Three Names, One Tradition

Emyr Humphreys
Giftdaughter
Houseofbaal
Toyepic
Order books by Emyr Humphreys from Seren Books.
With well over twenty titles to his name, Emyr Humphreys (1919-) is the foremost Welsh novelist of the latter half of the twentieth century In 1972, the Somerset Maugham Award for Hear and Forgive, and the Hawthornden Prize for A Toy Epic under his belt, he embarked on a career as a full-time writer.


A Toy Epic
A Toy Epic Emyr Humphreys
ISBN 1854110098
Originally published 1958, reprinted 2003 (Seren)

Read the following extract from A Toy Epic by Emyr Humphreys here in Transcript.

I was brought up in a broad valley in one of the four corners of Wales. On fine days from my bedroom window I saw the sea curve under the mountains in the bottom right-hand corner of the window frame. My sister and I played in the garden. Hiding behind the soft forest of asparagus grass, climbing the apple trees. My name is Michael. I was brought up in the kitchen parlour and bedroom of No 15 Cambrian Avenue. Cambrian Avenue is in Llanelw which is a busy seaside town. Under the kitchen table I first saw motes swimming in a beam of sunlight, and crumbs lying white and edible near me on the floor. At three and a half I played in the cul-de-sac, and numbers 13,14,15,16,17 and 18 stood on guard about me, watching me with square indifferent eyes.

My name is Albie. I was brought up in the heart of ninety acres, at the end of a broad valley, at the headquarters of Noah, in an anchored ark. My growth was calf-like from the semi-twilight of the darkened kitchen to the sharp light of the empty front garden. I followed my mother, going to riddle cinders, sheltering behind her skirt from the aggressive eloquence of the geese. I followed my father to view the new hunt bull, and my small fist groped along the resistant corduroy breeches he wore. The cart-horse, the duck pond, the cowshed and the hayshed, the stable and the granary constituted my city.

My name is Iorwerth. The Rectory was my home, said Michael. My mother believed the house was far too big. My father's stipend was £300 a year and to this I may add a small private income of £60 a year, the rent of a smallholding far away in Cardiganshire, left to him in the will of his great-uncle Job. I went to the village school and mixed with the village children, being different only in as much as I retired from school or play down a drive sheltered by elms to a large house instead of going home to a terrace house in the village; or in as much as I could watch the parson in his white and distant surplice, with the inward knowledge that I could sit on his knee and even put my finger inside his hard gleaming collar.

My mother was firm and well-bred, the daughter of a vicar, accomplished in playing the piano and embroidery. Because there was little prospect of my going to a Public School my mother strove particularly hard to give me the advantages of a good upbringing, at all times desiring me to be conscious of my good origins. One rainy afternoon Wil Ifor Jones came to play with me in the Rectory stables. Wil was the daring boy of our class. But his father was a farm labourer, famous for his hard work, for his drinking bouts and for sometimes beating his wife. "Nid fel yna mae gwneud,"6 said Wil as I failed to spin my top, as my mother came to call us in for tea. "That's not the way to do it, you silly fool." "Don't you call Michael a fool, Wil Ifor Jones, and don't you use the 'ti' with him either. You should know your place." I felt vaguely elated that I should be accounted better than Wil, who was a daring boy, and I looked at him curiously. I was more than ever anxious to secure his permanent friendship, but he never came to the Rectory to play again, and at school, for quite a long time, he treated me rather roughly.

In the garden, my mother always wore gloves, and my sister and I, uprooting weeds, moved obedient to her refined remarks. We pulled up weeds in the flower bed around the lawn while my mother clipped the laurel bushes, or, in her absence, we ran about among the laurels and the rhododendrons. In the house, my mother commanded Mary, the maid, to scrub the large square slabs on the kitchen floor, to wash the dishes, iron our clothes, clean the grate, and sundry other domestic duties, which we watched, my sister and I, with pleasure. "Mary!" my mother would call in various tones. "Mari-mary! Mary-mari! Mary-this-house-needs-two-or-three-maids-not-one!" "Mary!" my father would call in his deep, kind, parsonical voice. "Have you seen my pipe, my hat, my gloves, the red book, the blue book, this, that, or the other?"

Mary, fat and unattractive, would confide in us, and speak to us as equals, and Mary's opinions were ours. She had too much work to do. We agreed. George Jones was a daft fellow. We agreed. Our father-in-the-study had a memory like a sieve. We agreed. Mary was our mentor, our adviser of the business of living. We were credulous clay in her red, scrubbed hands; her rights and her wrongs were ours. We were on her side. In the evenings she read children's stories to us in hauntingly monotonous English: What said Dobson are you game for a lark the beak is out we could hide the tuckbox in his study too ris-ky said Peers... Mary enjoyed the stories as much as we did and she told us which were best and which ones were no good. Mary was English, she said. Her father was born in Chester, but her father could speak Welsh when he had a mind. Only old Methodists spoke Welsh all the time. We agreed, and answered our father in English which pleased my mother, I think, apart from our accent which we got from Mary.

But my father never gave up what must have appeared then a losing battle. That is why my sister and I prefer to speak English. It was Mary's idea. One of her principles. I run around the cul-de-sac, said Albie, steering my way with a broken stick between my hands, my lips being my engine. "My father drives a bus!" I shout to anyone who happens to pass. My father comes through the back door for tea, throwing his stiff peaked cap on the sofa and hanging his leather money bag behind the door. "Near thing today, by the S bend, between Pantbach and Pydew." "Oh, yes, Dic. What happened?" my mother's voice is soft and patient. "Just as I'd got round the first bend, there was a fool of a fellow coming racing towards me. I couldn't see through the hedge, could I?" "Well, no, Dic, of course you couldn't." "Good job for him I was going slow or the b ..." My father looks at me and does not finish what he was going to say. "He could have had it. Smashed up!" "Oh, dear." My mother shakes her head and I feel I want to shake mine. "Another cup of tea, Dic?" "Diawch, Nel! I heard a good one down in the yard today. You know little Archie, fellow from Llansannan, conductor on one of our double deckers. You know, little fellow, very small. The one who always says 'A-way John Jones' every time he rings the bell?" "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't, Dic bach."

My mother cuts bread and butter effortlessly, watching also the kettle on the verge of boiling, my father's plate, and me. "Diawch, you do, Nellie! Terrible temper for such a small man. Like a lucifer. Anyway for you, he got into a quarrel with one of those Royal Yellow chaps. D'you know what he did?" "I've no idea." My mother holds her head on one side expectantly. My father pauses dramatically now that she has given him all her attention. "Threw his ticket punch at him!" My mother looks shocked and startled, but my father is still laughing so I know it is all right. "He did. Threw his ticket punch at him!" My father belches. Sitting down all day, gripping the large steering wheel that vibrates constantly between his hands, staring down the winding roads and breathing petrol fumes with every breath of air: he says himself it's no wonder his digestion is bad. "I get shaken to death to earn my living," he says quite often. As a joke. My father loves to make jokes. "Wish they'd leave me on this circular run for ever more, Nellie," my father says, drinking a cup of tea standing by the open back door. "Nice to pop home for tea. Much better than the country run." "Well ask them about it, Dic. See if you can get a transfer." "I will do that, Nel." "Nel! Nel!" "Here's your cup of tea, Dic. What's the matter?" "Thanks. Just a sip. Can't wait. They are saying at the yard that Foster's going to sellout to the Royal Yellow. You can't tell. It's hard to say." "Jim Morris was saying that the working on the buses is the best place these days. You don't get the sack so easy. You can't tell. It's hard to say." "Nel! Nel!" "Here's your cup of tea, Dic." "Sorry, Nel. Can't stay long. There's talk of a strike at the Royal Yellows. Have you heard?" "You don't know what to believe, Dic bach. You can't tell." "It's hard to say. Must be off now. Don't you dance too much attendance on those visitors, Nel. So long, little 'un." "So long, Dad."

The cap with the glistening peak once more on his head, and his money bag hung over his shoulder, his face turns towards us, smiling between two steps as he passes the kitchen window. "So long, Dad. Take care, Dad. Ta-ta! ta-ta!" The first time I am ever allowed to carry out a pint tin of hot tea to the field where my father and Llew are busy hedging, said Iorwerth, it is winter and I am well wrapped up. "Hedges are cut with the aid of a two-foot rule, aren't they, Llew?" My father is jolly as I run about him. Everything he says seems jollier with the wind blowing it. Indoors he is always more serious. "Look out, my boy. Don't stand too close, my love!" He wields his bill-hook with ardent pleasure, the slim, white-haired man in corduroy trousers and a torn old coat. Half the hedge is bent and neat and half stands untidy and upward, remaining to be tackled. If you happened to look into my father's diary - Boots' large farmer's diary which he keeps in his desk, - for the year 1926, you would read an account of how, in February, it being cold outside, he allowed me into the barn to watch him chaffing hay for the cattle, breathing heavy and hungry in the warm adjacent byre. "Ho!" I shouted and danced about. Clec! Clec! Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! said the oil engine, and the chaff-cutter rattled like mad. My father stuffed hay along the trough into the false teeth of the machine. Those false, false teeth, for when his back was turned I put my hand in thinking I might experience the ecstasy of the shaking machine, and although I cannot remember, the false teeth took my finger, and, I suppose, chaffed it. My right hand now has three fingers and a stump in addition to my thumb. Everyone notices I write with my left hand. I think it is an advantage to be brought up in the country, spring, summer, autumn and winter. "It is an advantage," said Miss Roberts, our teacher, "to be brought up in the country, and especially on a farm, isn't it Iorwerth?" "Oh, yes, Miss Roberts," I blush. "There are little children," continues Miss Roberts, "living in large cities who have never seen a blade of grass." "Oh, pity. Pity," Our whole class sighs.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, smartly, slowly, slowly, fast, I walk a mile and a half to school alongside hedges and across fields. Picking the flowers according to the season, a handful of primroses for school, a handful of bluebells home, harebells for Miss Roberts, violets for Mam; or strapped in high gaiters I march as well as I can manage through the more navigable snow. "Robert Jones! Aren't you ashamed of yourself living almost next door to the school, and ten minutes late! And here's Iorwerth Hughes, who has to walk a mile and a half, never late, never late. Take that impudent grin off your face." Yes, Robert, please, Robert, take it off. Don't annoy him. Don't scold him. Let's all be friends. "Iorwerth Hughes has had all his sums correct this morning. He is a very good boy. Come and sit in the front, Iorwerth, here, sit next to Michael." I slink happily to the front with my pencil and book and I slide my behind along the seat, and Michael, looking at me curiously, slides up. "Mam," I said, out of breath in the evening when I got home for tea. "Mam, Miss Roberts said I was a good boy today. I got all my sums right. She moved me to the front to sit by Michael Edwards." "There's a good boy. Tell me, Iorwerth, did Michael get his sums right, too?" "No, Mam. Only me."











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