Olwen wandered among the laughing people, friends all of them, some young and having fun and many old and content just to watch and remember. Why was she forced to waste her life watching, waiting for others to realize she was a young woman, when it could be taken from her as early as Polly’s tender years? Why wouldn’t Barrass see that, small as she was, she was old enough to be his girl?
Using two lengths of wood taken from the pile gathered to feed the fire, Spider did a sword dance, his long gangly legs thrashing about and his toes touching the ground with surprising lightness between the crossed sticks. Then Dan joined in, singing a sailors’ working song and the two of them danced together, shadows moving beside them so the scene was one of comic fantasy, with the tall, thin men dancing accompanied by their mocking shadows. Firelight danced too, sending spasms of light across the sweating faces of the entertainers and laughing audience.
When the two men finally fell exhausted to the ground, Barrass appeared beside them with ale to revive them. Olwen ran to him, and as the music began, insisted he danced with her. Not for Olwen the centre of the stage. She pulled Barrass away from the brightness of the fire into the surrounding shadows.
‘Olwen, I have to go,’ he said, obviously ill at ease. She dropped her thin arms to her side and looked up at him, her eyes alone recognizable on the shadowy face fired from within with challenge.
‘Why, Barrass? Why are you behaving so badly? I thought we were friends for ever?’ she said, trying to hold back the temptation to cry.
‘Things change. We grow up and with every month that passes we become different people,’ he said. Then she saw him glance up and her father was there, still panting a little from his exertions.
‘I think your mother is looking for you, Olwen,’ Spider said, and taking her hand, he led her back through the noisy crowd, to where Mary sat with Ceinwen and Emma.
Spider glanced back and Olwen turned in time to intercept a silent exchange between them. She saw Spider, from his very stance showing displeasure. He frowned at the boy, and Barrass shrugged as if to say, ‘what can I do?’ She knew in that moment that Barrass’s attitude was due to pressure from her parents. They had told him to stay away.
Pushing her father angrily, she ran from the friendly camaraderie of the beach and up the path to her home. Ignoring the enquiries about the party from Mistress Powell who was dozing in the corner, wrapped in several woollen blankets and wearing a thick nightcap that half hid her face, she ran upstairs. Throwing herself on her narrow bed, she sobbed as silently as she could into the wool-filled pillow.
* * *
On the beach and around the front of the alehouse the celebrations continued late into the night. When Dan and Enyd tried to sneak away, they were seen and the shouted remarks calling them back became more and more lively. Florrie had managed to keep Daniels with her by flattery and cajoling, although his sister had taken the children home to their beds.
Pitcher kept the ale flowing, Carter Phillips and Oak-tree Thomas kept the music wailing into the night sky and somehow, the dancers found the energy to continue to jig to the strains of barely recognizable melodies.
It was after midnight when Olwen remembered that with their room still unfinished, Dan was bringing his bride to his own bedroom. They would be sharing the room next to hers. She had not slept and was certain no one had yet come in. Wide awake and angry with herself for running away from the rare opportunity to dance and laugh and spend the night hours with her friends, she tiptoed past Mistress Powell, who was emitting gentle puffing snores, and left the house.
She could hear the sounds of the revellers as soon as the door closed behind her and, determined to enjoy what was left of the night, she hurried towards the steep path.
A sound stopped her, and suddenly fearful of whom she might meet at such a late hour, she dropped to the ground behind a bush of blackthorn and waited. She shivered in the night air. Having left her warm bed and without adding more than a thin shawl, the keen breeze pressed against her and slid through her clothes with ease.
It was hooves she heard first, the slow, almost melodic regularity that was usually pleasant and soothing becoming threatening as they came closer and closer to where she was hiding as they headed inland. The hoof fall and the swish as the animals’ legs pushed through the grasses built up into a menacing, overshadowing fear. The first one was led by David, the boy who worked in William Ddole’s stables. Percy, from Pitcher’s stables, came next and other ponies and donkeys followed without men to guide them, obediently following the heels of the leader.
When the donkeys and ponies were passed, men, women and a few children followed, each one with either a bag or a barrel over his shoulder. Olwen crouched lower, pressing herself to the grass and shutting her eyes tightly. She knew what was happening but did not want to learn anything about who was involved. To be ignorant could mean your life saved. She did not move until the silence had been unbroken for several minutes.
She went to sit beside her mother, Ceinwen and Emma Palmer, who were all tired but shared Emma’s determination to watch over her daughters until they were safe in their beds.
‘It’s at times like these,’ Emma was telling Mary, ‘when common sense is abandoned in pursuit of dangerous pleasures! It’s when everyone is intent on “having fun” that girls forget their need to be strong against the demands of the flesh.’
Olwen’s shivers made her stop.
‘There’s cold you are, Olwen!’ She tightened her lips in obvious suspicion.
‘Go to the fire and warm yourself or we’ll have to go home before Enyd and Dan,‘ Mary said, rubbing her daughter’s hands with her own.
‘Take my shawl,‘ Emma said. ‘Dancing has me so hot I think I’ll melt if I don’t cool off a little.’
Leaving the three women sharing the confidences of friends, Olwen walked disconsolately through the laughing crowd. She didn’t stop to talk to those who called out to her, wanting to sit beyond the blaze of firelit merrymaking, and ponder her own situation. She was doomed to be treated like a child for ever, she was convinced. Just because, like her mother, she was small, and looked less than her age, people believed that her heart and her mind were young too.
She stood in the shadows, away from the circles of people around the fire, and gradually realized she was not alone. This time there was no fear, this was not the smugglers about their night-time journeying. She looked around and saw someone sitting on a rock, arms hugging knees, the face directed towards her. She could not decide whether the figure was male or female, old or young, until the voice gave her a clue.
‘Hello, why are you standing alone when so many friends want your company?’ the young man asked.
‘Who are you?’ Olwen demanded.
‘Cadwalader,’ he replied, unfolding himself, his black cloak unwinding itself like wings from around him. He came to stand beside her, small, pale-faced in the weird light, eyes deep set in shadows, a streak of white hair showing clearly on one side of his dark head.
‘I know you are Olwen, daughter of Peter the fisherman, known as Spider,’ he surprised her by saying. Having taken her hand briefly, he returned to his previous position, rewrapping his cloak around him to ward off the chill of the hour.
To Olwen, he seemed to be a part of the rock, carved by the wind and the sea. He had taken it for his own. He wasn’t perched there, a temporary appendage, but was in possession. As the fanciful thought entered her head she trembled, for a moment believing the stories about the fairy people who came from the sea and coaxed young girls back to their watery kingdom.
‘Do you think I might ask a favour?’ the young man asked. ‘On so short an acquaintance I realize it’s hardly polite, but I would appreciate some food and a sip of ale. I have not eaten for more than a day and my stomach is complaining of neglect.’
Olwen walked back through the crowd and collected a platter which she filled from the remains of the feast. For a moment she hesitated about returning to the strange
young man and eventually persuaded Polly to go back with her.
Cadwalader was still where she had first seen him, but he jumped lightly down at her approach and greeted her friend Polly with a politeness that was at odds with his appearance. He was obviously a wanderer, taking food where and when he could, perhaps working for a while at one place before moving on.
He began to eat the moment the platter was placed in his hands, but continued to watch Olwen in a disconcerting way, ignoring the newcomer. Olwen felt flattered by his obvious admiration, but took Polly’s hand and backed away asking him to return the platter when he had finished the food.
‘You have an admirer. I could sense it even though I could barely see his face,’ Polly giggled as they returned to Mary and Spider. ‘What an adventure.’
They did not see him again. Soon after they had supplied him with his supper, the crowd realized that Enyd and Dan had succeeded in getting away. Allowing the couple the customary time alone, the party slowly subsided and people began to drift homeward.
With Mary carrying a sleeping Dic, and Spider having to be helped to stay on the steep path, Olwen went home. The image in her mind that made her lips curve in a smile, was of Barrass, frowning down at the squatting form of the dark-eyed Cadwalader. The idea of Barrass being made to feel a jealousy as acute as hers for him and Harriet kept her awake until the crowing of their cockerel warned her that it was time to rise and begin another day.
Chapter Four
With the details of the improvements necessary before he could apply to change his alehouse to an inn, Pitcher went to see Barrass. Although Barrass was still a very young man, not yet eighteen so far as anyone could guess, Pitcher and the boy were friends. It was Barrass who had helped him when he had built the parlour that Emma had so desperately wanted to entertain her daughters’ friends. Now Pitcher knew that if he could persuade him, Barrass was the one to help him now.
Friday was the day the boy was free from the deliveries of Gower letters and early in the morning, Pitcher went to the back of Kenneth’s house and found him, sitting on the edge of the narrow, heather-filled mattress on the floor of the outhouse he was allowed to use. A dish from the previous evening that had contained cawl was on the floor, the contents revealed by the few chicken bones that had been the basis of the broth. To Pitcher it showed clearly the minimal care Kenneth and Ceinwen gave the boy in return for all his long hours of walking across Gower.
Barrass looked embarrassed when Pitcher opened the door and stared at the poor accommodation Kenneth had given him.
‘This is worse than I thought, boy! How can Kenneth let you live like this?’
‘It’s better than the cave that was my last home,’ Barrass smiled. ‘At least I know where I’ll sleep each night. There’s many a day when I haven’t known where I would curl up.’
Pitcher silently decided to talk to Emma and try to persuade her to allow Barrass to sleep at the alehouse. Angry with Kenneth, but saying nothing to show it, he invited Barrass to eat a breakfast with Arthur the potboy.
‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ he said, ‘but first you’ll eat your fill.’
When the food had been cooked and Barrass, Arthur and the dog had eaten all they could manage, Pitcher put his proposal to Barrass, while Arthur listened.
‘I need some more building work done,’ he began. ‘Emma and I plan to make this place into a fine inn that will attract the wealthy businessmen and their families. I want to persuade them to stay here instead of going back to the town for their bed and their food.’
‘There are other places in the village where they can find a good, warm bed. Why d’you think they would stay here?’ Barrass asked doubtfully.
‘Because, situated where we are, they will see us first!’ was Pitcher’s joyful reply. ‘And because, sitting here close to the sea where they wish to wander and breathe deep of the fresh, salty air, with Arthur neat as a bud in a smart uniform, and the improved stables showing the care we’ll give to their animals, they will look no further. What d’you think, boy?’
Arthur’s Adam’s apple jigged anxiously.
‘Wear a uniform?’ he asked in his high-pitched, girlish voice. ‘You didn’t say nothing about that, Pitcher!’
‘Made by Emma and in colours we shall choose together,’ Pitcher reassured him, patting the bony shoulder.
As Arthur went doubtfully back to his work, Pitcher and Barrass wandered through the rooms of the house and outhouses, discussing the possibilities. Between serving customers, Arthur joined them, listening but adding little to the discussion. He hoped that Barrass would come back to live at the alehouse. They were good friends and he would greet a return to the sharing they had once enjoyed with delight but the thought of having to wear a uniform and suffer the tormenting remarks of others brought doubt on the suitability of the scheme.
Before the day ended, Pitcher and Barrass had drawn a plan of sorts and copying it neatly, Pitcher prepared to take it together with his accounts books, to discuss the loan with the bank in town.
‘Tomorrow,’ he told Barrass, ‘when you go into town to collect the letters, I will ride with you and start this idea going.’ He grinned as he glanced at the still worried Arthur. ‘And I’ll bring some patches for you to choose your colours, you and Emma. What about black and white with frilled aprons like the maids?’
‘Pitcher! It’s bad enough that I talk like a girl without you making me dress like one!’ Arthur complained.
‘I thought a touch of gold, being as how you want to call the place The Posthorn Inn,’ Barrass suggested.
‘Fancy colours, and I go off with the first band of strolling players that pass through!’ Arthur threatened, and was relieved to see the other two laugh. ‘But a modest amount of gold might be suitable,’ he conceded thoughtfully.
‘But what we really need.‘ Pitcher said as they prepared to pack away the plan so far made, ‘what we must decide on, is a way to make us more popular with everyone, not just the visitors come to look at the sea. They come in the spring and summer; we need to survive the dark months as well.’ His sharp eyes glanced at Barrass to see how his suggestion was received, and said slowly, ‘Now, if we were to use the inn as a receiving office for the Royal Mail instead of it going to Kenneth’s old house now that would bring people here day after day. Attract them like Betson-the-flowers attracts wayward husbands, that would.’
‘But there’s no chance of Kenneth giving up the letters.’ Barrass was alarmed. ‘And beside, if there were changes, I might lose my work. No Pitcher, don’t think of changing things, or I will lose out.’
Pitcher said no more. He could see that the poorly paid and thankless task Barrass performed for Kenneth was important to him. It was the nearest the boy had ever been to stability. And besides, all his life, Barrass’s dream had been of carrying the King’s Mail. But Pitcher railed inwardly against the way Kenneth and Ceinwen treated the boy, and the seed was sown for changes, even if he did not have Barrass’s support at present. What he had in mind would benefit them both.
Later that evening, when Barrass had settled to help Arthur in the busy bar-room, Pitcher went up to talk to his wife. Emma rarely came down in the evenings. She preferred to pretend that the bar-room, with its noisy drinkers, storytellers and occasionally, songsters, was a world apart. It was a place where they earned the money to live comfortably and give their daughters the best of everything but, to Emma, it was something of which she was ashamed.
Despite her grand ideas and her pretence that she had begun somewhere more grand than the dilapidated shack behind Fishermen’s Row, Emma had a brain for business. She had seen at once that changed to an inn, the building would be a finer and more profitable place. Now, Pitcher’s half-held thought of applying for the inn to be a collection place for the Post appealed strongly.
‘A first step would be for us to allow Barrass to sleep here,’ Pitcher said hesitantly. As he expected, Emma raised her doubts loudly and long.
/> ‘Have that lecher in my house? Under the same roof as our beautiful girls? I tell you, Mr Palmer, you try my tolerance cruelly. No! You’ve persuaded me otherwise in the past, but I had not a moment’s peace while he was here. Creeping up the stairs he’d be, ravishing those poor girls. No, Mr Palmer, not for a single night will I allow it.’
‘But think, if he is already here, perhaps stopping on his way from Swansea with the mail to break his fast, the idea of cheating Kenneth wouldn’t be so disloyal. It’s we who are his friends, Emma, and it’s a short step from stopping off to eat and stopping off for us to sort the letters.’
Emma wasn’t convinced, but Pitcher knew her well enough to know she would think about his words and gradually see the strength of them.
* * *
Olwen was awake long before she needed to rise. She listened to the droning voice of her new sister-in-law complaining about the lack of a home, the boredom of her life so far from the village, and, Olwen guessed, about everything else besides. She could not hear Dan’s whispered words but knew he was pleading with Enyd to be patient, that it would be different when they had their own room, but Olwen suspected that things would never be right for Enyd: she was doomed to live a discontented life, whatever Dan did to try and please her.
It was Friday she realized as she roused and considered the day ahead. Olwen hated Fridays. There was no possibility of seeing Barrass. Not only was there no possibility of a delivery of a letter to Ddole House, Friday was a day on which she had to begin early and work until late, having many extra jobs to do for Florrie in preparation for the weekend. She dragged herself out of bed, the only consolation being that Dan and her father were usually out before her and the fire would be blazing and both water and gruel warmed for her.
Mistress Powell was dozing in her corner, and barely opened a wrinkled eye when she passed. She stopped to fasten the blankets firmly around the shrunken shoulders and hugged the old woman affectionately, then went to dish out a bowl of gruel for herself.
The Posthorn Inn Page 6
