Summer’s Last Retreat

by Summer's Last Retreat (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  At the tables where drinks were being offered to the thirsty dancers, John Maddern came to ask for a glass of ale for William on two occasions during the following two hours.

  Edwin discussed his enjoyment of the evening and added, ‘I was just this minute talking to your husband, Mistress Ddole, see him over there in the far corner, his bright scarf like a beacon? He says he hasn’t enjoyed an evening more.‘ He pointed back into the shadows under the trees. ‘Over there he is, talking to young Thomas about his record litter of seventeen pigs.’

  A yellow scarf was just visible – too far away for anyone to see that it was not William Ddole who wore it.

  ‘Made us all laugh he did,’ added another man, who called himself Oak-tree after a tree that grew beside his house and around which a wall of his stables was built. ‘There’s a one he is for good stories.’

  Although absent for more than three hours, no one at the party would believe William had not been there all evening. He reappeared when the dancing was still in full swing, with a glass in his hand and a group of friends all sharing with him a joke or two and, draining the glass, he invited his wife into a gavotte.

  * * *

  Many of the young people who had not been invited to join the party had crept through the fields to watch. Along the hedge dividing the garden from the fields they crouched in silent groups and looked through the leaves at the colourful and merry crowd in fascination.

  Olwen, who had climbed out of her window to join her brother as he slipped from the house, stood between him and Enyd’s brother Tom, who at seventeen was only a few weeks younger than Dan and was on leave from the army.

  Tom was not in uniform, having been given instructions not to remind his neighbours that he was a soldier in the hope that he might pick up some information about smuggling. Olwen felt conscious of his eyes on her several times and glanced at him curiously, surprised to realize that instead of the small, rather weedy boy who went away, Tom had grown and filled out.

  She caught his eye as she looked at his rather thin face, and was disconcerted slightly when his eyes softened with admiration and interest. She turned away and smiled to herself. It had been a trick of the poor light. No one looked at her like that – the way Barrass had of showing his admiration of a girl with scarcely a movement of his brows or more than a slight relaxing of his face, a softening of his mouth. She changed her position so they were separated by several of the uninvited watchers.

  After watching for a while and laughing at some of the more portly women’s attempts to trip lightly through the dances, and wonder at the enormous amounts of food still being piled onto the tables, she moved along in search of Barrass. But he was not there.

  Barrass had been relieved of his duties that evening, and at four thirty by Pitcher’s clock had set off to walk to Swansea. Since Olwen had mentioned the post-boy she’d seen there, he had been considering how he could meet the man and find out if he knew anything that would lead him to his long-lost father.

  The tide would be high at around ten o’clock so there was time to walk across the bay. He took off the shoes he wore for work and, barefoot, struck out across the ridges of wet sand.

  As usual there was a small crowd waiting for the arrival of the Swanzey Bag. Besides the officials waiting to sort the contents and give the post-boy the letters to take back with him, others hovered in the hope of learning some news.

  News-sheets from London were delivered to those wealthy enough to pay for them and even, occasionally, a newspaper abandoned at an inn and brought, tattered with many readings, with the letters. There was usually someone in the crowd able and willing, for a few ‘generosities’, to read aloud the news-sheets and the letters received by those slow at their reading, and on occasions draft out in neat hand their reply. Barrass waited with the rest for the post-boy’s horn announcing his imminent arrival.

  Ben Gammon, the post-boy, was as Olwen had described him, grey, straggling hair, long nose and a face barely to be seen under its coating of dust. His leather bag, strapped across his back was also covered in thick deposits, and in the creases of the red waistcoat the colour was lost under layers of it, built up over weeks of dry weather and streaked from the days of rain.

  The crowd moved back to allow the horse to reach the doorway of the sorting room and Ben dismounted with a sigh of relief. A boy ran out and took the horse to feed and water him, and the crowd surged forward again. Those expecting a letter went into the sorting room and waited for the bag to be opened.

  Inside, Barrass could see a table, and an official sitting there with an opened ledger into which he wrote names as the man with the bag called them out. Beside the man at the table was a box into which he put the monies paid to him for receipt of the letters as they were claimed. A man came out holding a letter and looking anxiously around him.

  Guessing the reason, Barrass offered to read it for him, having learnt from Pitcher the rudiments of his letters, but an angry man pushed him out of the way, hissing at him,

  ‘Keep away, you! Trying to steal my generosities’ll get you more than you bargained for!’ He held out his hand to the holder of the letter, who offered a coin in payment, then the pair went to sit on a convenient wall to read the letter by the light of a hand-held lantern.

  Barrass waited for Ben Gammon to re-emerge, and spoke to him.

  ‘Sir, I believe my father was a post-boy like yourself. I have lost touch with him this many a year and wondered if, by looking at me, you can remember seeing my like among those you work with?’

  Ben looked at him, curiosity in the dust-fringed eyes. Then he laughed, opening wide a pink mouth almost devoid of teeth apart from a few unsightly stumps.

  ‘Damn me, boy, I bet there are a thousand who beg to know their fathers, and a goodly number of them from those such as I, wandering here and there with no one to keep a suspicious eye on us! Aye and there’ll be many a lad wanting to claim me as their father!’

  ‘I did not think that you – that I—’

  ‘Handsome enough you are boy, not to say striking, and many might be proud to claim you. But I know of no one you resemble so much as for me to exclaim with amazement and wonderment, “Damn me, boy you must be the son of…” anyone that I’ve ever seen.’

  From the nearby inn a boy came out with a foaming mug of ale, which Ben sank without pausing for breath. Then, following the boy, he went to the inn. Already men were reading aloud from the papers he had brought, and receiving coins to continue, and ale to sustain them when their audience thought them about to falter.

  Barrass lingered for a while, watching the old man eat his meal at the inn doorway and the crowds discussing the news, and exclaiming and laughing at the gossip he also brought with him. He saw a fresh horse brought out and the bag handed back and fastened onto another post-boy’s shoulders. This one was young and Barrass thought it useless to inquire of him about a father who had disappeared so many years before. He waved and shouted with the rest as the boy set off on his journey to hand the letters to the next relay carrier on the way to Monmouth and London.

  The crowds remained for a long time after the departure of the post. Ben was busy with his cronies, exchanging gossip and world news, giving out the latest London opinions confidently, reporting who said what and why with great authority, although he had never travelled further along the route to London than Monmouth.

  Ben Gammon would spend the evening at the inn and sleep there, ready to return with a fresh post-bag on his part of the relay the following morning. By the amount of ale that found its way down his throat, Barrass wondered if he would ever be able to wake sufficiently to mount his horse. He remembered how the man boasted of never missing a day in thirty-six years and supposed the ale could not harm him overmuch, and he ordered one for himself.

  Although disappointed not to have discovered a hint to his father’s whereabouts, Barrass was not unhappy with his visit. There was something exciting about being in a crowd, especia
lly a good-natured one such as this, and he spent an hour talking to strangers and felt thrilled to be among the first in the town to have the latest news of the world beyond the village. He turned for home, more than five miles through lonely paths, excited, and imagining how he would share what he had seen and heard with Arthur when they were in their beds below the alehouse.

  When he reached the village, he walked up onto the cliffs intending to sit for a while and think about the evening and about his father. He brought Ben Gammon’s face to mind, trying to imagine a man in similar clothes but who had his own face. If he could picture him, even if it were mostly invention, it would bring him closer and restore Barrass’s failing belief that one day they would meet.

  If he had someone of his own he would not feel so lacking in love. He would have more confidence in himself too. No one, apart from Arthur who seemed not to care, was so completely alone in the world. He longed for a family, even if they were the most unpleasant people on God’s earth, to give him roots in the place where he lived. He had always felt tolerated rather than loved. That, more than any of the other deprivations he suffered, hurt him most, not having someone to whom he truly belonged. He smiled then, thinking of Olwen: someone as near to a loving sister as he would ever have.

  He walked slowly and with great caution, heading for the edge of the cliffs from where he could look down on the wide bay. It was cold and he covered his head in his coat to keep his ears from stinging in the wind. He went past Olwen’s house, all in darkness, and smiled at the thought of the excitable young girl lying peacefully still and silent on her bed. Then without warning, he was seized from behind and a hand covered his mouth before he could cry out.

  His mouth was covered with a band of rough cloth and his hands tied behind him. Then he was manhandled across the turf unable to see his attackers, losing all sense of direction and expecting at any moment to be thrown over the cliff to his death. He railed silently against the unfairness of not knowing why.

  To his surprise he was forced to bend forward until the top of his head was stuck fast in a hole. He was to suffer the indignity of having his head pushed into a rabbit hole, and a stake pushed between his legs and into the ground, making it impossible for him to move. He tried to mumble his protests but no one wanted to hear, then he was left alone, uncomfortable and wanting to scream with rage.

  It was more than an hour that he stayed there, stiff, uncomfortable, and, now the fear of death had left him, angry at the humiliation. All around him the night’s silence was broken by soft footsteps, the creaking of leather and the unmistakable smell of horses passing close by. Then all was silent again apart from the moaning of the wind through the distorted trees nearby.

  When he thought his neck must surely break, the stick was withdrawn and the tie around his mouth cut away.

  The knife touched his neck, pausing momentarily in silent warning. Then he was alone, picking himself up and easing the painful stiffness from his neck and back. He waited a moment, a defiance making him refrain at first from running like a scared rabbit. Then, moving faster and faster as the darkness pressing on his shoulders seemed to threaten him with unimaginable phantoms, he headed back to the village, not looking up until he reached the open door of the alehouse.

  Chapter Five

  Barrass felt the anger of the unfairly treated, the fury of a young man made to feel foolish. The morning following his encounter on the cliffs, he went up to see Spider to talk out his grievances, filling the cottage with his resentment.

  He paced to and fro across the small, over-filled room, his long legs stepping over the piled logs near the hearth, the baby’s cradle, the low stool on which Olwen sat most evenings, and knocking over the pile of nets and lobster pots which Spider had been sorting for mending.

  ‘I want to go to the Keeper of the Peace,’ he said, and as Spider shook his head, added, ‘But it was an attack! I did nothing to warrant it! A man pushed me into a rabbit hole and kept me a prisoner for such a time that I thought my back and neck would never be straight again.’

  ‘Calm yourself, boy,’ Spider said. ‘You’re talking like an old woman.’

  He knew that Barrass would have more sense than to make a complaint about the men on the cliff once he had talked out his anger, but it was important to stop him raising his voice in accusation within the hearing of anyone but his closest friends. Although there had never been any trouble with those involved in the night activities, Spider knew that, when necessary, those concerned would not hesitate to use force to protect themselves.

  There were violent men involved in the local smuggling, however unworldly they might seem if met in their everyday lives. The penalties were severe if they were caught: transportation, flogging, imprisonment and even death if any of the revenue men were banned. The revenue had too few men and often had to stand and watch as dozens of the locals brought their spoils up from the boats, knowing that with the sentences facing them, they would kill if necessary to evade capture.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Barrass went on, refusing the offer of a chair near the fire, which Spider had vacated for him. ‘I want to be a part of the King’s Mail. I don’t want anything to suggest that I am anything less than completely honest.’

  ‘Why should having your head stuck in a hole make anyone think you’re dishonest?’ Spider laughed, trying to jolly the boy out of his rage.

  ‘Because if anyone saw me coming down from the hill last night and knew that a transaction had taken place, well they would surely not believe I was staring at the stars! Now would they? I have to tell what happened, so I’m clear of suspicion if anyone talks.’

  ‘No one’ll talk, boy. Why should they? Everyone in the village save one or two suspect characters has benefited. Including me and Mary. I doubt you’ll say no to a cup of fine tea, now would you?’ He nodded to Mary, who sat, with baby Dic held ‘Welsh Fashion’ in a thick blanket which went around a shoulder and under her arm, wrapping the baby firmly against her. ‘A small drink of tea for the boy? It’ll calm him, my dear.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Barrass was horrified at the idea and stepped away as Mary pushed the kettle nearer to the heat of the fire.

  ‘Now you’re being daft, boy. Many’s the saucer of tea you’ve enjoyed here.’

  ‘I can’t risk being accused. I have to keep an honest record. I don’t want to lose my chances of working for the Post.’

  Spider and Mary shared a glance of wry amusement.

  ‘Honesty isn’t the word I’d use for some of the King’s Messengers, Barrass,’ Mary said softly. ‘The news-sheets are always reporting on the dishonesty of the men who collect money for the King’s Mail.’

  ‘She’s right. There’s two in Swansea prison right now.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t want to take any chances. Lock me up for sure they would if anyone saw me coming down from the hill last night.’

  ‘And what would you have been doing up on the hill last night?’ a voice asked.

  Barrass turned in alarm to find Olwen, hands on hips, glaring at him from the doorway. From one hand hung a couple of silver fish. Her hair was blown untidily across her face in a cobweb of gold, half hiding eyes that flashed with suspicion. ‘Which girl did you take up to cuddle in the darkness last night, Barrass? Getting talked about you are.’

  ‘Talked about? Who has been talking?’

  ‘Blodwen for one. She says you no longer like her. And Enyd has been spreading stories about the girls you take into dark corners for a cuddle. Is that true? And them in the alehouse, the fancy Misses Pansy and Daisy. They talk about you all the time and drive their poor mother to distraction. That’s right, isn’t it, Mam?’

  He smiled at her, relieved that the talk was only about girls.

  ‘Truth is, Olwen,’ he teased, ‘you’re the only girl for me. Waiting until you’re twenty I am, then I’ll give up all the rest.’

  His words were so near her dream that she gave a scolding growl and threw the fish at him. They caught h
im across the shoulder and, being far from fresh, spread a slimy wetness on one side of his face. Shrieking with laughter, she ran from the house followed by Barrass.

  ‘He’ll soon forget his anger,’ Mary laughed. ‘So young he is, that he can be filled with a man’s anger one moment and be a silly young boy the next.’

  ‘I’ll have another word with him though,’ Spider said thoughtfully. ‘We don’t want him complaining loud enough for the night-owls to get alarmed, do we? Best he keeps his mouth well closed.’

  Later that day, when Spider’s warnings had made Barrass’s complaints subside, Barrass was asked by Pitcher to deliver a package to Ddole House. The alehouse keeper explained that there being no post on that day, the delivery was a favour for William and Dorothy Ddole. It was not until he was at the kitchen door of Ddole House that a shower of sweat burst out on his skin, giving him the sensation of being drenched in hot water.

  Florrie the cook opened the door and smiled at him. ‘Ah, at last! We were down to the last makings and the mistress do like her…’ She did not finish the sentence, but Barrass could have finished it for her. The package, he knew with certainty, was illegally imported tea, presumably part of William Ddole’s reward for his assistance on the previous night. Barrass had always lived apart from the village, but he knew its ways. He thought again of being forced to stay in that ignominious position on the cliffs while the smugglers walked past him with their illegal goods – he remembered every moment with clarity.

  The touch of the jacket worn by his assailant came back to him, and the smell of a certain fine tobacco rising from it on the clean night air. It had been William Ddole who had imprisoned him in that humiliating manner! He thrust the package at Florrie, muttering,