MORNING SERIAL

HE drew the coat over his shoulders and made towards the coreshop door. Abraham threw him a wondering look, but he had no need to question him.

“I’m going home,” he said wearily.

*** The timekeeper regarded him with the same puzzled look as he punched his number on the way out. “Ill?” the old man queried. The clock bell rang, and that was his only answer.

“What’s eating him?” the timekeeper grunted as he turned again to his ledgers. “Young folk today got no manners — not the same as when I was a boy.” The works’ hooters blew for the first break in the day when Ieuan turned the corner into Pleasant Row. At the top of the street he saw a woman kneeling on the pavement, a bucket of water beside her. She was his mother. He began to feel apprehensive of meeting her. Not that he was afraid of her anger, but the constant anticipation of her senseless nagging when he was in her presence made him tremble inwardly.

What would she have to say when he told her of the fight, and of his clocking out before half past eight in the morning? he thought. There would be another rumpus, an undignified and needless bout of anger. Was there no end to it? She looked up from her scrubbing of the doorstep when he drew near. She wrung the damp cloth in her hands. The dirty water streamed into the bucket.

Her mouth opened with surprise.

“W—what’s wrong?” she gasped. She rose clumsily and wiped her hands on her apron. “Are you — are you feeling sick or something?” “No,” he replied, nervously.

“Then what’s the matter? Why are you home so early?” “Nothing … I just don’t feel like working today, that’s all.” “You don’t feel like working? Nonsense! Everybody’s got to work, whether they feel like it or not… What if I started to think that I—” She stopped. Her eyes fell on his hands. His knuckles were bruised and swollen. Pieces of skin were broken and the blood showed through.

“You’re in trouble, Ieuan.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Have you been fighting?” “Yes,” He admitted.