by Sara Fraser
‘Goddamn you! Come here, you ugly bitch! I wish to God I’d drowned you at birth! Come here!’
Up in her bedroom she sat down at her writing desk, arranged note paper, checked the inkwell was full, sharpened a fresh quill pen and, face still hotly flushed with defiance, came to a momentous decision.
‘I really am going to write and send this letter, and I’m going to do so this very day!’
Sir,
I am writing in answer to your notice in the Worcester Herald newspaper . . .
The letter was quickly finished, and as she shook the fine drying powder across the wet ink she looked at the clock in her bedroom. ‘The Bellman should be doing his rounds right now.’
She put on her bonnet, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and with the letter hidden in her bodice hurried from the house.
As befitted the representative of His Majesty’s Royal Mail, Harry Pratt was resplendently uniformed in a red frock-coat with grey collar and cuffs, blue knee-breeches, white stockings, black shoes and a grey top hat emblazoned with a gilt Royal Cypher. Slung from his shoulders was a large leather letter-bag, securely padlocked with a slit on its top through which the letters were posted.
Now he came marching down the hill into the village with the ramrod-straight bearing of a veteran soldier, ringing his large brass bell, and bellowing, ‘Bring me your letters! Bring me your letters!’
The upper casement of a house opened and a man’s voice shouted, ‘Just you hold right where you am, Bellman. I’ll be damned if I’m going to chase all over the village to catch you up.’
Harry Pratt scowled as he halted and waited impatiently until the man eventually came out from the house.
‘I’ve got two for Birmingham and one for Cheltenham.’ The man proffered the folded and wax-sealed sheets of notepaper.
Harry Pratt took the letters, checked the addresses, and how many sheets of paper each letter comprised.
‘That’ll be a shilling and thruppence for the Cheltenham, and a shilling each for the Brummagems. Plus sixpence each for the Brummagems’ sheets and nine pence for the Cheltenham’s.’ Harry Pratt grinned wolfishly. ‘So I make that to be five shillings in total you got to pay.’
‘Five shillings?’ The man protested angrily. ‘That’s bloody daylight robbery, that is! I aren’t going to pay that!’
Harry Pratt’s grin widened. ‘Then I aren’t going to take ’um. I don’t set the prices, does I? That’s the work o’ the Parliament, that is. It’s a shilling each for the distance to Brummagem, and a shilling and thruppence for the distance to Cheltenham, plus thruppence a sheet for each letter, and you got two sheets each in the Brummagems, and three sheets in the Cheltenham. So if you don’t want to pay, then you can deliver the buggers yourself.’
He offered the letters back, but the other man shook his head in scowling surrender, and counted out coins which he handed to Pratt. The Bellman grinned triumphantly, pushed the letters through the bag-slot and marched smartly onwards ringing his bell and shouting, ‘Bring me your letters! Bring me your letters!’
Phoebe Creswell was waiting outside the village tavern and when she heard the shouts and bell she hurried to meet the Bellman.
‘Good morning, Master Pratt.’
‘Good morning, Miss Creswell.’ He smiled pleasantly at this woman who always greeted him with the utmost courtesy.
‘I want to send this letter to Redditch, Master Pratt.’
He took the letter. ‘That’ll be sixpence for the distance and thruppence for the single sheet o’ paper, Miss Creswell.’
She drew a sharp breath of distress. ‘Oh, I’ve only a sixpence with me, Master Pratt. Could you be so very kind as to wait by the inn while I go home and get the rest of the money?’
He looked at the address on the letter and his eyes glinted with curiosity, then he winked at her. ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Creswell, seeing as it’s you, you can just pay me the tanner and I’ll make sure that Master Bromley gets this letter this very day.’ He raised his forefinger to his lips and winked again. ‘Don’t breathe a word to nobody of this though, or else I’ll have every Tom, Dick and Harry in the village demanding the same favour.’
Phoebe gratefully thanked him as he took the coin and slipped the letter into his coat pocket.
It was late afternoon and darkness had fallen when Harry Pratt came into the lamplit premises of ‘Bromley’s Stationery Emporium for All Articles of Stationery, Rare and Antique Books and New Literature’, which was located in the High Street of Redditch Town.
The middle-aged, pot-bellied proprietor’s magnified eyes blinked in surprise behind his bulbous-lensed spectacles. ‘Hello, Harry, why aren’t you in the Horse and Jockey at this hour? Have you given up the drink?’
‘There’s no danger o’ me ever doing that, Charlie.’ Pratt laughed and produced Phoebe Creswell’s letter. ‘I’m doing a favour for somebody and making a special delivery o’ this.’
Bromley took the letter and held it up to the hanging lamp to read the address. ‘I’ve fetched a half-dozen or more of these from the Post Office this last week. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I get paid well for fetching them.’
‘That’s a bloody queer name, “XYZ”. Who the fuck is that when they’re about?’ Pratt questioned.
‘I can’t tell you that, Harry, I’m sworn to secrecy,’ Bromley demurred.
‘And so is my arse.’ His friend scoffed. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘I can’t be telling you the man’s name, Harry, and that’s the God’s truth. All I will say is that he’s a rich and honourable gentleman. He came to see me a few weeks past and told me that he wanted to have some private, post-paid letters addressed to my shop. But it has to be a strictly confidential arrangement, that’s why he pays so well. So don’t you go blabbing about what I’ve just told you.’ He paused and raised his eyebrows interrogatively. ‘Who gave you this one?’
Pratt grinned mockingly. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to tell you that, Charlie. You know very well that as one of His Majesty’s Bellmen, I’m sworn to secrecy on all matters concerning the Royal Mail. Now I’m off to the Horse and Jockey to quench me thirst and enjoy meself. Like you’ll be doing a bit later wi’ your fancy woman, no doubt.’
As the door closed behind his friend, Charles Bromley dolefully shook his head and muttered, ‘I don’t think so, Harry.’
THREE
Feckenham Village, Worcestershire
Sunday, 13th January
Morning
As the service ended in the ancient church of St John the Baptist, Walter Courtney immediately left his seat and went out into the churchyard. The air was cold and still and a spattering of snowflakes were drifting gently earthwards. The numerous worshippers coming out of the church were not lingering to make conversation with the clergyman who was bidding them farewell outside the church door – a fact which suited Courtney’s purpose as he moved slowly among the ancient gravestones nearest to the door, halting at length at each stone, feigning to study it closely.
The last parishioners departed through the churchyard gates, and from the corner of his eye, Courtney saw the clergyman coming towards him, made an instant valuation of the man’s threadbare clothing and turned to greet him heartily.
‘Good morning, Reverend Mackay. It lifted my heart to hear Isaiah Fifty-five this morning. It’s one of my favourites and your reading of it was superbly done.’ He began to intone sonorously, ‘Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy and eat.’
Horace Mackay visibly preened, and he immediately joined in. ‘Yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? And your labour for that which satisfieth not? Hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.’
They beamed at each other and shook hands in mutual congratulation.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, Sir.’
Courtney bowed. ‘Geraint Winward, who is, like yourself, a humble, thrice blessed servant of our Lord and Master.’
He proffered an ornate calling card, and the other man was visibly impressed by its expensive quality.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, Reverend Winward.’
‘As I am to meet you, Reverend Mackay,’ Courtney assured fulsomely. ‘During my very brief sojourn in your parish I have already heard much praise of your diligence in the service of our Faith. I shall most certainly do my utmost endeavours to bring these most favourable opinions to the attention of our Lord Archbishop, at the earliest opportunity.’
He produced two rolled scrolls of vellum from his pocket and handed them to the other man.
‘Will you please read these very carefully? They are my identification and authorization from His Grace, my Lord Archbishop of the Ecclesiastical Province of Canterbury. I am currently acting as a confidential secretary and personal aide to His Grace, and am touring his province to ascertain the structural condition of our churches and the ministries of our clergy.’
Mackay quickly read the documents, and gasped with awed respect. ‘His Grace has added a footnote affirming that you are his trusted friend, and has appended his personal signature, Charles Manners-Sutton. What an honour he does you, Reverend Winward!’
‘Indeed he does; and I have been greatly blessed by his trust and friendship for these many years. But of course, because of the highly confidential nature of the investigative task His Grace has currently entrusted to myself, concerning in part your own possible advancement in position, I would request that you do not speak of our present conversation to anyone. There are certain parish incumbents in this diocese who are sadly lacking in true Christian charity, and who bitterly resent the advancement of those whom they consider to be of more lowly status than themselves.’
‘I am most gratified by your high opinion of my work here, Reverend Winward.’ Horace Mackay, a lowly penurious curate, was simultaneously astounded and delighted. ‘And of course I do assure you that not a word about our conversation will ever fall from my lips. I can only say that although I am unworthy, I do my very best to serve our Lord. And if in my own humble way I can be of any service whatsoever to yourself, Reverend Sir, I beg you to demand it of me.’
‘Indeed I do have one demand to make on you, my dear Reverend Mackay. I’ve taken lodging at the Old Black Boy Inn here in the village. My demand is that you will come there to take refreshment and break bread with me this very day, and also permit me the pleasure of sitting beneath your pulpit during Evensong.’
Mackay felt near to weeping with joy at this invitation, and could only gasp in gratitude. ‘It will be a great honour to accept your proposals, Reverend Sir.’
‘Here is my arm, Reverend Mackay. We will walk to the inn, as befits Brothers in Christ.’
As they left the churchyard conjoined in arms and pace, Courtney was complacently certain.
‘Before this simple fool goes to his bed tonight, I‘ll have him eating out of my hand.’
FOUR
Redditch Town, Parish of Tardebigge, Worcestershire
Monday, 14th January
Midday
The solitary bell of St Stephen’s Chapel rang out across the flat central plateau of Redditch Town as the newly wedded couple exited the chapel’s main door. In the skies the louring grey clouds suddenly rifted and a shaft of sunlight illumined their smiling faces as they were brought to a standstill by the small crowd of cheering and clapping wedding guests.
‘There now, what better omen could there be that these two am going to have a happy wedlock!’ a woman proclaimed. ‘When the sun shines on a new-wed couple it’s a certain sure sign that they’m going to be blessed wi’ good fortune!’
The woman beside her frowned and shook her head. ‘Oh no, they’ll not! They sat together and heard their banns called at least once to my knowledge, and everybody knows how unlucky that is. Their kids ’ull suffer sorely because they did that. The first-born will be an idiot and all the rest ’ull be deaf and dumb.’ She nodded emphatically. ‘You mark my words, because they sat together to hear their banns called, they’ll know naught but sorrow now they’re wed.’
‘Don’t talk such bloody rubbish.’ Her husband sneered contemptuously. ‘Me and you never sat together and heard our banns called, did we, and the bloody sun shone bright on our wedding day. But all we’ve ever known is hard times and misery.’
‘That’s only because you’m such a miserable useless bugger, Will Tyrwhitt!’ She rounded on him furiously. ‘And I should have wed Harry Jakes when he begged me to, instead of being fool enough to believe all your lies!’
‘And I wish to God that you had taken the sarft bugger. And when I next sees him I’ll tell him that he’s more than welcome to take you now!’ he retorted.
The pretty young, petite, blonde new bride tugged on her older, exceptionally tall and lanky husband’s hand and he bent low, gazing adoringly into her sparkling blue eyes.
‘What is it, Amy?’
‘I just want to tell you how happy I am that I’m now Mrs Thomas Potts ’til death do us part.’
Tom Potts felt overwhelmed with joy, and tears stung his dark eyes as he told her, ‘You’ve made me the happiest man on God’s earth, Amy, and I swear by all that I hold holy that, ’til death do us part, I’ll be the best husband to you that any girl ever had.’
Josiah Danks, father of the bride, intervened. ‘Come on, you two, the wedding breakfast ’ull be ready and waiting.’
Pretty, buxom bridesmaid, Maisie Lock, also urged the bridal couple. ‘Yes, be quick and lead on, you two, I’m starving hungry.’
‘I’ll wager you don’t have the ale money, Tom?’ the handsome, elegantly dressed best man, Doctor Hugh Laylor, accused jokingly.
‘You know very well that he never has money when it’s his turn to buy.’ The pleasantly ugly, remarkably muscular wedding curate John Clayton grinned.
Tom patted his pockets and frowned in mortification. ‘Dammit! I’ve clean forgotten to pick it up when I came out.’
‘There now! What did I tell you!’ Hugh Laylor exclaimed. ‘Now you see how tight-fisted he is with his money, Amy. You’ll be spending your married life on very short commons, I fear.’
Both he and John Clayton proffered Tom coins, but Tom laughingly refused.
‘No, thank you, I’ve plenty with me. I was merely testing your readiness to be good Samaritans.’
Led by Tom and Amy, with Hugh Laylor and Maisie Lock directly behind them, the procession of guests crossed to the chapel yard gateway, which had a chain stretched across it as a barrier.
The guardian of the barrier, a sandy-haired, broad-shouldered, scar-faced man, stepped forward to block the way.
‘Hold hard, Constable Potts, do you have money enough to pay the toll to pass through this gate?’
Tom grinned happily. ‘Yes, I do, Deputy Constable Bint.’ He counted gold coins into the guardian’s hand.
Ritchie Bint returned the grin, waved the fistful of coins above his head, and shouted, ‘Thanks to the good heart of Constable Potts, we’ll all go home as drunk as Lords from this wedding.’
The procession cheered lustily as with a flourish Bint unfastened the chain, dropped it to the ground and with a bow invited, ‘Please to pass through the gate, Constable and Mistress Potts!’
In the roadway outside the chapel yard gate a fiddler and drummer, long ribbons streaming from their antiquated tricorn hats, struck up a lively tune.
Tom Potts blinked in surprise, and Hugh Laylor laughed at his expression and told him, ‘This is my contribution to the festivities, my friend. We can’t let this happy occasion pass without music and dance, can we?’
The loud beating of the drum carried on the air and brought curious onlookers peering through windows and exiting from the doors of the nearby rows of buildings.
Some forty-five yards eastwards, standing outside the main entrance of the Fox and Goose Inn, florid-face
d, fat-stomached Tommy Fowkes saw the exodus and hurried back into the large Select Front Parlour where his florid-faced, fat-stomached, panting and sweating wife and daughter were frantically laying the trestle tables with soup bowls, plates, cutlery, glasses, tankards and bottles of wine and stout.
‘Great God Almighty! What in Hell’s name have you been about?’ Fowkes shouted angrily. ‘This should all have been done and dusted by now. And where’s the bloody cake? Why aren’t you put it out ready?’
‘Don’t you come bawling at us, Fowkes, or I’ll be giving you something to make you wish you hadn’t.’ Gertrude Fowkes brandished a knife threateningly at her husband.
‘That’s right, Ma, you tell him!’ Her daughter Lily launched into a petulant tirade of her own. ‘It’s all his fault that we’m run off our feet like this. It’s not fair to me, is it, him giving our skivvies days off to get wed and be bridesmaid. It’s not fair him making me slave like this! I’m the daughter of the boss, not a bloody skivvy!’ Tears of chagrin glistened in her eyes as she finished plaintively, ‘And I wanted to be bridesmaid instead of bloody Maisie Lock. It’s not fair.’
‘God save me! I’ll fetch the bloody cake meself.’ Tommy Fowkes groaned resignedly and stamped from the room.
Charles Bromley was at this moment a very troubled man. He sat, head bowed, at his kitchen table, sucking noisily on his crudely fashioned bone false teeth, fingers toying with his bulbous-lensed spectacles.
‘Well, Bromley, how many times must I repeat myself?’ The squat, grossly overweight woman standing in the doorway demanded. ‘Why have you not come for me?’
The room was dank and cold but Bromley’s pink bald pate shone with nervous perspiration.
‘Damn you, Bromley! Look me in the face and give me an answer!’ She shouted in fury, and his hands jerked in fright, spilling his spectacles on to the table.
His normally egregiously mellifluous tone was now a reedy whine as he begged, ‘Please don’t be angry with me, my dearest one. Today’s event had merely slipped my mind.’