The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  All hearts and minds were on the food except for one. John Clare sat a little apart, upon a stump and so still it was as though its timber had spread through him and he was himself wood from head to foot. No one paid him any mind for he is often considered strange. When Old Otter pressed a pot into his hand he took it but did not sup. He sat like one amazed. His eyes were fixed on Mary Joyce who stood waist deep among ragged children pouring sugared water from a jug.

  His eyes were fixed on Mary, who he remembered as a child in Glinton vestry school, as shy and quick then as a wild thing, and bold besides, and as nimble to scramble up onto the church roof and scratch her name upon the lead as any. And now she was become a woman. John’s mind was quick with calculation, if he was seventeen then she was three behind. And she was grown lovely. Her hair was dressed in ringlets and covered with a lace cap, and over it a wide brimmed hat. Her cotton gown was yellow as a cowslip and underneath it the firm shapely rounding of her breasts, and loose over her shoulders a russet cloak …he shook himself from his reverie, supped his ale for courage, straightened, and casting all thought of station aside walked across to the cart.

  “Mary.”

  She turned to him. He saw that her face still had something of the impishness he remembered as a child, but there were other layers beside, of thought and sorrow, and then a soft kindness about the eyes that was beyond her years. John remembered that she had lost her mother a year since.

  “Mary, have you forgot me?”

  She broke into a smile and a new light seemed to shine from her face.

  “John Clare!”

  “Will you come and sit with us Mary?”

  He offered his hand and she took it, light as a bird, and sprang down from the cart.

  “Of course I’ve never forgot you John.”

  They walked across to where the band was gathered on the grass. John unbuttoned his coat and threw it down for her.

  “Here’s Sam and Jonathan, Old Otter who the whole world knows, Wisdom who you have not met before, and Dick who you’ve met a thousand times.”

  She laughed and kissed Dick Turnill on the cheek, for she had schooled with him too, which made him blush and which in turn made the rest laugh out loud. And she shook hands with Wisdom. Then she sat on the coat and gathered her knees up to her chin.

  “’Tis two years since last I saw you John.”

  “I’ve been away Mary.”

  John suddenly found himself awkward at a divide that seemed to him to have grown between them. She smiled:

  “Seeking fame and fortune in the French war?”

  He shook his head and said nothing.

  “A trade then?”

  “Hardly, though my parents would wish it so.”

  “Well, here you are, and home again, and I for one am glad of it.”

  She broke a piece of twig and flicked it at him. There was quiet between them for a while.

  “Do you recall John,” she said, “the time that Mr Merrishaw put a question to the class and I put up my hand to answer and he said ‘Yes Mary’, and I mouthed the words and made no sound. He picked up his ear trumpet, d’you remember, ‘Speak up child’ he said and I did mouth again. And he said ‘I cannot hear thee, is there anyone can give me the answer as can speak up like a man?’ And you put your hand up. ‘Yes John Clare,’ says he. And you mouthed the words as well. And old Merrishaw frowned then and put down his trumpet and made his way out of the church. And we all climbed up to the windows and we could see him among the gravestones poking a rag first into one ear and then t’other. When he came back we were sitting in rows as though we had not shifted.

  ‘Now then John Clare,’ says he, ‘as you were saying.’ And he lifts the trumpet to his ear once more, and you stood up and shouted the answer so that he jumped clean into the air, but said no word thinking as he’d cleaned his ears of all obstruction.”

  And John laughed and nodded and delighted in her as she was this day, sitting beside him. And he delighted in memories of how she had been. And in his mind he was forming a design on how things might be one day between them, though he could not bring any word to his tongue to express it.

  Her talk turned first one way and then another.

  And then, suddenly, it was interrupted.

  “A word if you’d be so kind.”

  They looked up and Will Bloodworth was standing above them, swaying a little, for the farmers had been sweetening their small ale with a flask of French brandy. His pipe was smouldering in his left hand and his right was drawn tight into a fist. His voice was raised, as one who has drunk over the odds, and on hearing him the congregation quietened.

  His sister, sensing trouble, called out to him.

  “Come and sit down Will.”

  He paid her no heed.

  “I want a word with our gypsy friend.”

  Wisdom got up to his feet as though nothing in the world would hurry him. He met Will’s gaze with a wry lop-sided smile, with nothing in it of fear or servitude. If Will had been master and Wisdom apprentice, that smile would have been rewarded with a wallop for its cock-sure cheek. Will whispered:

  “What’s your bloody name?”

  “Will! Sit down!”

  Wisdom’s brown eyes looked steady into Will’s.

  “Wisdom Boswell.”

  Will raised his voice:

  “Ah. One of them as camps out on Emmonsales and helps himself regular to what ain’t his.”

  There were muffled grunts of assent from all sides. Wisdom said nothing. And Will, grown bold with the ready sympathy of the crowd, carried on:

  “Well I’ve heard as you ‘Gyptians, for all you’re a pack of thieves, can read the future in tea leaves or the lines on a body’s hand. If I was to give you sixpence what could you read of me?”

  There was laughter and old Miss Nelly Farrar shouted out:

  “Ay, and ain’t I still waiting for that handsome devil I paid Lettuce Boswell thruppence for?”

  Will smiled with his mouth, though there was little of a smile in his eyes. He uncurled his fist and held out his hand palm upwards, there was a silver sixpence lying on it.

  “Come on Wisdom Boswell, unravel for me all that is writ in the stars.”

  It was clear he meant to make a mock of Wisdom. And every face was on the two of them now as Wisdom reached across and took Will’s hand into his own. He picked up the coin and pocketed it.

  “It’s the women as usually do the dukkering, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

  He stroked the palm tenderly with his thumb and looked down upon it with a great attention. Will Bloodworth turned to the crowd and raised his eyebrows.

  “It ain’t often I hold hands with a damned gypsy.”

  There were titters of laughter again.

  The children did not laugh though, for since the riddy stone Wisdom was as a native chief to them, and they his tribe. Nor did Sam Billings, who watched Wisdom with a bright, shrewd eye, knowing more of the Boswell crew than most.

  Wisdom traced the lines on the palm with the tip of a finger. Then he spoke in a whisper, loud enough for all to hear and filled with portent, his face fixed as though staring beyond Will’s hand into some world no one else could see.

  “I see rivals in love. I see two as both nurse a tender affection for thee in their secret hearts.”

  Will turned and winked at the crowd.

  “Two you say?”

  “Ay, two there are, and each would have thee to husband. And if they knew as they was rivals in love there would be such a scratching and a shrieking as would shame a cage of cats.”

  Will made as if to yawn:

  “And both of them beauties I’ve little doubt. One dark perhaps? One fair?”

  He threw his pipe onto the grass and thrust his other hand under Wisdom’s nose so the blunt fingertips caught his chin.

  “Come on sir, be plain!”

  The crowd’s mocking laughter echoed Will’s mocking grin, but Wisdom did not change his tune.

&
nbsp; “Ay, one is dark right enough,” he whispered, “But no stranger to you Will Bloodworth, for she has rolled you in her arms full many’s the time.”

  “Tell me more!”

  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 f
or 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.”