The Ballad of John Clare (22 page)

He whispered:

“Let what happened be forgot. I have a sweet-heart. She is not thee.”

“Not once again John?”

He felt his cock stirring in his breeches:

“Never.”

He broke into a run and left her behind.

That afternoon, when the Close's Sunday luncheon had been served and cleared, Betsy Jackson asked if she might have a piece of paper and the use of one of Mr Close's quills and a bottle of ink.

“Ay Betsy,” said Mrs Close. “Take what you need.”

She carried them upstairs to her little room. She bolted the door. She put the ink pot on the chair. She knelt on the floor put a board on the bed and spread the paper on it. She dipped the pen into the ink.

‘Dear John'
she mouthed and scratched.
‘You have pointed her out before. I warrant she hasn't shewn ye such sweets as I. Ay, and would again. Though I would not come between ye. Our secret is safe. Do not fear me. BJ.'

She read the page several times over to herself, then tilted her head to one side, smiled and set the pen down on the chair. And in that smile was writ far more than her letter contained. It was sad and knowing and defiant and seemed to say to itself: ‘For all that I have you hooked to my line, I will not die if I lose you, for I have known enough of love and loss to live another day without regret for what I have and have not done.' She tossed her curls, folded the paper, tucked it into the wooden box where she kept her oboe, and carried quill and ink downstairs.

The next Sunday she slipped the note to John.

It was not until he was walking the new road through Woodcroft Field on his way to Sunday luncheon at Joyce's Farm that he pulled it from his pocket and read it through. He tore it into tiny pieces and scattered them over the low hedges to the ploughed fields on either side as though he was scattering corn. There was little in the letter to ease his torment for it was clear enough that, Mary or no Mary, there would be a welcome from Betsy if he was to go to her.

But providence has been kind, for in the fortnight since the passing of the note she has not appeared in church. She has sent word that she is not feeling altogether well. And with her absence John has, at last, been able to begin to push Plough Monday to the back of his mind. He was after all, he tells himself, in his high altitudes. He was not altogether himself. And without Betsy's presence he has been able to dream that it is Mary's soft legs enclosing him, Mary's flesh against his hand.

And every Sunday he walks to Glinton and sits beside her at table and rejoices in her. He tells himself that he is shaking away the taint of Betsy Jackson and in his heart he thanks her for her absence.

*******

Ever since Christmas morning, when the news reached Glinton that Will Bloodworth had vanished, Farmer Joyce has been uneasy. Every grain of evidence and every long-held prejudice point to foul play. He lies awake at nights telling himself that his willingness to testify on the gypsy's behalf and his complicity in his escape were grave misjudgements. He mutters to himself: “Maybe the Boswell youth should have hanged after all” and “Poor Mary is led astray, and I have been swayed by her”. His good name is in danger of disgrace, and there is no soul to whom he dare speak his mind. He blames himself for being blind, and for letting himself be over-fond. “And was it not” he tells himself, “John Clare's influence on poor Mary that was the cause of all my distress …I should have listened to first promptings and nipped him in the bud?”

He governs his farm with an eye to every fault so that Will and Nathan are in a constant flurry of brushing and sweeping, and the women in dairy and kitchen wary of every smut.

And though he welcomes John Clare to his table on a Sunday it is clear in the tenor of his voice that his doubts have won the upper hand. Where he had been lax he feels that he must now be firm. And Mary, for her own happiness and for his peace of mind, must be made to see sense.

So it was that last Sunday, when John's visit to Glinton was ended and he was making his way out of Joyce's yard and Mary was standing in the kitchen door watching him, she felt her father's hand upon her shoulder.

“He won't do Mary.”

She turned to face him.

“What d'you mean he won't do?”

“He won't do at all. I was riding home from Helpston on Friday and I saw him breaking stones for the new Glinton road with the enclosure team, and I thought to myself that he will never do for my Mary. He ain't going anywhere.”

“He's a better man than any …”

“I'm not saying there's any harm to him …but think about it Mary, that's all I ask. Think about who you are and where we stand. And think about John Clare who has no land, no prospects and no fortune beyond his last week's wage …”

Mary's eyes filled with tears:

“Is that all you can think about? Is a man to be measured by the acres he owns?”

“I bear him no grudge Mary, but could he keep you? Could he make you happy? Love is blind, but marriage is a great eye-opener …”

“Whoever spoke of marriage?”

“Sooner or later you'll have to turn him down Mary. And the sooner it is the less you'll both be burned. Think on it.”

*******

On Valentines morning Mary Joyce was up before the dawn. No word of her father's would sway her from her resolve. Sooner or later – she told herself – he would see sense and give her and John his blessing. She had laid out her yellow dress the night before, the one she'd worn on Rogation Day and May Day, for it seemed to her that it had good fortune sewn into every seam. She washed herself and cleaned her teeth with twigs until they seemed to shine. She dressed and combed her hair. She made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Kate Dyball was already up and busy. Mary drew her into the pantry. She whispered:

“How do I look Kate?”

Kate looked her up and down. She brushed a stray hair from Mary's shoulder. Then she spoke from her heart:

“You look a picture Miss Mary. I reckon John Clare is the luckiest man in all England.”

Mary laughed with delight at Kate's earnest face, and at some intimation that she spoke true. She kissed Kate's cheek.

“Listen. Here's my plan. I shall ride over early.”

Mary cut a slice of bread. She cut herself some cheese. She took a mouthful.

“And I shall hide behind a tomb-stone, and when John comes he shall wait and wait and think that he's forsook. And the clock shall strike a quarter past the hour, and he'll be pacing up and down …and when his back is turned I shall creep up and surprise him from behind. What do you think o' that Kate?”

Kate's red fingers were spread out on her plump cheeks, her little eyes were round and shining and her mouth was open at the romance and the rashness of the plan.

“Oh I wish I had such notions as you Mary …but with Nathan I'd fear after five minutes he'd give up an' go home … and not see the funny side when I did jump out at him.”

“But John'll wait,” said Mary with conviction.

“Ay, I reckon he will …” Kate looked at Mary and smiled, “leastways he's a dolt if he doesn't.”

Mary crammed the last of the bread into her mouth and winked. Kate laughed and then a shadow of concern played across her round face:

“Be careful though Miss Mary. Wrap up warm. We don't want you catching your death this day of all days.”

“I have my father's constitution Kate, who has never seen a day's sickness in his life …but don't worry, I'll wrap up in cloak and scarf and bonnet.”

Mary and Kate slipped out of the pantry door and crossed the yard to the stable. Together they saddled the little dappled cob. Kate helped Mary up.

“God bless you Mary. Good luck. I shall be thinking of ye!”

Mary leaned down:

“Tell no one I'm gone. If they ask I'm abed with a sore head.”

“Ay. We're only scrubbing the copper for tomorrow's brewing. You shall not be missed.”

Mary waved and rode out of the yard. The sky overhead was blue with high white clouds and the road beneath the cob's hooves was awash with puddles that reflected the heavens so that it seemed to Mary that she rode between sky and sky.

She rode out of Glinton and along the new road to Helpston. At the edge of the village she tethered the horse to a fence-post. The parish was astir. The labourers leading their horses out to the fields took little notice of her, nor did the enclosure teams. She walked the last half mile to the church. The clock was striking the half hour after eight as she chose a high headstone close to the church porch. She brushed the water away from the wet grass. She had a piece of leather to sit on. She spread it out and sat down with her back to the stone. She drew up her knees and looked towards the churchyard wall where the skeps stand. She pulled a hunk of bread from her pocket and munched it, rehearsing in her mind the words of the pledge that she had composed. In the February sunshine that came and went some sleepy bees were stirring. One of them settled on her cloak. She watched it picking its careful way across the woven threads as though they carried a promise of sweetness.

*******

John Clare woke earlier than Mary and lit a candle. He read the pledge that he has revised so many times these last days that it is become a mess of cross-hatchings and words writ over words so that the page is more black than white. He seemed to be satisfied. He climbed out of bed, dressed, kissed it and pushed it into the pocket of his breeches. His Sunday shirt was hanging over the chair. He pulled it over his head. He tied a handkerchief about his throat. When he came downstairs Parker, Ann and Sophie were up and about and making ready to go to work. His parents looked at John with raised eyebrows to see him dressed so fine on a workday like any other.

“Where are ye going John?”

John would not be drawn:

“Here and there.”

Was all the answer he would give. Then he added:

“Tell Will Mash that I shall be late this morning and shall make up my time at dusk.”

Parker grunted:

“He will not like it.”

“He shall have to like it.”

It was Sophie, of course, who read John's intention.

“I know where he's going.”

“Where?”

“To meet with his sweet-heart of course. ‘Tis the fourteenth of February after all.”

John blushed. Parker sighed and pushed open the door:

“Well, don't be over-long with your sweet nothings or you'll have a sweet nothing of a job.”

Ann kissed John:

“He has forgot, John, the Valentines he used to bring me when we were courting.”

She followed Parker out of the door. Sophie looked at John most intent. She studied his shirt and neckerchief:

“You're got up most particular smart John Clare.”

She pinched his neckerchief between finger and thumb and tilted her head to one side:

“You ain't goin' to propose to Mary Joyce are ye?”

She exploded with laughter.

“Are ye?”

From outside Ann's voice came, most exasperated:

“Come on Soph' we shall be late again.”

She looked at him over her shoulder with an expression of great merriment and disappeared through the door.

John was left alone. He sat down and cut himself a piece of bread, wondering at Sophie's acuteness. He shook his head, sighed, smiled, and ate the bread. He pulled out the piece of paper and read through his pledge again. He listened to the chiming of the quarters. His feet were fidgeting, tapping the hard earth of the floor. At last it struck a quarter to nine.

He pushed open the cottage door and made his way past Butter Cross to the churchyard gate. He looked across towards the porch. Mary was not there. He followed the path. He entered the porch. He pushed open the church door and peered inside. There was no sign of her. He came out again and looked to left and right. He was early. He would sit in the porch and wait for her.

Behind the headstone Mary Joyce was pinching her nose to hold in her laughter. She turned and peered over the top of it. She could see John's feet tapping the stone floor.

John read through his pledge yet again. He pushed it back into his pocket. He stood and scanned the churchyard. He took a few paces towards the gate and peered beyond it. He turned back to the porch. He sat down. The church clock struck nine. He closed his eyes. Surely she would come …

Then he heard the churchyard gate click. He heard footsteps approaching. He jumped to his feet.

“John?”

It was Betsy Jackson's voice.

“John. I thought I caught a glimpse of you as I was passing.”

John looked at her dumbfounded.

“I have been wanting to speak to you alone. We are alone ain't we?”

Her face had lost its habitual rosy-red glow. There was a wanness to her cheek and her voice trembled.

John looked to left and right and to his relief could see no one. He whispered:

“Betsy, I have told you before …”

“John, listen to me …”

She reached and took his arm. He pulled it away from her:

“Go away! Leave me alone.”

“John, you have managed in one night what my husband did not in fifteen years.”

She put her hand to her belly:

“I am quick John. I am with child.”

John said nothing. For a full minute he spoke no word. Then:

“How do you know?”

“A woman knows. I have not bled. I am terrible sick of a morning. I know.”

John's head was empty of all thought but Mary. He looked across towards the street. There was no sign of her.

“It is mine? You are sure?”

“It could only be yours.”

She looked into his face, her blue eyes candid and swollen with tears.

John looked at her and was lost for any word. She seemed to have become some monstrous thing, some breasted Annis standing between him and his happiness. She took a step towards him.