A Love Letter to Dowlais

Andy R. McLoughlin

During my time working in the West of England I was handed the most curious of referrals. A 40-year-old man by the name of Darren had, to all intent and purpose, gone missing. A brief look through the records showed that this was in fact, not quite the case. 

Darren had a physical disability, cerebral palsy, but was neurotypical. In the absence of any family in the town, he spent his weekends in Dowlais visiting his elderly aunt and uncle. On one such visit, Enid’s husband Dai had died suddenly of a heart attack. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, the roast beef eaten, cleared away and washed up. Dai sat, with his newspaper and pipe, fell asleep and never woke up again. He was 85. Darren, who relied on Dai for lifts to and from his home some 40 miles away, had just never gone home. Fourteen months had now lapsed, during which Darren had had no formal package of care, no GP appointments, in fact very little to evidence that he even existed anymore. 

Dowlais was a small village in Merthyr Tydfil, South Wales. It had traditionally been a community that provided workers for the steel and iron works, but, like many south Wales communities, the industries had fallen foul of poor economic conditions, imports and generally being held in little esteem by central government. Over the following years the population had gradually moved away leaving around 6,000 souls. Such factors did nothing to tell me the true stories of this community. 

I called the phone number I had been given for Enid. She answered the phone in age old tradition ‘Good morning, Dowlais 355492’. Her voice, aged though it was, spoke with the lilting South Wales accent that poetry and song was written for. I introduced myself, saying I was a social worker and was just checking in to see how Darren was doing. 

“Oh, he’s fine, we get by you know”, she replied.

“May I speak with him?” I asked.

“Well not really, he’s ever so crippled he is and doesn’t do so well with the phone, and any way, still grieving we are, since Dai died”. 

It didn’t seem right to me that somebody would grieve for fourteen months, but if my experience had taught me one thing, it’s that grief doesn’t have rules or boundaries. It most certainly doesn’t adhere to timelines. After some conversational toing and froing, Enid agreed to let me visit Darren with a resigned, but ever so warm “well you’re very welcome to visit us, but we’re managing fine and we really don’t need anything”. I made an appointment for the following week and thanked Enid for her time. 

The day came, I left in the early morning and headed off towards Dowlais. The drive was uneventful but the scenery breath-taking. New dual carriageways careered through valleys, hills and mountains. After life in the West of England, the absence of very many people was noticeable. My satnav brought me into Dowlais. Rows of terraced dark grey, light grey, cream and light blue houses stretched out down the road to the bottom of the village. Above the houses, the hills and mountains were lit up with unseasonal sunshine. The February wind whistled through the streets creating a bitter breeze. Every house had neat blue and black boxes of tin cans and plastic bottles awaiting collection. 

I found Enid’s address and parked my car. Every house seemed to have lacy net curtains providing a wave of twitches as I walked to her house. I rang the doorbell. I could make out a short image walking slowly towards the door through the frosted glass. The door opened and there was Enid, an immaculately dressed lady in her 80’s in a floral dress and cardigan. Her grey hair was tightly pulled back, and she wore little wire glasses that circled her eyes. 

“Bore Da” I said with a pronounced English accent “I’m Andy, we spoke on the phone”. 

“It’s pronounced Borrer Da,” Enid said with a smile, “but that was a lovely attempt, thank you”.  

Enid’s house exuded warmth and comfort. 

“Go on through” she pointed to the lounge, as I walked through the hallway, I glanced right into what Enid called the ‘Sunday Room’; it was an immaculately kept dining room with thick patterned carpet, framed photos of family on the wall, a dining table, six chairs and an imposing wooden bookcase, the top part of which was a glass display cabinet holding trinkets and war medals from the Second World War. There was not a speck of dust in sight. I continued my short walk to the living room. An electric fire glowed in front of a tiled fireplace, modestly papered walls, family pictures, horseshoes, a few display teapots, many ornaments that were in practice love letters to Wales, and a fading tapestry in a glass frame that said:

“Life is going to work

To dig a hole, 

To earn the money,

To buy the food,

To get the strength,

To go to work, 

To dig a hole”. 

I’m guessing there is some monotony suggested here, perhaps pathos, but all I saw was charm. As traditional as this home was, there was no anachronism. Welsh pride exuded through every pore of this community. 

Enid invited me to sit down. The wooden legged furniture with soft arms and white lace protectors lying over the top provided perfect comfort. Darren sat in the corner. He was dressed smartly in plain trousers, a collared shirt and red v necked jumper. 

“He wanted to make an effort because we had a guest” said Enid proudly. Darren sat, his arms and legs jerked slightly as he said “hello” and “thank you for coming.” His speech was slurred and a little slow, but patience proved the virtue and provided all that was needed to understand Darren. I asked how they were coping. 

“Oh, we do fine” replied Enid warmly.

“We do fine thank you,” Darren said, echoing the sentiment. During the visit, four separate neighbours telephoned to ensure Enid and Darren were okay. 

“The neighbours help whenever we need them to, that’s how we are here. We’re like a big family, see? Everyone looks out for everyone else.”

Enid quickly started talking about the Six Nations Rugby match against England the coming weekend. 

“We’re ever so excited” she beamed

“We loves the rugby; the boys are definitely going to win it this year.” I pictured a Saturday in Dowlais, the pubs and houses all united in community behind the Welsh rugby team as this whole street was united behind Enid and Darren.

My concerns, however, were correct, Enid explained to me over an immaculately presented pot of tea, complete with matching cup of saucer and vast array of biscuits, that there was no package of care, no occupational health, no physio, no regular care at all. Enid, in her 80’s and standing at a fraction above five feet tall was washing, showering, changing, helping to the toilet and doing bedtime routines for Darren all on her own. Occasionally it got too much and she’d maybe ring Bette and Dai next door (there were men called Dai in no less than 5 of the surrounding houses so surnames were used in all communications to avoid confusion). All of the neighbours were happy to help. It occurred to me that while the government had neglected this resilient and proud corner of Wales (they had been left with little investment, few opportunities for the younger population, and very little agency of their own), one thing they did have was a sense of belonging, community and unity that most parts of the country had lost in pursuit of status, wealth and careers. Generations of families united to help each other out and support each other when nobody else would. They were inspiring people, but an absolute nightmare for a social worker. I asked to hear more from Enid about their family history.

“Well, my Dai’s been gone some 14 months this week” she said matter of factly. “Steel worker his whole life he was. But truth be told, a lot of him never came back from Aberfan”. 

The mention of the word ‘Aberfan’ was followed by a deserving silence. On 21^st October 1966, about 6 miles away, 144 people, mostly children at Pantglass Junior School, died when a colliery spoil tip collapsed. The resulting avalanche destroyed the local school and a number of houses. The community had never recovered and didn’t expect to. Everyone in the village, and most people in the surrounding communities had a family member or friend killed. The surviving children talked of guilt when they played, worked or even smiled. No disaster has ruptured and broken a British community like it since. 

Enid talked of how, when word came through of the disaster in Aberfan, every Iron worker, steel worker, coal miner, farmer and labourer, downed tools and went to help with the search and rescue effort. Enid knew Dai had gone, he was gone for days, sleeping on a church floor, fed by the surviving tortured and bereft community, and digging in his waking hours. 

“He never talked about what he saw or what he found” Enid talked in hushed tones.

 “But he was never quite the same after that. But we never had children. He didn’t want them after that. I’m not sure if he’d feel guilty for having children when others had lost theirs, or if he just couldn’t stand the idea of putting himself through the pain that he’d seen others go through that day. But that was his decision. But it turned out well, when Darren was born we were as good as mam and dad for him anyway”. Darren smiled a huge grin when Enid said this, but a tear was visibly streaming down his face.

The victims of Aberfan weren’t just those that died. They were people like Dai, forever traumatised, riddled with unnecessary and disenfranchised guilt. This community would never forget and would never want to. The overwhelming sense of heartbreak, loss and trauma lived on and showed little signs of ever going away. 

We talked a little more, with Enid and Darren both making perfectly clear that no help was needed, be it practical or financial. The community would step up so no formal intervention was needed. This community had been let down enough, and now it united to help those who needed it without fuss or complaint. It was a breath-taking prospect. 

I thanked Enid and Darren for their time and hospitality and finally managed to get them to take a business card from me, promising that if it ever got too much, or they couldn’t cope any more, that they would give me a call. Enid promised, and shook my hand thanking me sincerely as she led me out into the bitter wind that howled through the valleys. I knew I would never hear from them, and, as frustrated as I was as a social worker, I was inspired by the dogged and industrial determination that held this community together. They were proud, hardworking folk, from a community that embraced and lived its traditions, in this case, pulling together and needing nobody else. 

That weekend Wales lost their match to England 16-21 in Cardiff. I very much doubt Enid and Darren let it spoil their day, they really weren’t at home to self-pity. 

Painting: Dowlais, 1840 by George Childs (Wikipedia)