At The Love Spinning by Pamela Kavanagh

When the women gathered together, dreams were spun along with the wool . . .

SINCE time out of memory the lovespinning has been held at the Glebe. Situated on the crossroads between Leintwardine and Kinton, it is convenient for folks to get to, lumbered as they are with their spinning wheels and bulging sacks of raw wool.

Call it a silly custom, but there are few among us who doubt the power of the occasion.

With the menfolk packed off to the inn and taproom to talk of the French wars and the effect on corn prices, we women gather.

And when a gaggle of spinners get together, tongues will blab along with the rattling bobbins.

Names of any unattached males are dropped, their merits and suitability assessed. And along with the tattle, wishes are spun.

You make your wish, whether for yourself, sibling or acquaintance, and sure as nines there will be a hand-fasting or even a nuptial before next year’s gathering.

On this particular lovespinning I was making a special effort for Rosie Linton, who lived on a holding close by.

Rosie had not been herself since her man had passed on, and her with no childer to ease her grief or help bring in the harvest.

Why she had not been snapped up by now beggared belief.

She was comely still, with her summer-blue eyes and crown of honey-gold hair that was only faintly faded by the passing of time.

As a girl, I’d disliked Rosie for that hair, mine being a veritable bird’s nest, sparrow-brown and for ever escaping its pins.

She was shapely, too, whereas I was stringy, tall for a woman and plain.

What man would ever look twice at prim-lipped Nesta Pettigrew when there were others better endowed – like Rosie?

As I cleared my parlour for tomorrow’s gathering I reminded myself that I had much to be thankful for.

I had my house, sturdily stone-built like the church, not wattle and daub as were most dwellings hereabouts.

Tacked on to the side was the general store that made me a living.

I had a good head for business. Father had seen to that.

So why should I mind on this sun-filled day, the lanes throbbing with birdsong and the scent of drying grass sweetening the air, if my thoughts turned to the lantern that Mother used to light in the window to welcome Father home from market, and the empty cradle languishing in the loft beside the apples and strings of onions?

The tinkle of the shop bell roused me from my reverie.

I gave the table I was shifting a final shove and hurried through to answer the summons.

It was likely a harassed housewife run short of yeast for the morning bake, or lye soap for the floor.

But no, it was a stranger that stood across the counter, dwarfing the premises with his bulk.

“Good morrow to you, sir.”

“And to you, mistress.” He raised his cap, showing a mop of greying black hair. He had a strong face, all clean-shaven.

Rosie never liked a beard on a man, I reflected, my mind still cluttered with aspirations of an eligible male for my widowed neighbour.

“Can I help you?” I asked the stranger.

“I’m looking for Church Farm. Can you direct me?

“I’ve passed the church and this is Glebe House, which smacks of a connection, of sorts.”

He spoke with the lilt of the valleys. A Celt, then.

Brooding, yet there were laughter lines ringing his dark eyes and his mouth was made for smiling.

“That is so,” I told him. “The Glebe is said to have once been the home of the resident cleric as part of his benefice.

“That was long ago, of course. How it came to be in the possession of my line is a mystery.”

“So you’re a local lady.” He seemed curious. “My pardon, mistress. I would have placed you elsewhere by your manner of speaking.”

I smiled a little grimly. Mother was responsible for my schooled speech.

“What’s that? Dunna? Fie, child, it is ‘do not’! Do not let me hear you say that again.”

How those words came back to me across the years.

All I had ever wanted was to go with Rosie and the others and make tossy-balls from the cowslips that grew on the riverbank.

I’d soon learned to control the soft vowels and gentle cadences of my native Shropshire.

“I could say the same of you, sir,” I said, and this time my smile was easier.

He chuckled, eyes dancing merrily.

“There’s right you are! Once a Welshman, always a Welshman, isn’t it?

“But I mustn’t keep you. Would Church Farm be close by?”

“Fairly. Take the left-hand fork. You’ll come to it a half mile along the road.” I hesitated.

“You’ll find it rather neglected. Farmer Goodwin lost heart when his intended wed another.

“Some while back, it’s true, but it seems he’s not over it.”

The man grimaced. “Duw! Not a promising start, then, for one seeking work, and me a distant cousin of his. My name is Owen Tudor.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Tudor.” “And I yours, Mistress?” “Pettigrew. Miss Nesta Pettigrew.”

A thought struck. “I wonder, since you are bound that way, if you would mind taking Farmer Goodwin’s order for me?

“It’s not much, just bacon, tea and such. I’m hosting the love-spinning on the morrow and shall not be able to deliver it myself.”

“Indeed I’ll take it, and glad to. A love-spinning, you say? That’s new to me.” My cheeks grew warm. “Just local nonsense, no more,” I said, and turned away to assemble Farmer Goodwin’s weekly rations.

With the provisions loaded into the panniers of Owen Tudor’s sturdy brown cob, I watched him ride off.

Then I returned to preparing the parlour for the morrow.

First to arrive was Rosie Linton. Very fetching she looked, in her pleated poke bonnet and flounced tippet.

She gave me a dimpled greeting, set down her spinning wheel and from her sack of wool gave me her contribution to the feast later; a linen cloth of delicious honey cakes.

“Hast heard the latest, Nesta? Seems Church Farm has a visitor.”

How quickly word spread in these parts. Sneeze twice before midnight and you’re asked how your head cold is next morning.

“A Mr Owen Tudor, yes. He called by yesterday to enquire the way.”

“Yous seen un? How did he look?”

“Oh, genuine enough.” A contender for Rosie? Maybe, if he stayed on at the farm. If he wasn’t already wed.

“Owen Tudor.” She rolled the name reflectively on her tongue. “It dunna have a Shropshire chime to it.”

“He’s a Welshman,” I said, glancing up. “Hark, here come the others.

“Best claim your seat, Rosie, or you could end up perching on a kitchen stool.”

In twos and threes, the company trooped in.

Spinning wheels were set up, frothing swathes of wool wound on to distaffs.

Soon the parlour rang to the busy whirring of bobbins and a regular clack of voices.

We gossiped and spun and made our wishes. At least, some did.

There were one or two needy males in the district who might have suited Rosie, but yesterday’s encounter had thrown me.

So I left off casting my wish for now. And a good thing, too.

For halfway into the morning there was a rapping on the door, which opened to admit the newcomer himself.

The whirling and clacking stopped. All over the parlour, eyes narrowed on the fellow who stood smiling before us.

“Greetings, ladies. Forgive the intrusion, but I wanted to introduce myself and this seemed a good way to start.

“Owen Tudor, and there’s pleased I am to be here.”

Ah, how handsome he looked in the dimsey light of my parlour. How tall and strong.

And, ah, the fluttering and sighing that went on all around.

Rosie sat in front of me. I leaned forward and whispered.

“Rosie, why not offer our guest a cup of elderflower wine? And maybe one of your honey cakes?”

She jumped to it. How could he resist pretty Rosie Linton with the summer-blue eyes and only slightly fading hair?

How could he resist pretty Rosie Linton?

After our guest had gone, having toasted us all with the elderflower, and spinning resumed again, I made my wish for Rosie.

There, it was done, and if I had a trickle of regret that the request was not for me, I strove to overcome it.

To move matters along it seemed wise to give things a helping hand.

“Rosie,” I said the following Monday when she called at the shop. “I’m finding myself extra busy at present.

“Would you be interested in taking over one of my delivery rounds?

“The pony’s a biddable creature and I’d make it worth your while.”

I named a payment; Rosie’s eyes gleamed.

“’Twould come in useful, that. Where would you be wantin’ me to deliver to?”

“Just Church Farm every Tuesday. I can manage the rest but this one is out of my way and involves an extra journey.”

“Church Farm? Why, I be glad to,” Rosie said, beaming.

She started the very next day and was back promptly, all agog with happenings on Farmer Goodwin’s weedy pastures.

“Mister Tudor, him’s settling in some. Like a new broom about the place, him is. Them’s ploughing the five-acre.”

“Them?”

“Him an’ Farmer Goodwin. An’ a grand job’s been done with the barn roof. More holes than slate, it were.”

“Farmer Goodwin has mended it?”

“Nay, the other un. Mister Tudor.”

She never was one to make herself clear, Rosie.

What did become clear, as summer rolled on, was her dropping of the formalities at Church Farm.

Mister Tudor became Owen, and Farmer Goodwin, Tobias.

That seemed an unlikely name for such a scruff of an individual but I refrained from saying so.

“An’ the other’n, him’s Owen Glyn Tudor, so him told I.”

“You seem to be getting on well.”

“Oh, aye,” Rosie said quaintly.

Also noticeable was that the interval between leaving and returning became longer. The excuses were manifold.

“Stayed on to wash the kitchen floor, I did. A proper disgrace, ’twere.

“Well, two men muddlin’ along in there, what else can you expect?”

Or, “It didna seem right, them having to find a bite to eat after a long day’s work abroad the fields.

“I scrubbed some taters an’ made a pie for supper.”

She looked at me in concern.

“You dunna mind I bein’ late, Nesta?”

“Not at all,” I replied. For why should I? The extra mouth to feed meant a bigger grocery order and more cash in the till.

And yet, each Tuesday, when Rosie drove off to the farm, I had a fancy for it to be my hands holding the pony’s reins, not Rosie’s.

One August evening I was wrestling with the front gate, which was leaning on its hinges, when there was the clop of hooves on the pebbled road. Owen Tudor appeared on his cob.

“‘Evening,” he said, reining in. “Trouble, is it?”

“I fear so. The gate won’t close properly.”

He dismounted and inspected the problem.

“It’s a new gatepost that’s needed here. This one’s rotten and the hinges have come adrift.

“The other post could do with replacing, too. I’ll pick up some timber tomorrow and attend to it.”

He was as good as his word. Next evening I had two fine new gateposts and a gate that swung perfectly.

Owen then ran his eye over the sagging guttering on the stable.

“A nail or two wouldn’t come amiss there. I’ll see to it. Wouldn’t want it to come away entirely.”

Another time it was the fencing to Bessie’s field that came under scrutiny, then the woodshed door.

All the sorry disrepairs that had accumulated since Father had passed on were quietly being put to rights.

Owen even called at the market for shop supplies when I strained my back, and stacked it all away for me in the store-shed.

He closed the door of the shed and turned to me with a swift gesture of his hand.

“There you are, my lovely. All done.”

“You are uncommon free with your endearments, sir,” I said.

He looked at me askance. “Ah, but I can think of better than that.” “Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. What about cariad?”

“It has a sweet sound to it. Like the wind in the grass.”

Was this what he said to Rosie? A love-word, perhaps? I frowned. “What does it mean?” “That would be telling. I will say this, though.” “Well?”

“If I don’t get back promptly I shall be in trouble! Rosie will have the meal waiting, see.”

He mounted the farmcart with no further delay and drove off, leaving me standing there, bereft, listening as the rattle and clatter of departure faded.

So it continued, until chilly autumn winds replaced the mild breezes of summer.

Every Tuesday Rosie would take the pony and trap to Church Farm and deliver the order.

And now and again Owen Tudor would drop by to attend to some repair about the place, or sometimes to make a purchase from the store.

He could have taken the weekly order himself, but it was never suggested.

I looked forward to Owen’s visits. He was easy to talk to. He made me laugh.

“There’s good,” he said one day as I chuckled over an especially amusing incident at the farm. “What is?”

“To hear you laughing. There’s very infectious laughter you have, Nesta.”

“Mayhap I’m making up for lost time. Merriment was in short supply in my youth.

“My folks were, well, call it serious-minded. They meant it for the best.”

“Of course they did. They wanted the best for their beautiful daughter.” “Beautiful? Me?” “Yes, indeed.”

How soft his voice had become, how gentle. His eyes smiled, meeting mine, and I was all of a fluster. “Nay, sir, I think not.” “Oh, away! Name one thing that doesn’t please you about yourself.”

“My hair. It’s a trial. And I found two grey ones this morning.”

“That many?” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Duw! You’ll soon be in your dotage, girl!”

The twinkle was back, teasing. How treacherously my heart did beat.

“And I’m gawky. Tall for a woman.”

“Ah, cariad, doesn’t that make it all the easier for kissing?”

To my astonishment and delight he cupped my chin in his big, warm hand and did just that.

After he left, I waited in an agony of trepidation for Rosie to return.

She arrived, later than ever, her eyes bright and face flushed.

“Oh, Nesta, Owen’s told I about ’ee an’ him. I’s so glad for ’ee.”

“Glad? I thought you’d be mad as a cat!”

“Why for should I? ’Twas what I wished for at the love-spinning.”

“You did? But Rosie, I wished him for you!”

“Did ’ee? Well, happen the Fates knew better. Dunna be so dumbstruck!

“You an’ him, youse so right together, how could a body not help wishing for ’ee to be wed? Tes worked out a treat for both of us.”

She smiled and there was no mistaking the dreams in her eyes.

“Me an’ Tobias be hand-fasted. An’ you be the first to know of it.”

I stared at her in shocked surprise.

“You and Farmer Goodwin? But he’s so . . .!”

“Scruffy as a rag mop? No more. Him’s smartened hisself up summat grand. Inna it wunnerful what love can do?”

“Indeed it is,” I said breathlessly.

Rosie looked suddenly serious.

“Ah, Nesta. When us were young ’uns I used to envy you summat dreadful.

“I’d try to mimic your way o’ speaking. Gentrified, like. I cunna manage it, though.”

“It was your hair I craved! I wanted to be fair to look upon so the boys would choose me to walk out with. They never did, of course.”

“What a pair o’ dopes! All that frettin’ an anguish! It didna do no good, did it?

“A body has to be true to herself an – oh, Nesta, I’s so happy for us both!”

“Me, too,” I told her, and we clasped hands, laughing and crying all at once.

A double nuptial was a rare event. Ours took place in April, puff-ball clouds in the blue, larks calling and lambs frolicking.

At the wedding feast, talk among the menfolk turned back to that all-absorbing topic of the problems in France and the corn trade.

But we women had more immediate concerns.

The love-spinning and what might happen next time, given a wish, a following wind . . . and maybe a little gentle coercion. ■