Summer’s Last Retreat Read online

  Summer’s Last Retreat

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Copyright

  Summer’s Last Retreat

  Grace Thompson

  To Jennifer – for her help and her patience.

  Chapter One

  Olwen pushed the almost empty cart up the steep hill, past the row of small cottages that stood at right angles to the seashore and grunted as the wheels stuck against a large pebble. She slithered in her soft leather shoes as she manoeuvred the cart’s wheels until she could continue, her groans an accompaniment to the squeaking of the cart.

  She was small and very thin, her knees looking swollen against the stick-like legs that were revealed as she bent about her task, but there was no look of sickness to account for her waif-like thinness. Her blue eyes, large and with a hint of violet in the whites, were clear and constantly smiling. Wrinkled laughter lines already showed on the freckled and suntanned skin. She looked like a leggy seven-year-old, but was in fact approaching her fifteenth birthday.

  There were fewer than a dozen small fish left to sell and she looked hopefully up at the door as she knocked on its painted surface. The door opened and before she could shout out the list of fish she had to offer, the woman shook her head and waved her away.

  Olwen’s heart fell. If Mrs Baker had bought from her she would have been able to go home and wash herself free of the fishy smell that followed her like an aura and attracted the wider aura of small flies.

  ‘No fish tomorrow, mind,’ she shouted, ‘it’s Saturday and Dadda takes all we catch to Swansea market, remember!’ She waited hopefully for a moment but the door did not reopen and she continued slowly up the hill.

  * * *

  Mumbles village where Olwen and her family lived was little more than a gathering of cottages where the inhabitants made their living from the sea. The beach which she had just left at the foot of the hill formed one end of a six-mile crescent with dunes and flat ground along its length. At the other end of the crescent of sand and shingle, to the east, was the town of Swansea.

  To the west of the village were steep cliffs, falling almost vertically down to jagged outcrops of rock, and small walled fields made a higgledy-piggledly pattern interspersed with narrow green lanes. In some, crops waved in the summer sun, and in others, sheep grazed contentedly on the rich grass.

  Below the cliffs, narrow gullies gave the fishermen the opportunity to gather lobster and crab to add to the fish caught from the boats that went out daily from the small harbour. On days when there was no market, women and children cooked or cured what they needed for themselves and, as Olwen was doing now, tried to sell any surplus.

  * * *

  Olwen looked up at the sun. It was already mid-morning on a fine July day, and if she did not sell the fish soon it would be fit only for feeding to the pigs. There was always William and Dorothy Ddole of course. The wealthy Ddole House, the largest in the village, had dozens of servants and workers, and Florrie the cook usually accepted anything she had to offer. But it was such a long walk and the weather was becoming so hot.

  A thin stream of water ran down the side of the lane and she gathered some in her small hands and poured it over the fish to make them look less dry and glassy-eyed, then continued upwards, calling,

  ‘Fresh fish, last few to sell cheap. Fish to sell cheap,’ until at last a door opened and a woman emerged, taking her purse from the pouch at her waist. She beckoned to Olwen with a scolding look on her face.

  ‘There’s a disgrace, your mother sending you out on such a hot day to sell fish for her! What’s she doing that she has to make you push that heavy cart? It’s work for a grown woman and there’s you hardly more than a baby!’

  ‘Going on fifteen I am,’ Olwen said, stretching herself up to look taller. ‘And Mam didn’t make me. It’s just that she can’t come herself, she’s going to have our new baby soon and the fish would have gone to waste. A-w-ful wicked that would be, the vicar was saying that only last Sunday in his sermon. Now, will you buy the lot for a penny, Mrs Powell?’

  ‘A ha’penny. I saw you trying to hide their staleness with water, my girl.’

  ‘All right then, a ha’penny, but Mam won’t be very pleased with me.’

  ‘And an extra farthing for your cheek,’ Mrs Powell laughed as she counted out the coins into the grubby hand. Olwen pocketed the money and with the cart rolling ahead of her, she ran back down the lane shouting back her thanks.

  She took the cart to the beach intending to wash it in the tide before pushing it home, but instead, leaving it behind a clump of wild spinach, she went to where a crowd was gathered around Kenneth-the-Post who was sitting discussing all he had learnt on his journey around Gower. He was the Letter Carrier for Mumbles and Gower and on Fridays, his day off, he habitually sat on the bank outside his house, smoked a clay pipe, which others filled for him, and allowed neighbours to ask about distant friends and exchange local gossip.

  Olwen approached the group but she had eyes only for Barrass. She watched his eyes, waiting for him to see her and smile. He was standing near the cottage, already at eighteen a tall young man but odd-looking with his ill-fitting linen shirt, baggy, half-rolled trousers, and bare feet. His appearance was further impaired by his shaved head and the patches of angry spots around his head and neck and on the exposed part of his legs. He was strongly built, with the gleam of intelligence in his dark brown eyes, but although many people spoke to him in a friendly way, he stood alone.

  Olwen called to him and clambered across the springy turf to stand beside him. She was rewarded with a smile.

  ‘What have you been doing – as if I can’t guess,’ he smiled. ‘Smell the fish before you come into sight I can.’

  The other young people, standing apart from him but near enough to hear, all wrinkled their noses in exaggerated dismay and she butted a few of them with her fair head before Barrass held her still, which was what she had hoped for. There was a wonderfully safe and contented feeling when Barrass held her, even if her mother did constantly warn her about standing too close to him. The fact that she defied the warnings gave her a certain notoriety and importance within the group of friends. She smiled around at the circle of faces and hugged Barrass even tighter.

  She dreamed of him being her special friend, although, as she was three years younger and looked half her age that was unlikely. Still, he didn’t tease her too much and he rarely ignored her, and for the moment that was enough. His strange appearance troubled her not at all. She looked into his eyes and saw the person, the outside trappings becoming unimportant, invisible, the reason for them forgotten – until she was harshly reminded of them.

  Kenneth-the-Post sat puffing on the long white pipe, looking important in spite of his lack of height. He wore the red waistcoat and tall black hat that was the unofficial uniform of the King’s Letter Carriers, even on this day when he had no official duties apart from entering in his books any letters that were handed in for forwarding to Swansea sorting office. The horn which he blew to announce
his arrival at the places where he stopped was at his side, a badge of his calling and a boost to his ego. The Letter Carrier was an important man in the small village where he lived and he never missed an opportunity to display his position.

  ‘An ale if you please, Ceinwen,’ he said to his wife, sharing a look of superiority among his admirers like an actor on a stage, ‘then I will rest ready for my early start in the morning.’

  Ceinwen, his plump, dull-looking wife who had been leaning out of the window of the white cottage listening to the chatter, disappeared inside to reappear in the doorway with a foaming pewter mug in her hand, a bored look in her brown eyes.

  ‘Can I come with you tomorrow?’ Barrass asked him. The young man stepped towards Kenneth as he asked the question and the crowd leaned away from him, some running with exaggerated fear and giggling at each other in shared amusement.

  Barrass appeared not to notice and he looked at Kenneth, his eyes liquid and pleading as he willed the older man to agree. ‘I have no work to do for Pitcher at the alehouse until the evening. I’ll carry your bag for you.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that, boy!’ Kenneth looked pompously outraged at the idea. ‘I alone have responsibility for that bag and its contents, you know that! But, all right, you can come. I’ll be glad of your company for part of the way. I have two letters for the Reverend Benjamin Hill, Rector of Rhosili, and it’s a long way. But keep your distance, mind!’

  When Kenneth stood and bade goodbye to his audience, Barrass rejoined Olwen.

  ‘Where have you left the cart?’ he asked. ‘Would you like me to push it up the cliff path for you?’

  ‘No, I’ll leave it by Dadda’s boat, it’ll be safe enough there, but you can help me scrub it,’ she said, and taking hold of his strong arm near the frayed end of his too short sleeve, she pulled him towards the beach while he mockingly laughed at her puny strength.

  Together they washed the wooden cart, scrubbing it with bunches of the reeds that grew around the earthen path, then she filled her arms with the rich green sea spinach for the family’s evening meal and set off home, parting from the tall, peculiar-looking boy with undisguised regret.

  The cottage where she lived with her parents, Peter – known to all as Spider – and Mary, and her brother Dan, was high on the cliffs above the beach and the village that huddled around it. Built of hardened, firmly pressed earth, it had been whitewashed at the beginning of every summer for many years and was a dazzling sight in the afternoon sun as she approached it. Spider was in the yard and she called as she ran towards him, chattering almost as soon as she was within hearing.

  ‘All the fish is sold’ she shouted, ‘and I’ve brought spinach for Mam to cook for tonight. Can I have a farthing for a bit of ribbon for my hair?’

  Her father stood up, tall and unbelievably thin, and shaded his eyes.

  ‘Damn me, girl. I don’t know where you get the strength from that little body of yours to make such a row! Hush for the sake of the people within the five miles that can hear you!’

  ‘Food will shut me up, Dadda. Will we cook the spinach for supper? Has the baby come yet?’

  Spider held out his long arms and lifted her up to hold her high against his chest.

  ‘Come you and see.’ He bent his head and lowered her carefully as they entered the small, dark room which was insulated from the sun by walls two feet thick and tiny windows covered with curtains of sacking tied back with cheerful ribbons.

  ‘Mam?’ Olwen whispered fearfully, the mysteries of child-birth making her tremble and cling more tightly to her father. He carried her up the ladder set on a bank of earth against the back wall that took them up to the two small bedrooms, one of which was divided with a curtain and shared by Olwen and Dan.

  Her mother lay on the bed on the floor near the small window. Her face, half hidden by shadows, looked tired and old, and Olwen felt fear tighten in her stomach. Then her mother’s eyes lit up and her face widened into a smile, and Olwen slid down from her father’s arms as the bed covers were lowered and the head of her new brother was revealed.

  She stared down, marvelling at the perfection of the tiny being.

  ‘What will we call him, Mam?’

  ‘How d’you know it’s a boy?’ Peter laughed.

  ‘Granny Hughes told Mam it would be a brother for me.’

  ‘She was right, and we thought to call him Dic.’

  Olwen savoured the name for a moment, frowning in concentration.

  ‘Yes, baby Dic. That will do fine. Where will he sleep? Will he come in with me or share with Dan?’ Olwen asked. ‘It’s a bit of a squash for us isn’t it?’

  ‘Always room for another cariad,’ her mother replied.

  ‘Then if there’s always room for another, couldn’t we ask Barrass to live with us until he finds a place?’ Olwen poured the words out, knowing it was the wrong time but unable to wait. ‘He’s been thrown out by Mrs Baker after only two weeks. Sleeping under a pile of old wood he is.’

  ‘You know we can’t, Olwen,’ her father said patiently. ‘He’s never free of fleas and your mother wouldn’t like the house overrun, now would she?’

  ‘I’ll scrub him myself, Mam, honest. I’ll go over every inch of him I will. I promise.’

  ‘No, Olwen. Until Barrass manages to stay free of those things he won’t find a place with any decent family, nice as the boy is,’ he added as Olwen began to pout. ‘Fond of him we are, and sorry indeed for his predicament, but we can’t give him a home.’

  * * *

  Olwen couldn’t sleep that night – partly because of the heat close under the thatched roof, and also because of the tiny baby, mewing occasionally, in her mother’s bed. It was an exciting thought, having a new brother to look after, and she gave up all attempts to sleep. Dressing quickly she went stealthily down the ladder and out of the house. She would sit on the cliffs and look down at the sea and think about Dic – and Barrass.

  The sea was so smooth she imagined she could walk across its dark blue surface all the way to the distant coastline of Devon, seen so often and looking so temptingly near. The fishing boats went across there often, she knew that, and had listened with envy to tales told by her father and Dan, and all the other men who earned their living from the sea. One day she too would leave the Village and travel to new places. For a while she daydreamed about setting off with Barrass carrying their possessions on his broad back to seek what adventures they could. Oh, if only her body would grow, so that such dreams were not so ridiculous.

  There was a quarter moon and its strange light did little to display the scene. Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and she could make out the rocks around her and the shape of the cottage behind her, only the thin edge of the thatch caught by the moon’s glow, a black silhouette huddled against black trees and bushes in contrast to the lighter sky.

  She lay back on the cool grass and thought about baby Dic and wondered if he too would be small like the rest of the family. He might be very tall, like her father and Dan, but without flesh on his bones to fill him out. Her brother Gareth, who had died while serving as a soldier, had also been thin, but not very tall. What chance had she of ever becoming rounded and shapely? She took in a deep breath and blew it out noisily in a sigh.

  How she longed to grow tall and womanly like Blodwen, the daughter of Ivor-the-Builder, who she frequently caught Barrass staring at with an adoring light in his eyes. Blodwen had always looked grown up and womanly, while she, Olwen-the-Fish still remained a child. Skinny legs that refused to show any curves, a body so thin she was often mistaken for a boy. Even the fringe of her hair was scrappy and uneven where she had tried to fashion it into curls and burnt it off with an over-hot poker. The rest of her fair hair was long and straight, but that did not seem to make any difference to her boyish appearance. She thought: Small, thin and looking so young, how am I ever going to make Barrass notice me?

  A chill breeze disturbed the grasses around her and she was about
to return to the house and her warm bed when she heard feet scuffling through the long grass behind her. She tensed, wanting to move but held by fear. Perhaps she would not be noticed if she kept very still – her frightened mind spared time to think that there was some consolation in being so small. The footsteps came closer and stopped, not far from where she sat trying to sink into the grasses and wild flowers. She held her breath, then a voice she knew said,

  ‘Olwen. What are you doing out so late?‘

  ‘Early more like, Barrass,’ she said, her voice trembling with relief. ‘There’s glad I am it’s you. I thought it might be robbers.‘

  ‘And what would you have to steal?’ He slithered down beside her and stared out across the glassy sea. There were still no white wave-edges to be seen in the milky darkness, the waves, even with the rising morning breeze, hardly making a sound as they touched and then left the rocks below them, the tide gently reaching fullness.

  She remembered her news and hugged his arm. ‘Barrass, I have a new baby brother and his name is Dic! What d’you think of that, then?’

  ‘Good news. Will you give your mother my best wishes? When it’s light I’ll gather some flowers for her.’

  ‘Pity it’s not a sister, mind,’ Olwen sighed. ‘It would be nice to boss a sister around. A brother will ignore me after a while and—’

  ‘Hush!’ He put a hand on her mouth to stop her chatter and they both sat straining their ears until the sound of a small boat, oars lightly touching the surface of the calm sea, reached them. Olwen nodded to tell him she understood and he removed his hand. They sat looking into the pearly light of the incipient dawn until their eyes gradually made out a small fleet of boats, shipping their oars as they reached the rocky cove below them.

  ‘Can we move closer to see?’ she whispered close to his ear.

  ‘No! It’s far too dangerous! Foolish girl!’

  ‘Please, Barrass. I can be so quiet I make a fish sound like a fairground, honest.’