Summer’s Last Retreat

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

  ‘Yes,’ Olwen said proudly. ‘Me!’ She pushed open the door into the warm kitchen with its bustling activities and, when Florrie glared, Olwen pointed nonchalantly over her shoulder with a thumb, and said,

  ‘Talking with Miss Penelope I’ve been, and she’ll explain that it wasn’t my fault.’ But Penelope had gone, hiding her laughter from the girl, wondering how Olwen could think that a man like Barrass would show her anything but kindly interest.

  ‘Miss Penelope indeed,’ Florrie began, starting towards her with a floury hand raised for a blow to her ear.

  ‘Hit me for being too long and I’ll tell Miss Penelope, mind!’ Olwen said boldly, bending back from the threatening hand, and Florrie turned away.

  ‘I don’t believe you, so make sure you don’t use such a poor excuse again,’ Florrie grumbled, surprised by the impudence of the little girl. ‘Now get on with filling the buckets for washing the dishes. Two buckets at a time, no dawdling with one and that only half filled, mind! Though I think you could manage more than two. Your tongue’s tough enough to carry a third, no mistake.’ Florrie’s voice was softer than normal, amused by the small, wiry girl with the oversized idea of her own importance.

  Grinning at her, Olwen hurried to do what she was asked.

  It was a surprise to both Olwen and Florrie when, just as they were finishing clearing the kitchen after luncheon, Penelope came in and looked around, asking for Olwen.

  ‘Yes, Miss?’ Olwen pushed her untidy fair hair from across her face and hid her blackened hands. She had been adding coal to the fire to heat the oven for Florrie’s cake-making, and her face was aglow with the heat.

  ‘I wish to speak to you in the drawing room,’ Penelope said, and walked away.

  ‘Oh dear, in trouble I am for sure,’ Olwen wailed. ‘Why did she come for me and not send one of the servants? Oh, what have I done, Florrie?’

  ‘Cook. You will call me Cook, that is my title,’ Florrie said firmly as she hurriedly wiped the worst of the coal dust from Olwen’s face and arms. ‘Now go. Bethan will show you the way, and remember to be polite, and look down, don’t stare up at her with those bold eyes of yours. There’s nothing makes them more angry than us looking as if we feel as important as them.’

  Holding her breath and trying to still her beating heart, Olwen walked behind Bethan to the wide panelled door of the drawing room.

  She tried to remind herself that to leave was what she wanted, to return home to her safe, comfortable life with her parents, but she knew that being told to leave was a disgrace. As well as her mother losing the money she earned, there was the uncomfortable feeling that everyone would know, that she would be discussed and thought unable to behave well enough to work in a big house. No, she wanted to work here and learn from these people, right up to the time she left to marry Barrass and bear his child. The thought of Barrass’s approval gave her strength and the threat of tears was gone as Bethan opened the door and announced her with a curtsey.

  ‘Olwen the scullery maid,’ Bethan said in her slow, sleepy voice.

  ‘Come in, Olwen,’ Penelope said. She was sitting on a richly padded armchair near the fire, a fire screen tilted to protect her face from the glare. She wore a full-skirted, long-sleeved dress of blue plaid, the bodice tight-fitting, a bow of taffeta under her chin. The collar was square across her shoulders and in the same blue plaid frilled with pale blue lace.

  ‘I am willing to teach you to read, if you so wish. I don’t like to have a servant, even one as lowly as a scullery maid, who doesn’t know her letters.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Olwen immediately forgot her place and her concern, and stepped impulsively towards the elegantly dressed girl. ‘You mean you will teach me yourself?’

  ‘It will be in your own time of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Olwen’s blue eyes glowed, her mind rushing on to the time when she and Barrass could share the thrill of reading some of the books like Pitcher and Mrs Palmer boasted of owning.

  ‘I’ll work really hard, I promise,’ she gasped, sinking to the floor by Penelope’s chair. ‘I really will.‘

  ‘And you’ll remember that you don’t sit in my family’s presence without being invited to do so?’ Penelope smiled to show she was not angry at the impertinence and her smile widened as Olwen stood hurriedly and almost lost her balance by standing on her own long skirt.

  * * *

  While Olwen was gradually accepting the limitations of a working girl, Barrass was learning the long tedious task of thrice-weekly collections and deliveries. On the nights he returned home to the cellar he began to tell Arthur of his adventures, but both were tired – Barrass with the miles of walking and Arthur from the extra work Barrass’s absence caused. Before the church clock had struck two quarter hours, the friends had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  Arthur had been fascinated by how through two days, Barrass had journeyed across Gower and called at many of the farms, hamlets and villages where men had built fine houses and depended on the letter-carriers to keep in touch with their businesses.

  ‘At first,’ Barrass told him, ‘I was constantly afraid. Figures appeared out of the gloom in the early morning as I rode towards Swansea to collect the bag, and I expected each time that I would be killed for the few letters I carried. But it was only people waiting either to add to my bag, or to ask that I gave a message to a relation or friend as I passed. I soon learnt to carry a piece of slate and a chalk so I didn’t forget the many messages entrusted to me.’

  ‘What sort of messages?’ Arthur asked. ‘Weren’t you afraid of being given reports dealing with – that which you should not know?’

  ‘I am always very careful, as I am sure Kenneth is. These people involved in smuggling know I am against them even though I did forget my disapproval of it and help Dan, Spider, Pitcher and the others. They wouldn’t risk involving me.’

  Arthur nodded, and in the darkness of their shelter, his eyes turned to where the door leading to Pitcher’s illegal stores was hidden by innocent-looking barrels.

  ‘Everyone knows how straight you are, Barrass, your reputation is such that no one would believe you would ever stand anywhere near anything suspect.’ The darkness hid his smile as once again his eyes turned to the hidden doorway.

  ‘I have to stay well clear of it, Arthur, I want to work for the King’s Mail, remember. People have to trust me.’

  Arthur did not point out to Barrass that, because of his blatant disapproval of the boats and their cargoes, no one was likely to trust him. Perhaps one day, when Arthur was able to talk to him with complete honesty, he might point out the reason for the lack of friendship among the villagers. But not while Barrass harboured this fantastic conviction that to become a letter-carrier he needed an impeccable character.

  Each day, Barrass reported to Kenneth on the day’s activities and each time he approached the bank and climbed up to knock at the door, he held his breath, dreading to be told that Kenneth was ready to recommence his duties. On Tuesday evening, Enyd opened the door to him and invited him inside. He went to where Kenneth sat, a dejected figure, wrapped in several layers of blanket and with a huge bandage around his head. His eyes were moist with anticipated sympathy, and he gestured painfully to a chair beside him.

  ‘Sit down, boy, and tell me how you have managed today.’

  ‘I collected three letters from Peter Downes addressed to a shipping firm in Bristol port,’ Barrass began. ‘Then there were seven letters to distribute around the route which I did not bother to take into Swansea for marking, as you instructed me. Here are the monies I collected and the notebook with all the transactions noted.’

  ‘Good boy, you’re doing a fine job,’ Kenneth said in a weak voice. Then, as Enyd went to answer the door to another knock, he poked Barrass urgently and said, ‘Boy, will you remember not to finish your route earlier than nine o’clock on Thursday.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Barrass asked, but he was hushed by another dig from Kenneth’
s enshrouded elbow, which despite several layers of blanket, was firmly felt.

  ‘Hush, boy, she’ll be back in a minute and her with ears sharp enough to hear a penny drop in Pitcher’s bar! For reasons you need not ask about for I won’t tell you, I come home very late on a Thursday. Now if you should finish early this Thursday, my wife will, not unreasonably, wonder why I regularly do not. So stay somewhere pleasant, and don’t show your face in the village till after half past nine of the clock.’

  Barrass was about to ask a question, but the man groaned a warning as Enyd re-entered the room, and Barrass could only nod agreement.

  As he stood to leave, having handed to Kenneth all the information about his journey, he managed to whisper, ‘This is nothing to do with the trade from the boats, is it, Kenneth?’

  ‘Indeed not.’ While still managing to emphasize his weakness, Kenneth looked outraged at the idea.

  ‘No, of course, in your position you would not.’

  ‘Could not!’ Kenneth insisted, his self-righteous expression convincing Barrass of the needlessness of the question.

  Barrass was curious over the deception, but guessed that the most likely explanation was a woman. Talk about Kenneth and Betson-the-Flowers had reached his ears via Arthur, who seemed to learn the latest gossip while it was in the process of being made.

  During the week he acted as Kenneth’s deputy, Barrass learnt a great deal about the area in which he lived. The people who waited to see him walk up, with the red waistcoat and the big leather bag, were varied – old women who waited on windy corners wrapped in little more than rags, to earn a halfpenny, cottagers handing him the rent to pay for them with dirt-grained hands, small boys who crumpled the letter they had been asked to deliver into his safekeeping, and smartly dressed and impatient young men with important business letters for London and Bristol.

  He learnt about the lime that was delivered and paid for between Gower and Somerset and Devon. About the ships that sailed across from the West Country with rocks for ballast, which they deposited on deserted Gower beaches before sailing empty into Swansea docks to fill up with coal for the return journey. Wool was transported from the small farms and the money for the sale of it brought back to buy supplies for the winter. All this he learnt from asking questions about the letters he carried, and from the requests he had to deliver messages across the length and breadth of the peninsula. He learnt also that fear of the letter-carrier being robbed had led to the practice of bank notes being torn in two and each half sent separately so the thieves would not be able to spend the money they had stolen!

  His fear of being attacked had been strong at first, but soon he had forgotten the possibility of thieves setting upon him and taking the precious bag from his shoulders. He strode out, walking tall and with a look of pride on his handsome face that had many young women staring after him with longing.

  * * *

  Olwen, tied to the Ddole House for most of the day, could do nothing to alleviate her fears that he was dallying with a dozen young women at each village. She imagined him standing on the steps of a house, or on the green, his thick curly hair blowing about him, his eyes tempting every older woman to mother him and all their daughters to dream of loving him.

  She saw him in her mind’s eye, calling and blowing Kenneth’s horn to attract the attention of all the house-holders, and knew that every female would rush to offer him hospitality. She hoped that it was only bread, cheese and a mug of ale they offered, but suspected that there would be other things available. She also knew that Barrass was unlikely to refuse.

  On the Thursday afternoon she could bear it no longer, and when Florrie told her she could leave for home a little earlier, she ran gratefully out of the house. But she did not take the road home, turning instead along the green lane with hedges of hawthorn so thick that even lacking leaves they offered shelter from the evening breezes blowing across the fields towards the sea.

  She was surprised to see Barrass heading not for the village, but towards the cliffs beyond her house. She set off following him, determined to spoil any arrangement he might have made to cuddle with a girl in the deepening dark.

  * * *

  Barrass had made his own arrangement to fill in the time as Kenneth had requested. Now, walking towards the rendezvous with Blodwen, he became aware of someone following him. He touched the bag on his back, suddenly reminded of the responsibility he carried. He should have gone straight back and ignored Kenneth’s instructions, pretended he had misunderstood. If he were robbed out here, far from his route, it would be difficult to explain, he might even be accused of complicity and that would finish for ever his dream of becoming official letter-carrier for the king.

  Leaving the cliffs and his intended meeting with Blodwen Baker, he slid down the grassy slope to the footpath and hurried along towards the village. There, as he made for the dunes that lay along the shore, he realized who it was. Olwen of course, when was she not following him? He had hoped, now she was busily employed at Ddole House, that she might be less tenacious in her efforts to keep him from enjoying his spare time. She really was insistent, but he was fond enough of her not to feel anger, only amusement.

  Smiling now, he slithered up and down the sandy mounds, and at a suitable place he waited, holding his breath while Olwen caught up with him. He quickly slipped off the telltale red waistcoat and tucked it into the bag. His grin widened on hearing her panting up the dune towards him. It was almost dark, the surf a line of white lightness that suggested luminary power but had none.

  Unaware, Olwen walked on, her feet sliding so deeply into the soft, golden sand that she thought her progress must be negligible, but she gradually gained height, crawling, her head raised for the first sight of the lights from the road, where the alehouse was busy with customers, concentrating so hard on the effort of moving that she forgot to listen for Barrass somewhere in front of her.

  He jumped from his hiding place and she squealed in fright as his hands clamped down on her shoulders, almost pressing her face into the shifting sand. She recognized his laughter immediately and, small as she was, fought to free herself from his powerful arms as he lifted her up, showering sand like petrified rain. Her struggles made him lose balance and they fell and fought like two puppies. When they finally stood and smiled at each other, sand was released from their clothes in thin trickles, a gentle shushing in the almost silent evening.

  ‘You shouldn’t follow me about all the time, Olwen,’ he scolded. ‘One day someone will jump out on you and it won’t be in fun. There are many very sensitive to being followed, as you well know.’

  ‘I’m not following you! Why should I? Great lumbering lout that you are.’

  ‘In case you do decide to creep around to see what I’m doing, let me tell you,’ Barrass said, holding her arms as she threatened to start fighting again. ‘I’m going back to the alehouse, but I don’t want Kenneth to know how early I’ve finished work, so I’m going to creep in without being seen. All right?’

  He followed her, which he thought was a change, and made sure she was safely indoors before hurrying to meet Blodwen. When he reached the shallow depression in the hillside where they had planned to meet and talk and perhaps share a few kisses, it was empty. Thanks to Olwen, he had kept her waiting too long. Disconsolately, he walked back to the village, and climbing over the wall and struggling through the litter of building materials, he crept inside the alehouse to wait until the church clock struck nine and he could go and hand over the results of his two-day journey to Kenneth.

  He did not go to the cellar, but waited out of sight from those passing to and from the bar-room with replenishments, in a corner of the back entrance near the staircase. Emma and her daughters were at home and he knew they rarely came down while Pitcher was busy, preferring to pretend that their father’s business was separate from the way they lived, a necessary, unpleasant and rarely mentioned way of providing for their many wants.

  When he heard footsteps descend
ing he pushed himself further into the darkness. He recognized Violet, holding a candle in front of her and slipping swiftly towards the door. He wondered if it were he she was looking for.

  ‘Violet,’ he whispered. She blew to expel the light and joined him in the dark corner.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘I saw you from my window. If you’ve finished your deliveries, why aren’t you helping my father?’

  ‘Kenneth made me promise not to arrive before half past nine o’clock,’ he whispered back, and amid giggles he explained about the supposedly secret meetings between Kenneth and Betson-the-Flowers.

  ‘Where were you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I have an appointment,’ she said mysteriously.

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Granny Hughes,’ she told him.

  ‘You don’t want love potions, do you?’ he laughed. ‘That’s something you don’t need any help with. Perfect you are, Violet Palmer.’

  ‘Barrass, I am getting married to Edwin, next year. I won’t see you any more.’

  ‘For a year you’ll wait to be married and you won’t see me? Why?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right. I want to say goodbye to you here, now.’ The urgency in her was unmistakable.

  ‘Here, with your father likely to walk past at any moment?’ His eyes were accustomed to the darkness and it seemed impossible that people walking past with the bright flame of a candle in front of them could not see as clearly as day into his corner.

  ‘Yes.’ She was breathless with excitement, her voice seeming to lack strength as she pressed herself against him. ‘For the last time, Barrass, now, please, hurry.’

  * * *

  Granny Hughes was no one’s grandmother. She had never married and had never had a child. To everyone young and old, she had been Granny Hughes for as long as memory went back. How old she was no one knew, but the most ancient person in the village, a toothless, wrinkled crone called Meg Morgan, could not remember a time when she was not there.