MORNING SERIAL

SINCE there were only two coaches in any case, it wasn’t going to be too difficult to sort out.

The coaches turned about-face at the end of Cottrell Street and we were off, bouncing over the bridge, roaring past the pit head baths and canteen, and speeding past the ‘Daggers’ ex-servicemen’s club, where Dada drank, even though he wasn’t an ex-serviceman at all. We made it all the way over the level crossing and almost to the top of Bell’s Hill before the first of the children was sick.

A small plastic bucket that had been brought along by one of the mothers, wisely prepared for this inevitability, was whipped from hand to hand in time to catch the worst of it.

We chuntered on southwards along Cardiff Road, the sun still low enough to make us squint, but strong enough already to begin warming the upholstery of the seats which gave off an aroma of old cigarette smoke and faux leather, all mixed up with a whiff of diesel fumes. Excited chatter filled the bus, boys wriggling and bouncing on their seats, the women gossiping and teasing the driver as well as each other.

Leaving the valley was a rarity for me then, and once we passed through Quakers Yard and struck out towards Cilfynydd and Pontypridd we were, as far as many of us were concerned, on foreign territory, and the talk and chatter grew a little more subdued as we left behind the familiar geography of hills and terraced streets. Soon we skirted round Cardiff and entered the Vale of Glamorgan and had sight of clean green fields, scattered houses with front gardens and here and there a thatched cottage, like a picture on a jigsaw box.

We drove by Llandough hospital on its hill, and before long we were on our way through Barry itself.

We drove along streets of Victorian town houses that seemed to me unfeasibly vast, like two normal houses stacked one atop the other, and passed bungalows with cars parked on driveways, and neat, neat gardens with lawns just for show.