‘I’d have married Violet. I’d have worked alongside Pitcher and been a good husband. But Emma wouldn’t even consider me for her daughter.’
‘Can’t blame her for that,’ Spider laughed. ‘Nothing but a cave, and that filled with stuff others have no need of. Compared with that Edwin, you aren’t a very good catch, now are you?’
‘But I’m going to be somebody one day,’ Barrass said firmly. ‘Just you wait. You’ll have Emma regretting she didn’t get me for a son-in-law.’ He swallowed to fight back the tears threatening and they were silent for a while, watching the flames.
‘What do you remember of my mother?’ he asked when Spider stood to leave. ‘There’s so little I can truly recall and I need to hang onto what little there is.’
‘She lived around the village, finding work here and there for most of the year. Much like you’re doing now,’ Spider told him. ‘She was pretty, but always very thin and undernourished in spite of the help people gave her. One day when she had been away up in the north shepherding through the summer months, she told Mary – Mary was her friend – that she was carrying a child. You were born two months later. About this time of the year it was.’
‘And my father?’
‘You’ve asked me before,’ he said solemnly.
‘I keep asking in the hope that someone will remember some little thing my mother said, something to guide me to him.’
‘Best you forget and clear your mind of what’s past and gone. Who’s to say it would help if you did find him, eh? Might be nothing but a problem, and it seems to me you’ve plenty of those already.’
When Spider had gone, Barrass worked for a while tidying the place that seemed likely to be his home for the foreseeable future, his thoughts still on his father. Tall he was, he told himself, and with dark, soulful eyes. His plentiful hair was a rich brown touched with red like the polish on a fine wooden table. He chanted the few facts like a litany, forcing himself to remember them, afraid that even the pathetically few remembered words would fade like the rest, into false, wishful imaginings.
The memory of the message came to him so suddenly he cried out his stupidity at having forgotten it. He tried to bring to mind the day when Ben Gammon’s message had arrived with its promise of news about his father and, searching in the pockets of his jacket that had suffered so many soakings, found the piece of paper, almost pulped. The message was blurred and impossible to read. Why had he forgotten something as important as this? He closed his eyes, screwing them up tight in the effort to remember what it said.
‘Nant Arian – Silver Stream – that was the name of the place,’ he muttered. ‘Someone there who might be my father. How could I let that slip my mind?’ Now he had remembered, he wanted to go there without delay. Perhaps it was already too late? The day was hardly started, he would go at once.
He knew where the small hamlet was to be found, a small crossroads near a fast-flowing stream that gave the place its name. He had passed there once or twice when delivering letters for Kenneth. The day was sharply cold but a weak sun showed and, once he had started the blood flowing, he enjoyed the walk. There was some purpose to his day for the first time in weeks.
He stopped once to eat some of the bread Mary had given him, but it tasted of mildew from his pocket. He threw it down for the jackdaws that hovered hopefully near him, calling their name. He was glad to move on again. Hunger was not an urgent problem, he would be back at the cave before dark.
Swinging his arms to shake off the cold that the brief stop had allowed to seep through the damp cloth he continued on his way. He would spend the rest of the day drying his clothes before they were too mouldy to use. Once he had realized how badly his jacket smelt of mildew, the stink seemed to hover around him like a cloud.
As he approached the small community, following the stream, he met a couple of boys about ten years old. They were poking at something at the edge of the water, and pulling faces as if enjoying some huge joke.
‘What have you found?’ he called, and they beckoned him closer.
‘It’s the bachgen man,’ one of them shouted. ‘Come and see.’
The body of a small person, his back curved and distorted, lay huddled in the mud. Remnants of clothing clung to the body which, Barrass guessed, must have been no more than three and a half feet tall.
‘A child?’ he asked, sympathy clouding his face.
‘No, a bachgen man, a little boy-man, drowned he did long before the snow came.’
‘Why isn’t he buried then?’ Barrass frowned.
‘A joke,’ the first boy laughed. ‘It’s left for a joke, see.’
‘There’s someone coming who’s been told that his father is here,’ the second boy went on. ‘When he comes, we’re to show him this!’ Both boys went into paroxysms of laughter, hugging each other in glee, and did not see Barrass stride angrily away.
Chapter Fourteen
The death of Henry Harris affected several lives. Bessie Rees lost the regular payment for looking after him in the small house near the village. She was elderly and the money he gave her for washing his clothes, cleaning his house and cooking his simple meals would be sorely missed. Especially now, with a baby soon to feed and Carrie having lost her position at Ddole House.
Florrie grieved the loss of a friend, who had called regularly and taken food and drink in her kitchen and shared with her the daily happenings of their employer’s family. He had known about forthcoming events as soon as the family had decided on them and the advance knowledge, which he had willingly passed on in her kitchen, had given her an important place in the village as well as the household. Her life would be poorer for his passing.
For the Ddole family, there was relief mixed with their sadness.
‘He has been a faithful servant,’ William said when he was told the news, ‘but the time has come when we need a fresh young brain to cope with our business affairs.’
Penelope agreed, wondering if perhaps with a new secretary the accounts would be settled more promptly and no more unpleasant letters would arrive to worry her.
She handed three of them to her father after dinner on the day he and John Maddern returned from London.
The first thing William did was talk to his bank, and explain that there would be new signatures on future correspondence. The bank replied that unless funds were added to his account swiftly, there would be no need for further correspondence. He tried to bluff it out, pretending he knew nothing of the unpaid bills, but the owner of the bank was adamant. He would cash no more bills of hand, until the money was back where it should be. An imperious finger pointed to the large withdrawals that had been transacted during the past weeks. William left Swansea with the anxiety that, with Henry Harris dead, he had no way of finding out why the removal of funds had taken place. What could have happened to make Henry Harris deplete his funds in such a way? There was no sudden and unexpected debt to explain it.
He took John Maddern, a close business associate, into his confidence. The man had expressed his hope to marry Penelope so it was only just that he was made aware of the difficulties facing her family.
John was a serious man who rarely smiled. Listening to William explain the mysterious situation to him, in a quiet corner of the alehouse, he promised to both look at William’s accounts and find him an honest secretary to take hold of the reins once the crisis was past.
‘Be sure it is only a temporary crisis, William,’ he said. ‘There has obviously been something amiss with Henry and we will find out what it is and put things right.’
‘You sound very sure,’ William said. ‘What a homecoming: my wife looking sick to death, and so unlike her normal brave self I am afraid to go into her room for fear she has already left us. Penelope anxious and afraid, having carried the burden of this alone, while I have been away. A valuable cargo lost and fine men drowned in the snowstorm. Everything is at a variance with normality, it seems, yet you think this is a temporary state of affairs?’
&
nbsp; ‘Your wife is indeed very sick and I fear there will be no happy outcome there. She has suffered a great deal of pain and her eyes show that she is giving up the struggle. Something depresses her mightily besides her sickness, I think.’
‘And the rest?’
‘I can make Penelope forget her worries and persuade her to enjoy the forthcoming festivities. Perhaps if we announce our betrothal, that will have a good effect on your wife’s spirits, as well as on Penelope?’ He looked thoughtfully at the stained wooden table, lost in his thoughts – as was usual for him once a problem presented itself for his solving. He said little as they finished their drink and headed towards Ddole House.
‘Do you have land you can sell?’ he asked finally.
‘Will I need to?’ William frowned.
‘It depends on just how Henry Harris behaved. If he was an honest man then the solution will be there for us to find. If he were dishonest, then you will have to find a way of making money fast.’ John spoke with such slowness that William found his thoughts racing ahead, hardly hearing the man’s words. There was the land on the clifftop, where Spider and his family lived. Spider was a fisherman and could surely manage without the piece of land, so long as he had enough somewhere else for a cow and a few pigs?
He was aware of the danger of allowing someone they could not trust to buy the land just there with a clear view of the sea, but there was surely someone who would be both suitable and interested?
When he slid from his horse and called for David to attend to it, he walked in having almost forgotten the man with him.
John had a fine business brain, and the ability to see and consider a problem from many sides, playing with each before abandoning it, until he found the right way of dealing with a situation. But his slowness made him hard work to converse with at times.
William went first to his wife’s room, where he found her in a chair near the fire.
‘My dear, you are feeling better?’
‘Much,’ she smiled. ‘I have spent the afternoon ordering a few new things. Spending always cheers me. I sent for the seamstress and have instructed her to make three dresses for Penelope and a housecoat for myself. I feel the draughts more, this winter. A horse to replace the one grown too irritable for Penelope to ride safely and a new Aubusson carpet for the drawing room, my dear. And I feel so much better too for getting out of that dreaded bed.’
‘Don’t stay out too long, my dear, or you will be stiff like the last time.’ He tried to speak calmly but was horrified at her casual spending. But how was she to know of his problems? For the first time ever, he had not shared his worries with her.
‘To escape from the prison of the bed for a while is worth the discomfort of an aching back and a raw agony in my other parts. I feel then I deserve to take an extra dose of the medicine that fool Percy gives me.’
He kissed her, aghast at the porcelain frailness of her body as he touched her but hiding his broken-hearted grief until he had closed the door. Leaving her with a cheerfulness that had him choking back the desire to howl, in a bravery that had to match hers, he stood for a long time with his hand still on the door latch, wondering how long before he opened it to find her gone.
* * *
‘John,’ he said, when they had finished their meal, ‘I want you to stay here for the festivities. You know how well my wife loves a party, and we’ll give her the best yet.’
‘Can you afford it?’ John asked, wearing his most serious expression.
‘Oh, could we? Mother has arranged for the performers to act the new Interludes for us,’ Penelope told him.
‘Then we will make sure they come and bring as many of their followers as we can squeeze into the house,’ William said. ‘Will you make all the arrangements tomorrow? Make sure we have plenty of victuals, my dear, and that everyone knows they are invited?’
‘I will go with you,’ John offered, thinking that with William temporarily out of credit, his own pocket might be needed.
All next day, Florrie and her staff were frantically busy counting out the stores they had and what they would need for the party. Olwen was sitting on the floor, sorting the contents of the many jars and tins and boxes containing everything from oatmeal and flour to the jars of expensive spices and herbs that Cook used. The amount of each item was written down, and the shortfall noted, ready for the shopping trip to Swansea on the following day.
When Penelope stepped into the kitchen with the list of guests, Florrie wailed that the kitchen would need to be double the size for the meat alone to be cooked.
‘Send some out,’ Penelope said. ‘Most cottagers will be able to cook at least one joint for you. It’s a party for the villagers so it isn’t unreasonable that they are asked to help.’ She added another name to the list before handing it to the irate cook, who was trying to stay calm amid the flurry of Christmas preparations as well as the unexpectedly large house-party.
‘There’ll be need for more help on the day, too, Miss Penelope,’ she said with a warning shake of her head, ‘and to add to the fun, Bethan saw a rat in the laundry today, seems they’re back for the winter.’
‘Did she catch it?’
Florrie looked lugubriously at her mistress and asked, ‘Bethan, Miss Penelope?’
‘Send for Collins the rat-catcher at once.’
‘Yes, Miss Penelope,’ Florrie sighed. ‘At once.’ She looked around at the chaotic state of her usually neat kitchen. ‘I’ll do everything “at once”.’
As soon as Penelope had gone, Florrie slapped Olwen’s ears and said, ‘Take this list and put it in the drawer, then go and tell Collins that we need his services, “at once”. Then clear all this stuff back into the cupboards, “at once”. Then, when you’ve done all that, see that this afternoon’s meal is ready to serve, “at once”.’ Still repeating ‘at once’ in a low mutter, Florrie went to the corner and, flapping her apron to cool her face, sat and closed her eyes, dreaming the mess would be gone when she reopened them.
Olwen held her ears where Florrie’s hand had landed, and opened the drawer to slip the list of guests inside, but she could not resist glancing to see whose was the name added as an afterthought. Her lips tightened with disapproval when she pointed to each letter and laboriously spelt out: Barrass. What does she want with him, she wondered, then aloud she asked,
‘Cook, shall I leave early and go and tell Barrass he’s invited?’
The apron over Florrie’s face rose and fell and snores came from behind it. Florrie, overcome for once by all she had to do, had fallen asleep.
* * *
The short plays using stories from the bible, or on occasion the theme of an enjoyable sermon, were written by Dan and Arthur. Between them they discussed an idea, then began planning the rhymes. Eventually Dan wrote it all down for the players to learn. Several of the performers could not read, but during the rehearsals soon became familiar with the words and the tone in which the composers wanted them said.
Dan wrote the music but this they did not write down, neither knowing how, so he would sing the simple melodies over and over, until the group knew all the songs.
‘Important,’ Dan insisted, ‘because should some or one of us be taken ill, someone else must be ready to take our place.’
Rehearsals took place either in Kenneth’s small house or, when Pitcher was in an amiable mood, at the alehouse. For this favour, Pitcher insisted that the first performance should be his. Shortly before Christmas, the newest Interludes had their first showing.
Arthur, because of his high-pitched voice, played a woman. He wore an old dress once belonging to Emma, and told of the sadness that befell those who did not love their neighbours as themselves. The story showed how a woman ignored the plight of her penniless neighbour and refused to help feed her children, then, several scenes later, how the neighbour became rich and, when the opportunity came, forgot the previous unkindness and gave generously to the one who had refused her. The scene ended with Arthur, the generous wo
man, raised up on ropes on a complicated pulley system devised by the blacksmith, apparently on her way to heaven.
The first time this was tried the rope broke, catapulting Arthur into the audience who were staring up at the rafters in awe of the magnificent effects. Emma, who with Pansy and Daisy, had been seated closest to the stage, thought it was an avenging angel, part of the performance, and hearing the applause from her fat little hands, others joined in. After a hurried consultation, a bruised and aggrieved Arthur agreed to go along with the idea, but fervently hoped he would not be expected to do the death-defying fall at every performance.
It was at a barn near Thistleboon that they performed for the second time, and the rope was in the powerful hands of Carter Phillips. Used to handling a pair of heavy horses, he assured Arthur that he could not be in better or safer hands.
He wound the rope carefully around the pulley with the aid of a handle made by the blacksmith, but in his excitement, caught up in the dramatic ending to the story, he forgot which way to wind it and changed direction several times as he became more and more embarrassed at his mistakes. For several terrifying moments, Arthur was winched up and down, struggling to free himself, while the audience blocked the door trying to escape his flailing feet.
For the benefit of those unable to pay to see the Interludes, the generous group did a special outdoor production. Arthur was eagerly looking forward to it.
‘At least you can’t half kill me in a field,’ he said, his adam’s apple wobbling in a frenzy of relived fear. He dressed up, rehearsed his words and went to the field, with his dog trotting beside him, at peace with the world. Then he saw the oak tree.
He began removing the dress. The weather was still very cold but he ignored it as Dan, Phillips and the others ran towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ Dan demanded. ‘It’s nearly time to start!’
‘I’m taking everything off if necessary,’ Arthur said, showing his skinny legs as his woollen trousers, worn under the dress, began to slide downwards. ‘I won’t stop undressing until that there rope is taken from that there oak tree.’
Summer’s Last Retreat Page 26