Tom Jones Knew My Mother

by William Allun

The Craigddu estate in Merthyr was notorious in its reputation. Any bloke living on the estate was either a druggie, Girophile or thief, any woman a tart, single mother or both. Full stop. There was no happy medium, that was it.

It wasn't entirely true of course. There were several decent familes trying to make a go of it, but once you found yourself living in Craigddu, that was virtually it. If the upright citizens of that fair town who ran the local council could have their own way they'd have built a brick wall around the estate, not that any of them dared come out and say it. Money had been lavished on the estate in the past to no avail. Craigddu was a no go area and that was that.

In this haven of debauchery and sin, like I said, there were one or two families struggling to keep on the straight and narrow, not that any of them were averse to the odd black market scam; after all, chances there were few and far between, and you've got to live.

One such family was the Morgans. The Morgans lived at number 38 Craigddu Avenue, just about slap bang in the centre of Craigddu. Joe Morgan was unemployed due to ill health—a bad chest compounded by the fact that he was a forty-cigarettes-a-day man. Renee Morgan, his wife of 23 years, worked long hours at two jobs, both barely bringing in enough money to keep the family going. They had two children, 16-year-old Nansi, who, more by luck than anything else, had not yet joined the swelling ranks of pregnant teenagers that walked around the estate all day; and Gary, 13, who was rapidly beginning his descent on the slippery road of life due to the fact that he'd fallen in with the Craigie boys, a notorious gang of joyriders and vandals. Despite all of this, Renee Morgan tried her best to give everybody a decent upbringing. There was always food on the table, even though most of it came from the freezer department of the local Kwiksave, and she wasn't averse to giving each of her brood, including husband Joe, a clip around the earhole every so often. "Never did me any 'arm," she used to say. "Behave."

Still, however hard she tried, she knew it would only be a matter of time before something went wrong. Nansi would either become pregnant or go on the game as many did down there, or perhaps a copper would knock on her door bringing the news that Gary had smashed a car and himself up in the process. Morbid and depressing. That's how life in Craigddu is.

In reality that's how it always had been for her, even as a child. Her mother, who lived in a sheltered home on the other side of town, had raised her alone. In the '60s it was certainly not the done thing to have a child out of wedlock, it wasn't fashionable nor as profitable as it was these days. It had been difficult to make friends as any parent was loathe to let their kids play with "the bastard," not out of any loathing for her, mind you, more the stigma that attached to her mother Connie. Nobody called her a tart to her face, mind you, but they all thought it. She never told Renee who her father was, despite being asked several times. Growing up, Renee had often thought about it. "Tom Jones" her mam had said once. Tom Jones. God if only. She'd told her classmates in St. David's Primary once when they goaded her. "My dad's Tom Jones and one day he's gonna come for me," she'd shouted. Despite the fact that she'd said this, it made matters ten times worse. Hoots of derision followed sniggering and name-calling. "Saw your dad on the telly last night." "When you goin' to Vegas Renee?" "Shit record your dad's brought out." "Your Uncle Elvis 's in the chippie. God's honour!"

Let them laugh, she'd thought. One day he'll come back. She became a fan, a big one. Every little headline was cut out and pasted in numerous scrapbooks, every record bought. She'd have the last laugh. She even questioned her mother to distraction. At first she humoured her, but soon her incessant questioning got too much. "Sod Tom Jones," her mother had shouted all those years ago. "Your father left me in the lurch and buggered off. Stop kidding yourself and grow up."

So she had, grown up into a life she swore would never happen to her. Pregnant at 16, pushing 50 even though she'd only passed 40, life sucked. Tom Jones had become a memory and she avoided even listening to his records. Any mention of him in fact would send her into a cold sweat. The kids had asked once about their absent granddad and she managed to joke about it. Thank God they'd seen it that way. At least they had more sense than she did at their age.

Still she thought to herself, as she trudged up the hill to the house, if this was as good as it would get, then roll on death. Maybe heaven would be better; there again, she'd probably have to clean those Pearly Gates every bloody day, just like she did down the Social Club. She got no response when she kicked her front door, so she put the heavy shopping bags down and searched her bag for her house keys. Inside she was welcomed by Slim Shady blasting out from upstairs, and the usual explosive ending of an old A Team episode.

"Don't anybody try to bloody help me then," she cried. "I bin' kicking hell outta that door for the last ten minutes."

Joe Morgan shuffled in the armchair. "Got a key haven't you?"

"Aye," she replied. "But God only gave me two arms." She held the two shopping bags in front of him. "Shut that bloody noise up."

Renee put the bags in the kitchen, took off her coat and wandered wearily into the living room. She collapsed into the armchair.

"Want a cuppa?" asked Joe.

"Oh God, that would be lovely."

"Make one for me while you're up then. My back's playing up again."

"Seems to make a bloody good recovery when you need to go down the Kings Head though." Renee moved sluggishly out of the chair and into the kitchen.

"Don't walk away Renee," laughed Joe, trying to slap her Rubenesque backside as she left.

"Bastard." she replied. How many times had she heard that. Bloody stupid name anyhow. I did love 'im once, I suppose, she thought as she picked up the kettle. She went into her bag and pulled out a packet of Bensons. She lit up and took a long drag. "Cigarettes can damage your health," she muttered, throwing the packet back in her bag. "So can living bach, so can living."

Renee heard the door slam. "Is that you Nans?" A figure appeared in the hallway, dressed in a short denim skirt, laddered fishnets, a top two sizes too small to accentuate two perfectly formed breasts, and a leather jacket. Her hair was toussled and stiff from the latest gel product and her face was a deathly white except for the black lipstick and dark eye-shadow. Two lines of mascara ran down her face.

"Oh God don't tell me. You've broken up with him again. No bloody wonder. Just look at you girl, like something out of Rocky Horror."

Renee threw two teabags into the large mugs that she'd brought from Swansea market. She'd always liked them. Nice stuff there.

"Mam."

"If he's been putting is 'and up your skirt again, I'll 'ave 'im, you know I will ..."

"Mam." Nansi stepped forward slowly. Renee looked at her daughter as the floodgates opened and she ran into her mother's arms. Renee held her sobbing daughter's head and looked concerned.

"There, there bach. Hey, it can't be that bad."

Nansi held her mother tightly.

"Bloody hell, what's this then, Women's Hour?" Gary made a sudden appearance from upstairs.

"Shut your face you." Renee motioned to her son to leave which he did not, wanting to be part of anything which had a glimmer of emotion attached. "Tell your mam luv, tell your mam."

Nansi pulled away, her face a patch of black and white. "Oh God mam, I bin' trying to get hold of you for hours."

"What is it love?"

Nansi held her mother's hand. "It's nanna mam. She's dead."

The funeral was held on the following Friday. Renee's mam had never agreed with cremation so she was buried in the old Bethel Chapel cemetery, the one that ran up the hill past the Somerfield. They held the service at the chapel, though no one knew all the words to any of the hymns they chose. Renee picked out "The Old Rugged Cross" and Nansi ensured that "The Green, Green Grass of Home" was played as they walked out of the chapel, much to the chagrin of Reverend Davies who never knew the history behind the family anyway.

"Not really chapel music," he said.

"She knew Tom Jones, grew up with 'im. Last wish and all," Nansi had replied.

It was enough to win the day. That and her goth-like appearance made the Rev. Davies shy away from any confrontation. And after all you can't argue against someone who knew a Welsh legend, even if he wasn't chapel.

Joe Morgan just wanted it to be all over. He hated funerals. In his mind cremation was quicker and you really didn't have to go through all this rigmarole. He'd never been one for religion.

"Stop fiddling'with yer tie," whispered Renee.

He bowed his head and counted the minutes. Never heard the preacher's sermon and mumbled his way through the hymns. He liked her though, old Connie, even though she'd thought her daughter had married beneath her. She was probably right, God rest her soul.

They trooped outside and walked the few remaining steps into the graveyard. As if each mourner knew his or her place they circled around the grave, one by one wiping a tear, nodding silently as they watched the wooden coffin being lowered for the last time. A final prayer, then Renee, Joe, Nansi and a bored-looking Gary accepted the condolences of friends, neighbours and strangers, before taking a last lingering look at Connie's last resting place.

As they turned to leave a tall figure approached, nodded reverently and placed a huge spray of pure white gardenias carefully by the side of the grave. He wore what they took to be a dark chauffeur's uniform. He said nothing and nodded again as he passed them, before putting on his cap.

"Who's that?" asked Gary.

"God knows," replied Renee, as she watched his tall figure walk towards the gate.

"There's a card mam." Nansi knelt, plucked a small card from the white blooms and read the inscription. " 'Fond memories. We'll always have Ponty.' It's signed Woody."

"That's a rip-off, off Casablanca that is. 'Cept it was Paris," whispered Joe to his son.

"Woody, who the hell is Woody mam?" asked Nansi.

The three of them looked at their mother whose eyes were rigidly fixed at the stranger who by now had reached the graveyard gate. A large black car sat gleaming in the late morning sun. The bearer of flowers looked back at the Morgans and once again he tipped his hat. As he opened the driver's door, one of the rear windows eased back and a face appeared.

"Who's Woody mam? Is that 'im?" Renee felt her heart skip a beat and a tear rolled down her cheek. Joe Morgan's mouth fell open.

"Thomas John Woodward," she whispered as she watched the car pull away. "Tom bloody Jones. My dad ..."

Copyright © William Allun 2005