My Gran on my mother's side of the family (Griffiths) was a great lover of those small religious pictures, the kinds that were hung in pairs and adorned the walls of many Welsh homes. They were serene images supposedly of the One whom no one has ever seen, with pleasing verses to touch the heart, and written in an elaborate script to give them added lustre and authority. Whether they were a righteous aide memoire to improve their owners, or a framed excuse and substitute for true worship, the reader must decide. I think perhaps a mirror hanging in front of them would have helped far more.

Gran was always so quiet and reserved, so unassuming and acquiescent. She had an air of serenity about her, which was increasingly apparent to her six daughters and their families during their routine visits and accompanying bluster. But such quiet contentedness was never going to smooth off the rough edges of her daughters' tongues, so their unbridled gossiping went unchecked.

Gran's husband was buried under a table of coal, deep underground in the Senghenydd pit explosion. Though she never spoke of him, sitting in her quiet little front room, I often wondered what she was thinking during the long silences. I didn't wish to disturb her peace, so I spoke very little. It  seemed right, somehow, to wait for her. I liked sitting in her clean and pretty home, now and then.

As the reader will recall, her only son, who like his father was a collier, never really survived the pit disaster. During the years following that terrible event, he seemed to gradually lose his way. He committed suicide, bequeathing sorrow to his mother and six sisters. Deep below the crust of the earth is not a place for man to be, not for any length of time or for any reason. Through their foolish endeavours, Gran lost the two men she loved     while the barren hillsides cried mournfully for trees.

Mam and Dad had a relationship almost exactly typical of the cartoon characters Andy Capp and Flo; except for Dad's obsession with work, most of which was outside in all weathers. His complexion responded to the seasonal changes, from sun leathern to ashen. He was square  jawed, deeply lined at forehead and neck, and had beady green eyes that always betrayed stirring anger. His workmates called him Nemo (supposedly from Nemesis), which was very apt, as no one was said to cross him with impunity.

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