... and the sun is setting as a very old woman staggers into the pub under the weight of two giant sacks of what look like laundry. Her back is crooked and even if she were standing up straight, she'd likely rise barely to five feet in height. She speaks in a broad Cumberland accent, nearly unintelligible to most of you; it's almost Scots, honestly. She says to the barman Fred, "Evening Fred, mind I set down my bags and have a half of bitter?" "Right away, Clodagh," Fred says to the old washerwoman. As she looks around the place with squinted eye, seeing the long table full of young people and even children, she gazes quite openly at the outsiders and newcomers.
Jocasta will head up to the bar and order a pint of bitter for the table, apologizing in advance for the terrible manners of her American friends with a friendly wink.
Clodagh the washerwoman cocks an eye at Jocasta, one that feels like it drills into her very soul. "And thoo," she says in her thick accent and dialect, reaching for her foamy half-pint, "thoo is one o' them very same Americans, ne? Thoo is a lean and fit frow, t'be sure. Thoo fancy th'self a capper, a fighter, thoo might say?" Clodagh's gaze softens a bit as she reaches to take Jocasta's gloved hand. "Warrior woman," she says, "like t'ancients." Clodagh vaguely nods towards the front windows of the Stag, as if to point at the ancient circles dotting the landscape outside of Dufton.
Jocasta smiles quietly. "I became a warrior because I didn't know what else to be," she says, following Clodagh's eyes out to those ancient hills. She'll introduce herself and ask Cloagh's name, offer her a smoke or a pie, and ask her how long she's lived here.
"Lived in t'dale my whole life, lass," she says, nudging one of her laundry sacks with her foot. "Nigh on eighty year," Clodagh says. She doesn't take the cigarette but does accept the offer of a hot dinner.
Clodagh looks at Jo's hands. "Why t'gloves, dearie? Your poor hands must be dracked!"
"I touched something I shouldn't have recently, and I got burned," Jo says, hoping to avoid an awkward conversation. "I may go for a...ramble?...out in the dale soon. Anything I should see? Or shouldn't see?"
Clodagh smiles, finishes her beer and puts her hot pie in one of the pockets of her thick woolen smock-coat. "Ah, m'lassie, you'll see everything soon enough. Gloves or no gloves. The dale will speak to you. The voices will call across the hillside... the black voices, y'ken? They always hark to the sound of battle. You're one of hers. She'll call 'pon thoo. You'll ride with her. Under her wings." Will check for Jo. While this is going on, the barman, who is standing right near the two of you (it's not a very big bar at all, maybe room for six stools, tops) is pointedly (and gently and indulgently?) ignoring the conversation and every bit of addled nonsense Clodagh is babbling about.
So Jocasta is stunned for about two seconds after this monologue from the old washerwoman along with the fact that the barman doesn't even blink at it. In fact, Clodagh is now getting ready to head back out into the rapidly-darkening May evening.
Is there a way to do a Sensitive read on Clodagh without being obvious or weird about it? If so she’ll do that; if not, she’ll just go back to the table with the others looking spooked and lighting a cigarette.
So Jocasta's innate sensitivity makes her think that Clodagh is very likely addled mentally; her babbling is disorganized and confused and immediately make Jo think schizophrenia. But there are also definite pagan echoes here, with Clodagh talking about women warriors and black voices and dark wings. And the fact that she knew that Jo was a warrior—maybe not a wild guess given the nature of Dufton (and the basic fact that Clodagh seems to be a true local, not someone transplanted here by the Ministry of Defence, which means she knows about the outsiders here and their nature, especially if she does their laundry)—but still kind of spooky. But could she be old enough to remember actual pagan practices, which honestly still might be practiced in some of the more out of the way corners of the United Kingdom when she was herself a lass? That's also plausible.
“Well, much thanks for the advice,” Jocasta says, trying to keep her head on straight. “Be safe getting home now, walk the straight and narrow lie.” She’ll order a shot of whiskey on top of her pint and head back to the table, sharing her encounter.
Roger looks over at the old woman as Jo shares. Clothes, and so washerwomen, make for pretty important figures. Old, apparently addled women as well.
Roger turns to the more localish folks in the group: "Who is the old washing-woman?"
David says, "Oh, Clodagh's lived in the valley her entire life. From the few times I've spoken with her, she told me she began working for the MoD in housekeeping during the war when there were troops stationed here and has remained working for the village since then. Cumberland to her bones; I'm not sure if she's ever traveled further than 5 miles from Dufton in her life."
"Does she, uh, tell fortunes or anything?"
David and Catherine give each other a look. Catherine says, "She has a bit of a, shall we say, witchy reputation in the area, absolutely." David adds, "Well, I'm not sure about 'witchy,' Catherine... probably more proper to say something between village wise woman and local eccentric. It's an important social role in small villages like these, going back centuries." David seems to be putting on his esmological hat to explain Clodagh's role. The obvious undertone is that keeping her on here in the village as a laundress is an act of charity to a spinster with no apparent family to support her.
"There are washerwomen the world over in all kinds of villages who notice all kinds of things others don't."
David takes a moment to digest that, and nods in agreement. "That's a fair statement. And she's been here so long, of course."
"Well, not to play the tourist, but if you want to know a place..." Roger gets up and heads over to la lavandera. "Pardon me." (He waits trying to look respectful, to see if she reacts negatively before continuing.)
Clodagh was on her way out the door with her bags and her pie as Roger walks over to open the door for her. "Why, thank y', dearie. These old bones appreciate it." She shoulders her burden and makes her way out into the night.
She's heading across the town square towards one of the older brick buildings near the home where the Ransoms are staying; it was pointed out to you all as the logistics center for the village; MoD offices, administration, and facilities like laundry. Looks like her last load of linens from the guest houses is headed over for a wash tonight. Roger can definitely follow her but she's not as talkative with him as she was with Jo.
Fair enough. Roger will give her good night, offer a carry to the building, but let it go at that. His mother and aunt and many others tended to be proud, so he'll understand.
Jo sits by the old washerwoman's bedside. Clodagh cocks an eye at her. "Aye, I had a feeling I'd be seeing you again before you went back to America."
"How are you feeling, Clodagh? I'm sorry we couldn't ... we couldn't help you sooner."
"Help me?" Clodagh's voice croaks. "How did you help me? You took my lover away. You took him away and now I can't even remember his beautiful face anymore. And now I'm lying here too weak to even move my limbs. 'Help,' she says." Tears begin to well up in her eyes, pouring freely all over her wrinkled cheeks.
"No, you're right, we didn't help you at all," Jocasta says, swallowing hard. "It won't even do you any good to say we tried, or that I know what it's like to have someone you love disappear. There's no point in pretending any of this had a happy ending. I'm sorry."
Jo will quietly say "Anyway, we'll take care of you. As best we can." She slips off a glove and reaches over to Clodagh's hand, thinking at first to try psychometry or sensitivity. But after a moment, she changes her mind, and just walks out of the room, out of the medical ward, and off the base, far into the hills.