Summer’s Last Retreat

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

  * * *

  Barrass had been up and about early that morning and, seeing Kenneth, had called a ‘good morning’. Kenneth, still complaining of a headache from the attack that had left him in the quarry, told him to come along into Swansea if he wanted a chance to take over Ben Gammon’s job whilst Ben was sick. Barrass needed no second telling.

  Barrass mounted behind him and the horse took them steadily towards the town. They stopped occasionally to collect letters at some of the larger houses along their route, and Kenneth stayed mounted, glad for the young man to do the running about.

  When they reached the town, it was quiet. Most of the litter from Saturday’s market had been either swept away or scavenged by people or animals and there was nothing on this dark morning to entice folk from their beds. Apart from an occasional man walking to his work at the boats or the collieries, the streets were silent.

  ‘I hate a Monday, always have,’ Kenneth said, bending forward and sliding his leg over the horse’s rump to dismount. They were early, so they left the horse to graze and went to sit on the wall outside the inn. Kenneth lit up his long clay pipe with the pattern of a pitcher on the bowl – the design made specially for Pitcher to sell in his alehouse – and puffed gently on the aromatic tobacco.

  ‘Any more trouble with young women, then?’ he asked, with a hint of a smile behind the pipe. ‘Or are you trying to behave yourself?’

  ‘I wanted to marry Violet, and I think she would have had me,’ Barrass said, colouring slightly.

  ‘Fat chance. Not with that Emma Palmer pretending to be someone she’s not,’ Kenneth said. ‘Spoilt them girls and lost them the chance of good marriages, if you ask me. That Edwin is all right, mind, but it’s a better life if you marry the one who makes your heart leap at the sight of him. Better than having your mother choose for you, specially a mother like Emma with her rings and plush curtains and her talking like she had a mouthful of quails’ eggs.’

  Barrass chuckled. ‘You chose, did you? Ceinwen made your heart leap, did she?’

  ‘Never you mind about that, boy, but I tell you this, when Enyd wants to marry, I won’t try to persuade her different. That Dan, he’s a fine fisherman and an upright solid citizen. I can’t see what she sees that makes her want him, but if she chooses Dan, I won’t raise no fuss and bother. Trouble is, boy, Emma and them twins of hers tried to tell Enyd that she could do better than Dan, could have someone smarter and richer, and I fear that Enyd will listen to them and lose her best chance of happiness.’

  ‘I doubt that Enyd will be persuaded, if she wants something really bad,’ Barrass said thoughtfully.

  If only Violet had had as much determination he might not be sitting here, glad of the slight offer of friendship Kenneth offered. He would have taken his place at Pitcher’s alehouse, and been on the road to being someone of importance.

  People had gathered outside the inn and were looking hopefully along the road for the arrival of the relay carrier bringing the bag from Monmouth. He soon learnt that the post had not arrived on the previous evening, and began to think hopefully of his chances of filling in for Ben Gammon. Best he forgot Violet and brought his thoughts back to what could be achieved.

  The door of the sorting office opened, and the postmaster came out and shouted across to the inn. A boy ran out with a tray containing three pewter mugs of ale which he took into the office. Kenneth looked along the road, then shrugged as if giving in to the inevitable.

  ‘I suppose I’d better buy us some nourishment, boy.’ He felt in his pocket for some coins which he gave to Barrass. ‘Go and find us some food and an ale. I think we’ll drink it inside, though, there’s an air of lateness about the morning. I fear we’ll still be here when the sun is up and trying to shine.’

  A few carriers were already settled at tables near a sluggishly burning fire. Barrass sat and listened to the talk around him, of difficult journeys and even more difficult customers; of loves found and lost. Tales shared, and enjoyed, and which he soaked up like a thirsty pup soaks up a puddle.

  Melancholy flowed over him as he saw the number of hopefuls waiting for a chance to start work in place of Ben. He wanted to be one of them, but what possibility was there of himself being chosen? Even the people he had thought of as friends no longer gave him a greeting – only Kenneth, when he had need of company to pass the boring journey, and Spider, and Pitcher, he thought disconsolately, unconsciously counting on his fingers. Plus the women of course. They refused to ignore him, and for that he was grateful, even if it meant the possibility of more trouble.

  He had spent several pleasant hours of late in the company of Carter Phillips’ sister Harriet, who seemed well pleased to give him some of her time, but who was without the enthusiasm for his loving that Violet had shown. Nor did she have the fullness of body that had so delighted him with Blodwen. Carrie had given him pleasure with her shyness and hesitation, Gaynor with her boldness, but Harriet seemed coldly calculating and he suspected she had a strong determination to marry him. Lucky she didn’t know where he lived. He smiled when he thought of young Olwen, always his champion and protector. He went out to look along the road for the first sight of the much-delayed post.

  There was a large crowd by the time a horse came into view and many were surprised to see that the rider was a stranger.

  ‘Ben is still sick,’ the stranger told them as the postmaster impatiently snatched the overdue bag. ‘Came to tell you I did, but I can’t make the trip again mind. I’m on my way to Llanelli for to stay. He says to tell you this:’

  Sliding down from his horse, he said in a voice so like that of Ben that people applauded his performance,

  ‘“Ho,” Ben Gammon says to me, “I fear that this illness will make me hug my bed for a few days yet. But worry not, for I say there is a man who makes me think, Why I do declare he will do the job as well as myself! Name of Barrass from Mumbles. Ask him,” he says to me, so, Postmaster, them’s Ben Gammon’s words for you to ponder. Knows the route as he’s ridden it with Ben, he has, so go and find this Barrass and let him take over till Ben is recovered.’

  Heads turned to look at Barrass and there were mumbled complaints at the boy being chosen.

  ‘I’m here,’ Barrass said, excitement rising like fire inside him. ‘I’m here and ready to take responsibility for Ben Gammon’s route as soon as you say.’

  The postmaster decided to follow Ben’s recommendation. For today, a replacement rider had already been hired if – as it turned out – Ben Gammon could not ride the route. But from tomorrow morning, Barrass was to be the official replacement until Ben was fit to work again.

  Barrass could not stop the smile from spreading across his face. That one day when he had accompanied Ben had resulted in him having his chance. He forgot the teasing that Ben had tried to arrange with the corpse at Nant Arian, and thought of the man only with kindness and appreciation.

  * * *

  ‘Coming back with me, boy?’ Kenneth asked. ‘Or are you going to stand there with that stupid grin on your face all day?’

  ‘Come back I suppose,’ he said, his eyes shining, his head thrown back in a laugh.

  They returned to the village, dropping off two letters on the way. Children occasionally came out to meet them, following them for a while before returning to their homes. When they reached the first houses with gardens almost touching the edge of the tide, a fishing boat was being dragged up onto the shingle and Barrass recognized the gangling figures of Spider and Dan.

  He called to them, shouting his news across the silent morning, and voices echoed back congratulating him, cheering him. People appeared out of the houses and waved without knowing the reason, so the solitary horse with its two riders seemed like a procession.

  * * *

  He did not light a fire when he reached the cave. He rarely did, considering it best to run across the fields and get thoroughly warm before wrapping himself in the thick blankets to sleep through the worst of the icebound nights. T
hat way he stood less chance of someone finding his home and destroying it. Smoke was an insidious giver away of secrets.

  He stood looking out over the sea, the excitement in him allowing no thought of anything but his wonderful experience. His only regret was that he had no one with whom to share his news. He stood tall and with added confidence, having been chosen by the Swansea postmaster for the responsibility of being Ben’s replacement.

  His face glowed with remembered pleasure and his eyes shone bright and full of optimism. His height matched that of Spider but his frame was larger and already he was broadening with the maturity of a man, his neck thickening and sloping wide to his powerful shoulders. Standing at the mouth of the cave, even in his shabby clothes he was an impressive figure – strong, with an inner strength that showed in his fine eyes and the way he stood, upright and proud, as well as the muscles already so well developed.

  He almost stumbled as he went deeper into the cave to bring his blankets out for a shake and some fresh air, and looking down, he saw the food which he was sure could only have come from Olwen and Penelope. The sight filled him with joy. There were at least two people who would share his excitement. He would go and thank them for the gift and tell them of his appointment. He savoured the word – appointment – the one used by the postmaster. It had a ring to it, the sound of importance. He had been appointed to assist in the transportation of the King’s Mail. He hungrily tore at the bread and cut himself a chunk of cheese, and with it in his pockets to eat as he ran, he climbed up the cliff and hurried towards Ddole House.

  * * *

  Penelope was in her mother’s bedroom with Mistress Gronow, sorting through Dorothy’s clothes and deciding what she could, with a few alterations, keep for herself and which she would take into town to dispose of.

  ‘If you marry, Miss Penelope, your future husband will have ideas of his own about what you wear,’ Mistress Gronow said tentatively. ‘He might not like you using cut-about clothes. Men are often fussy that way. Proud of the way they dress their wives.’ She could not ask, but was dying to discover if and when her client was to marry John Maddern.

  ‘It will be some time before I have to ask permission to wear what I like, if ever,’ Penelope said firmly. ‘Now, if you please, will you help me off with this cotton dress? It will be many months before it is warm enough to wear it, even indoors.’

  She took off the patterned dress of yellow and white which her mother had bought for a garden party some years before, and threw it on the floor. She was already bored with the task which she had set for the seamstress. She wished someone would interrupt them so she could forget clothes for a time. Even John would be better than this quick-fingered and gossipy woman who sometimes amused but often irritated.

  The servant’s door in the corner, through which buckets of coal were brought and the night-soil bowl taken to be emptied, opened quietly and with relief she saw the small, hesitant face of Olwen.

  ‘Please, Miss Penelope,’ Olwen asked in her most polite voice, ‘Please for a word?’

  Penelope dismissed the seamstress, promising she would see her on the following afternoon.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked when the woman had gathered her measuring stick and her pins and was gone.

  ‘It’s Barrass, come with great news. What Arthur told us is correct. He’s been made a letter-carrier for the king! And will be at least until Ben Gammon has recovered from the fever that torments him and stops him travelling the route.’

  ‘He is here?’

  ‘Out in the old coach house. Can you talk to him, or shall I send him away?’ She closed the small door behind her and stepped towards Penelope. ‘Come to thank you for the food he has,’ she whispered.

  ‘I will go and see him. You get back to the kitchen and I will try and slip past the window without being seen.’

  Olwen helped her to put on a cloak and hood, then returned down the narrow wooden staircase to the kitchen. She did not like the idea of Penelope and Barrass being alone, but there was nothing she could do about it, and besides, would not disappoint Barrass in his need to tell of his good fortune.

  As she worked, cleaning the spoons and two-pronged forks with a polishing cloth and sharpening the knives on a stone, she kept stretching up to look out at the distant coach house, wondering if they were kissing, wondering why it was that she loved Barrass while she was too young for him, and he was too impatient to wait until she was not.

  * * *

  Penelope approached the old, overgrown building, which sprouted bushes from cracks in the neglected stonework and with a roof undulating with the weakening rafters. With a furtive glance to make sure she was not seen, she quickly entered. The place had the feel and smell of disuse and she shivered with the still coldness of it.

  Since her father had given up most of his business affairs and the wealth that went with them, they no longer had need of a coach or the specially trained horses to pull it. She walked past the abandoned stalls where there was room for four horses. The hay mangers were empty, the slatted wood already falling away from the walls. They only had horses for riding now, with a small waggon which they occasionally used when they went visiting.

  She pushed against the door separating the stables from the half where the coach was kept, and it stubbornly tightened against the hard-packed earthen floor. Then she felt the handle move without her turning it and it was pulled open and Barrass stood in front of her.

  ‘Miss Penelope. You shouldn’t have come, it is so cold here,’ he said in a low, caring voice.

  Behind him the shape of the old coach loomed out of the darkness.

  ‘I cannot stay.’ She backed away from him, for he seemed to overpower her with his presence. ‘You wished to see me?’ She tried to keep her voice calm, using the tone saved for the servants.

  ‘To thank you for the food. And to tell you my news. I had to share it with someone and apart from Olwen and her family, there is no one who would care enough to listen.’

  ‘Tell me your news. As for the food, you are more than welcome.’ She shivered as she stared at him, and his eves filled with such longing that her heartbeat increased in an alarming way.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ He gestured to the shabby coach behind him. ‘I think there might be a few complaints from the inhabitants, the mice must be disturbed only rarely.’

  He opened the creaking door and helped her up into the once beautiful seats where generations of mice had burst through the plush, padded upholstery, the stuffing showing through in untidy flower-like extrusions. It smelt musty and damp, reminiscent of ancient cupboards, old clothes, dead flowers and funerals – of which there must have been hundreds in the dynasty of the mouse kingdom that surrounded them.

  Penelope knew she should go, indeed that she should not have come. What was she doing here, in the eerie old coach house with someone whom decent people would not even talk to? She shivered again and realized she was wearing only soft house slippers.

  ‘You are cold, let me warm you.’ Barrass moved closer to her and placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

  ‘I have only slippers on my feet,’ she said, a tightness in her chest making it hard for her to breathe. He smelt so clean, redolent of the fields and the hills and the seashore, as if the winds had swept over him and taken away everything but the cleanliness of the open air and the special maleness that was Barrass and no one else.

  She stiffened as he stretched down and touched her ankles but relaxed as his hands began to stroke her feet, warming them in a way that she had never before experienced. When his hands rose higher, encompassing her shins and knees in their hypnotic movements, she lay back against him and became aware of nothing except the effect of his touch.

  The hand on her shoulder began to move, creeping down towards her breast, which seemed to stretch achingly to reach it. When he kissed her the world seemed to explode into a galaxy of stars, the brightest one containing herself and the other half of her that was Barras
s.

  She eased herself out of her cloak, making soft cries as his lips touched her slender neck and went lower until he had pushed aside the neck of her gown and found the place she longed for him to find. Then she lay across the old, smelly seat which, in the emotional upheaval of her first loving, became transformed into a beautiful thing. His weight was on her, seeming so right, his warmth pervading her until, when she thought she would scream with the joy of it, his possession of her rose to encompass her whole body in emotion and joy. Then they were both still.

  A shyness overcame her as her body calmed and she turned away from his kisses and pulled her clothes hastily around her.

  ‘Penelope, you are perfection,’ he said, and forcing her to face him, waited until she moved once again towards him, her eyes already beginning to close.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Barrass walked into Swansea, frequently bursting into song. That he had been unable to afford the hire of a horse for the journey did not seem a problem – he ran for parts of the way in sudden bursts of joy. When he arrived at the sorting office he was tense with excitement, his dark eyes glowing with an inner fire, his expression that of a child at seeing some longed-for treat. He walked in to greet the postmaster, unable to contain his happiness, collected the bag, and listened with care to last-minute advice and warnings before going out to mount the horse that awaited him.

  He had forgotten in his excitement that the only times he had been on a horse were when Kenneth or Spider had allowed him to sit behind. Climbing up onto the back of the fresh young horse from the post stables was something very different from either experience.