Tidetown by Robert Power Page A

where the gallows once stood and Joshua makes the sign of the cross in remembrance of his executed cousin. The rain begins to fall more heavily and through the deluge he hears the unmistakable clatter of horses and the wheels of the stagecoach. Joshua straightens his cravat, adjusts his hat and stands to attention, eyes fixed ahead.
    The stagecoach rattles to a halt at the crossroads, steam of perspiration vying with the rain on the horses’ backs. The packages and suitcases tied to the roof shift and settle as the wheels find purchase on the muddy road. Joshua nods to the driver and his offsider as the door opens and the postmaster gestures for him to step forward.
    â€˜Punctual as ever, Mr Barnum,’ he says, ‘come hell or high water.’
    â€˜Whether hell is yet upon us is still a matter for debate and conjecture,’ replies Joshua, the rain running off the rim of his hat. ‘But we can confidently predict high water this day.’
    The postmaster, a man of middle age, born and bred in Tidetown and renowned for having never misplaced a letter in his forty years of service, steps down from the coach and takes Joshua by the arm.
    â€˜Come this way,’ he says, leading Joshua away from the prying ears of those seated in the stagecoach, ‘I have the mayor’s packages and despatches, but I want you to take a message to him. In strictest confidence and secrecy.’
    â€˜Of course, of course,’ entreats Joshua, ‘you can be wholly confident in my adherence to secrecy.’
    The postmaster hands Joshua a small sack.
    â€˜Here is your master’s correspondence etcetera, but the other matter to impart is of gravest concern.’
    Thunder claps and lightning strikes on cue.
    â€˜There are,’ says the postmaster, whispering in Joshua’s ear, his warm breath a welcome relief from the fierce coldness of the day, ‘confirmed cases of the plague in the Greater Province.’
    He stands back waiting for Joshua’s reaction. Joshua purses his lips, takes a deep breath, then does his own whispering.
    â€˜The Black Plague?’
    â€˜Show me a plague that isn’t.’
    â€˜And this one?’ asks Joshua.
    â€˜The blackest,’ is the reply.
    By now two heads have appeared at the stagecoach door window, wondering at the cause of the delay.
    â€˜So,’ says the postmaster, for all to hear, ‘please pass on my best wishes to the mayor and be sure he receives all the messages.’
    At that he waves to the driver, climbs back into the coach and they set off on their way to the next stop. Joshua watches the stagecoach climb the hill to the edge of town, wondering if its cargo might harbour more than exotic spices, fancy cloth and the mail from Bray, the provincial capital.

THREE
    â€˜Hear ye, all persons! Ye people as many as ye are! I have done things according to the design of my heart.’ – Hatshepsut
    Walking on the pavement, confident of his place in the social order, the mayor is recognised by all. On approach, his most noticeable and distinguishing feature is his rotundity. As he gets closer the onlooker is taken by his sideburns. They are white and curly and fulsome: mutton chops, so called; though his huge belly loves not only its fill of mutton, but of venison and partridge, wild boar and pigeon, and all that the woods and hills around have to offer. If, as he passes close by, you were to bid him good morning, you may well be surprised by his rummy-red eyes and the broken veins on his bulbous nose. Too much fine wine, you might think, and you’d be correct. It is a favourite pastime of the mayor’s, to walk among his people; for caps to be doffed and greetings voiced. But this morning the mayor has yet to leave home for his daily promenade up and down the High Street. Standing at the top of the main stairs he is thinking that soon Mrs M will have finished preparing breakfast and he can revel in the repast before taking