That was one bloody good thing Toop did, gerrin everyone to walk."

"What about Bill Thomas?"

"Out like a lamp. So Toop jest picked im up and carried im."

"Bill's a bloody big bloke."

Someone laughs. "Toop's bigger."

"Ees that all right. Coulda made the Pontypool front row."

"Play for Ponty? But ee's Toop."

"And Charlie Faulkner's not?"

"You know worrI mean, Pimple."

"Charlie Faulkner was on telly, " someone laughs. "He said you can't think and push!"

"I urd that one. Anyway, woss the point goin on about it? Toop is down the mile end, not playin for Ponty or Wales."

Evan says, "Arfona..."

"Oh Jesus, Evan," someone says, "Run off ome if yer that worried."

"She's gone to slimming class."

"Arthur's Scargill's right though," another voice mutters. "This time iss make or break. Anyone seen the doms?"

"Dai's got um, I think. But Phil Pugh's not chanced the rain. I urd is chest is bad."

"The dust?" Merthyr says.

"Course iss dust, Ironworks."

"Ee get disability?"

"Fifteen per cent."

"Tharall?"

"The board tried to palm im off with ten. Is s'lisster's aving another try for twenty-five. Criminal, it is, should be undred per cent. Phil can't walk up stairs without stoppin. Bethan as ad t'put a bed put in their front room."

"There's no dust any more," Merthyr says.

Jones eighteen months laughs.

"No, Murth, iss a bloody clinic down there int it?"

"You know worrI mean."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, modern techniques an that. Iss nuthin like it was."

"You gunna run marathons then, Merthyr?"

"I never sed that."

"Bloody right. Underground is worse than a hundred woodbines a day an you know it. Jest cos y'did a year in teck, boyo, it means bugger all."

Merthyr lowers his head. "Sorry, Pimple."

"Yuh should be, "Pimple says quietly. "Look at Dai there, all quiet, jest is dog, norreven Phil Pugh to play doms with."

Someone changes the subject. "I urd Fred Evan's boy got some girl from Cardiff in the club."

"That Berwyn djer mean, or the lanky streak whatsisname?"

"Lloyd."

"Yeah, the jumped up one, the skinny one, thinks ee's gonna live in London an be a yuppie."

"Ee's gorra bun goin'?"

"So I urd."

"They gonna ave it?"

"She's a Cathlick. They'll ave t', won't they?"

Dai is hardly listening and his pint is almost finished. What else is there to do but listen, wait?

"There's a meeting Wednesday, Evan. You goin'?"

"They cummin up ere to get wed or what?"

"I spect is Mam'll want them to, burrI doan know."

"They could av the reception in the W-I."

"Oh, bugger off, Pimple. You see Mrs High-Jenkins avin one of ur posh do's in the bloody W.I.? More like as not they'll av a big do down in Cardiff and a reception in the Angel."

"So Evan," someone asks softly, "you're the union rep..."

"I know!"

"Oo touchy! Wossup, Arfona not like you goin out?"

Evan is head down. "No. I wuz thinkin of packin it in anyway."

"What? Being our shop steward? Oo the bloody else is gunner bloody do it, Evan? You're the only bloke oo can understand the bosses when they come out with their bullshite."

"I've started doing Open University, "Evan says uncomfortably. "And, well, it's getting the time for everything…"

"Y'mean those dickeads on the telly with the naff clothes?"

"The films were done a long time ago, Ron. But achully, some of the stuff, it's rather good."

"Oh, act-chew-elly, some of it is rar-thuh good. Oh, bugger off, Evan."

"I'm doing political studies. Margaret Thatcher—"

Jones Eighteen-Months cuts in sharply. "Is an old witch. She'll close every pit before she's finished."

Dai speaks now. Softly, but he is heard.

"Leave Evan alone, eighteen-months. If I'd ad some learning I wouldn't be sitting here now, watching the rain."

"Sorry, Dai. We thought you were avin a kip."

"No," Dai says, "I was just waiting for Phil."

"Look, Arfona…" Evan says, "I think I'd better get back..."

"It's bucketing down, out there, Evan!" "I know, but. And I've got some homework to do."

Suddenly, at last, someone is serious. "You'll be at the meeting? You won't let the boys down?"

Evan stands up.

"I'll be there. I'll be there. I think this is it, this time."

"You're not really goin' out in that wet are yer?"

"I got me top," Evan says. "And it's only bloody rain."

"You get off oam," Dai Griffiths says. His head is still. He touches the dog's head. "And do me a favour while you're wet, check Phil's not ad a funny turn will you? Ee didn't look that good yesterday. I think this rain might be on is chest."

Evan likes Dai. "No problem," he says, meaning it.

Dai smiles and wonders. He taps the dog again.

Evan steps from the pub and out into the rain. He doesn't run. The one thing about being in the rain is he isn't underground. He didn't tell the boys about his job offer in Bristol. He couldn't. Dai might understand, but the rest, they'd think he was betraying them. The rain is so heavy and it is very cold. When he gets to Phil Pugh's house, the front room curtains are closed and there is no light.

Evan knows that Dai will die lonely and Merthyr Jenkins will have his dog. Toop will get the dust and be a thin, coughing old man. Wales will lose on Sunday in Scotland, the pit has six months to live. He might be crying but thank God the rain is in his face. If the boys knew he was crying for the village, his mates, they'd laugh at him for a fifteen day fortnight. Better just go.

Street lights glim behind the rain. He turns up one of the steep side roads.

Better just go.

© Alex Keegan