The Toll Keeper by D.H.Williams

THE TOLL KEEPER
by D.H.Williams

The Toll Gate Lodge at one end of the bridge spanning the River Wye between Boughrood and Llyswen looked like a doll's house, painted white with a small border garden about one yard wide in front, gay, and continental with a galaxy of colour.
Miss Portnell always seemed to have been in the lodge. From my earliest years I can recall she looked older than anyone I had ever seen and she looked exactly the same some twenty years later, as did the tortoiseshell colour cat, the wired haired terrier and the brown Rhode Island Red hens.
She had a golden voice and spoke beautifully but only rarely. Her expression never seemed to vary, always kindly and patient, with the wisdom of generations in her eyes. Quite tiny, always dressed in black, and a multicolored feather in her little black, close-fitting hat, a yellow or gold high-necked blouse and around her neck black or coral beads hung low. Seemingly the same black costume, which never dated and yet never became shiny, black stockings and black leather, side buttoned boots, beautifully polished and preserved; they never looked as if they had been removed and always appeared to have just left the shoe-makers original lasts.

Miss Portnell's feet barely touched the ground when she sat on her chair in the little lobby of the lodge; we always thought of it as her throne room, painted white wood work with a light colour wall papered back-ground with the same honeysuckle design, a perfect setting for the dark skinned little lady.
Her skin was tanned to the colour of hazelnut, hands only a little darker and the children of the village wondered if she ever really washed, but her face always gleamed as though her daily toilet was simply an application of oil, although quite wrinkled one was never conscious of them.
Summer and winter, day and night she sat with twelve pennies clutched in her left hand. In winter months the only surrender to the elements was a dark stole.
During those dark nights, a hurricane lamp suspended on a hook attached to the door post provide the only illumination and revealed a still cameo portrait. Her brilliant eyes seemed to penetrate the night and the innermost secrets of all passed within the radius of the lamp. Quite startingly white teeth and her coral beads made a vivid contrast.
While the memory of the gentle, graceful, little lady is forever impressed in my mind, often I have wished for the artist's gift to recapture for others the serene stillness and unearthly delicacy of appearance she presented.
Miss Portnell always remained seated when pedestrians entered the gate or crossed the bridge; these paid her their pennies as if rendering their tribute to Cleopatra. She would rise and glide rather than walk, to accept six pence from the horse riders or gentry and others in their pony carts.
She never discussed her life with the villages or farm folk, merely giving the courtesies of the day. Nothing was known of her earlier life; she had been at the gate long before the oldest inhabitant could remember and when she died the book of her life was still sealed. In the whole district Miss Portnell was unique but accepted, a being apart, "The Lady of the Bridge".
This was strange in a community where the most minute happening was common knowledge and as commonly discussed, familiarity was such that usually surnames were only used for the occupants of the very few large houses and country residences, but the Toll Gate Lady was always included among the latter.
It could never be recalled that she had been absent from the chair,when the earliest cowman or waggoner went along in the mornings until after the last drunk from the public houses at each end of the bridge had gone home.
There came a morning when without warning the chair was empty. The Toll Gate Keeper had crossed some other bridge.

These pages are from the Llyswen & Boughrood - A Visitor's Guide to the Area
By Sylvia Williams - Click here to purchase an original copy of this charming booklet.