The Saga of Sadie Slagheap

The small town of Blaenglyncoch, in one of the Eastern valleys of South Wales, nestles among grim and forbidding slag heaps, lightly grassed over these days but still impeding those who yearn for green valleys and rivers full of trout. The character of the people who live there conflicts with the environment in which they live. They are friendly, warm human beings compacted into a rugby playing, music loving, chapel attending community by the very slag heaps which dominate them.
Blaenglyncoch and district has been, for generations, a strong source of recruits for the infantry regiments of Wales. It was, therefore, an obvious place to be chosen by my Regiment as one of the towns to be visited during its annual recruiting drive.
I was responsible for arranging these publicity ventures and when I made my overture to the local recreation and amenities officer I was delighted with the response I received.
"We would be honoured indeed," said Mr Dafydd Price, "and I know I speak for the Mayor as well, to have you visit our borough." He showed me the rugby pitch where we would be allowed to set up our displays; what greater honour could they bestow? There stood the white posts standing sentinel over the hallowed turf - taking a respite from the rucks and wheelings, lineouts and scrums that made men out of boys in Blaenglyncoch. The entrances and exits were wide enough for our vehicles and there was even a public convenience - a tidy place indeed.
The appointed day arrived, a lovely bright Wednesday in July, and I joined the officer in charge of the touring team, plus three of his subalterns from the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, for drinks in the Mayor’s parlour.
Councillor Gwilym Rees, the Borough Mayor, was a vigorous young man in his early forties. He had climbed to the senior position in the council with a burning crusade for social reform and an ability to bulldoze opposition. His sherry was good and we soon got to know each other quite well. He was interested in the affairs of the Regiment and he thought it would be a good idea to bring back national service. "Discipline is what we want in this country," he proclaimed. We spent two hours in his company and were entertained to luncheon in a country club - once the home of a coal baron.
The evening performance of the touring team was the big event of the day. It started with an open-air concert given by the Regimental Band and Corps of Drums. This was followed by a demonstration of weapons and equipment and then came the mock battle, with plenty of noise - which delighted the children but was not altogether appreciated by the residents of an old people’s home close to the field. The finalé was the marching display, Beating Retreat and lowering of the flag. The salute at the 'march past' was taken by the Mayor, in all his finery.
The crowd clapped and the Mayor beamed as the musicians and soldiers, led by Taffy, the regimental goat, marched off to the strains of: 'God Bless the Prince of Wales'.
"An excellent show indeed," he said, impressed with our military hardware and colourful regalia. He and the others in his party now looked forward to the final part of the programme which was a drinks party in the marquee erected near one of the goal posts.
Councillors and their wives were escorted by a trio of subalterns and it was not long before everyone had a glass in their hands. Conversation flowed easily and we found that some of our guests were old soldiers of the Regiment. One old lady had seen her grandson taking part in the mock battle and was as pleased as Punch.
I was keeping a general eye on things when I saw an old woman enter the tent and sit down on a small table. All the other ladies were either Councillors in their own right or wives of Senior Executives and Councillors. They were all well dressed and some were wearing medallions and chains signifying their position in the council hierarchy. The old woman sitting on the table was not 'dressed' by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair, some of which was sticking out from the side of a dirty brown beret, was grey and ragged. She had no teeth, at least I presumed this was the case as when she spoke her nose practically touched her chin. An old blue coat covered whatever she had on underneath, while badly scuffed shoes with worn heels completed her attire. My nerve ends tingled when I asked her if she was a member of the Mayor's party. "Yes," she snapped, "and I'm thirsty, get me a glass of whisky."
The Mayor was in top form. He had enjoyed the day so far and he could see there was plenty of whisky on the dispensing table. He came over to me and said: "We have witnessed today -----." He stopped in mid sentence with his mouth open. A glance along his line of sight showed that his attention was focused on the toothless old woman staring aggressively at him over the top of her glass. When he recovered his ability to speak, he said: "Who let her in?" Without actually admitting that I had checked her credentials, I told the Mayor I thought she belonged to someone in his party. "She's not one of us," thundered Councillor Rees. He twisted and turned as he looked for his Chief Executive Officer. Unable to find him, the Mayor grabbed the sleeve of the senior police officer. "What's she doing here? Get her out."
Chief Superintendent Emrys Lewis of the South Wales Constabulary was a police officer of considerable experience. Numerous medal ribbons on his jacket showed he had been a loyal servant of the Crown in times of war and peace. Personal acts of bravery, often witnessed at 'throwing out time' in Blaenglyncoch public houses were well recorded in 'The Argus', but when he saw the object of the Mayor's attention, the colour drained from his cheeks. "Good God, Sadie Slagheap," he muttered. "I might have known she'd smell alcohol." He turned away and said: "I'm sorry Mr Mayor, I'm not getting involved with her."
A strange name I thought, and the Mayor explained why: "She goes out with an old pram picking coal from the slag. When she's got enough, she sells it in the town. Then, it's straight down the pub where she spends it on hard drink. When she's skint, it's up the mountain again - if she can make it."
Sadie had settled herself comfortably on the octagonal table, swinging her legs and beaming at everyone through her toothless gums. The subalterns had learned from outraged members of the council how Sadie had earned her distinctive name and were quick to appreciate she could liven up the proceedings. They kept her topped up with a plentiful supply of whisky.
Sadie's warm up period did not take long. It had been a good day on the mountain and she needed only a moderate amount of alcohol to get her going. The Mayor, Councillors, civic officials and their wives looked the other way and tried to put Sadie out of their minds, like a black cloud on an otherwise fine day, but suddenly she erupted: "Stuck up lot of bitches, aren't you?" she yelled. Her remarks were directed to a group of Councillors' wives whose breasts rose together like a huge Atlantic wave. "Likes of me are not good enough for you," went on Sadie as she developed her theme which, I was told by the Mayor, always followed the same pattern. "You there, Gwilym Rees - with your big chain around your neck. I could tell them a thing or two about you." The Mayor glared at Sadie but, whether it was the ferocious look he gave her, or Sadie's decision to pick this plum later, she switched her attack to the Chief Executive Officer who had finally appeared at the Mayor's side.
Alec McFadden had two things in common with Sadie. Firstly, he was a Celt, albeit from Scotland, and secondly, his great love of Scotch whisky. Despite Sadie's shortcomings, she loved her homeland. Anyone not Blaenglyncoch born was, as far as she was concerned, foreign trash. Alec McFadden was anathema to Sadie and she had long been infuriated about having such a person as the top non-elected official in the Borough Council. "I've seen you wearing that skirt of yours as if you're a woman," she shrieked. "Go back to your old Scotland where you came from. There's plenty of Welsh boys who can do your job." The CEO was unprepared for the verbal assault and as he had been subjected to her invective on at least two previous occasions, he decided to keep quiet. Sadie was moving into top gear and the young officers had drinks lined up to keep her going - she knocked them back as fast as they were put in front of her.
I began to wonder how it was going to end when Major Tony Martin, the resourceful Company Commander, came to the rescue. He approached the table where Sadie was sitting, took her hand and said: "My car is waiting to take you home, madam." With a firm grip on Sadie's forearm, he led her through the throng to the staff car waiting outside the marquee. A poker-faced corporal dressed in ceremonial blues held the rear passenger door open and saluted Sadie as she entered. Major Martin tucked in her old blue coat and said: "I hope you will come and see us again the next time we come to Blaenglyncoch." Sadie positively cooed at the gallant major and assured him that nothing would stop her attending.
The Mayor and others in his party gazed open mouthed at Sadie who seemed to have jumped them all in the VIP stakes. As the car moved off in that dignified way favoured by hearses and Royal limousines, Sadie lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Those in uniform saluted her and some natives of Blaenglyncoch, not knowing who was in the car, took their hats off. When the Mayor and other guests had gone, I called for the corporal to tell me he had done with Sadie.
"I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, sir, but she told me to drop her off at the pub on the corner. When she got out, she fell flat on her face. A couple of boys came out to pick her up and she didn't half lay into them."

Postscript : Names of people and places are disguised - but Sadie's nick-name is pretty close. If you are travelling through the Eastern valleys of South Wales and you see an old woman wearing a blue coat, pushing a pram up a slagheap - you'll know who it is.