The Ballad of John Clare (18 page)

Christmas draws close. A wet November has given way to frost and all leaves are gone save only the few brown rags that cling to the oak, for he is always the last to let go of summer. The toiling ploughs still churn the earth. Poor Bob Turnill is out every day, alone with his team, working his allocation and praying with every breath to make good his debt with the sweat of his back and the depth of his devotion.

Charlie Turner's half-wit daughter Isabel is fallen sick. Every morning he's in Royce's Wood gathering wet sticks. He mixes sawdust with flour for the grey scones he bakes in the ashes, and pulls leaves and grass and begs an onion to make her a bowl of thin green soup. Jem Ferrar limes the hedgerows with trembling hands for little birds to give meat to his broth. And Joseph Dolby drinks away his wage and sleeps in one of Ralph Wormstall's lambing sheds while his wife and boys lift stones in the fields.

Parker, John, Dick Turnill, Jem Johnson, Will Mash and all the enclosure team, after four weeks cursing the bitter, slanting rain that soaked their clothes and turned the soil to mire; now curse the cold frost that stiffens earth to stone.

And there is a new sound that echoes and redounds across the parish – the sound of axe to wood. All the streams are to be straightened into dykes and drains, and the willows and alders and dotterels that border Rhyme Dyke and Green Dyke and Round Oak Spring and Eastwell Spring and all the winding river banks are to be felled. The water must run now to the constraints of the ruled line.

With every stroke of iron to timber there is a sudden veering in the flight of a bird; a sudden start in the winter-sleep of badger, hedgehog, mole; a sudden shift in the deep droning note of the bees in their skeps against the church wall. The parish is set a-quiver and every fibre trembles. John knows it too, whose strings are tight-tuned to all sensation, though he is asleep to its cause and knows only a hollow ache of sorrow as the felling troubles his ears from across the fields as he works.

*******

Last night was St Thomas' Eve, when every woman who is not wed hopes to catch a glimpse of her true-love.

In John Close's farm house there are two suppers. One is eaten in the front dining room, where he and his wife and their two daughters sit down to a mahogany table and pick and click upon china plate as though they were lords and ladies. The other supper is eaten downstairs in the kitchen when all has been cleared away above. All those that have lodging in the farm sit down together and eat and gossip – as much as they dare – about them upstairs.

Last night it was the same as ever. And when all had been cleared away and ‘good-nights' had been bid, Betsy Jackson was brushing the crumbs from the table when she heard her name whispered:

“Betsy.”

She turned, and there was the elder of the Miss Closes, standing in her nightdress with a flickering candle.

Betsy curtsied, for the Close girls are strangers in the kitchen:

“What can I do for ye Miss Elizabeth?”

“Betsy, peel me an onion.”

Betsy smiled to herself, remembering suddenly what night it was, remembering the old custom and how she'd done the same herself before she was wed. As she turned to cut a red onion from the string that hung from the kitchen beam she found her cheeks were moist with tender memory. She carefully peeled the onion, put it onto a plate and gave it to Elizabeth Close, wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. Elizabeth took the plate.

“Don't tell Papa, he thinks ‘tis only a stupid fancy.”

Betsy smiled at her and sniffed.

“I won't tell.”

“Are those real tears?”

“No, just onion tears.”

Elizabeth walked away.

“Goodnight.”

When she had disappeared up the stairs Betsy looked at the string of onions.

She cut another one and peeled it with quick strong fingers.

“'Tis only a stupid fancy but …”

She smiled through her tears, took a last look at the empty kitchen, blew out the candles, crossed the tiled hallway and made her way upstairs to her little cupboard of a room against the chimney. She slipped the onion under her pillow, undressed and climbed beneath the blankets. She had barely closed her eyes when she fell asleep.

*******

And now it is St Thomas' day, when the night's hold is strongest upon the day. This year it has fallen upon a Sunday.

At Joyce's Farm it was only when Mary's tasks had been finished that John's Sunday visit could begin in earnest. She put on her coat and woollen hat and scarf. They walked out into the yard and round to the frosty garden. When they were behind the yew hedge and out of sight of the house, John said:

“Turn around Mary.”

She turned her back to him. He pulled down her scarf, pressed his nose into her hair and sniffed the back of her head.

“I smell onions!”

She turned and looked at him and blushed and smiled:

“Maybe you do John.”

“Did you dream?”

“Maybe I did John.”

“Of me?”

She shook her head:

“No …first ‘twas of old Charlie Turner, for I like a man with no teeth …then I saw Merrishaw, for a scholar needs a wife and I like a man with spaniel breath …and then ‘twas …”

John put his hand over her mouth and he could feel her soft wet laughter against his palm.

“Tell me the truth!”

She pulled his hand away and looked into his face:

“I saw thee John, as plain as day.”

She pressed herself against him, tilted her head and they met lip to lip.

For all that was left of the afternoon they walked and talked, but not for as long as is their custom. When Glinton church clock struck four he said:

“Now I must go.”

“Already?”

“Ay, we practise the Morris play tonight.”

He pressed a piece of paper into her hand.

“This is for you. ‘Tis but a trifle …something I wrote.”

She unfolded it and read aloud:

“Sweet is the blossomed beans perfume

By morning breezes shed

And sweeter still the jonquils bloom

When evening damps its head

And perfume sweet of pink and rose

And violet of the grove

But oh – how sweeter far than those

The kiss of her I love.”

She took his hand so tender then:

“And I do love thee John Clare.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek and turned back towards the farm house. Then she stopped and called across the lawn:

“And sweet the smell of onion juice

Upon my true love's hair!”

She ran through the front door and was lost to sight.

And John strode the track through Woodcroft Field, warmed against any cold the mid-winter evening might bring.

It was dusk on Tuesday afternoon when the guisers acted out the Morris Play at Butter Cross. The four of them, in their bright ribbons, stood in a row on the steps of the cross, while John, Dick and Old Otter kept out the cold as best they could with their music.

Saint George and the Turkish Knight were dressed in smocks that were so festooned and tangled with rags and ribbons that scarce a glimpse of canvas or breech-cloth met the eye. Each wore an ancient tricorn hat on his head that was stuck all over with curled wood-shavings from Jonathan’s workshop and strips of coloured paper that dangled over the eyes. Each had a belt drawn about his waist and a wooden sword thrust into it that reached to the knee; St George’s was straight and the Turkish Knight’s curved as a scimitar.

The Fool had a hunch between his shoulders that rucked up his ribboned coat at the back. He had a leather tail that dangled behind his legs. He wore a clown’s pointed hat that was wound about with coloured cloth and bright ribbons. Over his shoulder he carried a wooden club, and hanging from the end of it a pig’s bladder, blown up and tied tight, on a twine.

The Doctor wore a tall hat, a long coat to his ankles bright with rags and ribbons, spectacles of twisted woodbine upon his nose, and in his hand an ancient leather bag.

All the players, musicians and guisers, had their faces blacked with grease and soot from James Bain’s forge.

The villagers gathered around them, tapping their feet to the tunes. The four guisers watched them, still and solemn as four rooks upon a fence.

Then, all of a sudden, the music stopped, the fool stepped forward, and the play began.

“Gentlemen and Ladies I’m glad to see you here,

Soon and very soon our actors shall appear …”

The play followed its accustomed course. St George fought the Turkish Knight with a rattle and a clatter of wooden swords, the fool skipped around them, urging them on, swinging his club and walloping them with his pig’s bladder. The musicians shouted:

“I am the blade

That drives no trade

Most people do adore me.

I will you heat

And I shan’t you cheat

And I’ll drive you all before me …”

And the old story played itself out. The villagers huddled together in the cold like a herd of cattle, their breath steaming in the frosty, darkening air. The guisers spoke the familiar lines, in part to entertain the crowd, but in part as a job that must be done, just as wheat must be threshed and fields ploughed. For the Morris play is one of the stations of the year and cannot be neglected.

When the play was finished the Fool went round with his hat and gathered his thin crop of farthings. Then the company made their way round the bigger houses of the village. They performed for Parson Mossop, for John Close, for Mrs Elizabeth Wright, for Mr Bull and Ralph Wormstall, and were rewarded with ale and food and coppers for the Fool’s hat.

It was drawing close to midnight when they returned to Bachelor’s Hall to lay out their instruments and costumes ready for Christmas Eve. Sam Billings warmed a pan of water over the fire so that they could wash the black grease from their faces.

When the musicians had set their instruments beside the guisers costumes, Sam put down a dirty cloth bag with its draw-string tied in a knot:

“John Clare,” he said, “you’ll bring this an’ all, won’t ye.”

John reached forward and felt the tight fiddle-strings beneath the cloth. He stroked them so that they sounded, and tapped the hollow wood. He smiled:

“Ay.”

When all the company had cleaned themselves as best they could and were wiping their faces with a piece of cloth, Old Otter took Sam Billings by the arm and drew him aside.

“Kitty sends you this with her kind regards.”

He pulled a little bottle from his pocket.

“She says mind her instruction.”

“Ay, it is not forgot.”

Then Sam raised his voice to all the company:

“Tomorrow, at Farmer Joyce’s farm, at two of the clock gentlemen, and not a moment later. And a very good night to ye all.”

*******

It was at three o’clock on the afternoon of Christmas Eve that Farmer Joyce’s haywain trundled through the streets of Peterborough towards the Minster Gate. Sam Billings, in Doctor’s coat and hat, held the reins and Joyce’s two great shires lifted their feathered feet and snorted into the frozen air. Huddled in the back, horse blankets drawn about themselves, their faces dark as blackamores, the rest of the Helpston players, musicians and guisers, watched the thronging shops and stalls with pink-rimmed eyes.

When they came to the market Sam reined in the horses and tied them to a rail. He threw blankets across their backs.

“There my sweet-hearts, we won’t be gone for long.”

The company crossed the market place, that was teeming with revellers, and stationed themselves in the archway of the Minster Gate. Straight away the musicians began to play ‘The Devil among the Tailors’ with Dick blowing his flute, John and Old Otter sawing with their bows as though they could make fire with them. Soon a crowd began to gather, drawn by the music and the four guisers standing behind in their solemn row, bright with ribbons, barely blinking. On and on they played until the crowd stood fifteen deep in a curve before them, children pushing forward to the front so that they could see.

And then a studded door in the wall of the Minster Gate opened, and a turn-key peered out of the entrance to the Bishop’s Gaol to see what all the noise was about. Out of the corner of his eye John saw him beckoning with his arm and then heard him shout:

“Guisers!”

Another one appeared in the doorway:

“It’s only Christmas once in a damned year. What harm in watching? Ned, come an’ have a look! Guisers. Bring out some chairs.”

A third turn-key came out carrying three wooden chairs. They settled down side by side on the great stone doorstep. Behind them John caught a glimpse of their little office with its fireplace and black kettle singing on the coals, and behind that the locked iron door that led to the honeycomb of cells.

The music stopped. Parker Clare, the Fool, stepped forward:

“Gentlemen and Ladies I’m glad to see you here,

Soon and very soon our actors shall appear,

Though our company is but small

We’ll do our best to please you all.

To get your love and gain your favour

We’ll do the best of our endeavour.”

And then it was the Doctor’s turn, in a new twist to the play that had never been spoken before:

“In comes I, a Doctor merry,

That has such remedies as’ll make you cheery,

As’ll strengthen the blood and redden the cheek,

As’ll give courage to the humble and stomach to the meek.”

He pulled a bottle from his bag:

“Here is the elixir as turns a beggar to a dandy,

Truth to tell ‘tis nothing but the best French ….”

The crowd roared: “Brandy!”

“Is there any here among you as’d like a little sip,

To gladden the heart and keep out the winter’s nip?”

“I will!”

Shouted someone from the crowd.

And with a flourish the Doctor pulled the cork from the bottle and offered him a mouthful. He took a swig and sighed: