I belong to a wonderful writing group, in which writers’ work of all genres is celebrated each month. The standard of writing is astonishingly high and I always come away feeling supported by others and in awe of their work.

This is something I wrote for our last meeting. I don’t have much time as I’m busy editing and writing new books, but sharing creative ideas is such a pleasure.

I scribbled this one in thirty minutes and it’s fairly rough.It’s a one-off – I won’t take it any further.

It was inspired by two friends, one who is Welsh and a lovely man, the other is a fabulous performer I admire a lot.

I’ve made decisions about style, used some original names, and the piece needs to be read in an accent. It will become apparent as you read.

Trigger warning. It’s based on a historical event. Please don’t read it if you’re likely to be upset by tragic and true circumstances.

Sending best wishes.

J x

The Register

Friday, 21 October 1966. Class Two.

Kelvin Andrews

Andrew Breeze

Raymond Collins

Susan Crotty

David Morgan Davies

***

It was like any normal day. I was making breakfast, just toast and jam, hot tea, plenty of sugar. Georgie came downstairs and said, ‘Mam, I don’t feel well.’

‘You got to go in,’ I told him. ‘I don’t want to hear any excuses. It’s because Mr Russell said you have an arithmetic test, isn’t it… seven times tables?’

‘I got a headache, Mam,’ Georgie put a hand on his brow. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

Of course, I thought he was up to his tricks. I told him to stop messing. Then he burst into tears and said, ‘I’m not messing, Mam. I feel dizzy.’

I put my hand on his forehead. He was burning up.

                           ***

Jean Evans

Christine George

Trevor Gray

Angela Hopkins

Annette Hughes

Gillian Jones

                            ***

‘Georgie, I have to go to work. I can’t leave you by yourself. You’re only eight.’

‘I’ll go to bed. I’ll sleep all day.’ His lip trembled. His face was as pale as the surf at Porthcawl. ‘Don’t make me go in, Mam. Don’t make me…’

I remember putting my hands on my hips and thinking, what shall I do? My sister Phyllis couldn’t take him. And my cleaning job started at nine. I couldn’t afford any time off. I said, ‘I’m sorry, son. You’ll have to go in.’

Georgie burst into tears. ‘I’m sick. I’ll die if I go to school. Can’t I go to Grannie Robbins’? I like it over at her cottage. It smells of Glamorgan sausages. I can sit in the box room and look out at the river Taff.’

‘No. Grannie’s too old to look after you. You’ll have to go in to school, and that’s all there is to it.’

                                         ***

Sharon Lewis

Robert Minney

Jill Parfitt

Thomas Probert

Howard Prosser

Marjorie Rees

Lorraine Richards

                                        ***

I dropped him off at the gates at quarter to nine. I remember the skies were like dishwater. It had been raining for days, a whole week. A cold wind funnelled down the narrow road that led to Pantglas Junior School. I kissed his cheek, although Georgie doesn’t like me to do that at the school gate in case anyone sees me. But this time he didn’t seem to mind. I said, ‘Will you be all right, son?’

He gave me a smile and said, ‘I’ll do my best, Mam.’

That was the last thing he said to me before he went in. ‘I’ll do my best.’

I heard the school bell clang and I hurried over towards the manse. I always clean for Reverend Roberts on Tuesdays and Fridays. But I was still worried about Georgie. I hoped he’d be all right. I’d always been a bit soft, him being an only child, and he’d had the whooping cough badly as a baby. I fussed over him too much.

I wish I’d fussed a bit more now…

                                  ***

Annette Smith

Roger Summers

Jane Taylor

Myrtle Thomas

Randolph Tudor

Antony Watkins

                                    ***

I was listening to the transistor while I scrubbed the kitchen. I remember there was a lot of baked-on grease on the stove. Herman’s Hermits came on the radio. I like them. They were singing I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am, and I was singing along to myself.

Georgie was still on my mind. It was quarter past nine so I supposed he’d have started his arithmetic test. I knew he didn’t like the seven times table. I’d been through it with him a few times the night before. I’m no good at tables either.

I heard the sound outside. Worse than thunder. A rumbling, like an earth quake, like the end of the world coming. I threw down my cloth and I was running out the door. I’ve no idea why, but I was going fast as I could towards the school. A mother’s instinct.

Then I saw the river of slurry coming down from the colliery, loose rocks and mining stuff, hurtling towards Aberfan village. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Mud, water, rocks, rubble, rushing towards cottages, towards the school, demolishing everything in its way.

Everyone.

I heard later that more than 150,000 cubic metres of soaking debris broke away from the colliery tip and flowed downhill at a high speed.

I stood there watching with everyone else, not able to move, while the rain and the rubble slithered down into the village, taking away my home, my boy, all I had in the world.

The north side of the school took the full force of it. There was nothing to be done. In moments, 28 adults and 116 children, all buried.

All gone.

                                     ***

Avis Watts

Margaret Watts

Joseph Wilshire

Nancy Wills

Ann Williams

Evelyn Williams

George Williams