Saturday evening was always one of the busiest. Those who worked on the small farms received their money, and those lucky enough to have something to sell at the market had extra money to jingle in their pockets. Pitcher and Arthur replenished mug after mug, running up and down to the cellar filling the large pitchers they used, laughing and joking with the customers to build up a jovial atmosphere.
Around the fire men sat discussing their daily existence, the long clay pipes nodding with their heads as they agreed on the unfairness of life. The collection of broken stems was already growing, and a few of the older, poorer men had only the abandoned stumps in their mouths, their moustaches and noses brown from the smoke which rose close to their faces from the well-used bowls.
Barrass was absent. His Saturday letters kept him away from the village until mid-afternoon on a Sunday. Pitcher wished he were there, he missed him. The boy was like a son, his partner in all his hopes and ambitions. Pitcher sighed and his thoughts wandered to the time when he could pay someone else to take the letters on the occasional day and leave Barrass free to help him.
Barrass was sitting at another alehouse, talking to a young woman who served there, eyeing her and considering his chances of spending some time in her bed. She was about his own age, but experience glittered in her greeny-grey eyes and hardened her expression. He knew that for her, he offered only a few moments’ excitement and perhaps some money spent on food and drink. But, he thought ruefully, that was all he was looking for too. The thought saddened him. An image of Olwen grew before him, her young face smiling with deep sincerity, with none of the calculation of the serving girl.
He stood up and walked outside into the coolness of the evening. Shivering in the sudden change of temperature after leaving the fire-warmed room, he was angry. Angry with himself and with Olwen, who, although far away, still managed by her innocence to make him feel ashamed.
It was worse than when she followed him everywhere, watching him and preventing him from kissing a girl he had been attracted to. He remembered with a smile how he had become so used to her shadowing him, he had watched with the edge of his sight for her to appear when he should have been looking into the girl’s eyes as he kissed her and murmured sweet endearments. Small wonder that some had begun the rumour that he was absent-minded and vague!
Abandoning all thoughts of a few hours of loving, he walked to where a small stream flowed and sat on its banks and thought of Olwen. When he had eaten his supper, he went to bed, alone.
* * *
Olwen had tried without any success to find out more about Lowri’s past. All the girl would tell her was that she had worked at alehouses and inns. She wasn’t rude or apparently offended by Olwen’s curiosity, but she smilingly evaded her questions.
‘It’s as if she’s just been born!’ she complained to Mistress Powell one morning as she dressed to leave for Ddole House. ‘There seems to have been nothing at all before the moment when she was found by Barrass. It’s a-w-f-u-l strange.’
‘Not everyone is as open and friendly as you are,’ Mistress Powell laughed. ‘And, not everyone’s life is as free from unpleasantness.’
‘Nothing very unpleasant can have happened to her,’ Olwen said in a whisper. ‘When she had owned up to have come from Bristol and not France, she brought her clothes from where she had hidden them and a fine lot of clothes they are. And look at her, well fed and used to bossing people about if you ask me. No, I suspect that her life has been far from unhappy.’
The object of their discussion was on her way back up from the fishing boat with Spider and Mary. Since her arrival she had been no further than the village and appeared in no hurry either to find her missing parent or set off again on her travels.
She was enthusiastically helpful and Mary had been pleasantly surprised at how easily she had slipped into their life, handling baby Dic one moment and the next, scouring the boards of the boat to clean them of the fishy smell. Whatever job she was given she did willingly and when she was offered none, she found one for herself. Rarely idle, she even helped Mary and Mistress Powell with their woollens for the market, sitting with them long into the night to finish off a consignment. She listened, asked questions but always managed to avoid telling them anything about herself. Like Olwen had said, it was as if her life had not existed until she came to Mumbles village.
When she had been there for almost two weeks, she asked Olwen if there was a possibility of work for her at Ddole House. Olwen was inexplicably unwilling to help her. She did not dislike the woman, but knew she did not want to work for her.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,‘ she said quickly. ‘Best you find somewhere else. This Annie Evans is not nice to work for and in fact, I think I’ll be thrown out on my ear soon just because my face doesn’t fit.’ She shook her fair head so her hair waved about her face like a spiky golden flower. ‘No, best you ask in the village, or perhaps in Swansea. Now there’s a place to work. Plenty of houses looking for servants in Swansea for sure.’
‘I think I’ll ask at the alehouse,’ was Lowri’s unconnected response. She offered her hand to Olwen and invited her to go with her.
* * *
Pitcher shook his head. Much as he liked the idea of having an extra pair of hands for serving the ale, he neither knew nor trusted this newcomer.
‘No new serving maids wanted here,’ he said, guessing without seeing how Arthur’s face would drop at his words. They did need help and it was becoming more and more apparent that they would have to have more help, but not this woman. Best if she was made to feel unwanted and encouraged to go away. Life was difficult and dangerous enough with the boats due again in a few days, without untried people watching and listening.
‘Swansea, now that’s the place,’ he said. ‘Plenty of work for willing hands there.’
To everyone’s surprise and relief, Lowri took his advice and went. She carried her bag of clothes on her back and with a hug for Mary and Olwen and gushing thanks for their generous hospitality, she waited at the door of the alehouse until someone offered her a lift into the town.
‘Cardiff. That’s where I’ll try next,’ she shouted as Pitcher watched her go.
But it was in Swansea that she stopped and found herself a place, as a maidservant at the small house of which one room was the sorting office for the post. The postmaster seemed to hint at a more than friendly welcome and her dark eyes gleamed at the prospect of some forbidden fun. There was nothing like a bit of forbidden loving behind the back of a suspicious wife to lighten the heart and blank out disappointments.
Once she had unpacked her things, she stood at the edge of the tide behind the castle and stared for a long time across the six-mile sweep of the bay at the distant houses of Mumbles and silently decided that one day she would go back.
If her mother could not be found, then she would make a new life for herself, and Mumbles with its friendly, generous people would be a good place in which to do it.
Chapter Nine
When Barrass reached the Swansea sorting office one Monday morning in early June, he saw at once that something unusual had happened. Two men were standing outside the door forbidding anyone from entering. One was Daniels and the other his counterpart from the eastern side of the town. Barrass went to Daniels and asked what was wrong.
‘A death,’ Daniels told him. ‘The Deputy Postmaster has died and until some word has come telling us what happens next, we are not allowing anyone to touch the mail.’
‘Where’s Ben Gammon?’ Barrass asked, feeling sure that if anyone knew anything, it would be Ben.
‘Inside the Voyager Inn, spinning out the little he knows to entertain his audience.’ Daniels was clearly disapproving.
Barrass went to greet the sixty-year-old postboy, who had ridden the end of the route from Monmouth to Swansea for more than thirty years, and when he looked into the dark interior of the drinking house he knew that where there was the biggest crowd of people, he would find Ben G
ammon. As if he knew he was there, Ben turned and said,
‘Ho, I says to myself, who will that be but but my friend Barrass come to hear the news?’ Ben’s voice boomed out as Barrass walked through the inn doorway, and he raised a hand in greeting. ‘I says to the barman, Ho! I says, draw a quart of your best ale and he’ll quaff it in less than a wink of your barmaid’s saucy eye.’
Barrass smiled as he took the offered ale and found a place beside the postboy.
‘So the Postmaster is dead? What happened?’ Barrass asked.
‘Taken in his sleep and him not a day more’n forty.’
‘What will happen now?’
‘I’ve told them slow-worms of Peace Keepers to let his wife sort the letters, she’s done it often enough while he’s been sleeping off a bellyful as you and I well know.’ He raised his voice as he went on, ‘Slow-worms they are as are given authority. Now you and me, Barrass, we could have got this all sorted and everyone on their way in the time they take to ponder the correct procedure.’
The crowd shifted and they looked up to see Daniels in the doorway.
‘Pausing to make sure his entrance was noted,’ Ben whispered hoarsely.
‘We have decided to allow the Deputy Postmaster’s wife to set the mail on its way, so if you please, Master Gammon, will you come along and see that all is correctly done?’
‘Well, as I says to Master Barrass here, he and I would have done so long since if you’d taken the thought to ask.’
Barrass listened to the chatter between the locals and the officials, gathering up as much information as he could, asking questions of everyone who seemed even remotely likely to know the answers. He had some news for Pitcher that needed immediate action.
Not stopping for more than a brief word of comfort for the widow, already draped in black clothes, and a more cheerful fare-thee-well for Ben, he mounted Jethro and hurried back to the alehouse. Kenneth was standing on the doorway of his house, tapping his foot, impatience reddening his face.
‘Come on, Barrass, you should have been back an hour ago!’ he shouted. The crowd around him, waiting for letters and news, added a chorus of agreement. ‘There’s work to be done, and you are slowing up the start to everyone’s day.’
‘The Postmaster’s day started slowly enough and that’s a fact!’ Barrass replied, but he darted into the alehouse without explanations.
‘What’s that? What did you say? What d’you mean? Where are my letters? Let me have them before any more time is wasted, boy!’ Kenneth shouted in vain and had to admit defeat and sit back on the chair provided by Ceinwen, to wait until Barrass reappeared.
‘Dead you say?’ Pitcher smiled. ‘Then this is the chance we’ve been waiting for!’
‘Once a new Deputy Postmaster has been appointed, we must get to see him fast and apply for the right for me to deliver Gower letters,‘ Barrass said. ‘Everyone will need to reapply and if we’re quick, well, he won’t have any loyalty to Kenneth, will he?’
‘Not when I tell him about how Kenneth tackles the job!’ Pitcher said firmly. ‘Go you, and get your deliveries done and be back as early as you can tomorrow. I’ll go straightaway into town and see whoever’s in charge. If I don’t talk the new Deputy Postmaster into using the alehouse as a collecting office then my name isn’t Pitcher Palmer!’
‘Daniels was in charge when I left!’
‘Pity. Such a one for doing things the right way he’s sure to hold everything up. But a new appointment will be made quickly for sure. The King’s Mail can’t be held up.’
They separated, each pondering the event and how it might give them the chance they had been waiting for. Pitcher ran up the stairs and explained briefly what had happened then set off to the stables, calling for Arthur to ‘do what he could’ until his return. He had hardly fastened his coat when Daisy came down the stairs, fully dressed in a redingote, carrying a stock and wearing a tall, small-brimmed hat, insisting she went with him.
‘I heard what Barrass said and I want to help,’ she said, a firmness in the tightened lips and the slight frown warning of determined arguments to come should it be necessary.
‘But Daisy, this is man’s work. And what would a young lady like you want with listening to your father arguing his case with a lot of shouting and accusations – no, it isn’t for someone like you. Stay with your Mamma and I’ll hurry back to tell you what happened if you’re really curious about such matters.’
‘Dadda, I’m coming.’
In too much of a hurry to argue, Pitcher nodded defeat and helped her to mount one of the ponies, which the stableboy had already harnessed, knowing from past experience that Daisy would wear her father down. Glancing proudly at her riding beside him, elegant, smartly dressed, and rather beautiful, Pitcher had to admit silently that her involvement could hardly jeopardize his case.
* * *
Barrass stood near Kenneth on the grassy mound in front of his door and after hurriedly whispering the news to Kenneth, told it to the waiting group.
‘Dead in bed he was,’ Barrass said, not adding the news that it was the new maid’s bed he was found in and not his own.
‘His poor wife went to call him as usual but found he was deep in his last sleep.’ Again he refrained from pointing out that the maid whose bed he had chosen was severely beaten with the china pot from under the bed, the only weapon easily to hand, and sent from the house before the sun was up. He also withheld the spicy information that the maid was Lowri, who had so recently shared Olwen’s bed.
‘So what will happen now?’ Ceinwen asked when the crowd was satisfied that Barrass had told them all he knew or could guess. ‘Who will see to the appointment?’ She looked at Kenneth, her dark eyes shrewd and added, ‘What if you go and apply? The wages are poor enough and not that regularly paid, but it’s a position you and I could manage.’
That was not news Barrass wanted, so he suggested they wait for a day or so.
‘Best you give the poor widow a chance to recover her wits,’ he said. ‘Then write a letter to the Postmaster General in London. It’s to him all appointments must go.’
Kenneth nodded. ‘I’ll compose a letter for you to take in on Wednesday,’ he said.
Satisfied he had done all he could to delay Kenneth, Barrass set off with his letters. There was an urgency in his manner, he was impatient to be finished so he could learn more of the interesting situation.
When he had gone, Kenneth reached for his cloak and the wig he wore only on special occasions.
‘I’m going to take the horse and go in to town at once,’ he announced. ‘I don’t trust that Barrass, he’s too friendly with Pitcher and if there’s something to gain, I want to make sure it’s we who gain it.’
* * *
Barrass was surprised to find that he had a letter for Olwen. So far as he knew, the family had never before received one. Few of the humbler homes had anyone who could write, and those who did had no business that would involve any dealings other than those contracted by word and a handshake. The handwriting on this one was unmistakable. It was from Penelope Ddole.
The letter, although not addressed to him, had the effect of wiping the excitement of the proposed new Deputy Postmaster from his thoughts. He normally set off through Sketty and to north Gower, leaving the local letters and those inland of the village for the following day when he returned.
Pondering this he wondered why he had continued with the routine when he had taken over the route from Kenneth. He knew that for Kenneth the convenience was apparent. Kenneth had a few local calls where he stayed longer than formal politeness required. To be seen around the village when his calls were almost completed was a convenient cover for his amorous meetings.
Today, Barrass decided, he would change things around and go first to the fisher family’s house on the cliff. If Olwen was not there, as was likely to be the case, he would then go to Ddole House and interrupt her work to give her the letter. With a bit of good fortune, he would be asked to stay
for a bite and learn the contents of the note.
In both hopes he was disappointed. Having learnt from Mary that Olwen was at Ddole House, he hurried there and asked permission to hand her the letter. Dozy Bethan opened the door and Barrass saw at once that she had been crying. Her face was red, the eyes swollen and stricken with dismay.
‘I’ll see she gets the letter and, thank you for it,’ she said. ‘Will you call back for the money? I daren’t stay and talk, Annie will be letting me go without a recommendation if I offend her further.’ So saying, she closed the door.
Trying not to howl his disappointment, Barrass wrote the transaction in the unpaid column of his book and set off on Jethro to the north of Gower and a return to his normal route.
Watching him go from an upstairs window where she was brushing the walls of a rarely used bedroom, a frilly mobcap covering her hair and falling down over her eyes, Olwen sighed. She would love to have been going with him, astride the gentle pony, across the fields where they could talk without restraint about anything that came into their minds. Just as it had once been, day after day.
Curious about his visit, she made an excuse to go downstairs to fetch water to wash the already scrubbed paintwork and whispered to Bethan.
‘What did Barrass want?’
Bethan took the letter from her apron pocket and handed it to her.
‘What was that, my dear?’ Annie’s sharp eyes had noticed the exchange and Olwen showed her the letter.
‘A letter and it’s for me!’ she said gleefully.
‘Not while you’re working, it isn’t.’ Snatching the letter but managing still to look pleasant and gentle, the precious paper was tucked into the folds of her dress and hidden deep in a pocket.
The Posthorn Inn Page 15