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"What's happened, Mam?" It was then we heard Grandad's voice from the hallway. "Doctor, he's not! Oh no. Not... gone?" Mam's groaning then became unbearable. She had had it confirmed. We were not allowed into the front room where Gwyn was laid, not for quite some time. Our Gwyn, dead? My mind wouldn't accept it. He's still unconscious. How could the doctor be so sure? He will wake up soon, if we wait. Gwyn had been hit by a Fyffe's lorry at the end of our street. Mrs Evans from next door came in to attend to things. Neither Malcolm nor I had ever known such darkness in the daytime, or what to do to relieve such sadness and emptiness. We kept walking in and out of rooms as if we were looking for something, we knew not what. Our groans were stifling, as we struggled for some sort of relief. Then we heard Dad's voice in the hallway. He had been notified at work, and driven home at considerable speed. "Where is he?" he shouted in a high pitched crying voice, a sound I had never heard from Dad before. "Steady Alf!" said Grandad, trying to steady him between Dad's bursts of force, trying desperately to defer his anger. Alternately, he expressed grief and anger, until he became totally inconsolable. Then, he cried again, waving his arms about wildly. Unwisely, as it turned out, the doctor tried to put his stethoscope on my father's chest. With one blow he was sent sprawling across the room. "You quack!" Dad hollered. (He never accepted the claims or qualifications of doctors). Then looking round at Grandad he asked,
"How did it
happen? Where's that driver? "Alf, it was Ron Rawlins who carried Gwyn to the house. He felt him go, it was when he had reached the step," said Grandad, standing in front of him. Only Mrs Evans from next door was allowed to stay with us amid the hysteria, and on reflection, she was the right person in our hour of need, in our most grievous of days. Only she knew what to say and do, and when to wait discreetly in the background. She attended to our beloved one.
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