There are many ancient towns in Dorset both large and small. Amongst the foremost in the north of the county is Sherborne. Now rather less prosperous than in former days, it still retains some of its old gradure.
The mediaeval street layout of this quaint place, for the most part, still remains. Not far from Sherborne Abbey lies Half Moon Street. That is its current name, in the dark and distant past it had a far less picturesque title. The reason why it is called Half Moon Street is a matter of fierce debate. In Half Moon Street there is a venerable inn called The Half Moon. The moot point is, was the street named after the inn or was the inn named after the inn?
For the purposes of our story it matters little because, deserving as it may be, there is another equally old and much superior establishment in Half Moon Street called The Plume of Feathers. I may be biassed but it is my belief that Half Moon Street should have been named Plume of Feathers Street.
As with any ancient English public house, over so many generations, the walls and fabric of 'The Plume' have absorbed a little of every person who has found comfort within them. Their laughter, their tears, their joys and sorrows but mostly their conversations. Every flack of a Domino, every thud of a dart have added some tiny elemental essence to what may be described as the soul of the building. It is no longer simply a construction of stone or brick, wattle and daub, thatch or tiles but has developed a life force of its own. Maybe not one that a biologist would recognise but one that a regular patron would feel.
It is a well known fact that ships are alway considered feminine and are referred to as she. What is less widely understood is that this also applies to pubs, inns and taverns. So, it doesn't matter if she is called The King's Head or The Dog's Bollocks she still demands to be treated as a lady. In fact, many men have regarded their local as a mistress, taking precedence over their wives.
Don't take this to mean that I believe that a pub is a woman or even human. No, I am describing something far more ethereal, far more mystical.
One striking difference between a human female and an English ale house is that no matter what conversations take place or what secrets are overheard, the ancient watering hole will never ever share them with a living soul. Well, usually, that is!
Now, I know that you have a curious mind and an interest in history so I am prepared to cross that threshold and break my secret oath, just this once. The reason that I do this is because I didn't fully understand the subtitles of an event the first time that it happened, and I'm not sure that I fully grasp it even now. I'm hoping that a mortal like you can enlighten me.
Since you are to be my confidante, you can call me 'Mistress'. Normally, I insist on being called 'The Plume'.
.......................................
In the hope that you can shed light on what puzzles me, I will recount a conversation that took place in the fairly recent past. Although at near-on five hundred years old my recent past may not be the same as yours.
England was at peace. There had been a war not long before. I know this because they had erected a memorial, nearly opposite my front door, where there once stood the old town hall. I still see its ghostly outline in the night. A few years later the good people of Sherborne would add more names to the memorial after another war in which Half Moon Street was badly damaged by something that fell from the sky.
Edward was seated in his preferred corner seat. I miss Edward, a quiet man with a gentle sense of humour. At this time he was about fifty years of age. I'm not the best judge of these things but I think that some women would find him handsome. He didn't speak about himself too often. He was quite a modest chap. From hearing other men talk about him I gather that he was a well respected stone mason, he'd even done a little work on me from time to time. I'd never heard anyone say anything unpleasant regarding Edward, which was fairly unusual in its own right.
This particular evening the bar was quiet. As Edward sat nursing his pint a young man slipped into the seat beside him.
"You're the mason, aren't you?" he enquired of Edward.
"That I am," the mason conceded.
"Do you mind if we talk a bit? I'm from out of town and I hardly know no-one."
The newcomer was in his early twenties. Cleanly but not over smartly dressed.
"Please yourself."
Edward had no intrinsic objection to conversation; it was just that he found most of the talk from the usual patrons banal. It wasn't so on the first occasion but after the umpteenth time of hearing it wore a little thin.
"I seen you working in the Abbey. I been doing a bit of chippying in there. That's what I do."
"I know," acknowledged Edward.
"I hope there'll be a bit more work during the renovations. There's nothing much going in Dorchester. That's where I'm from," said the carpenter.
"Should be that."
"I got a room in South Street."
"Comfortable?" enquired the older man.
"Not bad.
"My name is James by the by."
"I know, I heard two of the monks discussing your fancy carpentry on the choir stall repairs. They would never tell you but they were pretty impressed with the carving," said Edward.
"Why won't they say?" enquired the young craftsman.
"You may charge more next time. They will only ever tell you that it was satisfactory," laughed the mason.
James gave a little chuckle too. This was followed by brief silence.
"Do you do all of the stonework for the monks?" asked the carpenter, somehow thinking that the absence of sound would cause offence.
Never believing that quiet could do any harm, Edward, reluctantly feeling obliged to answer a direct question, said, "Most if it."
"I suppose that you has your own yard."
"Yes, behind the hedge in the corner of the Abbey Grounds."
And so the conversation continued through the evening. The young man taking the lead with the older man hoping that each question would be the last. Once, James touched on the subject of The Great War but the slightest raising of Edward's left palm was enough for the carpenter to understand that the mason did not wish to go there.
Occasionally, each of them would leave their seat to procure another pint for themselves, neither one offered to treat the other. Along with the Ale they received a cheery word and a smile from the barmaid.
Eventually, they were the only two customers in the room. The woman lifted the hatch and walked out into the bar. Both men followed her with their eyes as she collected the glasses and wiped the beer rings from the table of the patrons who had just left.
When she had returned to her sanctuary, James leaned a little towards Edward and said, "She has lovely ankles."
"She has indeed," came the reply.
Emboldened by a bellyful of beer, James added, "And a wonderful plump ass."
"There is no doubt about that," muttered Edward.
They sat quietly for a while, lost in their own thoughts.
"I liked her tits when she was behind the bar but now I've seen her bum, I likes that better," confided the younger man after the pause.
"Is that so?" asked Edward, not expecting a reply.
"Not like those skinny young barmaids you gets in some pubs, she looks a bit riper."
Edward explained, "Susan isn't just a barmaid, that's her name above the door. She's the landlady."
"Oh!" said James, before the thoughtful silence resumed.
As if he had eventually examined his feelings deeply and put them into a meaningful phrase that could be shared with the world, Edward blurted out, "I should like to tup her one!"
"You and many of the hundreds who have passed through that door before you," said Edward with a smile.
"Well, don't you ever feel like you'd like to fuck her then?"
"Yes, frequently," answered the older man.
"I'm sure that I could bring her much joy," said James.
They separately pondered the landlady. And no wonder, even now in her late forties, Susan Shergold was a magnificent looking woman with rich dark hair and a sensuous full figure. To a sober man she was very beautiful but to any man more than three quarters intoxicated she was the stuff of pure fantasy. Once Susan bestowed a smile on a customer she could have doubled the price of a pint of beer and they would have gladly paid it.
"I have lost count of the number of poor souls who have lusted after Susan. What makes you think that you have anything to offer such an angel as she?" asked Edward.
James considered for a few moments as if he was unsure whether he should answer or not.
"I have special gifts or talents if you like," he finally divulged.
The stone mason took a swig of beer, mainly to stop himself laughing out loud at the youngster's conceit.
"Oh yes, and what might they be if I may be so bold as to ask?"
James wet his throat, as much to give himself time to compose the words as from thirst.
"Well, you has to go real slow," he started.
"Slow?"
"Yes, you lets the pressure build up."
"Pressure?"
"I have found that a woman is like a gert steam engine. If you gets enough steam contained inside her when you finally pulls the whistle she screams. And she shakes too.
"If you lets the steam really build up she will even beg you to pull the chain and let the whistle rip."
"Beg?"
"Yes."
"How do you get such a head of steam then? Most men can only stoke the boiler for a short while," asked Edward, with the pretence that all this information was new to him.
