Story for the Day: Importance of a Hat
Many in Frewyn wear various types of caps: Tyfferim flat caps, Kileen fishing hats, vintage tweeds, but only the Hallanys patchwork cap, though made in various styles, can mean one thing:
|My favourite hat from Donegal's Hannah Hats|
She would have responded with an equal assertion of her adoring her Big Beryn, but even the purposeful misconstruction was silenced when Beryn lay down and drew her into his arms upon him. He wrapped his arms around her, trapping her within his unassailable hold, and would caress and coddle her the few minutes before each of them must begin the day. In the midst of their gentle kisses and fondling of one another, Meraliegh’s legs began curling around her husband’s thickset waist, and her feet began brushing against the portion of him that had been so lately stirred.
“Gonna be late to the chandler’s if you keep doin’ that,” he said with a blithesome aspect. “You keep knockin’ me around, and I’ll never let you leave.”
Her cheeks flushed and she said her halfhearted apologies.
“Aye, you ain’t sorry,” he fleered. “And you shouldn’t be. I like bein’ abused by you.” A grin expressed his heartiest pleasure, and his thumbs running over her breasts conveyed that he was well prepared to give her his readiest attention whenever she should wish. “I was gonna give you somethin’ to celebrate your last day,” he said presently, noticing the sun’ languid ascent, “but I don’t think it’s better than what I just gave you.”
Meraliegh laughed and playfully tapped his chest. “You don’t need to get me anything.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it.”
She could not refute him, for though she might profess that he, as a dutiful husband, was required to hear her, he was never required to listen. She must brook his sumptuous presents for now, but all her remonstrances were forgotten when Beryn reached behind the bed and produced a small patchwork cap, made from various swatches of rough Karnwyl wool, and sewn together with so fine a thread as only the craftsmen of the west could warrant. Her lips parted in surprise, and her fingertips browsed the dyed tweed, relish every notch and imperfection of the carefully made piece.
“You’re an artisan now, Mer,” he said, fitting the cap jauntily upon the crown on her head. “You need a proper artisan’s hat.”
She was in a flutter of spirits, and took the cap into her hand to examine its unexceptionable craftsmanship.“Is this from Hallanys?” she beamed.
“Aye. My Ma made mine from what was left of my vest.” He plucked the cap from her hands and placed it backwards upon her head. “Thought you oughta have one,” he said in a soft voice.
Though she must deny the accusations of her being an artist or of being in possession of any small measure of talent, she could not disprove his benevolence. Beryn was all quiet goodness, forever acting in the right and never telling anyone of his conquests or boasting of his successes, and she therefore conceded to accept his gift if only she could reprove him again in so pleasurable a manner for giving her reason to be late on her last day as an apprentice.