Welsh Journals

(0 Never Leave Me' By JOHN ACKERMAN THE bar was full: bits of singing from the various tables, sudden high-pitched laughter, slightly fuddled exchanges of conversation; a kind of happiness: in the smoke filled air; in the vague wispy movement of people back and fore, genial and smiling; in the glowing banked-up fire. 'Knees up Mother Brown' made itself heard above the general commotion. A more than usually fat lady, flicking up her skirts-to the knees when the song reached the accustomed climaxes-danced in the middle of the room. The beer flowed; rich, frothing, bitter brown beer. Anyway it was Christmas Eve. Drunk as owls we always get. Drunk as owls. From time to time the men filed out. The women always in little groups. In due course they came back. The room went on with its festivity, raucous, tipsy, alive and kicking. There was a general buzz of pleasure: carried on always as though by hypnosis. Mother Brown gave way to MacNamara's Band. The fire grinned. It was Christmas Eve. And as they drank the memories stirred. 'Let's have Smoky. Come on, let's have Smoky', drawled Martha from her seat by the fire. Her grey hair, early in the evening drawn up neatly, now fell about her face and she dribbled a little. She was remembering her son. 'Ay, come on Peter'! they pleaded, turning to the young man seated in the corner. Every song had its singer. He was obviously a favourite. 'I do love it to my heart', murmured Martha, talking to no one in particular. Peter finished his whisky. He got up and walked to the centre of the room. The command in his movement was unusual. Immediately the room fell silent, waiting for the song. He had been drinking all night, but every muscle, every gesture was exact. There was no loosening of the body, no bewildered and sleepy intoxication. Rather he seemed more alert; his eyes gleaming, piercing, a kind of fear burning deep in them like the eyes of a cat in the dark. In his green jacket, green shirt, tight black trousers he stood out against the blousey multi-coloured