Summer’s Last Retreat

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

  Once the servant had been dismissed, Pansy and Daisy demanded to know what had been happening.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Enyd said with regret. ‘Your mother bustled me off before I could learn a thing! All I know is that my father has turned up again. He’s been missing since it was found he was telling the soldiers and excise men a few little things here and there. Not spying, mind!’ she emphasized and the girls shook their heads in disbelieving unison. ‘Just a bit of chat that he picks up on his travels, like.

  ‘Well, where he’s been hiding I don’t know, but he suddenly appeared at the corner of the bank and ran up shaking as if he was on his last legs. He must have been chased for miles, poor dab! He pushed his way into the house and the mob following him tried to push in as well. But we held the door until they gave up.

  ‘They’re still there, mind, and there’s threatening they look, too! Not all of them our people, but a few from the next village I believe.’ Enyd stopped her recital and gradually regained her breath. ‘There’s exciting, isn’t it? But what will happen to us now we can’t work the letters I daren’t think. Because for sure, they won’t allow Dadda to remain as the letter-carrier now this has come out. Killed he’d be if he set foot outside without protection.’

  ‘Why, you must marry,’ Daisy said, as if finding a husband was the simplest thing to do. ‘If you don’t you will spend your whole life caring for your mother and father, and what life is that for a girl like you?’

  ‘Marry Dan, you mean?’

  ‘No, no, not Dan the fisherman. You have to be told time and again, don’t you, my dear friend? You are worth far more than Dan!’

  ‘I think Dan is a fine man,’ Pansy said. ‘He is as good a catch as the fish he brings in.’

  ‘Really, sister,’ Daisy sighed. ‘A fisherman, for someone like Enyd?’

  ‘I would prefer to marry someone who is honourable and who truly loves me, than a man who has a fine position but no love in him,’ Pansy said firmly. ‘Take heed of our sister Violet. Would you take her place?’

  ‘Hush, dear. Violet was foolish, and if you ask me she got off remarkably well – and for that we have to thank our dear mother.’

  Pansy did not reply. She and Daisy were the firmest of friends, and as close as twin sisters should be, but on this they disagreed.

  Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, thinking of the flowers that were hidden behind a curtain and which had been given to her by one with no pretensions to being a gentleman, but to whom, if he were older, she would gladly hand over responsibility for her future happiness.

  * * *

  Kenneth continued to smile unconsciously as Daniels walked into the house and began to understand what had happened.

  ‘I fear that your husband, for his bravery in helping to stop the smuggling, will suffer at the hands of his friends,’ Daniels told Ceinwen. ‘I will do what I can, and I have taken the names of all those presently outside, warning them that if a hair of his head be harmed, I will come to them for explanations. There is little more I can do. Will you go away from here and start again?’

  ‘No,’ Ceinwen replied quietly.

  Ceinwen was a woman whom few noticed. She seemed to slide into the background of whatever company she found herself in. Quietly spoken, unassuming in dress and manner, she was ignored because there was nothing memorable or interesting about her. She did her work calmly and efficiently and bothered no one. The fact that no one bothered her seemed to matter not at all. Now, with her softly spoken refusal to leave the village, Daniels looked at her as if for the first time.

  ‘You will stay and risk the anger of everyone?’

  ‘You call Kenneth a brave man, I call him a fool,’ she surprised him further by saying. ‘I will not let him drag me from my home. I will stay here and hope that eventually people will forgive him – I know I am talking against the law-abiding uniform you wear, but I still say it. I hope they will forgive him for his greed and stupidity. There, now you know for sure where I stand. I am not against you, Daniels, but neither am I for you.’ Then her gentle voice added, ‘I am on the side of peace, but not in the way your title represents it.’

  It was the longest speech he had ever heard Ceinwen make and he stared at the dark eyes, the unkempt hair, the wrinkled and rather dull face, and wondered what the person behind the colourless facade was really like.

  Kenneth began to move and Daniels helped the small man up into a chair. He gestured to the pot of tea left from Emma’s fish and Ceinwen poured a cup. Daniels held it while the man drank thirstily and then handed it back to Ceinwen to be refilled.

  ‘I think it might be wise to send for Doctor Percy,’ he said. ‘There’s no knowing how badly they have hurt him.’

  ‘They didn’t hurt him at all,’ Ceinwen told him.

  ‘Then why was he unconscious?’

  ‘I gave him a smack with the girdle,’ Ceinwen said in her calm, quiet voice. ‘I hope I haven’t buckled it, makes for burnt cakes it does, if the girdle is not straight and true.’

  Daniels did not trust himself to reply.

  * * *

  Ceinwen continued to gather in the letters for the post, and worked with Barrass as easily as she had with Kenneth, the only difference being that Barrass reached his destination earlier, and finished on a Thursday at a remarkably early hour.

  Kenneth stayed inside, only venturing out to use the earthen privy after dark. No one came to threaten him, but he was certain, as he bent low and peered nervously over the window sill, dark eyes darting in an attempt to look in all directions at once, that men were out there just waiting for him to show his bandaged head.

  * * *

  Enyd had not gone straight home when she left the ale-house. The persuasions of Daisy, that she should look for someone grander than Dan, unsettled her. And Pansy’s opinion that Dan was a fine man, instead of helping, only added to the confusion.

  It was not as if there were that many choices. There were a number of young men who worked on the farms and laboured long hours on their own small patches of land, but who else would look at her, the daughter of the disgraced letter-carrier, for a wife? She thought of Thomas, and Edwin Prince, and John Maddern from London. They had soon put her in her place on the few occasions she had met them. Her face warmed as she remembered her foolish visit to Edwin Prince.

  It was all very fine to listen to people like Daisy, who had the advantage of an education as well as contacts with other business and monied people, but for herself she would be better served to remember how lowly she really was.

  The late afternoon was getting cold, the wind, so benign earlier in the day, was seeping into her clothes and touching her skin with icy fingers. Her hair blew out behind her and she smilingly imagined herself at the prow of some ancient ship, seeing her craft and its crew into safe harbour. Then the thought of ships brought Dan back into her mind and she frowned.

  She stood silently enjoying the growing strength of the sea-cleansed air, smelling the seaweed and tasting salt on her lips. The singing entered her consciousness gradually, so sweet that it might have been a part of the sea’s sound, or one of the ghostly voices that the sailors say comes from the newly dead as they search for their loved ones. But the voice was familiar and, she realized with a smile, not far away. Dan was coming into the shore with his catch.

  She moved closer to the cliff edge and saw the small boat easing its way around the headland. Dan was standing with a hand on the mast, waving to her.

  ‘Enyd, come and meet me,’ his strong voice called, and seabirds screamed a chorus.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ she shouted back, but she knew the answer. In a crowd of hundreds, she would pick out Dan, as he would know her. In that moment, she admitted that whatever fancy imaginings had filled her mind, Dan-the-Fisher was the only one she could love.

  Laughing like a child, she ran down the steep path, losing her balance and shouting with mock fright, slithering on the loose stones and sliding on the grass, until
she was in his arms.

  That Dan was delighted with the uncharacteristic welcome was in no doubt. He lifted her up and swung her around him before kissing her lightly and demanding of his father that he be let off sorting the fish.

  ‘Dadda,’ he pleaded. ‘I need to talk to Enyd. And the moment is one not to be lost,’ he added in a whisper. ‘Go now, can I?’

  ‘All right, boy,’ Spider grinned. ‘Glad I’ll be when you and Enyd are settled in your courting! Best work we’ll get from you then.’

  Dan guided Enyd to where they could sit sheltered by the sand dunes and took her hand. With the wind for accompaniment, he sang:

  My love is like the morn,

  Sweet as each new dawn,

  Fresh and sweet as each new dawn

  My love is like the morn.

  My love is like the day,

  Sweet as new-mown hay,

  Fresh and sweet as new-mown hay

  My love is like the day.

  My love is like the night,

  She gives my heart its light,

  My secret love my own heart’s light

  Sets cupid’s arrow on its flight,

  Fills me with such sweet delight,

  My heart is like the night.

  They sat for a long time, talking only occasionally, and of nothing personal or important: admiring the colours in the sea, the gentle lapping of the waves and the musical sounds of the wind in the trees and the tapping of ropes on the masts of the now idle fishing boats. Each one conscious of the feelings they held for the other, and content to savour them in amicable silence.

  * * *

  Kenneth, at Ceinwen’s insistence, went back to his work, after a week during which Barrass coped efficiently and with great enjoyment with the collections and deliveries.

  ‘So good he is that soon there will be talk about how much sooner he delivers than you, and how willing he is to go extra distances to serve the people in the most isolated houses and farms,’ Ceinwen warned her pale-faced husband. ‘Yesterday it was raining so hard that he went early and took several letters right to people’s doors so they wouldn’t get themselves wet and cold waiting for him!’

  ‘Fool that he is,’ grumbled Kenneth, heaving on his coat over thick padding to keep out the cold wind. ‘Making a rod for a fool’s back!’ He put on an ancient top hat which he had stuffed with seaweed in case he should be beaten about the head, and lifted a stout stick in his hand. There was nothing more he could do to protect himself. He had suggested to Ceinwen that he should invite Barrass to travel with him for the first few days, but she had refused. Still angry with him for his treacherous behaviour to their friends, she would allow no extra expense.

  ‘You pay for what you do, your payment is constant fear. Go now and hope that others will not be as cold and uncaring as you are!’

  He looked at her in surprise. She was always surprising him lately. His quiet, mild, inconspicuous wife had become a scold.

  Almost pushed out of his door, he stumbled down the bank and scurried, bent almost double to avoid being noticed, to the stables where the horse was harnessed in readiness for him. Barrass stood in the shadows – hoping, Kenneth guessed, that he would lose his nerve and ask the boy to work one more day.

  ‘It’s all right, boy,’ he said with an attempt at casual confidence. ‘I am fully recovered from my wife’s beating.’ The horse skittered as he climbed nervously and awkwardly onto its back and, still seeking the second stirrup, hurried out of the village on the road to Swansea.

  The ride was a nightmare. Although he had told no one apart from Barrass that he was recommencing his route, he feared every shadow of every bush. The sun, low on the horizon and as yet without much strength, cast distorted shadows and had his heart leaping in panic every few moments. When he reached the inn, where there was already a crowd waiting for the sorting office to open its doors, he felt sick.

  He dismounted and offered the reins to the stable boy but the boy impertinently refused, turning his back and pretending to be busy with something else.

  ‘Hey boy, take my horse,’ Kenneth blustered, looking around for support from lookers-on. In every face was disapproval. Many turned away from him. Some spat on the dusty ground and even the small boys who were always about seeking to earn a penny would not take his horse. He felt fear rising and half imagined the crowd closing in behind ready to attack as he walked the horse over to the corner and tied the rein himself.

  No one objected when he carried water for his mount, and there was hay available which no one begrudged. But for himself, there was no ale to be supped, and not even a spare seat to rest while he waited for his letters. Outwardly everything was the same as on other mornings – laughter and woeful confidences, loud talk and secret whispers – but Kenneth stood amid the tumult as if invisible.

  Conversations ceased each time he approached a lively group, and even Ben Gammon, who was always ready for a pleasant sharing of news, ignored his greeting as he set off with the Swanzey Bag towards Monmouth, waning and shouting to his friends. With dread, Kenneth took the few letters that were silently handed to him by a disapproving postmaster, and remounted to return to the village.

  ‘Damn the expense,’ he grumbled to the stable boy at the village. ‘I’m a sick man. Get me a horse for the two days of my route.’

  It will be safer risen above the crowds and it makes for a faster getaway if there’s any trouble, he thought, and I won’t dismount at all if I can help it, or not until I’m sure no one wishes me ill.

  * * *

  By three o’clock he was barely able to stay on his horse. Craning his neck in an attempt to see around corners and staring at every bush and tree for fear they hid an assailant, he had exhausted himself. He had reached Penrice Castle and delivered the three letters from Bristol and the one from London, then, unable to stand the strain, slid from the horse’s back and sat with his back against a tree to rest. Frightened as he was, he slept.

  He finished the first half of his journey and with some trepidation went to the house at Middleton, near Rhosili, where he normally stayed. What if they too refused to acknowledge him? He forced himself to shed his anxieties and knocked loudly on the door as he usually did, calling for Mistress Griffiths to let him in. As the door opened, he walked in and demanded an ale and some bread and cheese to revive him and hold his hunger until it was time for her excellent evening meal.

  She appeared not to treat him any differently from normal, but when her husband came to carry his bag and show him to his room, he was taken out through the kitchen and into a small, draughty lean-to that had been built to house chickens. The walls had been whitewashed and there was a bed with a low frame to keep it out of the cold air seeping under the ill-fitting door.

  ‘Room's occupied for tonight,’ Mr Griffiths informed him. ‘This is all we can offer, and glad you should be that we don’t send you to find a place in a sheepfold up on Rhosili Downs.’

  They gave him food with little politeness, and he went to his poor bedroom and barricaded himself inside before huddling miserably under the shabby blankets that smelt of horses, and tried to sleep.

  He reminded himself that it was Wednesday, that the following day was Thursday, the day on which he visited Betson-the-Flowers. Having that to look forward to – should he survive the night and the journey back – he closed his eyes and pretended he was beside her warm fire with her soft body wrapped around him.

  The following morning he hurried on his way after a mean breakfast served by a scowling Mistress Griffiths. One of the few letters left to deliver was for far-away Penclawdd where the women went out on the sands to gather cockles at each low tide, but he decided to forget it and go on the almost direct route for home. It was rarely that he did not deliver the full collection, and he knew that he would be severely reprimanded if anyone should think to complain, but he decided that today, of all days, was the one when he could break the rules. He had never felt so weary.

  With only the one letter i
n his bag for delivery and twelve to take into the Swansea sorting office, he came in sight of Betson-the-Flowers’ house. He dismounted and found he could barely drag his feet the last few yards. He did not look up to check whether the window was draped as a warning that she was occupied with another visitor. It rarely happened, as his own calls were regular and she always made sure she was free.

  He had almost reached the door when a movement caught his eye. The frilly, warning curtain twitched and spread across the shining glass of the front window. He gave a groan. Of course. She would not have known that he was back on his route. He eased the bag from his shoulders, threw down the stick he had carried unnecessarily for the two days, and went to sit beside a tree out of sight of the door to wait. He did not want to see who was leaving, best he pretended that he was her only visitor.

  It was earlier than his usual time to call too, he had forgotten that in his haste to be finished, and riding instead of walking, he had cut hours from his journey. She would be cross with him for changing the habit they had enjoyed for years. He smiled when he thought of her anger, put on, short-lived and utterly exciting. His tiredness fading, he sat and listened for the sound of her door.

  He could not have said how long he sat there, but the sun was lowering down the sky and a cold dampness seeped from the earth and chilled his body, making the wait more and more uncomfortable. Impatient at last, he thought perhaps he had missed the departure of Betson’s guest and wandered casually back to her door. He listened and there was no sound from within. He began to call, pushing against the door as he did so.

  ‘Get away, pig!’ she called and the door was pressed firmly shut against his hands.

  ‘Betson?’ he whispered. ‘It’s me, Kenneth.’

  ‘Pig. That’s what you are! I hid you, didn’t I? Saved you when there was a chance you might have been murdered? I believed you when you insisted you were innocent I did. Lied to me you did. Pig! Pig! Pig!’