by William Hunt
“Tally-ho, Rupert!”
Toby’s robust humour and careless abandon, jangled against Rupert’s deeply burning sensitivities harboured for Melody. He had thought of no one else since she bestowed the kiss upon him that summer day.
Little did Rupert realise that where the wanton maid was concerned. The hunt had long since been brought to a successful conclusion.
Reprieved
As news of the land drainage plans spread through the Hardcourt community, the consequences (for good or ill) were measured in the minds of those individuals affected. In the short term, the uptake of labour and supplies promised work for some. And glad they were of it.
Behind the Forge Inn, Jeb Musslewhite’s anvil could be heard ringing loudly as the tools ordered from Hardcourt Hall took priority over all else. Sparks flew and showered the smithy, as axes, spades and billhooks were hammered into shape from glowing red ingots of iron. Then the crafted tools were quenched in oil and water for tempering to hardness.
Just yards away from the frenetic activity, the field workers queued up for the final harvest pay out. Those itinerants and casual labourers from outside the parish would thereafter disperse. Their services dispensed with for the year.
But now with talk of further work in the air; expectations and hopes were raised all round. Not least by Charlie and John who (despite the portent, and perils indicative of their continuing presence at Hardcourt) desperately clung to any means of sustenance that might be on offer.
Short of money, the only other alternative was to go back on the road and tramp the bleak autumnal lanes through the unforgiving parishes of England.
John took his turn in the queue ahead of Charlie and shuffled forward into the alcove of the Forge Inn where Richard Amos customarily sat. Amos looked up at John, put down his quill and made as if to hand over the pay. Then, his clenched fist hovered tantalisingly over the table.
“There’s work here for those that wants it… What say you?”
It seemed as if the release of the money might be conditional on the answer given. John looked quickly back at Charlie, who emphatically nodded in the affirmative.
“Ah! To be sure I do. Yes, Mr Amos.”
Amos opened his palm and the handful of coppers clinked onto the table. The quill lay dormant and – irish john – remained on the ledger.
“Abide where you are for now. And come when called.”
“I will Mr Amos, sir.”
Next in line; Charlie stepped up to the pay table and wasted no time. “There’s a willing man stood ’ere… At your service, Mr Amos sir.”
“So be it. Stay on.” In the event, Richard Amos had no trouble selecting either of them. Both worked satisfactorily. And (unlike the other itinerants) the pair came with the added advantage of being quartered.
For his part John was happy enough with the outcome, but Charlie was of a more inquisitive nature, and sought clarity on the matter.
“What is it we do, Mr Amos sir?”
“Land work,” came the short answer.
Charlie hovered questioningly by the pay table. The bailiff was obliged to expand.
“There will be trenches to dig… waste land to clear.”
“And what might be our wages?” Charlie persisted with his interrogation. Amos became annoyed.
“Enough to pay hut rent, and put kettle broth in thy belly!” He stridently exclaimed.
“Now be gone!” And Charlie was perfunctorily dismissed with a brusque wave of the hand. However- london charles – stayed on the books.
Afterwards, the two men viewed their fortunate reprieve with mixed feelings.
“Well, by the Grace of our Good Lady, we are spared once more Charlie,” John spoke with a rueful grin as he crossed himself.
“Ah but strike me, if we ain’t docked rent this time round,” Charlie replied much aggrieved. “Per’aps your papist Good Lady can put that right!” He added petulantly.
Inside the Forge Inn tap room, Peter Rastall and George Bell sat together sharing a quart mug and pipe smoke with Old Un’.
Old Un’, wary of the fields after the snake bite, had worked out the remainder of the harvest in the rick yard. But now with the harvest done, the conversation focussed on Moorend. And for those who dwelt there, the news was not good.
“Bugger it all!” George Bell lamented. “Down comes the withy trees, and with it the wands to make our baskets. Never mind the reeds for thatchin’ the roof s over us ’eads.”
Old Un’ thought on the matter and proffered a suggestion.
"Best put clay tiles atop George. There’s a goodly number made at the Rea brick works just upriver.
“But tiles don’t hold the warmth, like thatch,” grumbled Peter Rastall. “And the reeds were God’s gift. Now we need to find the wherewithal to pay the tile maker?”
"Buy ‘em slow and steady till time comes," Old Un’ advised as he took up with his clay pipe.
Just then little Jack Rastall, posted in the Forge Inn passageway, alerted his father.
“The bailiff man is a settin’ off, Dad.”
Both Peter Rastall and George Bell caught up with Richard Amos outside the Forge Inn… for a quick word.
Richard Amos was not unsympathetic and proffered some advice. “Unless I’m told otherwise… the dirt gets tipped in the river, all else is burnt. At day’s end take what you can. But don’t get in the way,” he cautioned.
So that was it. (With any luck)). A stockpile of withies might be stashed for one final basket-making season.
“We’ll get something from this after all George,” Peter Rastall brightened on receipt of the welcome information.
“For now maybe, but what’s to become of us afterwards Twilight?” George Bell bemoaned.
“As to that I cannot say,” replied Peter Rastall with a shake of his head.
“Ah, but take heart George?” he spoke encouragingly.
“At spring tides the elvers run. Why, they’ll be withies enough to spread cheesecloth over for a net, and a full shut will feed us all for days… And don’t forget the beer money to be made from sellin’ ’em on at Gloucester… Penny a pound, mind you!”
George Bell cheered up at the prospect of springtime elvering.
“Ah! To catch ’em by lantern light, and watch ’em wriggle in the frothy vump brings joy to my very soul Twilight.”
It was consolation enough. For time beyond memory, the tiny little enclave of Moorend lay sheltered by the banks of the Severn. Hidden away behind the reed beds and osiers, it had been so far untouched and untroubled.
But the relentless march of enclosure and land improvements edged ever closer to the wild growing resources given by nature and taken freely by man. For those small holders and cottage dwellers of the riverside… the future looked bleak indeed.
The Fair
The people came for miles to the fair on Rosamund’s Green. For long ages past, the Welsh cattle drovers had forded the Severn below Gloucester at this point. At the conclusion of such an arduous crossing, the cattle needed to be rested up and tolls paid.
Over the centuries, a stretch of open pastureland had grown up to accommodate the stopover, and a central spine road connected the passing trade to the highways of South West England.
In time a little hamlet appeared along its periphery, and the locality was named ‘Rosamund’s Green’. It was here on this ancient site that the local hiring fair took place in early October.
Farm servants received their back pay, and thereafter a new bargain was sought between servant and master. Those released from their employ, looked elsewhere for hire at the fair itself… Others stayed for the while.
Melody and Charlotte were happy enough at Home Farm, and as Richard Amos held no complaint against them, they were held over till Lady Day.
Melody chanced upon her father along Buttermilk Lane, and conveyed the good news to him. George Bell nodded approvingly.
“Glad I am to hear that, Melody Girl. As will be your mother… Now… Whe
n can we see some help with the rent?”
“Tomorrow father,” she replied. “Tonight we go play at the fair.”
“Us an’ all,” replied George Bell. “Basket wares for to sell… and a drink to better times… Maybe’s.”
Melody listened with a distracted air. “Well, I must haste away,” she concluded and promptly trotted off toward Home Farm.
“And don’t forget to come and see us!” George Bell called after his eldest daughter. Involuntarily, he paused to watch and admire her comely figure, as she gracefully swept along Buttermilk Lane.
Perchance George Bell stood close to the spot, where a few months earlier, Rupert’s youthful ardour was set alight by the self-same vision. But apart from the Windmill Hill incident ( long since passed). George Bell remained blissfully unaware of his daughter’s subsequent adventuring. And in this continuing state of ignorance, he trudged off to Moorend to prepare his wares for the fair.
Meanwhile, Home Farm buzzed with the young and eligible farm servants readying themselves for the outing. Soon the wagoner would pick up the paying passengers. And for once the farm servants could afford to travel in style. Such a glorious opportunity to ride in a charabanc was not to be past up- on this most auspicious occasion.
The distant tootle of the horn signalled the wagoner’s approach, and there followed an excited hurried exodus from Home Farm. Both Melody and Charlotte determinedly jostled alongside the others, gathering up their Sunday best dyed linen frocks in order to avoid the potholes and rough ground that lay between them and the waiting conveyance.
The spirit of excitement was evident. To hearty sounds of encouragement from those already aboard, the Home Farm servants joined them by way of a small stepladder. And to further mark the occasion, a pair of magnificent shire horses had been harnessed up especially for the trip. Once underway, the fairgoers erupted into loud cheers, and the charabanc set off toward the highlight of the year.
“So, you wish to visit the fair with Toby?” Lord Arlingham looked up in surprise at his son.
“If I may, Papa.”
“Well, I suppose it will do no harm for once,” his father replied after due consideration. “It is the way of things after all.”
Rupert’s request put Lord Arlingham in mind of a similar instance that occurred to him many years earlier. Citing this past event as an object lesson, he drew his son’s attention to the salient facts of the matter.
“Why, I well recollect a time when I took your mother by carriage to view the multitude. There was merriment for sure. But as Lady Caroline herself noted, the pastimes and amusements were of an altogether primitive nature… So remember your station sir! Remember your station!”
His Lordship cautioned warningly. “Familiarity with the lower orders is not to be desired.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” His Lordship was mollified, “And keep not such a late hour.”
With permission granted, Rupert sent for his mount, and nursing a feeling of small trepidation at this most novel experience, he set off at a steady canter to rendezvous with Toby at Manor Farm which lay en route to Rosamund’s Green.
He hadn’t covered but a mile, when he came upon the charabanc with its full complement of noisy happy fun filled passengers. At Rupert’s approach a cry rose up in unison.
“Gentleman rider!”
The wagoner respectfully reined up, and waved Rupert on by. Hats were doffed and politely responding as he passed… Rupert returned the salutation.
Then forgetting his father’s directive and in the most unbecoming fashion for one of such elevated position… curiosity took hold of the young man. He cast round at their faces.
In an instant, his eyes found Melody, her dark hair cascading in ringlets from under her bonnet. She smiled back at him, reminiscent of the time they had previously met on Buttermilk Lane. His heart missed a beat.
With a valiant effort, Rupert took control of his steed and looked to his front. Seconds later he’d cantered past, and was quickly lost from view.
"Gee up Hector! Go on Castor! The wagoner exhorted his pair of shire horses with a flick of the reins; and the charabanc resumed its onward journey. Amid the on-going chatter, Melody threw Charlotte a rapturous look of supreme confidence.
“I said he would come?”
On Rosamund’s Green, crowds of people swarmed and bustled among the tents and caravans, whilst at predetermined locations of long standing, farmers and labourers gathered to negotiate terms of hire between themselves. Still others were bent on the entertainment offered. And distractions there were aplenty. It was the one time of the year when the labouring poor had any money to spare all.
Outside the ‘Three Horseshoes Inn’, a game of skittles was taking place. Nine pins down for a pig. Those who paid their stake money bowled the balls along an outdoor planked alley in a fiercely contested game. Everyone wanted hams in their larder that winter.
Gathered by the Inn doorway – and looking to take advantage of those mellowed by drink. A small band of flute, fiddle and tabor drum, thumped out a melancholy accompaniment to the sweet singing voice of a young woman balladeer, bewailing a lost love.
Among the crowd, Melody and Charlotte strolled along arm in arm through the fairs attractions. But they were an attraction in their own right – especially Melody. However, she gave the attentions of the local young men short shrift, much to Charlotte’s chagrin.
“Why, I’d be happy enough to walk out with any one of those lads?” she complained.
Melody smiled mysteriously. “Don’t fret. We will be in company soon enough.”
“Oh Melody! Stop a dreamin’ and put both feet on the ground girl,” Charlotte scolded. “Those gentlemen are not for you. Prithee rid your head of these silly notions.”
But Melody’s attention was already elsewhere. She pointed in the direction of a small cylindrical tent. Propped up aside the canvas opening stood a black wooden board, adorned with a simple faded painting of a white moon and five pointed stars, intersected by a bright yellow comet.
It was the soothsayer tent. Hung over the entrance was a sign that read: FATES TOLD. Though most of the crowd were illiterate, everyone knew what it meant. The soothsayer was a regular feature to Rosamund’s Green at this time of year.
The canvas flaps opened up into a small dark interior, with a little flickering lantern inside. Just visible in the shadows was the figure of a swarthy woman sat round a bare round wooden table. On these occasions the Romany’s were never far away.
“Why, I’ve a mind to go in,” Melody announced firmly.
Charlotte was wary. “Oh! That’s not right. The Church don’t hold with such pagan goings on.”
Melody was unimpressed, “Oh, what harm can it do – Anyways… We are paid up now, and it’s a poor lookout if there’s no fun to be had on this of all nights too.”
Taking Charlotte firmly by the hand, Melody peered into the little circular tent. The candle lamp flickered on the table and the Gypsy woman clasped a pack of large and well-thumbed cards in her bony hands.
“Why, come in, my sweets. Don’t be afraid,” she beckoned them to sit down opposite. Melody presented herself as the pay mistress, and without more ado, the cards were skilfully and with much ceremony shuffled repeatedly and finally laid face down across the table.
“Pick your three cards, Missy,”
Melody picked out the cards, and one by one with intonations, and rocking to and forth, the teller turned them face up.
One told of a troubled past. Another held the promise of a new beginning. Unfamiliar with playing cards, both the maids were at a loss as to the interpretations arrived at. But with the turning of the final card, the teller let out an exclamation of happy surprise.
“What does it say?” Melody eagerly enquired.
“It is the Lady of Hearts herself,” the teller replied. “Why your love is near, and soon enough shall be yours.”
Melody was rapturous, and crossed the tellers palm with a s
ilver three-penny piece.
“Thank you, my dear.”
Business done, the teller swiftly squared up the cards and set the pack down on the table. “The cards have spoken!” She exclaimed with finality, and relapsed into silence.
Seconds later, the two maids emerged from behind the canvas into the hurly-burly of the fairground.
“Hmm, whatever next?” Charlotte laughed incredulously. “I am to await my love,” Melody simply replied.
“But which one?” Charlotte scoffed with exasperation.
Nearby, Rupert and Toby arrived on horseback just as the autumnal sunlight afternoon was giving way to the evening darkness. Lanterns and fires now lit up the proceedings. Fascinated, Rupert took in the sights and sounds. “So many souls,” he murmured, and then turning concernedly to his companion, he got straight to the point.
“How on earth do we?”-
“Find the wench?” interjected Toby.
“Have no fear dear friend. I’ve taken the liberty of… how we shall say… spies in the camp. All we have to do is make our way. Follow me.”
With their horses tended, Toby and Rupert began to stroll through the crowds. Their fine shining leather riding boots, crops, double breasted tail coats and elegant cravats marked them out from the simple attire of the labouring folk.
Still more, both young men were as tall, if not taller than most. And with their front facing buckle hats, the oncoming pair stood out from the crowd by far. Two beau’s indeed.
Toby nonchalantly took all in his stride. He had been to fairs past. Occasionally, he wished goodnight to someone he recognised, but Rupert was stiffly formal and very uneasy within the proximity of an altogether unfamiliar type of people.
As they strolled along, the crowds respectfully melted away before them. Those unsteady with drink, were quickly collared by their more sober companions, and steered clear of any unfortunate mishaps.
Then against the run of direction, a slight individual came quickly alongside. Toby cocked his ear, and the man spoke briefly and pointed his finger.
“Aha! We are obliged to you, sir.”
