Guardian Angel

by Brian John

  Visitors came to see me -- in a trickle at first and then in a flood, and in the course of my first week almost all of my fellow conspirators called to give me their greetings and to find out about my adventures in foreign parts. The older ones -- whether or not any blood relationship was claimed as a part of our subterfuge -- called me “Aunt Susanna,” and the younger ones, like my beloved Rose and my other grandson Abel, called me “Great Aunt Susanna.” That gave me great pleasure, and pulled me once again into the bosom of the family from which I had departed in mysterious circumstances. The only conspirators who did not come were Wilmot and Delilah, who sent their apologies and explained that they were both suffering from summer chills. I am not sure that I believed that. My visitors all brought welcoming gifts with them -- barrels of salted herrings, eggs and chickens, hams and sausages, cakes and scones, cans of milk and pots of cream. These gestures were greatly appreciated, for over the course of a fortnight a considerable amount of catering was required, and I felt that my visitors could not just be received and cursorily sent away again. I wanted to spend time with all of them, and they wanted to spend time with me and Myfanwy; and the cottage which had stood empty and cold came to life again, and echoed with laughter, animated conversation and the clinking of glasses and the homely sound of cutlery on china.

  At last I plucked up the courage to go into town with Myfanwy, dreading the fact that I would meet many people on the street whom I would know but who would themselves not know Mrs Susanna Ravenhill. I was convinced that they would all recognise me in spite of my short brown hair and my horn-rimmed spectacles. I need not have worried. Myfanwy was quite wonderful, and whenever we came face to face with a familiar person she immediately said something like this: “Good day to you, Mrs Shinkins. Nice weather we are having. May I introduce to you my new employer, Mrs Ravenhill, a distant relation to the late Mistress Martha? She has lately been travelling abroad, and has taken up residence at Brynglas.” We enjoyed many convivial conversations on the pavements and in the shops, and between us Myfanwy and I managed to cope with all the questions which were directed at us in a perfectly easy manner. After an hour or so, Myfanwy noticed that I was getting tired, no doubt because of the amount of nervous energy I was having to invest in these random encounters, and she took me home.

  The hay harvest was in full swing, and the time came for the field in front of Brynglas to be cut. It was owned by Billy Lewis Cilgwyn Mawr, and he called in on the day before the harvesters were due, to introduce himself and to warn me that there would be several days of frantic activity on my very doorstep. He was a short man with a ruddy face, extravagant side whiskers and intelligent eyes; I knew him perfectly well, of course, and I thanked my lucky stars that he was not so intelligent as to see through my disguise. I said I was delighted to meet him, and over a cup of tea I said that I would be only too happy to assist if at all possible with looking after the harvesters. “Duw Duw, Mrs Ravenhill!” he said. “It’s good to have one of the old generation of Morganses back in the district! Things are not the same, with those young Gwynnes in the Plas.”

  “My dear Mr Lewis,” said I. “I am entirely unrelated to the Morganses, and only half related to the Howells of Brawdy. I am a half sister to the late Mistress Martha, conceived, I am sorry to say, in circumstances which had better not be described.”

  “I am sworn to secrecy, Madam. Wealthy squires always were too liberal with their oats. But dammo, your voice is just like Mistress Martha’s, deep and strong, but a bit older, and that’s good enough for me to welcome you as a good lady. If you have half her blood and half her spirit, we are well blessed by your arrival.”

  Next day the men with their gleaming scythes moved in early, before the dew was off the grass. I thought they were a little too early, but dared not say so. Will was one of the harvesters, as was Gerallt, and Gomer, and a dozen or so of the labourers from the surrounding farms, all of whom had worked for me at the Plas in the past. I introduced myself, and they all bowed and touched their caps and bade me welcome to their community. I was very touched. Soon they were striding across the field, one step at a time, in a staggered row, with their lethal blades flashing in the sunlight. The tall sweet grass, enriched by a thousand varieties of summer flowers and herbs, fell in swathes before them, to be raked back by the women who followed at a safe distance. I could not resist joining in, and raked away alongside the servant girls from Cilgwyn Mawr and Fachongle, singing a traditional carol which set the rhythm for the harvesters. “Well I never!” said Polly Griffin from Fachongle Ganol. “You are clever, Mrs Ravenhill, knowing that song of ours! We thought it was just local!”

  Luckily I had my wits about me. I laughed and said: “ No no, Polly. It’s known elsewhere as well -- I remember it from my childhood in Carmarthen, where my mother used to help in the hayfields to earn some extra money.” I got away with it, but the incident reminded me that I could not drop my guard for a moment.

  It was so hot in the open field beneath a beating sun that I soon felt my age and had to retreat. In truth I was also afraid that I might perspire so much beneath my straw hat that my hair dye might start to run and cause me embarrassment. The other women and girls laughed and let me go, and were happy enough that I then assisted with the laying out of the harvest picnic beneath a mighty oak tree on the southern edge of the field. At noon Billy Lewis’s head man, who was Lord of the Harvest, signalled a stop to the harvesting, and the men, who were close to the point of exhaustion, stopped to catch their breath, leaning, heads down, on their scythe handles. I looked at their gleaming shirtless torsoes, and in spite of my great age a thrill ran up and down my spine. I may have a new name and a new history, I thought, but thank God I am still a woman. I exchanged glances with Myfanwy, who was also helping; she smiled and winked, and I blushed like a twelve-year-old. Thirty-five people sat down on the grass to bread and salty butter, cheese, slices of ham, pickled onions and a host of other good things washed down with copious quantities of cider. Afterwards some of the men snatched forty winks, flat on their backs in the deepest shade; and then the Lord of the Harvest gave a great shout, and within five minutes the blades were flashing again and the songs of the women were echoing around the hedgerows and treetops.

  That evening, with the harvest done and the field of cut grass below my window smelling better than heaven, I went to bed in a state of blessed contentment.

  Three days later a ragged urchin appeared at my door, carrying a small bag of possessions. I did not recognize him at first, but then I realized that it was Merlin. He immediately ran into my arms, and as I embraced him my joy disappeared as I realized that he was sobbing. “Why, Merlin,” I said. “I am overjoyed to see you, but why the tears? Whatever is the matter?”

  Ten-year-old boys do not enjoy weeping, and he did his best to fight back his tears. He sniffled and choked, and wiped his freckled cheeks. “My Aunty Polly is dead, Missis.”

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, and gathered him once again into my arms. At last I continued: “You poor child! She was a strong and feisty woman, as I recall, and not very old. When did this happen?”

  “Ten days ago, Missis. She’s already in her grave. She got apoplexy, I think, and I found her dead on the floor in the kitchen. I tried to bring her back, but my powers are not strong enough, Missis.......”

  He said that quite unselfconsciously, and I looked at him in amazement. He continued. “She didn’t own the house, and she owed money on the rent. The man that owns it took it back and threw me out. They wanted to put me in the Workhouse, so I ran away. I knew I would find you somewhere around Newport, with a nice view of the mountain.........”

  I embraced him again, and both of us wept. Then we managed to compose ourselves, and I said: “No relatives, Merlin?”

  “Not a single one, that I know of, Missis.”

  “Then you will come to live with me, for the time being. I will have to send a message to the Overseer of the Poor in Cardigan, in case they come hunting for you, and
there may be some complicated formalities to go through, but we will see what we can do.”

  The poor child managed to smile through his tears, and Myfanwy and I took him into the house, washed him and fed him, and found a space for him in the attic which we later fitted out with a bed and some simple furnishings. When he had cheered up and settled in, we three talked at great length, for we had much to talk about. In one conversation, a few days after his arrival, I asked him casually whether he had ever been to Merthyr Tydfil. “Never, Missis,” he said with an enigmatic smile. “But in my dreams I did once go to China, and had tea with the Emperor.”

  About a fortnight after my arrival at Brynglas, Rector Llewelyn Thomas arrived without warning. No doubt he had heard about the rich widow who had just taken the cottage, and thought it necessary to introduce himself and extend a welcome to a potential benefactor. Perhaps his motives were entirely altruistic, and indeed my feelings for him were already modified, to some degree, by the kind words which he had reportedly used in the eulogy at my funeral and as the coffin of stones had gone into the ground. I became somewhat flustered when Myfanwy announced his arrival and called me down from my room, but thereafter we gave a good account of ourselves, and over tea and scones I became quite relaxed and confident in my new persona. I think I managed to converse in a perfectly level fashion, and did not once cause him to raise his bushy eyebrows in surprise.

  Then I noticed that he was twitching like a nervous schoolboy, and that he had some important news to impart. Arising out of nothing in particular, he said: “Yes indeed, Mrs Ravenhill. You will find this a small but exciting community. There are good people here, and wise men to provide leadership. Sadly, we have lost trade since the arrival of the railway in Haverfordwest, and if you go to town you will observe that the warehouses are by no means full, and that the estuary becomes more and more silted up. I fear we will lose more trade when the railway reaches Fishguard and Cardigan, as it will within ten years, if I am not much mistaken. But all is not lost, and there is optimism in the air. The plans to which I am privy, and which are shortly to be announced will, I am sure, restore Newport to its accustomed pre-eminent position among the Cardigan Bay sea-ports.”

  “Indeed, sir? The town seems to me to be quite pre-eminent enough as it is.”

  “No, no. The future lies in industry, Mrs Ravenhill, as you will know, since I believe your late husband had dealings with iron and coal and manufactories. And you will know that the fortune which supports the Plas Ingli estate was made by Master Gwynne through the smelting of copper. The little estates cannot survive without such enterprise.”

  “Oh but they can, sir, since the nation will always need food, on the hoof or in the fields, and it is down to the squires and the estates to provide it. The likes of Master Lewis, just up the hill, and the family of my half sister at the Plas, have shown down through the decades that they can put good, cheap food onto the market and look after the community and the land into the bargain.”

  “My dear Mrs Ravenhill, those days are gone.” said he, shaking his head. Then he looked round furtively, for fear that he might be overheard, leaned forward conspiratorially, and continued in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “I refer to the great plans now being made, with the active involvement of our most excellent Lord Marcher, for the growth on the Parrog of a great new port. It was a new port once before, Madam, you understand, when the Norman invader came. Now it will be reborn and resurrected!” His voice became louder as his body was filled with excitement. “My goodness yes,” he enthused, “with a breakwater half a mile long, and wharves and warehouses. I have it on the highest authority, although it is not yet common knowledge in the town, that the iron smelter will go where the sand dunes now stand, and........”

  I almost fainted, in spite of the fact that I was already sitting down. “Dear me, Mrs Ravenhill,” said Rector Thomas. “May I fetch you some water? You appear to be excessively surprised. Do I take it, therefore, that you are not familiar with the wonderful plans that are being talked of for that horrid mountain..........?”

  rrr

  Council of War

  Myfanwy ushered the Rector out, and I tried to digest the information which he had fed to me. At first I was in a state of shock, but after a while I regained the power of speech. I asked Myfanwy what on earth the fellow had been talking about. She had no idea, so I sent her her to fetch Rose and Henry, who lived not far away, at Trefelin near Cilgwyn Bridge. Henry was out at work, but Rose hurried back with Myfanwy, and confirmed that she too was quite in the dark. “If Henry had known anything about new ports, warehouses and ironworks, he would certainly have told me,” she said. “He prides himself on having his ear close to the ground. He is, after all, an engineer himself, and knows all about iron prices and such like.” Then I recalled that he and my grandsons Abel and William had set up a forge and engineering workshop not far away at Dolbont, where they were making ploughs, seed drills and other machines. If they had heard nothing from their trading contacts, this was a tight secret indeed, and probably the Rector had given something away that was not yet due for announcement.

  Further investigations got me nowhere, but it was not long before the truth emerged. Next day, after the delivery of the post, Daisy called to see me, with a grim expression on her face. She had in her hand a letter and a parliamentary announcement sent by her son John from London. It referred to a Bill shortly to come before Parliament for the setting up of a new company called the Carningli Stone Company, with provisions for the enclosure of virtually all the common land on the mountain, and for associated port developments incorporating a crushing plant, grading machinery and storage hoppers on the Parrog. There was also a mention of the removal of the sand dunes of the Bennet, to facilitate the development of certain manufacturing activities, to be connected to the port by a mineral railway. The sponsors of the Bill were Jonas Harry Esquire and the Lord Marcher of Newport; and five other subscribers (all of them Members of Parliament) were listed. There was little further detail. In his letter, John said “Dear Mama, if Grandmother had been alive to see this announcement, she would surely have shouted “Over my dead body!” As it is, she will probably turn in her grave.”

  Feeling more dismal than ever, I immediately sat down and copied all the details of the parliamentary announcement and sent them in a sealed envelope to Donal, care of Brendan at Garfeth. I gave the envelope to Merlin, and having described for him the route he must follow, trusted him to make the delivery. I did not know where my mysterious and dashing Irish friend was at the time, having had no recent contact with him; I assumed that he was probably in London or Swansea, tracking Jonas Harry. I also urged him to come to Newport with all possible haste, since matters were clearly coming to a head. I did not know at that moment whether the Bill was just a speculative one; as Daisy reminded me, there were many such, particularly associated with railway developments, which never led to anything solid. But other Bills were enacted and did allow developments to happen, with or without the support of the communities likely to be affected. I looked again at the date on the Parliamentary Notice, and saw that there were only five days to the parliamentary debate.

  I then invited Ioan and Betsi, Daisy and George, Shemi and Sian, and Wilmot and Delilah to dinner on the following day for a council of war. For a start, I was desperate to find out who knew what. More importantly, I wanted us to agree a strategy for fighting this monstrous proposal. I was now not so worried about spies, since Harry had promised me -- somewhat reluctantly -- in Paris that he would call them off.

  They all came, and I gave a special welcome to Wilmot and Delilah, who both looked weary and ill. I was concerned for their welfare, and determined to talk to them later, alone if possible. After we had eaten a simple dinner of three courses, we got down to work. Daisy read out John’s letter and the cutting attached to it. Ioan and Betsi said they knew nothing more, apart from the fact that men had been seen on the mountain at intervals over a year or more, attracting
a certain amount of speculation. George, as a burgess and member of the Court Leet, who should have been informed about any great plans for the town, knew just a little more. He said that while the Lord Marcher had recently been renovating the castle (which had previously been ruinous and quite uninhabitable) he had let it be known in town that he had “certain plans for the restoration of the port” without elaborating any further. He had also told the burgesses at a meeting some months back that he was looking to bring great benefits to the community through new commercial activities which were still in the process of development. For a few days there had been speculation in town, with most people broadly enthusiastic, on the grounds that the economy needed to be revitalized. But then it had gone quiet again, and he and everybody else had assumed that this was just another expression of good intentions, like many others over the years, which had no substance to it.

  “But what about the boulder which the Rector threw into the pond yesterday, creating waves which almost knocked me over?” I asked. “He was very specific, and talked of breakwaters, wharves, railways and ironworks. There was no mention in the Parliamentary Announcement of ironworks -- just “certain manufacturing activities”. Was he speaking out of turn, and does he hold other privileged information?”