On the 50th anniversary of the Aberfan disaster, Sharon Griffiths, who was at school in a nearby town at the time, gives her memories of that dreadful day

THE first we knew was when our French teacher was late for class. Miss Thomas – strict, old-fashioned – was never late.

When she finally arrived her sharp-featured face was blotchy with tears.

“Girls, there’s been a terrible accident…”

So it was we learned about the disaster in Aberfan, 50 years ago today, when a coal tip thundered down a mountain, smashed through a row of houses and then into Pantglas primary school, filling the classrooms with black sludge and killing 116 children and 28 adults.

Aberfan was only about twenty miles away from us, the other side of the mountains. But it was a different world. Our town was clean and green, surrounded by farms and rivers full of fish, but Aberfan was in the valleys, a world of coal, where the very air was black and instead of sledging, my cousins slid illicitly down coal heaps on tin trays.

Many of us in school had relations there - my uncle had lived one of the terraced houses that was engulfed - and suddenly it seemed very close.

We learned no French that day. Someone found a radio and we listened to the news. There was a special assembly. We looked out at the sheep-covered hill opposite our school and tried to imagine it sliding down…

Grief gripped our town, as it did much of the country but especially south Wales. Grief filled the air and pressed down on us all. For days, everyone seemed to walk round in tears, in queues, in shops, waiting at the bus stop. Before or since, I’ve never known anything like that.

My aunt was matron of the hospital where they took the pitifully few survivors and she wished only to be so much busier. My uncle, a colliery welfare officer, had plenty of work to do. My cousin was one of the many volunteers digging frantically through the slime.

So many volunteers turned up from far and wide, desperate to help, that most had to be turned away, leaving the dreadful job to miners, firemen and soldiers. It took nearly a week until the last little body was found. Only twenty five children were brought out alive. Some children were found sheltered in the dead arms of teachers and a dinner lady who’d tried in vain to save them.

The Queen came and looked bleak. Lord Snowdon came and made tea for a bereaved family And in the middle of this, there were people parking their cars nearby, treating it as a side show, eating their picnics.

But mostly there was just shock and tears and grief and disbelief. Mining communities were well used to the dangers of getting coal. But this was something else.

The most dreadful thing about it was that it need never have happened. There had been a number of smaller, similar incidents in the area and many warnings about possible great danger from the slurry – all of which the National Coal Board had ignored.

A tribunal put the blame firmly on NCB negligence: “A terrifying tale of bungling ineptitude by men charged with tasks for which they were totally unfitted, of failures to heed clear warnings and a total lack of direction from above.”

No NCB employee was demoted, sacked or prosecuted for the mistakes and despite the tribunal laying the blame firmly at the NCB, the later verdict at the inquest was accidental death. An angry father told the hearing “I want it recorded: ‘Buried alive by the National Coal Board.’ That’s what I want to see on the record.” Few would argue with him.

It got worse… incredibly, appallingly, some of the money raised by the charity fund didn’t go to the bereaved families or the traumatised survivors, instead, it had to go towards paying for the removal of the rest of the tip. The NCB couldn’t even do that.

It wasn’t until Tony Blair was prime minister thirty years later that the money was repaid to the community but without interest or compensation. Later the Welsh government gave £2 million to the fund as recompense.

A generation of children was lost. The survivors were in shock. The effects are still felt. The village had more than its share of illness, depression. Few of the survivors felt lucky. They still get flashbacks.

The site of the school is now an attractive memorial garden, based on the exact outline of the old classrooms. A row of eighty eight white arches mark the graves of some of the children. Even now, they gleam shockingly white against the valleys landscape.

As a direct result of what happened, legislation for improved safety of tips was put in place.

The coal industry is finished, of course. The pits have long closed. The slag heaps have gone. Where once they stood there are now business parks, shopping centres, new housing. The River Taff, which once ran black with coal and pollution, is now clean and sparkling, home to trout and otters.

Thanks in part to Jeff Edwards – the last child brought out alive - who became mayor of Merthyr, Aberfan now has new heart, good facilities including a thriving children’s centre.

But 50 years after a generation was lost, the survivors are still paying the price of coal.