Angola Gaffletter Chapter 5.

Chapter Five.

 

A First Meeting.

 

Corning Muppert probably knew as much about wool as any man alive. He had spent half his life buying fleeces from farms around Nether Wintle, and the other half explaining to customers why some wool was perfect for blankets, some for knitting, and some only suitable for stuffing draught excluders.

He could tell a good fleece from a disappointing one at twenty paces. He could judge a sheep’s future simply by the set of its shoulders. And by running his hand over a bale, he could tell whether the flock had grazed on rich pasture or scrubby hill grass.

So when he was offered bales of wool grown by the Lollingfolly family, he was delighted.

Their sheep roamed the high moors of the West Country, wandering over rough ground with the calm confidence of animals whose ancestors had been doing exactly that since Queen Elizabeth I. The flock grew a fine, long‑threaded fleece, the sort that kept them dry in rain, warm in wind, and faintly smug in all weathers.

Corning ran his hand over the first bale and nodded with deep satisfaction.

“Proper wool,” he said, the highest praise he ever gave.

Lollingfolly fleece had a wonderful character: soft but strong, smooth but sturdy, and carrying a faint clean scent of moorland air. It spun beautifully. It wove obediently. It behaved itself on the loom. And Corning liked wool that behaved itself.

It was expensive, of course, Cudwick‑under‑the‑Moor was a long way from Nether Wintle, but the cloth it produced was so good that Corning knew he could still make a respectable profit.

He kept the Lollingfolly wool in his warehouse, stacked neatly in the dry corner where the roof never leaked and the mice never dared venture. From there, he sent it to local mills and weavers’ sheds for processing.

Zambezi Lollingfolly Senior arrived in Nether Wintle on a mild Thursday afternoon, the sort of day when the air smelled of warm stone and the church clock chimed slightly too often.

He arrived sitting in the back of Corning’s wool cart. Not as cargo, Corning would never treat a person like freight, but perched comfortably on a folded tarpaulin beside the bales, his small suitcase tucked under one arm.

He had travelled all the way from Cudwick‑under‑the‑Moor: three counties, several hours, and roads that were never quite flat. But Zambezi didn’t seem troubled. He was a calm boy. A steady boy. The sort who looked at new places with quiet interest rather than alarm.

The Lollingfollys trusted Corning with their wool, and so they trusted him with their son. Zambezi sat without fuss, watching hedgerows roll past and occasionally asking the names of the villages.

Corning answered in his usual economical style:

“Stoke.”

“Little Stoke.”

“Stoke‑on‑the‑Hill.”

“Not Stoke.”

Zambezi nodded each time, storing the information away.

When they reached Nether Wintle, Corning pulled up outside the drapery and helped him down. Zambezi stood for a moment, taking in the tall church spire, the neat cottages, the smithy’s open door, and the saddler’s shop with its wooden sign swinging gently.

He didn’t say anything. He simply breathed in, testing the quality of the air.

Angola, sweeping the drapery step, looked him over with brisk assessment.

“Clean,” she murmured. “That’s a good start.”

Zambezi was eighteen, tall, and carried himself with the steady calm of someone raised among sheep and wide horizons. Nothing dramatic. Nothing odd. Just Zambezi Lollingfolly, ready to begin whatever life Nether Wintle had in store.

Corning clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Right then. Let’s get you settled.”

Widow Landy lived two doors down from the saddlery in a narrow house with a steep staircase and a garden that produced far more mint than any one woman could use. Her husband had died years before, leaving her with a modest pension, a tidy nature, and a spare room she let to respectable young men who needed supervision.

It was the obvious lodging for Zambezi.

Corning delivered him to her gate with the same care he reserved for high‑grade wool. Widow Landy looked him up and down with the brisk eye of someone who had seen every type of lodger and knew instantly which ones caused trouble.

Zambezi passed inspection immediately.

She showed him the spare room: a narrow bed, a washstand, a chest of drawers, and a small window overlooking the mint patch. The wallpaper was faded, but the room was dry, warm, and respectable.

Zambezi thanked her politely.

“You’ll take meals in the kitchen,” Widow Landy said. “Breakfast at seven. Supper at six. No boots on the stair carpet, no tools on the table, and if you come in late, you’ll do it quietly.”

Zambezi nodded. He was used to rules. She was used to giving them. It was an excellent arrangement.

Across the street, Botswana, nearly sixteen and hard at work in the saddlery, saw him arrive. She gave him a brief glance before returning to her polishing. He was simply a new apprentice moving into Widow Landy’s, and she had buckles to shine.

That evening, Zambezi unpacked his suitcase and listened to the village sounds: the smithy’s hammer, the church clock, and distant sheep. He felt quietly confident that Nether Wintle would suit him well.

He had been sent north to learn the wool trade properly. The Lollingfollys grew superb fleece, but they needed someone who could grade it, sort it, and negotiate with mills. Corning Muppert was the finest teacher around.

Zambezi looked forward to starting work in the morning.

He reported to the warehouse at precisely seven o’clock. Widow Landy had sent him off with a thick slice of bread, a stern reminder about punctuality, and a knitted scarf she insisted he would need “because the weather here has no manners.”

Corning was already unlocking the double doors.

“Good. You’re on time. Wool likes punctuality.”

Zambezi wasn’t sure wool had opinions, but he accepted the statement.

The warehouse smelled of lanolin, dry timber, and moorland fleece. Bales were stacked in tidy rows. Zambezi recognised his family’s mark on several and felt a quiet pride.

“Right,” Corning said, handing him a wool‑grader’s knife and leather gloves. “We’ll start with sorting.”

He opened a bale carefully. “Your family’s fleece. Long staple. Good crimp. Weather‑proof. Behaves itself.”

He held a handful up to the light. “Long fibres spin smooth. Short fibres make trouble.”

He passed the fleece to Zambezi.

“Sort it by character,” Corning said. “Feel it. Stretch it. Wool tells you what it wants to be.”

Corning demonstrated: separating locks, testing strength, checking for breaks, laying each handful into its basket. Then he stepped back.

“Your turn.”

Zambezi began slowly, then with growing confidence. His hands were steady, his eye sharp, and he had the patience needed for the work.

“You’ll do,” Corning said at last. “You’ve got the feel for it.”

By noon, Zambezi had sorted half a bale. Corning explained which mills wanted long staple, which preferred softer crimp, and which paid extra for weather‑resistant fibres.

At one point, Botswana passed the open doors on an errand. She saw Zambezi bent over the sorting table, sleeves rolled up, working in deep concentration. She nodded politely. He nodded back.

By day’s end, Zambezi’s hands smelled of lanolin, his shirt was dusted with wool fibres, and he felt he had learned more in eight hours than in eight years.

“Good start,” Corning said. “Tomorrow we’ll teach you how to judge a fleece at twenty paces.”

Zambezi set off down the street, thinking hard about wool grades. Because he was thinking so intently, he wasn’t watching where he was going.

At that exact moment, Botswana stepped out of the saddlery carrying a tray of brass buckles.

They collided, not hard, but enough to make the tray rattle.

“Oh! I am sorry!” Zambezi exclaimed, reaching out to steady the tray.

Botswana blinked.

He had seen her earlier, but only as part of the scenery. This was the first time he looked at her properly. She was small and brisk, with dark hair pinned neatly and a faint smudge of polish on her cheek. Her eyes were sharp, bright, and completely unimpressed.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she said matter‑of‑factly.

“Yes,” Zambezi agreed. “I certainly should.”

She reclaimed the tray with a nod and walked on. Zambezi stepped back, feeling foolish but faintly amused.

Back at Widow Landy’s, Zambezi washed his hands until they squeaked.

“I… bumped into a girl today,” he said casually.

“Which one?” Widow Landy asked.

“She works at the saddlery. Small. Dark hair. Very brisk.”

Widow Landy snorted. “That’ll be Botswana Muppert.”

“She seems very… efficient.”

“That’s not the word most folks use,” Widow Landy said. “Dreamy or scatterbrained, usually.”

Zambezi dried his hands, still thinking of the rattle of buckles and her unimpressed stare. “She seemed nice enough.”

Widow Landy gave him a stern look. “You’re here to learn wool, not make eyes at local girls. Set the table.”

Zambezi obeyed, slightly amused.

Across the street, Botswana was putting buckles away when she remembered the sharp ping the tray had made when Zambezi caught it.

She paused.

He had steady eyes, she thought. The sort that belonged to someone who didn’t mean harm.

He didn’t mean to bump me. He was thinking about something else. Wool people always are. He’s new. He’ll learn.

She put the buckle away and picked up her dusting cloth.

He’s a nice sort, she thought simply.

She didn’t dwell on him. There were straps to finish and a saddle to check. But somewhere in the back of her mind, tucked away like a spare button, remained that quiet certainty:

Zambezi Lollingfolly was a nice sort.