The Ballad of John Clare E-Book

Hugh Lupton

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 362

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The Ballad of John Clare tells the story of twelve momentous months in the early life of John Clare. We see him courting his childhood sweetheart, labouring in the fields, having his first sexual encounter and playing the fiddle with the village band. Above all we see him at one with the landscape that would be his life-long inspiration. However, this is no rural idyll. The enclosures are about to begin, taking the village land held in common and parcelling it out to the local landowners. Starvation and malnutrition are a constant presence and rural England will never be the same again. The Ballad of John Clare vividly brings to life the villages and countryside around Peterborough as it would have been two centuries ago and allows us to empathise with the young John Clare. Educated beyond his class, the peasant poet is about to emerge on his short and tragic career.

Leseprobe

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

The Ballad of John Clare

For thirty years Hugh Lupton has been a central figure in the British storytelling revival. He tells myths, legends and folk-tales from many cultures but his particular passion is for the hidden layers of the English landscape and the stories and ballads that give voice to them. He has written several collections of folk-tales for children.

The Ballad of John Clare is his first novel.

For Elizabeth McGowan, with love.

Contents

Title

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

Dedication

  1Rogation Sunday 1811

  2May Day

  3Bird Nesting

  4Sheepshearing (Day)

  5Sheepshearing (Night)

  6July Storm

  7Harvest (The Assize)

  8Harvest (Horkey)

  9Michaelmas

10All Hallows’ Eve

11St Thomas’ Eve

12Christmas

13Plough Monday

14St Valentine’s Day

15Shrove Tuesday

16Easter Monday

17Rogation Sunday 1812

18A Dream

Author’s Note

Glossary

Copyright

 …While the mice in the field are listening to the Universe, and moving in the body of nature, where every living cell is sacred to every other, and all are interdependent, the Developer is peering at the field through a visor, and behind him stands the whole army of madmen’s ideas, and shareholders, impatient to cash in on the world.

Ted Hughes

1

Rogation Sunday 1811

There is nothing of the parish of Helpston that I cannot see and hear. Like the bees whose skeps nestle against the churchyard wall and who have been busy in the April sun, I scatter myself across the parish and return at dusk burdened with happenstance.

And so it must be until he who keeps me from sleep joins his loam to mine.

At eight o’clock this morning the bells swung and filled the air with such sound as sundered the people of the parish from breakfast or kitchen or stable or yard and out to Butter Cross where Parson Mossop waited upon their coming. Almost every soul was there, for who among the hungry would not tread a few miles for the promise of meat and ale? And who among the prosperous would not gloat upon their charity?

The Turnills were there, the Crowsons, Closes, Wrights, Dolbys, Bains, Wormstalls, Bullimores, Royces, Samsons, Bellars, Farrars, Clares, Burbridges, Billings, Turners, Dyballs …every one of them buttoned up tight against the damp. The air was racked with sounds of coughing, of scolding mothers, murmured talk and stamping feet. There was a thin drizzle and the air was chill.

On the steps of the cross Jonathan Burbridge and Samuel Billings waited. Jonathan sat with his bass-viol enclosed entire in its canvas sack between his knees, only the spike jutting out beneath and stirring the wet turf at his feet. A few wood shavings, that any wife would have brushed away, clung to his beard, betraying that he had been at work upon the Sabbath. Sam Billings, who is as fat as Jonathan is lean, hammered wedges beneath the cords of the great bass drum that had grown slack with the dampness of the air. He looked up from time to time at the gathering crowd, his eyes shrewd and blue as corn-flowers.

Then Dick Turnill pushed forward from the crowd and sat between them, screwing together the three parts of his flute and blowing it clear.

Parson Mossop pulled the watch from his pocket, studied it, shook his head and slipped it back. He whispered to Sam:

“You promised me the full village band Mr Billings, and there are but three of you.”

Sam turned his pink face to the parson, frank as the full moon:

“They’ll come sir, I give you my word, they’ll come.”

The clock was creeping upon the quarter hour when they came, all three at once.

“Here are your fiddles, sir.”

“Ah,” said Parson Mossop. “Three sheep that have wandered from the fold. But no doubt they can bleat as well as any.”

Leading the way came Old Otter, his white beard spread square as a spade across his horn-buttoned jerkin, bright-eyed as a robin. He had the smell of an old ham that has been long smoked in the chimney. He stepped down the street jaunty as a jackanape, his fiddle tucked under his arm. Behind him trailed the other two who had tried to match him pot for pot the night before. John Clare and Wisdom Boswell dragged their feet up Woodgate, past the Bluebell towards the waiting congregation.

The curled crown of John’s head, lowered as though a little heavy for its neck, fell short of Wisdom’s shoulder. Broad shouldered, high of forehead, shaped a little as a circus dwarf though with legs that are in proportion and comely, John stands dimute and small, being some five feet tall from head to foot. His mouth is full and red and wet as though he would lift the rim of the world to his lips and gulp it down. Few in the village can get the measure of him. He is bookish and solitary and cannot seem to set his hand to any trade. One minute he will be muttering to himself and crouching beneath a hedge or inside a hollow dotterel scribbling onto a scrap that he holds against the crown of his hat, the next he will be picking a quarrel with some village Hickathrift. Around his neck he was wearing a scarf as yellow as gorse.

Wisdom Boswell cut a very different figure. Dark where John is fair, thin where John is stocky, tall where John is squat. He has the restless, hungry, gangling stance of an unbroken colt. His sharp, high cheek-bones are softened by a dark down that has never known a razor. He is one of the Boswell crew that camps on Emmonsales Heath, and as close a friend as John has got. Though he’s seen no more than seventeen winters there’s more he could tell of the roads and lanes that snake beyond the parish bound than most who have lived here a lifetime. But such knowledge counts for little. He and his kind are considered little better than vermin by most in the village, for even the poorest of the poor know their place and must find some soul to hold in greater contempt. Wisdom, though, because he can scrape such a reel from his fiddle as’d set the dead to cutting capers, has won a place in the village band.

John and Wisdom stepped gingerly up to Butter Cross, their bedraggled coats drawn across their shoulders, their fiddles held beneath. They were greeted with a tutting and a muttering and a shaking of heads from the waiting crowd.

Bob Turnill whispered to his wife:

“There’s Parker’s boy going to the devil again, and keeping company with tinkers.”

Parson Mossop nodded to the churchwardens, who tapped the stone of Butter Cross with the foot of the processional cross. Sam Billings began to beat a steady measure from his drum. The bells fell silent and the congregation made its way along West Street following parson and churchwardens towards the open fields. Each kept to his own. Farmers walked ahead with their wives or aged parents on their arms. Tradesmen walked with their families. Apprentices and housemaids bantered and gave each other the eye. There were babes in arms and toddlers clutching mothers’ skirts. There were children squabbling and laughing and weaving in and out of the crowd, some bare-footed and others with shoes to their feet. Labourers and their families came next. Those with a few farthings to spare had brightened their working smocks with ribbons or printed cotton scarves to their bonnets or throats.

Last of all came the parish paupers, the old and sick, some with their feet bound with rags, eager for the promise of food. They clicked and clacked their sticks and crutches, they coughed and cursed and called upon the rest to slow down. When the village houses were left behind they broke from the procession and turned away from the crowd. They made their hobbling, shuffling way straight to Snow Common to wait upon the Rogation feast.

The rest of the procession followed the road westwards, with Heath Field lands all fallow to the south and speckled with sheep and cattle. To the north the long furlongs of Lolham Bridge Field, with their new growth of wheat and barley, made a patchwork of dark and paler greens.

When King Street came into view the children - all at once - surged forwards with a sudden shout and raced towards the meer-stone that marks the parish bound. The first of them to beat the bound and strike head to stone receives some sweet token. They ran full tilt, their heads back, gasping at the air. The little ones were quickly left behind. It was Tom Dolby who first butted the stone and he will not forget it, for he was rubbing his head still when Mrs Bullimore caught up with him and popped the sugar plum between his lips that made all well again.

The churchwardens tapped their cross against the stone and Parson Mossop lifted his Bible and read from the book of Joel:

“Be not afraid, ye beasts of the field: for the pastures of the wilderness do spring, for the tree beareth her fruit …and the floors shall be full of wheat, and the vats shall overflow with wine and oil … and ye shall eat in plenty and be satisfied.”

“Ay,” whispered Parker Clare, “Ay, if you be a parson.”

“Shush.” Ann Clare put her hand across his mouth.

“We will sing psalm one hundred and four.”

High above the parson’s head a lark spilled its melody out upon the air. The band, all but Wisdom Boswell who knows nothing of hymns or psalms, lifted their instruments and played the opening phrase. The crowd broke into song.

A little apart from the rest of the congregation stood a cluster of farmers with the breakfasted look of those that keep a well-stocked larder. There was John Close, churchwarden, and his wife and daughters. There were Mr and Mrs Bull, Ralph Wormstall, churchwarden also, with his wizened mother. And there was the recently widowed Mrs Elizabeth Wright and her brother Will Bloodworth. All sang with heads thrown back as though each word might bring profit pushing up from the quickening earth. Will Bloodworth, though, is no farmer. He is a keeper of the game at the Milton estate, visiting his sister this Sabbath, and dressed in the livery of the Earl of Fitzwilliam, a claret-coloured frock coat with crimson lining. He stood in contrast to the brown and lawn jackets of the farmers with their cocked hats. His clear tenor rang out above the other voices with the easy confidence of one who believes the world to be in his thrall and pliable to his will, though he was by far the poorer member of the company.

Wisdom Boswell had settled himself on a stile. He pulled a lump of yellow rosin from his pocket and set to rubbing it up and down his fiddle bow. A cluster of children gathered round him, a little shy for they had been told over and over to steer clear of gypsies. He looked down at them and grinned. Tom Dolby took courage, he came closer and reached out his arm, he uncurled his fingers. He was holding a stone with a hole clean through the heart of it. He offered it to Wisdom and whispered:

“Riddy Riddy Wry Rump.”

Wisdom took it. He knew the game.

“Have you got any string?”

“Ay.”

Tom handed him a piece of twine. Wisdom threaded it through the stone and tied it tight. He winked at Tom:

“Who?”

Tom Dolby turned back to his friends. They stood in a circle their arms about each other’s shoulders whispering fiercely. Then Tom broke away. He pointed with his finger.

“Him!”

Will Bloodworth was standing a few paces from them, his back towards the stile. He was holding the hymnal high for his sister to read.

Wisdom Boswell knotted the end of the twine into a loop. The children watched as he crept behind Will as quiet and subtle as a cat. He knelt on the grass and gently drew the loop over the two tin buttons at the back of Will’s jacket. Then slowly he lowered the stone so that the weight of it would not be suddenly felt. The children smothered their laughter with the backs of their hands. The twine was hanging like a tail, the stone just behind Will Bloodworth’s knees. Wisdom edged away from him and back to the stile.

But though Will had seen nothing, his sister had. Mrs Elizabeth Wright had watched Wisdom from the corner of her eye and seemed to take little pleasure in what she saw.

As soon as the psalm was spent John Clare and Old Otter struck up ‘Jockey to the Fair’. Sam Billings beat his drum in time. Dick Turnill blew his flute, his parents frowning that he should have fallen so far into the clutches of mammon as to know such a tune, let alone blow it upon the Sabbath. Jonathan Burbridge sawed his bass viol. And Wisdom lifted his fiddle to his shoulder and joined them. The churchwardens held up the cross and set off striding towards Lolham Bridge, the congregation trailing behind. The rain had eased and the warm April wind seemed to have blown away all aches and cares.

Will Bloodworth pulled a little clay pipe from his pocket and filled it from his pouch. He took a tinder box and struck flint to iron. Soon he was puffing smoke and smiling, the pipe clenched between his teeth, with that tight drawn smile of a man who enjoys his tobacco. His sister took his arm and they joined the crowd. The children had been waiting for their moment. They began to dance behind him:

“Riddy Riddy Wry Rump

Riddy Riddy Wry Rump!”

Will strode on all innocent that he was the butt of their laughter.

“Riddy Riddy Wry Rump!”

Then his sister tugged his arm. He stopped. She leaned across and whispered into his ear. The children held their breath and watched as he reached behind himself. His fingers closed around the twine. He lifted the stone into his hand. Suddenly they were dancing round him again:

“Riddy Riddy Wry Rump!”

He pulled the pipe from his mouth and turned. There was no easy smile on his features now:

“Which one of you little varmints has made a mock of me?”

The children scattered and threaded through the crowd, soon they were running ahead. There had been something in the measure of those whispered words that had told them their game was over. His sister shook her head:

“’Twas none of them Will.” She said, “’Twas the gypsy whelp. I saw him with my own eyes.”

The band were still playing at the meer-stone. Will looked back towards Wisdom Boswell who drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle mindless of all but the swelling melody that filled the air. A shadow fell across Will Bloodworth’s face. He pushed the stone into his pocket, turned on his heel and strode on in silence.

*******

All morning I followed the village congregation as it circled the bounds of Helpston as though it edged the very rim of the world. Every sod they trod I know as familiar as my own face, more so since flesh has folded into clay. With scripture and song, with tune and meer-stone and sugared plums they came to Lolham Bridge and followed the stream that skirts the fen. Where the stream marks the bound they threw sweets into the water and the children plunged in, for now the sun shone and the air was sweet as the very first morning. Then all of a straggle they came round by Green Dyke and Rhyme Dyke and Woodcroft Field, with Glinton spire pricking the sky beyond, where the furlongs are sprouting with beans whose green leaves break the loam and swallow the sunlight. And as I followed their compass I was at the edge of all knowledge, for beyond the parish the world begins to sink away into reaches and distances that are beyond my naming.

Meer-stone followed meer-stone and the church clock had long struck noon when the crowd reached Snow Common. The parish paupers were standing waiting, shivering by the lane-side. By now there wasn’t a soul that wasn’t bone weary and ready to sit and take its ease. Parson Mossop lifted up his frock coat and rested himself upon a tussock. Churchwardens followed suit and soon all were settled, all but a few children and dogs that ran and shouted and barked as tireless as the first swooping swallows.

The crowd had not been waiting long when there came the sound that all had been straining for. The clattering of a horse’s hooves, the rattling of a cart, the “Whoaa” and “Easy” of the driver and then above the tops of the bushes three heads appeared: Farmer Joyce, his daughter Mary sitting beside him, and the black ears of his mare Bessy. They made their way along the track towards the congregation. Farmer Joyce, who is churchwarden at Glinton, reined in, swung down from his seat and tied the horse to a post.

The waiting crowd cheered and there was a surge towards the cart, as men, women and children clambered forward and would have scrambled up had not the churchwardens moved between the cart and congregation.

“Now, now, stand back! Easy! Bide your time!”

The churchwardens pushed some backwards so that they sat suddenly on the turf at the track’s edge and they stood in a row as sentinels before the cart.

The cart was filled with victuals and small ale and sweetened water that had been paid for by subscription by the people of the parish according to their means. Farmers had thrown in their shillings, tradesmen their thruppences and the rest their thin farthings. There were pies, meats and conserves, there were loaves, nuts and dried fruits, free to all however great or modest their contribution.

The parson opened his Bible to Deuteronomy and tapped the iron shod wheel of the cart with his cane:

“Blessed shall be the fruit of thy ground and the fruit of thy cattle, the increase of thy kine, and the flocks of thy sheep. Blessed shall be thy basket and thy store.”

He snapped the Bible shut as the village answered “Amen”.

The parson was the first to tuck a handkerchief under his chin. The churchwardens parted as he poured himself a pot and sank his teeth into a pie. Others followed according to their station. They clustered round the cart, helping themselves and carrying armfuls across to families that were waiting on the tussocked grass. Farmer Joyce and Mary passed and poured and made themselves agreeable to all. When everyone else had taken their fill the churchwardens stood aside and the parish paupers pushed forward and grabbed their share. Charlie Turner pressed bread and pastry with his fingers into his half-wit daughter’s mouth, as though he was some hedge-row bird that has hatched a cuckoo. Like the birds of the field the village paupers filled their crops.

All hearts and minds were on the food except for one. John Clare sat a little apart, upon a stump and so still it was as though its timber had spread through him and he was himself wood from head to foot. No one paid him any mind for he is often considered strange. When Old Otter pressed a pot into his hand he took it but did not sup. He sat like one amazed. His eyes were fixed on Mary Joyce who stood waist deep among ragged children pouring sugared water from a jug.

His eyes were fixed on Mary, who he remembered as a child in Glinton vestry school, as shy and quick then as a wild thing, and bold besides, and as nimble to scramble up onto the church roof and scratch her name upon the lead as any. And now she was become a woman. John’s mind was quick with calculation, if he was seventeen then she was three behind. And she was grown lovely. Her hair was dressed in ringlets and covered with a lace cap, and over it a wide brimmed hat. Her cotton gown was yellow as a cowslip and underneath it the firm shapely rounding of her breasts, and loose over her shoulders a russet cloak …he shook himself from his reverie, supped his ale for courage, straightened, and casting all thought of station aside walked across to the cart.

“Mary.”

She turned to him. He saw that her face still had something of the impishness he remembered as a child, but there were other layers beside, of thought and sorrow, and then a soft kindness about the eyes that was beyond her years. John remembered that she had lost her mother a year since.

“Mary, have you forgot me?”

She broke into a smile and a new light seemed to shine from her face.

“John Clare!”

“Will you come and sit with us Mary?”

He offered his hand and she took it, light as a bird, and sprang down from the cart.

“Of course I’ve never forgot you John.”

They walked across to where the band was gathered on the grass. John unbuttoned his coat and threw it down for her.

“Here’s Sam and Jonathan, Old Otter who the whole world knows, Wisdom who you have not met before, and Dick who you’ve met a thousand times.”

She laughed and kissed Dick Turnill on the cheek, for she had schooled with him too, which made him blush and which in turn made the rest laugh out loud. And she shook hands with Wisdom. Then she sat on the coat and gathered her knees up to her chin.

“’Tis two years since last I saw you John.”

“I’ve been away Mary.”

John suddenly found himself awkward at a divide that seemed to him to have grown between them. She smiled:

“Seeking fame and fortune in the French war?”

He shook his head and said nothing.

“A trade then?”

“Hardly, though my parents would wish it so.”

“Well, here you are, and home again, and I for one am glad of it.”

She broke a piece of twig and flicked it at him. There was quiet between them for a while.

“Do you recall John,” she said, “the time that Mr Merrishaw put a question to the class and I put up my hand to answer and he said ‘Yes Mary’, and I mouthed the words and made no sound. He picked up his ear trumpet, d’you remember, ‘Speak up child’ he said and I did mouth again. And he said ‘I cannot hear thee, is there anyone can give me the answer as can speak up like a man?’ And you put your hand up. ‘Yes John Clare,’ says he. And you mouthed the words as well. And old Merrishaw frowned then and put down his trumpet and made his way out of the church. And we all climbed up to the windows and we could see him among the gravestones poking a rag first into one ear and then t’other. When he came back we were sitting in rows as though we had not shifted.

‘Now then John Clare,’ says he, ‘as you were saying.’ And he lifts the trumpet to his ear once more, and you stood up and shouted the answer so that he jumped clean into the air, but said no word thinking as he’d cleaned his ears of all obstruction.”

And John laughed and nodded and delighted in her as she was this day, sitting beside him. And he delighted in memories of how she had been. And in his mind he was forming a design on how things might be one day between them, though he could not bring any word to his tongue to express it.

Her talk turned first one way and then another.

And then, suddenly, it was interrupted.

“A word if you’d be so kind.”

They looked up and Will Bloodworth was standing above them, swaying a little, for the farmers had been sweetening their small ale with a flask of French brandy. His pipe was smouldering in his left hand and his right was drawn tight into a fist. His voice was raised, as one who has drunk over the odds, and on hearing him the congregation quietened.

His sister, sensing trouble, called out to him.

“Come and sit down Will.”

He paid her no heed.

“I want a word with our gypsy friend.”

Wisdom got up to his feet as though nothing in the world would hurry him. He met Will’s gaze with a wry lop-sided smile, with nothing in it of fear or servitude. If Will had been master and Wisdom apprentice, that smile would have been rewarded with a wallop for its cock-sure cheek. Will whispered:

“What’s your bloody name?”

“Will! Sit down!”

Wisdom’s brown eyes looked steady into Will’s.

“Wisdom Boswell.”

Will raised his voice:

“Ah. One of them as camps out on Emmonsales and helps himself regular to what ain’t his.”

There were muffled grunts of assent from all sides. Wisdom said nothing. And Will, grown bold with the ready sympathy of the crowd, carried on:

“Well I’ve heard as you ‘Gyptians, for all you’re a pack of thieves, can read the future in tea leaves or the lines on a body’s hand. If I was to give you sixpence what could you read of me?”

There was laughter and old Miss Nelly Farrar shouted out:

“Ay, and ain’t I still waiting for that handsome devil I paid Lettuce Boswell thruppence for?”

Will smiled with his mouth, though there was little of a smile in his eyes. He uncurled his fist and held out his hand palm upwards, there was a silver sixpence lying on it.

“Come on Wisdom Boswell, unravel for me all that is writ in the stars.”

It was clear he meant to make a mock of Wisdom. And every face was on the two of them now as Wisdom reached across and took Will’s hand into his own. He picked up the coin and pocketed it.

“It’s the women as usually do the dukkering, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

He stroked the palm tenderly with his thumb and looked down upon it with a great attention. Will Bloodworth turned to the crowd and raised his eyebrows.

“It ain’t often I hold hands with a damned gypsy.”

There were titters of laughter again.

The children did not laugh though, for since the riddy stone Wisdom was as a native chief to them, and they his tribe. Nor did Sam Billings, who watched Wisdom with a bright, shrewd eye, knowing more of the Boswell crew than most.

Wisdom traced the lines on the palm with the tip of a finger. Then he spoke in a whisper, loud enough for all to hear and filled with portent, his face fixed as though staring beyond Will’s hand into some world no one else could see.

“I see rivals in love. I see two as both nurse a tender affection for thee in their secret hearts.”

Will turned and winked at the crowd.

“Two you say?”

“Ay, two there are, and each would have thee to husband. And if they knew as they was rivals in love there would be such a scratching and a shrieking as would shame a cage of cats.”

Will made as if to yawn:

“And both of them beauties I’ve little doubt. One dark perhaps? One fair?”

He threw his pipe onto the grass and thrust his other hand under Wisdom’s nose so the blunt fingertips caught his chin.

“Come on sir, be plain!”

The crowd’s mocking laughter echoed Will’s mocking grin, but Wisdom did not change his tune.

“Ay, one is dark right enough,” he whispered, “But no stranger to you Will Bloodworth, for she has rolled you in her arms full many’s the time.”

“Tell me more!”

Wisdom lifted his voice to a tremulous note.

“I see her stand before me now ….she is ninety and nine years old with leathery dugs as a spaniel’s ears and one black tooth to her gums ….and the bits and the bobs that dangle from her tail would muck an acre.”

There was a pause when all the air seemed to hold its breath, and then the cackling, guffawing, shrieking, barking laughter began. Wisdom raised his voice above the din:

“And as to the fair one …”

But no one heard more of her for Will Bloodworth had seized him by the collar and would have struck him where he stood, had not John Close stepped forward and put his arm about Will’s trembling shoulders. He whispered:

“Easy Will, this ain’t the place to settle scores.”

Will Bloodworth shook Wisdom, then let go. He turned away with his shoulders hunched and his fists knotted. John Close steered him back towards the clump of tussocks where his sister and the other farmers’ families sat.

The children danced behind him:

“Riddy riddy wry rump! Riddy riddy wry rump!”

And no scowl of Will Bloodworth’s could stop them now.

The parson, seeing that decency had been thrown into confusion, tapped his stick against a cartwheel, Sam Billings took up the rhythm with his drum, and the crowd began to carry all the empty wooden platters and horn mugs back to the cart.

But as the congregation made ready to move, the children, grown wild now with laughter and too long sitting, tipped over a basket of walnuts and began to throw them in all directions. There was such a shouting and dodging, with mothers scolding, fathers clipping ears, the old swinging their sticks at ducking boys, and the shrill voice of the parson trying to call order that Jonathan’s drum was drowned.

Little Henry Snow flung a nut that caught John Clare upon the chin. John picked it up and threw it hard back again. It was at that moment that Farmer Joyce called:

“Mary!”

She jumped to her feet and caught John’s nut full in the eye. She let out a sudden little cry and lifted up her hand, and though she was nine parts woman the tears came spilling down her cheeks. John froze, he was become wood again, and knew neither what to do nor say to make amends. He looked at her. She looked at him. They stood for a moment in all the confusion like mawkins in some storm-tossed field. Then Farmer Joyce called out again:

“Mary! Come now. Glinton calls.”

She turned and ran back to the cart, climbed up beside him, and with a flick of the reins they were trundling along the track. Her hand was still lifted to her eye when she disappeared from sight. And John Clare stood frozen, as though a terrible weight bore down upon his heart.

It was the first psalm of the afternoon that seemed to wake him from himself. He pulled out his fiddle and picked up the tune that the band had launched upon.

The procession made its way around the skirts of Snow Common. Old Otter’s squat rose up above the blackthorn blossom with its mottled canvas, its stacked turf and its white trickle of smoke rising from the smoke-hole as familiar to the crowd as the twisting line of stunted willows that follows the stream.

Round the edge of Oxey Wood they went, the children racing from one meer-stone to the next, butting head to hard barnack. Wherever the stone was gone and there was but a mere-pit left, one child or another would be lifted by its feet and lowered down until the crown of its head was awash with muddy water, and then lifted to its feet and a fistful of sweets thrust into its pocket. So it is we remember for all time the bounds of our native place.

Round Emmonsales Heath they went, where all the gorse was showing gold. Then they skirted Langdyke Bush where the Boswell crew were camped. Little could be seen of the gypsies save smoke and the brightly coloured rags of clothing that were stretched across the thorns to dry in the sun. Even their dogs were hushed as the village congregation passed, peering in among the thickets but seeing nought.

Wisdom Boswell touched John’s shoulder.

“I’m away bau, I’ll see ye soon. Be good!”

He turned and ran, zig-zagging among the scrub and thorn towards the rising smoke. Something flew through the air behind him, trailing a thread as a comet trails its tail. It struck him hard against the small of his back. Wisdom stopped and turned. Lying on the ground at his feet was a stone with a hole through its heart, a twine was threaded through and tied to the end of it a slip of paper. He turned it over between his fingers and peered at it. He pushed it into his pocket and ran on to join his family who were squatting among the scrub, smoking their pipes and waiting for all the hubbub to die away.

From the height of Helpston church I watched the congregation make its circle true. From Emmonsales to the Kings Road, and then past the quarry at Swordy Well and along the side of Heath Field, where Jim Crowson and Sam Wood were rounding up cattle from the fallows. And at last the bounds were beat and the late sun sent the shadow of Butter Cross stretching towards Glinton and all the day’s journey was complete.

*******

And now the evening grows chill and I have rubbed the fine, dusty pollen of happenstance from myself. The parish is returned to quiet, each family separating at Butter Cross and trudging home in its little weary cluster. Windows are lighted up and chimneys send their smoke to a darkening sky. Parson Mossop lifts a glass of claret to his lips and stretches his feet to a banked fire. Mrs Elizabeth Wright and Will Bloodworth sit down at the oaken table to a cured ham. Old Otter dips his ladle into whatever hollow meat Kitty has added to the pot. Tom Dolby and his brothers nibble hunks of dry bread and sup on the memory of Snow Common. And in his hovel behind the churchyard wall Charlie Turner and his half-wit daughter wrap themselves in their damp rags and go early to bed.

In Bachelors Hall Sam Billings and Jonathan Burbridge tap a barrel and fill their horn mugs to the frothing brim. Jonathan drinks and wipes the foam from his beard:

“Sam, I’ve been thinking today, as we was walking with all the multitude, as I’ve a mind to wife.”

Sam Billings raises his eyebrows so that his glistening forehead folds into wrinkles of surprise.

“A wife! Jonathan, think again, ‘twould be farewell to all sweet freedom.”

“I’ve two lads working under me and an apprentice, and not a coffin nor joist in Helpston or Glinton as ain’t felt the touch of my saw or plane ….and now I’m a man as can hold up his head I’ve a yearnin’ for a welcoming bed and maybe a clutch of little Burbridges to fill the air with their prittle-prattle.”

“Who d’ye have in mind?”

“No one, though I’ve a vision in my head …”

“Ay?”

“I see one as ain’t so young but still comely, fine grained like, but not sawn so thin as she’ll bend this way nor that, like a hardwood I reckon, that ain’t stood too long, and with a shapely curve to it.”

“Well Jonathan,” says Sam, “I reckon I’ve got the very lass for thee.”

“Who?”

“She’ll make you a tidy little wife.”

Sam Billings disappears into the next room and comes back with a piece of broken shelf. He drops it onto Jonathan’s knee.

“She’s fallen for you already my friend. I’ll get old Mossop to read the banns next Sabbath.”

*******

The Clares are gathered round the fire cooking eggs in a skillet that hangs from the chimney hook. Little Sophie stirs them with a wooden spoon. Ann slices hard bread upon the board and John and Parker warm their knees before the flames. No word is spoken between them as the food is spooned onto plates and eaten. John pours some water from a wooden jug into his mug.

Ann breaks the quiet:

“Ay, water tonight John, no frittering your wage on ale.”

John drinks.

“Now Sophie, mop the yolk from your platter, ’tis time for your bed!”

They climb the wooden steps and Ann tucks Sophie snug beside the little cot where once poor Bessie slept. Downstairs Parker has thrown some more sticks on the fire. He and John watch the smoke as it’s sucked up the chimney. Ann comes down and picks up her knitting, the ball of coarse woollen yarn on her lap.

There’s a sudden knocking at the door. Ann puts down her needles. She goes across and lifts the latch. The light of fire and candle shows Wisdom Boswell standing on the threshold. She frowns:

“Away with ye! You gypsies are steering our John to the bad. There’ll be no drunken capers tonight! There’s them as have to be up wi’ the dawn and earn an honest wage. Away with ye!”

Parker calls out:

“Twas only the frolicsomeness of youth Annie, let him in for God’s sake. What are you after lad?”

Ann still bars the doorway. Wisdom calls past her shoulder.

“It’s nothing of the ale Mr Clare, I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Then he looks at Ann with a tender pleading:

“’Tis a matter of scholarship, Ma’am, your John bein’ a por-engro and master of his ABCs, and none of us Boswells havin’ the skill.”

Wisdom has struck a tender place, for it is a source of pride to Ann Clare that she should have set aside shillings enough to give John a few months schooling each year when he was a heedless boy. And his skill at mouthing aloud the silent markings of the printed page is a wonder to her yet.

She sighs and stands aside. Parker beckons to him:

“Pull a stool up to the fire. Warm thyself.”

Wisdom fetches a stool and sits down beside John. John turns to him.

“What is it you’re after?”

Wisdom hands across a scrap of paper.

“That game-keeper from Milton, he flung it after me this afternoon, tied to the riddy stone, there are words on it but I cannot unfathom them. Read it for me.”

Parker Clare chuckles:

“Will Bloodworth, the man with two sweet-hearts.”

John holds the scrap with its pencil scratchings to a rush candle:

“Tis writ in capitals and reads thus:

‘I SHALL HAVE SATISFACTION OF THEE

NO GYPSY WHELP MAKES MOCKERY OF ME’.”

John passes it to Wisdom who scrunches up the paper in his fist and throws it into the fire. Parker looks across at him:

“I fear you’ve made an enemy Wisdom Boswell, and of one better left uncrossed.”

Wisdom shrugs.

“I meant no harm. ’Twas all in jest. And now he’s tippoty dre mande. And to tell you the truth of the matter, there were lines on that man’s hand that were better left unread.”

2

May Day

This fortnight last John has worked the gardens of John Close’s farm. Thistle, campion, poppy, fumitory, yellow charlock, pimpernel, groundsel, all must yield to the hoe before they bloom and seed and overwhelm, for all they’re the common flowers that he loves best. But a man must work and John must sentence them as weeds and condemn them to have their green grip upon the soil scratched away. And having served his time as executioner, must trudge back to Close’s yard, clean his hoe and take his place in line to receive his paltry wage.

And now, his pocket lined with pennies, he sought his solace.

Once inside the woods and shaken free of the ceaseless gossip and the women’s shrill laughter and the hacking cough of poor Jem Farrar. Once he was free of the tireless scratching of iron to stony soil and the day’s slate had been wiped clean by sweet solitude, John Clare set his mind to the next day’s holiday.

From the willows bordering Round Oak Water he cut slim withies and wound them together into a loop. From the may at the wood’s margin he found sprays that were breaking into early white blossom. He cut away their thorns and wove them into the loop. He took primroses from a bank that caught the afternoon sun and a fistful of early blue-bells and fixed their stems between the twisted withies until the garland was bright with pale yellow, creamy-white and blue flowers. He worked until the day’s light began to grow dim in the wood. Then he shouldered his garland and trudged home.

Sophie Clare, her face pressed to the window glass, watched John hiding his garland in the lean-to where Parker stores his garden tools. She slipped out of the back door and stood quiet behind John as he pushed it among the shadows. He was startled by her voice.

“It ain’t no good, John.”

He turned to her.

“I know what you’ve made and it ain’t no good.”

Sophie was looking at him, her eyes so solemn and worldly-wise in her face that John had to smile.

“What d’you mean it ain’t no good?”

Sophie pulled the garland from its hiding place.

“Everybody knows a garland’s gotta have some pear blossom.”

She ran across the garden, climbed up into the pear tree and broke a spray of white blossom from it. She brought it back and thrust it into John’s hand.

“Pear for fair.”

John nodded and wove it into the garland. Sophie watched him with disdain. It was clear to her that John knew nothing about the ways of the world for all he was seven years older than her.

“And where’s the yew?”

“Yew?”

“Yew for true of course. Every girl in Helpston knows that.”

“All right, I’ll go to the churchyard and fetch some yew.”

Sophie turned to run back indoors. John caught her by the shoulder. He pushed his finger to her lips:

“Shhhhhh. Don’t tell!”

She nodded fiercely, shook herself free from his grip and ran into the house.

It was nearly dark as John made his way past Butter Cross and over the road to the churchyard wall. He cut a long sprig of yew, brought it home and wound it onto the garland. Now it was ready. He put it back into its hiding place and went indoors.

His mother was lighting the candles.

“Where’s Sophie?”

“She’s gone to bed, John.”

John climbed the steps. He leaned over her bed.

“It’s done.”

He could see her pale face searching his in the shadowy room.

“Good.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Goodnight Soph’.”

“You know what to do. Hang it on her door.”

John nodded:

“Ay.”

She whispered:

“Who is she John?”

John stood up and turned away.

“That’s for me to know and you to ponder upon.”