Tom Jenkins. A big morning it was for me. More than two years had gone by since I was last in the little front room, but nothing had changed, not even the curtains, though they had been washed, of course. Eunice and Eiluned had grown nearly big enough to wear their mother’s dresses without cutting, but they still went about the house in bare feet to save their shoes and stockings for going out. The blackboard was still cracked across at the top, and with all the lessons chalked on and rubbed off into the minds of the boys and girls since, greyer still than I remembered it, so that the alphabet, which Mrs. Tom always wrote at night for us to copy first thing in the morning, was barely to be seen. Even the smell was the same, of frying bacon, baking bread, sage in a bunch, the herbs she burnt for Mr. Tom Jenkins’ comfort, and chalk, old books, airing washing and mice. It was not the smell of our house, and I was always a stranger to it for it reminded me of the purple head of Mr.
What do You think about How Green Was My Valley (2013)?
