Barrass pulled the boat up onto the shore and helped Olwen to haul out their catch. A poor one that morning, and he knew that unless they were more successful on the mornings to come, Mary’s small supply of food would dwindle at an alarming rate. He had to think of something to do to add to their income, and glanced hopefully at the house where the mail was gathered. Perhaps he could find time to assist Kenneth and earn a few more pennies.
Enyd answered his knock later that day, a notebook in her hand, expecting it to be someone with a letter to send.
‘What d’you want?’ she asked coldly. ‘Move off, we don’t want scruffs like you littering the place. Important people come here and we can’t have them upset by a sight like you.’ As she said it she knew she was being unfair. A sight he certainly was, but a sight to make a girl’s heart flutter, except her own. She did not want him, but resented the fact that others certainly did. They both stood there, Enyd at the half-opened door and Barrass on the road. Kenneth came out, a small figure in a full-length dressing gown of red, and looked at them curiously.
‘Barrass. What are you wanting?’ Kenneth asked in his rather pompous voice. ‘Don’t waste the girl’s time if it’s only chatter you want.’
‘I came to ask if there was a chance of helping you,’ Barrass said. ‘Truth is, I need to earn some extra, there’s someone who needs it see, and I thought, if you needed someone to go and collect the post or…’ He dried up as Kenneth shook his head.
‘Nothing so casual will suit the King’s Mail. Only I can collect from Swansea, no matter how I feel about the long ride, it’s me and only me they’ll give the letters to. Unless I make arrangements for you to be an appointed servant of mine. But at the moment I am well able to do the work myself.’
‘Perhaps you should put my name forward as your servant then, in case there’s ever a day when you can’t go.’ Barrass looked up at him, hope in the moist brown eyes.
‘I’ll think about it, Barrass, I’ll think about it.’ He ushered his daughter inside and, following her, slammed the door firmly.
Barrass turned away dejectedly and wandered back to the alehouse.
During the evening he helped Arthur carry drinks up from the cellar and rinse out the empty mugs as customers departed, alternately boring and heavy work with large pitchers to carry up and down stairs, remnants of food and drink to clear and barrels to heave about. The weather was cold and a heavy rain was falling as he stepped out into the yard to run for the shelter of the archway. Towards the end of the evening the bar-room had become quite chill, the fire having been allowed to die down. And with washing the mugs and the tables in icy water, he was very cold when he went to his bed.
He sat shivering in his temporary shelter in the archway, unable to sleep, his thoughts wavering between the hope that tonight Violet would return to him, and intermittent concern that he should be finding a way to help Olwen’s family. He wrapped the sacks tightly around him in an effort to warm his chilled body and tried to bring thoughts of Violet to mind to help make his blood run faster.
He was roused to sudden excitement when he saw a shadow appear in the doorway of the house and he sat up, straining his eyes to see if it was Violet, but the voice was Arthur’s.
‘Come on, Barrass, sleep in the cellar with me, there’s daft it is for you to be sleeping out by here in this weather. She won’t see you. Up long before she’s roused herself we’ll be and who else is to know, or care?’
Stiffly, and still shivering, Barrass rose and followed Arthur to the cellar door. Although without heat, the cellar was out of the biting wind and the cold rain that constantly found places through which to seep and wet his clothes. The covers Arthur had collected for him were soft and thickly filled with sheep’s wool, the mattress comfortably packed with dried heather, and he felt the comfort of it and was filled with ineffable sadness that such simple luxuries only rarely entered his life. He fought back the tightness in his throat that threatened tears of self-pity.
As he lay, wrapped in a cocoon of slowly enveloping warmth, his thoughts rose to where Violet lay under the same roof. There would be a fire in her bedroom, and warm, clean clothes to wear when she rose, warm water to wash herself, a servant to cook and serve her breakfast. He imagined the soft, sweet-scented bed in which she slept and wondered why life treated some so well and ignored the simplest, most basic needs of others.
It was still raining when he rose and began his day’s work. He was outside the alehouse in the rain and the darkness, carrying out some of the unwanted pieces of wood to clear the ground for the next stages of the building work, when he saw Kenneth setting off for Swansea to collect the letters. He called to him, receiving the briefest of nods in response, and watched as the darkness swallowed him up, listening until the lonely sound of the horse’s clopping hooves faded away.
Everything of late seemed to emphasize his solitary and worthless state. Everyone walking away from him. Enyd, for whom he felt no desire, but whom he had hoped to cultivate as a friend, was cold and indifferent; and Violet, so loving and then leaving him without a word. Even Kenneth had no time even to wish him a good morning. He forced a brief smile as Olwen’s small and lovely features filled his mind. He pictured her standing before him, hands on slim hips, face raised to look into his eyes, perhaps frowning in mock dismay at some slight offence, or laughing him out of some disappointment with her blue eyes twinkling with good humour. She was his friend and never thought anything but the best of him. He threw down the last of the wood and, calling to Arthur to explain his absence, ran up on to the cliff to Olwen’s cottage. At least there, with both Spider and Dan away, he would be of some use.
* * *
Kenneth worked a regular weekly routine, collecting the three evening deliveries to Swansea on the morning following their arrival. On Sunday, Tuesday and Friday, the post-boy brought letters in to the Swansea sorting office at six pm, and on the mornings of Monday, Wednesday and Saturday, Kenneth rode in on the hired horse and collected the letters for Gower and took in any that had been left with him, in time for the next outgoing mail at six am. He brought the collection back to his house and rested while Ceinwen sorted them into the order of his calls, then he set off again to walk around the peninsula, delivering and collecting. He would stay overnight at either Port Eynon or Rhosili before finishing his round to arrive home in the afternoon or evening of the following day.
On this Wednesday morning Kenneth wished he had asked Barrass to go with him. The rain, although a part of his life and rarely noticed, was cold, and the walk around the isolated farms and houses would be a lonely one with few people out and about with whom he could stop and share a few minutes of pleasant gossip.
He put the letters into his leather bag and after a brief chat over a mulled ale with Ben Gammon, rode home. In the small room which he used as a sorting office there were several letters for him to take between neighbour and neighbour. Ceinwen had listed them with a note of the fees payable. He stopped only long enough for her to put a parcel of food into his bag, and he to take a warming sip of brandy, before setting out on his two-day round.
He would be glad when the morrow came. Thursday was the best day of the week. He would arrive late in the evening to be fussed over by Ceinwen, who always worried about him being out alone and with little means of protection should someone wish to rob him. He would be allowed to relax and sit near the fire in his favourite armchair to savour the prospect of Friday, always a free day, when there was no travelling and only the letters handed in to Ceinwen or Enyd to be dealt with on the following day. Yes, Thursday was a day to savour.
The deliveries were few on that Wednesday and he spent a lot of the day sitting discussing the imprisonment of the local men with the villagers of Port Eynon. The conversation was wary, as the local men were afraid of unfriendly ears overhearing things that could be passed on to the revenue men. But they stated their conviction that before the month was out, the Mumbles men would be freed.
When he
rose the following morning there was a package in the pocket of his coat that he had not seen arrive. It was addressed to William Ddole and he pushed it out of sight deep in the leather bag.
‘Little hope of a personal delivery for that one,’ he muttered grimly as he went down to break his fast. ‘I’m not visiting that prison even for William Ddole, and that’s where he spends most of his time, talking to those that the law is holding!’
Thursday was the day he called at Morgan’s farm. There were never any letters to deliver or to collect as neither the farmer nor his wife was able to read. He stopped there each Thursday to buy eggs for Betson-the-Flowers.
One day when he had met her by accident in the green lane that passed her hovel she had asked him if he would bring her some eggs the next time he passed. She had held out a couple of coins, leaning languorously against the doorway and tilting her hips towards him in a provocative pose so well practised that she did it unconsciously whenever she spoke to a man. He agreed, with some trepidation, half tempted to refuse, knowing that to be seen visiting her would lead to only one conclusion.
That conclusion would have been correct after his second visit and since then he always took her some eggs and an occasional fowl on Thursdays, and never asked for the money.
It was only a little past noon when he came in sight of Betson’s semi-derelict cottage and he increased his pace in anticipation of her welcome. She always kept Thursday afternoon and evening free and he knew she would have a meal and a roaring fire ready for him. He counted himself very lucky that in all the months he had been calling on her, he had never once had to change his plans. He had never met anyone and had to turn away in disappointment, or bluff an excuse for being there. The good God approves, he thought irreverently.
The ground was soaked with the day and night of rain and his boots were heavy with mud. In the shelter of an overhanging fir tree he stopped and tried to clean them with a small fallen branch. Walking on, he cut across a field of soaking wet, over-long grass which he hoped would make them even more presentable. He was just pushing his way through the hedge when a voice hailed him. He groaned inwardly. Now he would be unable to visit Betson, and what’s more would have to find a way of filling in the time until he could go home. If he were once early on a Thursday, it would be difficult to explain his lateness on others!
‘Barrass,’ he smiled, tilting his head forward to allow the rain to pour off the brim of his hat. ‘And what are you doing out in such weather?’
‘I chopped a load of firewood which I’ve sold to some of the cottagers. It’s money for Spider’s family, not for myself, mind,’ he added quickly as he saw Kenneth’s face show disapproval, ‘and I didn’t charge them much.’
‘Would you like to earn another sixpence?’ Kenneth asked as an idea formed in his mind. ‘For Spider’s family if you wish.’
‘Well, thank you, yes,’ Barrass said, surprised. A sixpence would buy bread for a week.
‘I have a package which is addressed to William Ddole. If you would take it for me, I still have a number of letters to deliver and it’s getting late.’
Sheltering the package as best they could, it was transferred from Kenneth’s pocket to Barrass’s, and without looking at it the boy set off back the way he had come. If he wondered where Kenneth was heading, he said nothing and, after waiting a moment for him to disappear among the trees, Kenneth sighed with relief and went through the doorway and into the open arms of Betson.
She laughed as she stripped off his soaked clothes, making roguish fun of the way the cloth clung to his wet skin and refused to free him. Then, with the garments hung on a clothes horse near the fire to steam and dry, she began to rub his body with a soft towelling cloth. Before she had dried his shoulders his desire forced him to forget the need to be dried and he reached out for the buttons that held her skirt in place. In a whoop of laughter Betson slapped his hands in mock propriety then fell to the floor and rolled against him, encouraging his hands that were stiff with the cold to fumble awkwardly at the rest of the fastenings.
He failed and pulled clumsily at her, catching her skin in the folds of the cloth and making her gasp with the shock of it. She stood up and turned away then, as if in disapproval, and for a moment his heart raced with the thought that he had seriously offended her, but before he could think of a way to persuade her back into his arms, she turned to face him and with a slow smile, pulled on a red ribbon and allowed her dress to fall free. She wore under it only a pair of broderie anglaise pantalettes cut to knee length. A slow pull on another ribbon and they were gone.
* * *
Barrass clutched the sixpence as he ran towards Ddole House. He wondered how best to spend it. On flour perhaps. If Spider and Dan were to stay in prison through the winter months, it was essential that Mary had food for her family. But perhaps it would be best to hold it and wait until he had more. A sixpence was a lot of money for someone like him, without anyone dependent on him, but to Mary with Olwen and little Dic to care for and a husband to visit and supply with extra comforts, it was little enough. His hands stiff with cold he slipped the coin into a pocket with difficulty, and ran on.
At the field from where he could look over the hedge and see the house, he stopped. In the gloominess of the late afternoon a man was leaving the front door of the house, and Barrass saw that it was the Keeper of the Peace. At once caution bade him stop and consider the message he had come on. Could it be something innocuous? It had to be. It had come from Kenneth’s bag. But he knew that the King’s Mail did not accept parcels for delivery. Had Kenneth trusted him with a package that the law would like to see? No, he would not!
He half hid in the hedge and using the soaking wet jacket he wore as protection, drew out the package. There was no post mark or an indication of how much there was to pay, and it had no seal to close it, only string. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, competing with the icy rain.
He thought to run but he had left it too late, Daniels had seen him and hailed him.
‘Barrass? You’re soaked right through, boy, and living in someone’s yard, how will you dry yourself?’ He took hold of the boy’s shoulder and marched him to the kitchen door of Ddole House.
‘Florrie?’ he called, ignoring Barrass’s protests. ‘See this boy, come with a package it seems and so wet he’ll flood your floor. But can you do something about his clothes? I swear the lad has no others and will suffer pneumonia if left to his own administrations.’
‘Come on in, and stand on the mat while I find you something dry to wear.’ Florrie tutted and sighed and shook her white-capped head but ran at once to the cupboard where extra clothes were always in readiness in case one of the servants needed them.
‘Try these for size,’ she demanded, then she took the package from him and passed it to Daniels. ‘Seeing as how this was your idea, Mr Daniels, put that on the fender where it will dry, will you? And put his jacket, poor thing that it is, to dry on the clothes horse.’
Barrass avoided Daniels’ eye as the tall man took the package and almost absentmindedly opened it. It contained money.
‘And where did you find this, boy?’ he asked in a soft voice. ‘Not yours for sure.’
‘It’s addressed to William Ddole,’ Barrass said, deciding not to say who had given it to him. Always best to say as little as possible, Spider always told him.
‘There’s no name that I can see,’ Daniels said.
Barrass hid behind a cupboard door, pulled off his clothes and put on the ones Florrie had handed him. How could he explain without mentioning Kenneth?
‘Ah, that will be mine, Daniels,’ a voice said and Dorothy Ddole strode into the kitchen, making the two servants stand up and bob a curtsey, which was noted but ignored.
‘Yours, Mistress Ddole?’ Daniels raised an eyebrow questioningly.
‘Payment for a horse,’ she said briskly. ‘Came adrift, did it? Lucky that money isn’t made of sugar or I’d be down a few pounds!’
‘Ma
y I ask who sent the money?’ Daniels asked politely but with an edge to his voice that indicated he would insist on an answer.
‘Markus, that man who lives further along the coast. He wanted a sure-footed mount for that sister of his.’ She turned to where Barrass was standing in trousers too small and a jacket that held his shoulders back like a vice. ‘What’s happened to you? You look as if the rain has shrunk you, or rather your clothes.’
‘I took the liberty of lending him some, him being soaked bringing your packet,’ Florrie told her and Dorothy laughed, smiling at the others to join in.
‘I’ll try to find you something better fitting, Barrass. Come, Florrie, there’s sure to be something that my son has no further need of.’ She led Florrie and an uncomfortable Barrass out of the kitchen but stopped at the foot of the curving staircase, her hands pressing against the pain in her stomach. ‘Second thoughts,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I have things to do. My daughter will show you.’ Then, as Penelope appeared at the top of the stairs, she went into the drawing room and closed the door.
‘All right, Florrie, I will find him something,’ Penelope said when the situation had been explained.
So, as Kenneth was lying naked with Betson, on the floor of the old cottage, Barrass was naked behind yet another cupboard door, while Penelope and her giggling maid, Carrie Rees, gave him an assortment of clothes to try on.
They arrived home at the same time, Kenneth with clothes only partly dried, and very uncomfortable, and Barrass warm, dry, fed by Florrie, and with a brown paper parcel holding his discarded clothes, wearing a set of good quality under and outer wear such as he had never seen before. Both were well content with their day, Kenneth glowed with memories of his time with Betson, and Barrass with thoughts of Penelope’s kindness.
* * *
Daniels rode along the cliff paths in the slippery mud to where Markus lived with his sister and her children. The rain had stopped and the air was pure and fresh. But although the ride was a pleasant one apart from the danger of the horse slipping, he had not wanted to make the journey. He knew he had to talk to Markus and have the explanation of the money confirmed without allowing time for a message to be sent, but it had been hard to leave the warmth of the kitchen where the preparations for supper were sending tempting smells to torment his empty stomach. Florrie had seemed about to invite him to stay and that thought too made the journey a tedious duty.
Summer’s Last Retreat Page 13