Blindingham Hall May 20th 1862

The welshwoman at the post office has been usurped!

For a number of years I have relied on her communication skills to find out, and pass on to others, the news that matters. Not in the World, of course, where most of us have no knowledge of decisions men make or the power to change them, but here in the village where life and death concerns are raw and faced daily. She uses the language of the valleys to convey information. She asks a question, to which the answer is already implicit, and has a remarkable way of making everyone she speaks to feel as though they are the only trusted recipient of her words. She makes me wish, for a moment at least, that I were Welsh myself.

But she has a rival, newly arrived and quite determined to become the messenger. He has come from London, where he was employed by a newspaper. His views were apparently widely sought, for a time. They tell me he would write long treatises on foreign affairs and have them printed in the finest of publications – the kind Josiah would stare at over breakfast and then smite the page with his hand as if he could have said as much himself if anyone cared to listen. The printing press run by Mrs Doughty would never produce such esteemed literature, but even I understand how important words appear when someone has taken the trouble to put them in a block and ink them.

This man introduces himself to us simple village folk as a ‘journalist’. I gather from what little French I studied that by using this title he believes his opinions assume daily import, but they are no longer presented on paper for all to see. Rather, he sits in the Inn and addresses which ever poor soul arrives for refreshment and a little company. I am sure he also addresses those who wish to be left alone, but I do not frequent the Inn myself so I can only imagine what being in his presence is like. As baby birds sit open-mouthed in the nest waiting for sustenance, the drinkers must turn to him. How vital he must feel, momentarily.

His name is Flinch, it appears. How apposite.

From what I am told by Villiers, who does attend certain gatherings there on his rest days, Mr Flinch has quite the bit between his teeth. His target is the men in London whose activity he used to note, and who still appear to operate without his observations. How pointless they must have been! He claims that he has knowledge the rest of us would be glad to hear, but he does not ever state what that knowledge is. Villiers says the man employs ‘tantalism’. Which I must interpret as meaning that the ‘news’ will be forever implied and never imparted.

I feel however, that the usual tasks and botherings of the people of Blindingham do not include how their superiors fill time not filled with actual work. I have resolved to avoid this man, should he ever attempt to approach me. Instead I shall rely on Welsh intelligence, such as it is.