A Barmaids Journey: A 17th Century Story of Love, Lust, and Survival in a Historic English Tavern

Author's note: This is a story, and the author is aware that it is not 100% historically accurate, although efforts have been made to ensure some degree of realism. It is a work of fiction, however, and intended to be no more than that.



Mary's Unexpected Journey

“MORE ALE, WENCH, MORE ALE!” the man cried, slamming his empty tankard on the wooden table, causing the flame from the candle in the centre to flicker. He and his three companions guffawed loudly and joined in a chorus of shouts for more, laughing, stamping their feet on the flagstones and banging their own tankards.

With a benign smile, Mary filled two pitchers of ale from the barrel of beer behind the bar counter and then, ducking under the oil-lamps that illuminated the bar, approached the men sitting at their table at the far side of the room.
Although they were getting a bit rowdy that was nothing unexpected – many sailors visited the port of Dartmouth, its deep-water tidal estuary and high valley sides were the perfect shelter for all sizes of ships. These men were no exception, hardened seamen each and, typical of sailors ashore, drinking heavily.

However, they had good humour, and tipped well. Mary was pleased to serve them, as she was most matelows, as her weekly wage of two shillings was paltry. Tips from wealthy customers could sometimes add several farthings to her pay.
Mary had learned that if she wore the top of her blouse pulled low, and strapped her corset tightly, that men loved to look down the valley formed by the gap between her generous bosom. Such men as those were inclined to tip more, and more often.

Mary was glad of her underbust corset, the only item of undergarments that she possessed. It held in her rounded tummy, and pushed up her breasts, giving her close to the figure she longed for, like the daguerreotypes of rich and regal ladies from London which hung in the foyer of the town hall.

How Mary wished that one day she might visit London, its glamour and mystique seemed a life removed from that of a poor orphan girl in a small Devon town. Perhaps she might even go to a theatre to watch a play by the man they called The Bard, who had died just a few years earlier.

At twenty, Mary was as old as the century itself. Her father, a Royal Navy bosun, had died at sea when she was aged two, in a skirmish with a vessel of the Spanish navy, and her mother had succumbed to smallpox four years later.

Her upbringing in the Orphanage of Saint Saviour's had been austere and bleak, gruelling physical work and harsh treatment. Memories of being awoken early on chilly winter mornings, washing in cold water, dressing in the dark then walking across to the adjacent Church of Saint Saviour's in order to clean and polish the ornate ironwork door, or dusting the interiors and seeing to the rood screen within came back to her mind.

Mary was slightly less unfortunate than some of the other children as an endowment, a legacy of her father's death in the service of the King, ensured that she received more substantial meals than otherwise, although she often gave some of her food away to other children who remained hungry even after the daily supper of vegetable broth and bread.

Beatings with a stick or belt were not uncommon, for girls as well as boys, although Mary often escaped punishment due to her capacity for hard graft and an aptitude for school lessons, a determination to one day escape her poverty driving her on.
She had proved an able and eager pupil in the classroom, learning her numbers by the age of nine, and her letters by thirteen.

Mary was shaken from her reverie as she reached the table, and began pouring ale from her pitchers into the tankards of the waiting sailors. Their speech was coarse but good-natured, bantering with the young woman.

“Har har har, lovely pair of jugs!” said one, chuckling heartily.

“Arr, I do keep thinking of peaches for some reason!” said another.

One of the men grabbed Mary’s buttocks through the pleats of her skirt as she bent forward, grasping tightly.

“OUCH!” exclaimed Mary, standing upright “Unhand me, sir, you cad!” she admonished, although she giggled coquettishly as she did so, well used to men pawing or groping at her.
The sailors all laughed loudly.

The men had already tipped her a penny each, a day's wages for a young barmaid, and she well knew that plenty of flirting would earn her more besides.

Most of the other customers had slipped quietly into the darkness of a Saturday night, the locals only too aware that bibulous seamen were best avoided, and although these were private merchantmen rather than Royal Navy sailors they could still cause trouble later.

Old Joe, who ran the inn looked over from his position behind the bar and rolled his eyes. Outwardly he tried to affect an air of disapproval of his barmaid's flirting but he knew that it was good for business, and usually prevented drunken mariners from causing damage in the bar.

Mary had worked for him for five years now, and had been one of the best girls he had employed in his score of years running the inn known as The Carv'd Angel. As Mary returned to the bar he heard the men shout once more.

“Landlord! Landlord!” they cried. One spoke up above the others.

“Some Marc, Landlord, some Marc!” he hollered.

Joe took a key from the pocket of his britches, opened a wooden cabinet on the back of the bar, and removed a bottle of pomace brandy. Pouring the clear liquid into four glasses he placed them upon a tray. Mary carried the tray to the table and set the glasses before the men. One called out to the innkeeper.

“Landlord! Another glass, if thee will!”

Affecting an air of puzzlement, Joe poured another measure and placed it on the bar. Mary took it to the table and set it down, but the men clamoured for her to drink it herself.

She glanced at Joe, who gave a tacit nod. It was nearing

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THE END