MORNING SERIAL
ONE night he stepped into the parlour.
“Ieuan, what’s wrong with you lately?” he asked, and his voice was pregnant with anger.
“You’re most unsociable. Not a word from you. Your mother’s on to me about you and your reading and writing. But what can I do about it? God knows, I’ve got plenty on my mind, things being as they are — no job, and trying to live on the little we get from the dole. Look here, Ieuan, what are you doing? What’s all this writing about?”
“Practice,” Ieuan said cheerfully, his enthusiasm burning. “Some day I’m going to he a writer, Dad.”
“Writer! Nonsense! What’s got into you? Writer, my eye. Why, you haven’t seen anything of life yet. What have you got to write about? Besides, how can you hope to earn a living at that sort of thing?”
Ieuan flared with resentment. “Perhaps you’d rather see me sticking in the foundry, Dad? That’s mam’s ambition.”
“Leave your mother out of this, Ieuan. I’m talking to you now, and I don’t see no sense in your scribbling on bits of paper. It’s a waste of time, boy. You’ll gain nothing out of it. Chuck it, Ieuan — chuck it now, before you get any more false ideas into your head. Writers are born, my boy, not made. And whatever purpose you were born for, you certainly weren’t born to be a writer. Get out into the sun, Ieuan, and get some air into your lungs. We’re fair worried about you — your mother and me.”
Let them worry, Ieuan thought. Nothing was going to stop him now. What did they care, so long as he was able to struggle on at the foundry for a few paltry shillings. Frank, Mr. Griffiths, they encouraged and advised him. They recognized his ambition. They wanted to help him and went out of their way to do so.
Mam’s only concern was for the money he was able to earn now, at the immediate moment. She had no eye for the future, no imagination. And now dad was sharing her views.
From dad he had expected sympathy, but it was evident that mam had nagged him into his present state of mind. She gave no one any peace of mind. Just nagged, nagged, nagged.