Free Poppies at the Well by Catrin Collier

She heard the sound of water and was waylaid. Worm’s Head and the sea were distant, and the afternoon languid. It would take only a moment, and she had until evening, a whole day free. Unimaginable luxury. She turned and climbed the downs, seeking the waterfall she sensed was near, but it eluded her. Perhaps in the next copse of trees …
    â€˜You looking for someone, Miss?’
    The man was tall, dark, rough-looking; neither young nor old. She looked no more. Instinctively, she lowered her eyes and backed away, for she was unused to people, only children, and afraid of men.
    â€˜No. I beg your pardon, I heard the water …’ Her voice trailed.
    â€˜It’s not a fall. Here, I’ll show you.’ He stepped back and moved some bushes. ‘I’ll not hurt you,’ he offered gruffly, sensing her fear.
    Warily, she inched forward, then she saw it, a spring gushing out of an old pipe set into a low, dry stone wall.
    â€˜They call it “The Well” – Talgarth’s Well. It’s not mine, though it’s on my land. Everyone has the right to draw water here. Not that they do,’ he murmured. ‘No one comes here any more.’
    â€˜Your land?’ she ventured shyly, looking around the wilderness that was the downs. ‘You live here?’
    â€˜Where I’m standing, Miss.’
    For the first time she looked past the greenery and saw the veranda. Stone-built, it blended with nature. Only the profusion of poppies betrayed man’s artifice. They were everywhere, their full round heads hanging heavy as though their stalks could no longer bear their weight. Here and there a bloom had burst into full crimson. The heralds of summer.
    â€˜It’s beautiful,’ she stammered. ‘It looks as though it was meant to be this way.’
    â€˜My grandfather’s grandfather built it. He carved his name and date over the door,’ he said proudly.
    She gazed at the cottage, long, low, straw-thatched, built of the same stone that littered Rhossili Down, marking the Norsemen’s graves.
    â€˜Would you like to see inside, Miss?’ he pressed. ‘It’s much the same as it was when the first Ellis brought his bride here.’
    Suddenly she remembered where she was. And the Mistress. The stern, uncompromising voice rang through her mind.
    â€˜Never speak to a man, Kitty, unless women are near. Men want only one thing, and once they have it, a woman is tarnished, used-up, despised by the world. Finished.’
    Wasn’t it true? Hadn’t it happened to her own mother? Where would she be now if it wasn’t for the charity of the Mistress? The London streets, a tawdry whore to be broken and dead before her time like the woman who had borne her.
    Terrified, she shrank from him. ‘No. I must go. The Mistress will be waiting.’
    â€˜Are you from the village?’
    â€˜No, the big house. I help with the children. I must go.’
    â€˜May I walk along with you?’ His voice was gentle, as though he sensed her fear, and the reason behind it.
    She ran. He followed. When she reached the carter’s track he spoke again.
    â€˜Forgive me, Miss, I know my manners are rough, but I see no one, living at the Well as I do. It’s a good life, but a lonely one. I’m sorry I frightened you. Please, will you come again?’
    â€˜I can’t,’ she whispered, her eyes downcast. ‘I have to work. There’s no time.’
    â€˜You’re here now.’
    â€˜You don’t understand. The children were invited out; there wasn’t room in the carriage for me.’
    â€˜You must visit your people sometimes,’ he persisted.
    â€˜No. I have no one to visit. I’m from London. The Mistress took me from the Institution. She’s been kind. I’d still be there if it wasn’t for her.’
    â€˜I’ve always wanted to see London. But I don’t suppose I ever will. I can’t leave