The Ballad of John Clare (3 page)

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.”

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.”

“Who is she, or I’ll run downstairs and tell …”