Williams Border Country

1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-909844-23-0
Verlag: Parthian Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 450 Seiten

Harry Price has worked for years as a railway signalman in the Welsh border village of Glynmawr. Now he has had a stroke, and his son, Matthew, a lecturer at Oxford, returns to the close-knit community that he left. As Harry lies in silent pain in his cramped bedroom, Matthew experiences the jarring familiarity of the childhood world which, alienated, he can no longer re-enter. Struggling with the unspoken tensions and losses that returning home has provoked, he recalls what has made him who he is. Upstairs his deeply thoughtful father recalls his own arrival in the village, the relationships between men during the General Strike, and the social and personal changes that followed, and he struggles to articulate all that has been left unsaid. A beautiful and moving portrait of the love between a father and son, and of the strength and resilience of a small community, Border Country is Raymond Williams finest novel.

Raymond Williams was born in the Welsh border village of Pandy in 1921. After the war he began an influential career in education with the Extra Mural Department at Oxford University. His life-long concern with the interface between social development and cultural process marked him out as one of the most perceptive and influential intellectual figures of his generation. He returned to Cambridge as a Lecturer in 1961 and was appointed its first Professor of Drama in 1974. His best- known publications include Culture and Society (1958), The Long Revolution (1961), The Country and the City (1973), Keywords (1976) and Marxism and Literature (1977).

Autoren/Hrsg.

Williams, Raymond

Leseproben

Chapter One

1

As he ran for the bus he was glad: not only because he was going home, after a difficult day, but mainly because the run in itself was pleasant, as a break from the contained indifference that was still his dominant feeling of London. The conductress, a West Indian, smiled as he jumped to the platform, and he said, ‘Good evening,’ and was answered, with an easiness that had almost been lost. You don’t speak to people in London, he remembered; in fact you don’t speak to people anywhere in England; there is plenty of time for that sort of thing on the appointed occasions – in an office, in a seminar, at a party. He went upstairs, still half smiling, and was glad there had been no time to buy an evening paper; there was plenty to look at, in the bus and in the streets.

Matthew Price had been eight years a university lecturer, in economic history. He knew of nothing he more wanted to be, though his anxiety about his work had become marked. He was generally considered a good lecturer, but his research, which had started so well, had made little real progress over the last three years. It might be simply the usual fading, which he had watched in others, but it presented itself differently to his own mind. It is a problem of measurement, of the means of measurement, he had come to tell himself. But the reality which this phrase offered to interpret was, he could see, more disturbing. He was working on population movements into the Welsh mining valleys in the middle decades of the nineteenth century. But I have moved myself, he objected, and what is it really that I must measure? The techniques I have learned have the solidity and precision of ice-cubes, while a given temperature is maintained. But it is a temperature I can’t really maintain; the door of the box keeps flying open. It’s hardly a population movement from Glynmawr to London, but it’s a change of substance, as it must also have been for them, when they left their villages. And the ways of measuring this are not only outside my discipline. They are somewhere else altogether, that I can feel but not handle, touch but not grasp. To the nearest hundred, or to any usable percentage, my single figure is indifferent, but it is not only a relevant figure: without it, the change can’t be measured at all. The man on the bus, the man in the street, but I am Price from Glynmawr, and here, understandably, that means very little. You get it through Gwenton. Yes, they say the gateway of Wales. Yes, border country.

It was a long bus-ride out, and it was dark when he got off: town dark. The lamps had been lit among the bare trees, and shone down into the little front gardens. There were trees and gardens all along this street. When, soon after their marriage, Matthew and Susan had seen this street, they had felt they could settle in it. It was suburban, whatever that might mean, but this was little enough to pay for trees and a garden. Theirs was the end house: grey, single-fronted, with a wide bay window. At the gate stood a laburnum, as he had learned to call it except when it was in flower, when it was a golden chain again. On the gate had been a panel announcing ‘Laburnum House’, but this had been burned. Collecting the names of houses had been one of their earliest pastimes, before they married. Susan, the daughter of a Cumberland teacher, had been one of Matthew’s first students. They had married two months after her graduation. While she was still his student, they had walked, endlessly, around a London still strange to them both. Their direction, always, was from a large street into a smaller, until they were virtually lost and had to ask their way back. They had found this street on one of these walks, and since they had settled in it a new line of shops and a new junior school had been built nearby. Their two boys had been born and would grow up here, and would think of it as home.

As Matthew pushed open the door, there was a shouted protest. Harry, just inside the door, was jumping to tap back a limp red balloon, which had to float between the door and the stairs as goals. He missed it as the door opened suddenly, and the balloon floated down under Matthew’s feet.

‘Anyway, that’s not a goal, that’s interference,’ Harry shouted.

‘You were missing it, anyway,’ Jack shouted back furiously, his hair loose over his eyes.

‘Half-time,’ Matthew said, punting the balloon away and closing the door. ‘Anyway, where’s Susan?’

‘Getting tea. Anyway it’s no good, all its wind’s going.’

Matthew walked through to the kitchen, first stumbling on a heap of marbles and cursing. Susan opened the kitchen door and there was a further scuffle as Rex, the collie pup from Glynmawr, tore out and jumped up at Matthew. The telephone rang.

‘Not again,’ Matthew said. ‘They time the bastard for when I get home.’

‘Say no anyway. We don’t want a drink with anybody, we don’t want coffee, we can cook our own supper.’

‘They can’t hear you, Susan. And I’m not answering it.’

‘All right.’

He took off his coat in the kitchen, and closed the door, but the ringing went on.

‘Are you sure it’s not work?’

‘That would be important, of course. Some tidy little committee.’

‘It sounds as if they’re serious,’ Susan said, as the ringing continued.

‘These social types always are.’

They looked at each other, anxiously, seeking reassurance. The boys opened the door and Jack asked, ‘Are you ever going to answer that thing?’

‘All right,’ Matthew said, and went quickly out. He picked up the receiver and said, impatiently, ‘Price.’ Susan had followed him, and was watching his face as he listened. There was a sudden tightening to attention, and he glanced up at her.

‘Yes who is that exactly?... I see... When?... Yes... Yes, thank you.’ He was pushing the receiver tightly into his face, as if he could not understand what was being said. When the call ended, he got up and stared at Susan, saying nothing. She watched him, intently, while the boys shouted as they ran past.

‘Tell me, love.’

‘My father.’

‘An accident?’

‘No, some kind of stroke. It was a bad line. They can talk endlessly but they couldn’t make it clear.’

‘They want you to come?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you get through tonight?’

‘I don’t know. I simply don’t know.’

‘I’ll pack your things. You ring inquiries. You must get as far as you can.’

Matthew nodded, but moved away from the phone. The dog was barking as the boys played with it in the passage.

‘All right,’ Matthew said, standing quite still.

‘Ring inquiries,’ Susan said, facing him.

‘All right.’

They looked at each other for a moment, as the boys and the dog rushed past them; then each turned to what had to be done.

‘He’s a proper collie,’ Jack shouted, ‘only of course he’s got to be trained.’

‘We know that,’ Harry said.

2

Abruptly the rhythm changed, as the wheels crossed the bridge. Matthew got up, and took his case from the rack. As he steadied the case, he looked at the rail-map, with its familiar network of arteries, held in the shape of Wales, and to the east the lines running out and elongating, into England. The shape of Wales: pig-headed Wales you say to remember to draw it. And no returns.

The usual photographs were at the sides of the map. On the far side was the abbey, that he had always known: the ruined abbey at Trawsfynydd that had not changed in his lifetime. On the near side was the front at Tenby. A railing horizon, in the wide paleness of sky and sea; then, making the picture, two girls smiling under cloche hats, and an Austin drawn up beyond them, the nose of its radiator in the air. Like the compartment, the photographs were more than thirty years old: nearly his own age. Damp had got in at the corners, irregularly staining the prints.

The wheels slowed, and the train passed under the gaunt footbridge and drew up at the platform, past the line of yellow lamps. A scurry of rain hit the misted glass. He jerked at the window strap, and reached out to open the door. No one else got out. He stood alone on the dark platform, looking around. Starting as late as he had, there had been no useful stop after Gwenton; he would have to walk the five miles north to Glynmawr.

The light rain swept his face, and he moved away, quickly, under the wooden awning of the station building, glancing up at the fretwork pattern of its edge. The engine whistled. The guard was already back in his window. As the train pulled out, for its next thirty miles, Matthew turned up his collar and re-lit his pipe. He waved, briefly, to the guard as he passed.

Down first into the town: that was half a mile of the walk. For here was the station, by the asylum: both on the outskirts, where the Victorians thought...