Thankful
Olwen recalls the anxious prayers for her father's safe return from the pit as a snow blizzard rages outside her home.
"I am being punted down the River Cam on a beautiful summer's afternoon. Something I've always wanted to do.
Gareth and I sit facing Menna and Eli. I feel the sqeeze of Gareth's hand, watch Menna's vibrant eyes and Elinor's tender little face and I am laid still in thankfulness: thankfulness that times have changed; thankful for the link that small face provides to another child.
I'm behind the door in the curved stone stairway peering through the latch at my mother and aunt's anxious faces, as they wait for my father to return from the afternoon shift. He's two hours late and the blizzard outside is still raging.
Inside my window are two drifts of snow where the newspaper has moved from the cracks. I stand tired, cold and fearful, not daring to sleep. I remember stories of men crushed in narrow seams and people lost on the mountain in swirling snow - then just frozen to death.
I listen to the relentless wind and feel it is taking my breath even inside the house. At this moment, the prayers of a little girl seem so important. So I pray and I watch.
At a quarter past one there is a shuffling sound and a dull bang on the door. Mam and Aunty run to remove the old coats that block the gap at the bottom of the door and pull back the bolt.
There is a rush of snow and wind as Dad comes in, a white frozen giant. They remove the woollen coat and it stands to attention on its own near the door. They take off the frozen gloves, wrap his hands in warm towels and sit him by the fire. Not a word is spoken.
The tired little watcher says thank you and creeps to bed.
I look up at my daughter and granddaughter. Gareth smiles and squeezes my hand a second time - and that thankfulness is there again."
Olwen Clatworthy
