by William Hunt
“Come with me,” he beckoned to John and Charlie, who stiffly followed on.
“Two more hands, Mr Amos,” announced the wagoner.
Richard Amos gazed critically at them.
“Are you up for hard work?” John and Charlie nodded in assent.
“The mow starts first light Monday. You can rake and fork up behind.”
Charlie didn’t argue, but John surveyed the scythes propped up against the wall of the Forge Inn.
“Why I can swing a blade? That I can and all.”
Hearing John’s voice, a number of men previously in conversation turned in amusement at the sound of a voice contrasting with their drawling West Country accents.
“Who has come among us?” one asked.
“He’s an Irish tinker,” called out another. More chuckles ensued. At this time of year, the normally insular village life opened up to all manner of passers by taking hire.
The different strains and accents sometimes heard from the more far-flung outsiders caused no end of merriment amongst the home crowd. Even Amos was moved to smile for a moment.
Undaunted, John walked over to the scythes and briefly grasped one by the stock. “I’m a spalpeen man.”
Everyone was at a loss till as to its meaning until, John told them that in Ireland a ‘spalpeen’ took scythe work for a penny or so a day.
Then the affable mood rapidly changed. “Not ’ere you don’t.”
“I’d bloody starve on that money.” John’s unfortunate remarks upset the locals.
Gloucestershire scythes men expected a rate of nine pennies an acre with drink. Richard Amos moved quickly to dispel the souring atmosphere.
“That’s enough foolish talk,” he reprimanded John. "Are you to take the work offered or not?
Charlie stepped in, “We will, yes, sir.”
“The estate pays sixpence a day without drink. Be here on Monday!” Abruptly Amos turned his attention elsewhere. Charlie shook his head disapprovingly at John. But John’s face (now wreathed in a bemused smile) spoke wonderingly of what had come to pass.
“Holy Mother! So much money… It doesn’t make sense. One day ago, I was in hunger and want and now the pennies jangle aplenty with more promised to come.” He regarded his companion with amusement.
“Is it true that the streets of London streets are paved with gold then, Charlie?”
“My life, it’s the very truth,” Charlie replied sarcastically.
“Why, it was all I could do to tear myself away.”
A moment later, they were re-joined by the wagoner, “Now where are we going to put you two, eh?”
He already knew answer to that question. In anticipation of the labour influx, the stables in the yard behind the Forge Inn had been swept clean. Those with coppers to spare could find hospitality… of sorts.
Charlie and John gratefully took possession of the shelter. A roof over a bare floor, and a pile of straw filled sacks on wooden pallets, was a big improvement from the hedgerows and banks both had endured lately.
“’Ome sweet ’ome,” Charlie remarked gladly.
But now the wagoner proffered some cautionary advice.
“Oh! And regarding the earlier business? Mr Amos will thank you to keep a still tongue in your ’eads…Say nothing. Else go!”
“What business was that then?” Charlie asked blandly.
The message was received and understood. Satisfied, the wagoner departed to the Forge Inn taproom, where a quart of cider – on the house – awaited him. For some, the day hadn’t gone too badly at all.
Meanwhile in the grounds of Hardcourt Hall, the chapel service came to a close, and the Reverend Abel Rudhall was most courteously thanked by His Lordship for attending upon them. Afterwards, the party stepped outside into the balmy summer air.
“Would you care for some refreshment?” the host enquired of his guests?
“That would be most agreeable, my lord,” Squire Portlock replied.
“Then please follow on,”
Lord Arlingham and Rupert led the Portlocks across the lawns until they arrived at a Grecian styled gazebo. It was a decorous little building with a miniature tympanum archway supported on either side by two fluted portico colonnades. And as an additional feature, the gazebo was pleasantly situated beside an ornamental pond.
Once inside, the visitors were greeted by a repast of Bordeaux claret and a jug of coffee, accompanied by a plate of light pastries set upon a dainty cake stand.
As they seated themselves comfortably around the table, a servant poured out the drinks to order before discretely retiring. The cool air reflected from the water’s edge gave an ambience favourable to the most congenial atmosphere.
“It would seem from our sermon that God’s blessings are to be bounteously bestowed upon the land,” observed Squire Portlock.
“Praise be to the Almighty,” His Lordship concurred. “But what do our local corn factors say, Jonas?”
Squire Portlock (with a substantial wheat crop to bring in himself), had already sounded out the grain prospects at the Bell Inn Southgate Street Gloucester. As harvest time drew near, the coaching hostelry became an impromptu corn exchange where buyers and sellers converged to haggle and dispute the future price of wheat and barley.
“Well, the crop yield looks fair this year, my lord. Wheat is expected to fetch but six shillings a bushel in the coming months.”
His Lordship nodded, “Then, I hope you aren’t too disappointed, Jonas. I think my tenant farmers will be.”
His Lordships witticism was met by polite (and somewhat) uneasy laughter. For God does move in a mysterious way. How else could it be, when his churchgoing flock prayed for two different things at once!
And what did the farmers wish for? Not for a disastrous harvest – No indeed. Ruined crops would be no good to anyone. But a poor harvest, that would be much better. The shortages kept prices up and profit margins wider.
On the other hand, the common people prayed altogether for an abundant harvest. Then (God willing) prices stayed lower and their bellies full.
Johanna Portlock judiciously steered the conversation to other matters. She was most interested to know how the French aristocrats were settling into their new Gloucester residence.
“Oh! They are far happier at our Westgate street town house.” Lord Arlingham was pleased to say. “Hardcourt Hall was not to their liking… Why the head gardener only had to tap on the window, and they jumped out of their skins.”
His Lordships anecdotal example of the de Moritz condition caused much amusement in the gazebo. And there was a postscript.
“Oh and incidentally, the Dean of Gloucester managed to find a Catholic priest to give private Mass to the Comte and his family… And he’s French too.” His Lordship was able to confirm.
This snippet of news was a further reminder of the parlous state of affairs taking place across the English Channel. The shadow of the revolution had thrown up a steady exodus of priests and nuns seeking sanctuary from the growing anti-clerical hostility of revolutionary France. Where would it all end?
At this juncture, Rupert sought permission to be excused with Toby.
“By all means,” Lord Arlingham benevolently replied.
“But I cannot guarantee the pastries will be here on your return.”
The two young men left the gazebo and sauntered together across the lawns.
“Look,” Toby pointed out the hoof indentations made at the time of their outing to Windmill Hill. The offending marks had since been soiled over and seeded. Both grinned broadly at the memory of the occasion.
“My father rebuked me in no uncertain terms,” said Rupert.
“Mine too,” Toby chuckled. “Still it was jolly good fun methinks.”
“All round I’d say,” Rupert agreed.
Toby glanced back at the gazebo.
“Anyway, I suppose we will be the under discussion, now we are out of earshot.”
“Without doubt,” Rupert answered.
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br /> “What are they to do with us, eh?” Toby looked questioningly at Rupert.
“Well there was talk of sending me up to Balliol Oxford if all else fails.” Rupert replied with a confidential air. “But it was just a passing fancy of Papa’s”.
Toby shook his head emphatically. “I’m done with books and desks.”
They walked on across the manicured lawns until their progress was abruptly terminated by a sturdy boundary of wrought iron railings, overhung by a line of mature horse chestnut trees.
Beyond the inner sanctum lay the butter cupped laden grasses of the Great Meadow itself.
“The mow is to begin tomorrow,” Rupert announced. “The bailiff Amos was here. The teams are assembled. All is in readiness…”
Toby absently took in the intelligence before broaching the subject that was uppermost in his mind that day.
“But what of this dalliance of yours I’m hearing about? By all accounts you waylaid Melody Bell.”
“You are privy to this?” Rupert asked in shocked surprise.
“Oh word has spread far and wide old chum. I overheard the yard hands talk at Manor Farm.”
Rupert was taken aback, but quickly recovered himself.
“I see no reason to be ashamed,” he declared loftily. “The truth is out, so be it.”
With that, he reached into his waistcoat breast pocket and drew out a parchment of folded paper.
“Look here… I have penned an ode to my love.”
“You have done what pray?” Replied an incredulous Toby.
“I keep it next to my heart,” Rupert blissfully stated.
“I see.”
“Shall I read it?”
“Gallop on dear friend.”
Rupert recited the verse to a wondering Toby.
“What do you think?” Rupert sought approval, as he refolded and replaced the parchment back into his waistcoat breast pocket.
“Well,”- Toby was on very unfamiliar territory- but love poems to a milkmaid? Besides which… the verse sounded very mawkish.
“A declaration of your fancy?” he hazarded.
“Oh come now, Toby,” Rupert scolded patronisingly.
“She means so much more. The poem should have made that abundantly clear… surely?”
Toby refused to humour the situation any further.
“Rupert, she is a village wench. I’ll warrant she cannot spell her name much less read your love offering. Why enjoy the chase by all means? I most certainly would – Her the vixen – You the swain. Come to manhood. Then all’s forgotten, sir.”
Rupert reddened in the face, and he responded indignantly, “Toby, you proceed to make light of my deepest feelings.”
“And you make too heavy,” Toby retorted. “Why the maid is exulted far beyond her station.”
“Exalted she is to be,” Rupert voiced passionately. “As one day you will discover!”
“What can you mean?” Toby was now very intrigued.
Rupert hesitated and then coldly replied, “I propose to talk of the matter no more. Come let us return.”
At once Rupert stalked haughtily away leaving Toby behind to digest these surprising developments.
The implications were perfectly clear. Rupert was besotted beyond propriety…To the point of scandal even. Toby briefly wondered whether to alert his family to the inappropriate conduct of the Viscount’s son. Then he broke into a mischievous smile.
“Let Rupert Valans go hang,” he chuckled to himself.
Much cheered by his pragmatic policy of non-intervention, Toby stepped out in lively fashion and retraced his steps back to the gazebo.
Summer Holiday
Toby re-entered the gazebo just in time to hear Lord Arlingham announce his snap decision to embark with Rupert upon a short summer tour of the Wye Valley, which he understood had become most fashionable of late.
This completely unexpected news caused Rupert much consternation, and the young man vigorously protested upon the pretext of visiting the de Moritz’s at Gloucester in order to further his linguistic skills.
“Nonsense, my boy,” reproved his father. “By the Comte’s own admission you spoke as well as any Bourbon on your birthday reply speech… and without prior rehearsal as I recall.”
“Besides,” he further observed. “Once the mow begins the air will be full of incommodious effluvium.” In the past, these tiresome occurrences had brought His Lordship no end of discomfort throughout the summer months. A timely visit to the Wye Valley seemed the best option by far.
“Perhaps, Toby might wish to accompany us?” His Lordship enquired. Toby glanced obliquely at his parents. Their non-committal looks gave nothing away. Toby played politic.
“I am most grateful for your generous invitation, my lord, but I feel it my duty to give what assistance I can at Manor Farm. This being without doubt our busiest time of the year.”
Taken by surprise, the Portlocks visibly warmed to hear their son expressing concern for the farm estate. The boy seemed to be turning out well at last.
“That is most commendable of you Toby,” Lord Arlingham replied, and thereafter he extended his personal seal of approval to Toby’s parents.
“The boy does you credit by far,” he congratulated them.
“Thank you, my lord,” the Portlocks replied in gratified unison. That said, Lord Arlingham turned to the pressing business in hand.
“Well, Rupert. It is incumbent upon us to prepare for our summer vacation immediately. Letters must be forwarded to those concerned, advising them of our forthcoming arrival.”
“Yes Papa,” replied Rupert rather glumly.
“Then let us detain you no longer, my lord,” advised Squire Portlock politely. With that, the party broke up, and vacating the gazebo they strolled back to Hardcourt Hall.
As soon as space permitted privacy, Toby collared Rupert on the hoof. “Cheer up, dear chum. It won’t be for long.”
Rupert with the wind well and truly taken out of his sails, no longer displayed his haughty demeanour of earlier occasion.
“What am I to do, Toby?” He spoke forlornly. “My fervent hope was to meet with Melody, and express my innermost feelings for her by poetry. My written words of love to be taken to her bosom thereafter.”
“Hmm, what’s the solution I wonder?” Toby frowned as one wrestling with an insoluble problem. Then, he started as one possessed of a sudden thought.
“I have it,” he spoke triumphantly but quietly lest they be overheard. “Suppose I may be permitted to act on your behalf dear friend?”
“I beg pardon?” Rupert started in confusion.
“Why not so? Toby spoke as one wholly convinced by this stratagem.”I would be an emissary bearing your verse."
Rupert was nonplussed at the thought of such an audacious plan, and for the moment remained silent.
“Look, our friendship so tested can be the better for it,” Toby coaxed insistently. “Besides would not the gesture be so much grander if received from a humble messenger in the service of his lordship’s son?”
“And you will place the poem in her hands once read?” Rupert sought conditionally.
“As a treasured keepsake until you are returned,” Toby promised. Rupert was swayed.
“Very well,” he agreed. “I concede to your argument.”
Fumbling once more inside his breast waistcoat pocket, he drew out the folded parchment and passed it on to Toby, who now spoke with smugly reassuring confidence.
“Certainly, my errand will not be a distraction of my honour so given.” Rupert gratefully took Toby’s arm. “I am indebted to you.”
“Oh, not at all. The task will be swiftly fulfilled and the object of your heart’s desire will take possession of such a finely penned ode within the coming days. Of that you can be assured.”
And so it came to the parting of the ways. The two families bid each other a fond adieu, and in conclusion the Portlocks wished Lord Arlingham and Rupert Valans a pleasant journey and safe return.
Pausing on the steps of Hardcourt Hall…Rupert (now harbouring deep misgivings) disconsolately watched the Portlock’s carriage disappear from view. His declaration of love, and all that followed for good or ill, now lay in the hands of another.
Returning homeward it was noticeable that Toby was possessed of a more genial frame of mind. Altogether the opposite of what had been experienced earlier.
“You seem suddenly well disposed to our company,” Squire Portlock remarked curiously.
“Dear Mater and Pater. May I profusely apologise for my errant behaviour this morning?” Toby graciously replied.
Squire Portlock nodded and said no more… but inwardly he wondered what had transpired to bring about his son’s happy mien.
“And you are not disappointed at being unable to accompany Rupert?” His mother wished to know. Toby duly obliged.
“Oh, not one bit. Mama.”
His parents quickly glanced at one another. This was all very mysterious. “Well, that’s to the good,” acknowledged his father.
“In truth his lordship sprang his plans upon us from out of the blue. We were all taken by surprise.”
“Nevertheless,” insisted Toby, “It’s high time I began to pull my weight on our own acreage. Do you not think?”
“Of course, my boy,” re-joined his father with great satisfaction. “Both your mother and myself are most heartened by the willingness shown here. And may I say now. Your forthcoming cooperation is to be eagerly anticipated.”
Toby smiled. He was a clever young man. The moment was ripe. “Naturally, I will need a mount. Do I have your permission to ride out, father?”
Squire Portlock caught left footed-smiled ruefully at his wife. To refuse Toby’s sons request would be mere churlishness. He’d been well and truly trumped.
“The boy has his wits about him I’ll say that,” he admitted with frank admiration. “Ah! The devil take you, sir,” he scolded his son affectionately.
Toby understood from the last remark that permission to ride had been granted.
The Mow
On a bright dewy Monday morning in late June, the scythes men selected by Richard Amos assembled at the Forge Inn. Having passed muster, they trooped off in a body to mow the Great Meadow.
