The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  “We’ll take the long way home.” He said.

  With the last of his pennies they bought a gingerbread milk-maid, and a gingerbread coach and horses and nibbled at them until Mary’s milk-maid was one-legged and John’s horses headless, and then giggled as though they were children at Glinton School.

  They followed Maxham’s Green Lane towards Snow Common.

  “If you weren’t fighting Boney John, and coming back a bold hero to sweep me off my feet, with a star on your breast and a purse-full of prize money for all them galleons you’d sunk, where were you these two years?”

  And John picked up a stick, tucked his arm into his coat, closed one eye and lifted the stick to his closed eye.

  “I see John Clare at Burghley Hall working in the garden.”

  Mary curtsied to him.

  “Gardener to the Marquis. Then I am walking out with a gentleman of quality.”

  “Well, to tell ye the truth Mary, apprentice to the master of the kitchen garden.”

  She curtsied again:

  “Then I am walking out with the breeder and bearer of the Marquis’ turnip.”

  John bowed low to the ground.

  “At your service, Ma’am.”

  And he told her of the great walled-kitchen garden, and how, on first arriving, his master had sent him out for liquor late at night, and he had become fearful and lost his way in the park and slept beneath a tree and woken up half white with frosty rime. He told her how, weary with ill treatment, he’d run away to Grantham and worked in an orchard under one George Cousins who could recite the best part of the Bible word for word and knew more ghost stories than any man.

  “Tell me one of his stories John.”

  And John told her about the ‘Hand of Glory’, that cut from the arm of a hanged man will burn like candles at the finger tip and cast a household into sleep, so that the robber who carries it can take purses from pockets and rings from fingers without waking a soul.

  “And why did you come back?”

  “I was so far from home that I could not tell from which quarter the wind blew, Mary. It seemed to me that even the sun’s course was altered, and I longed for the sight of the steeples.”

  Soon enough they drew close to the edge of Snow Common. It was as though the world was holding its breath after the hustle and the bustle of the village street. It was early dusk now and the blackthorn bushes and hazel trees stood dark against the fading sky.

  “It’s lovely here.” She said.

  “Follow me.”

  They wound between the bushes, lifting their feet high over the moundy tussocks.

  “No one’s been here before, that’s how it feels.”

  “Shhhhh.”

  They sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, side by side. She reached down and picked daisies, laid them on her lap and made a chain. She lifted it and hung it around John’s neck.

  All of a sudden from a tangle of bramble and thorn the wild strain began:

  “Chew-chew, cheer cheer cheer.”

  The notes grew higher and shriller:

  “Cheer-up, cheer-up.”

  Then they dropped down to a low sliding:

  “Teeeeee, jug jug jug.”

  She whispered:

  “A nightingale.”

  John nodded. They sat together silent as stone as the song cascaded and fell, a silver rain of sound:

  “Wew-wew, wew-wew, chur-chur-chur-chur, woo-it, woo-it.”

  Mary leaned towards John. He could feel her warmth beside him.

  “Tee-rew, tee-rew, tee-rew, will, will, grig-grig-grig-grig.”

  She slipped her hand into his hand, curled her fingers around his fingers, light and delicate as a leaf.

  *******

  Mr Ben Price, the stout bailiff of the Milton estate, was hammering a notice onto Helpston church door.

  Out in the street the fever of the fair had cleared, the stalls were being packed away onto carts, the farmers shifting allegiance from small ale to strong beer. And the village constable, Mr Bullimore, was hurrying all chapmen, pedlars and beggars that weren’t of the village out across the parish bounds.

  Ben’s horse was tethered to the church gate, and he’d attracted little notice ‘til now. But the hammering began to draw a crowd. People pushed into the porch, peering over his shoulder.

  “What’s this Mr Price?”

  People are always civil to Ben Price, though it is through fear rather than respect, he being the chief collector of rents and tithes for the Milton estate, and having little less than power of life and death over them.

  He lowered his hammer and turned to them. His grey eyes looking through them rather than at them, and the flickering twitch at the corner of his mouth, much imitated in the ale-houses of Helpston and Glinton, sending little ripples across his plump cheek.

  “’Tis the settlement for the enclosure. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to let me through, I must ride to Glinton and perform the same duty there.”

  The crowd parted. As soon as Ben Price was gone they pushed forwards.

  “It’s too dark to see, fetch a lantern.”

  A lantern was brought and held over the parchment. Richard Royce, at the front of the crowd, peered at it and frowned. Someone shouted:

  “What does it say?”

  “The devil a word can I read, ‘tis no more to me than a bird’s footprints on wet clay.”

  “Then make way for someone as can.”

  “Look, here comes the parson.”

  Parson Mossop, disturbed by all the noise, had wandered across the churchyard to see what was amiss. The crowd let him through. He pulled his spectacles from his pocket and planted them on his nose. He drew his breath and began to read aloud:

  “In this year of Our Lord 1811 an Act of Parliament has been passed allowing for the Enclosure of lands in the parishes of Maxey, Northborough, Glinton, Etton and Helpston in the County of Northampton.

  Whereas some Part of the Arable, Meadow and Pasture lands are intermixed and inconveniently situated for the respective Owners and Occupiers thereof, and the Commons and Waste Grounds yield but little Profit, it shall be very advantageous for the said Arable, Meadow and Pasture lands, along with the Commons and Wastes to be enclosed and allotted to the several Persons interested therein, in proportion to their respective Estates, Rights and Interests.”

  The parson turned back to the crowd.

  “There we have it.”

  He pointed to the second notice.

  “And here we have the map of the enclosure awards.”

  News travels quick in the parish, word had already reached the more substantial village farmers. Ralph Wormstall, Mrs Wright, Mr Bull, Thomas Bellar and John Close were approaching the back of the crowd, keen to see how they’d been served by the award. The parson was pushed against the door by a surge forward that grew stronger and stronger. He lifted the latch and it swung open, spilling the crowd into the cool of the church, the parson ahead of the rest like the cork from a bottle that has been too much shaken. And now the churchwardens stepped forward:

  “Easy. Easy. Stand aside, one at a time please.”

  *******

  When Mary Joyce came home to the farm it was dark. She went to the kitchen. Her father was sitting at the oak table poring over a parchment that was pinned down at its four corners by brass candlesticks, each one with its flickering candle. He was bent over it and so engrossed that he did not hear her enter. As she drew closer she could see it was the parish map he was looking at. His thick fingers were tracing the various furlongs and lands he rented on the three great village fields. She put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up suddenly.

  “Ah, Mary my sweet-heart, so young John Clare has brought you safely home.”

  If it had not been dark he would have seen that she blushed.

  “Ay Father.”

  He reached up and patted her hand.

  “He’s a good enough lad but don’t be getting over-fond, you’re young yet and there’s plenty
more fish in the fen.”

  She said nothing.

  “And besides, Mary, we’ll be turning you into a young woman of quality soon enough.”

  He stabbed the map with his fingers.

  “Ben Price nailed up the enclosure award this evening, and it treats us very kind.”

  Mary drew up a chair and sat beside him. She looked down at the map. She could see Maxhams Green Lane. And there was Snow Common. Where the fold of the map crossed the lane would be the very place that she and John had sat.

  “Ay, very kind Mary. All the scattered furlongs are brought together into one nice compact piece of land, and a tidy piece of grazing common has been thrown in for good measure. All shall be fenced or hedged with quick thorn. And the streams straightened and the marsh dyked so that the tilth may give of its best. Yes, soon enough it’ll be squires as’ll doff their caps to you Mary, or maybe the Earl of Fitzwilliam’s boy hanging his Mayday garland from your front door.”

  “And I’ll curse him, just as you cursed poor John this morning.”

  Her father threw back his head and laughed.

  “Well spoken Mary, for he’s as sallow a youth as I’ve ever clapped eyes on …but there’ll be others with tidy fortunes that are trimmer than him, you mark my words …the times are changing and we’re going up in the world. God bless this new legislation.”

  *******

  When John came home he found his parents and Sophie sitting before the fire. Ann was busy with her knitting needles. Sophie sat crossed legged with the cat upon her lap, she looked at him most careful, she marked the wilting daisy-chain about his neck and smiled. John seemed to her to be showing some promise, the real test would have to wait ‘til later.

  “There’s cold potatoes under the bowl.”

  John fetched some food, pulled up a stool and stretched his feet to the heat, with his wooden platter set upon his knee. Parker smiled:

  “We saw who wore your garland John.”

  Ann nodded.

  “She’s a lovely girl is Mary Joyce.”

  John didn’t answer. He could still feel the press of her hand as she’d turned to run the last of the lane to her father’s farm. Parker carried on:

  “And Joyce is a decent enough sort when he’s in temper, and never spares the ale at harvest home nor the goose at Christmas, and there’s none that works for him as complains of his pitcher or his pipe bein’ empty …unless they’ve crossed him … ay, you could do a sight worse than Mary Joyce.”

  “But be careful John,” said Ann, “I wouldn’t want you burned, and I’ll warrant Mr Joyce has his eye on someone with a few more prospects than what you’ve got, Mary being an only child and all.”

  Parker reached into the fire and lifted a burning stick to the bowl of his clay pipe. He sucked in until the tobacco glowed red in the darkened room and the air was thick with fragrant smoke.

  “Ay John, and I’ll wager as old Joyce is clapping himself on the back and shaking his own hand and drinking a glass to his own good health tonight, if the enclosures in Glinton have gone the same way as the enclosures here in Helpston.”

  Ann shook her head:

  “Ah, it’s a shame for us all.”

  John put his platter onto the floor:

  “I’d heard the award map was up.”

  “It is John, and it tells an old story.”

  Parker leaned forwards on his stool, his eyes bright above the high cheek-bones that are tanned red and finely webbed with veins from long hours in sun and wind.

  “The rich grow richer and the poor grow poorer. The enclosure favours them as have plenty of lands and spits in the face of us that have none. The big old fields are to go, as are the wastes and heaths and commons. All will be fenced and hedged and will become the sole property of some body or other. Them with plenty gets plenty. Them with a little gets a little. And them with nothing gets less than nothing for all our ancient rights are gone. We can no longer go out upon the common for firewood or withies or rushes or hazel for hurdles. We cannot gather brushwood or mushrooms or berries. We cannot snare coneys or net birds or put our pigs and geese out to graze. We will be trespassers to be prosecuted on the very land we have trod since ever time was and our only wealth will be the penny in our pocket.”

  “And what about Old Otter and Kitty,” said Ann, “who squat upon Snow Common with nought above their heads but canvas and turf, and bear the world no malice for all they are poor as the birds of the hedgerows? Where will they go when the commons are took? And what if the harvest fails, as it did those years after John and Bessie was born? Where would we have been without the commons then, to keep us fed in the hollow months, for the devil a penny we had in our pockets those winters? Ay, and every farmer happy enough to get us, reduced to paupery as we were, working his furlongs for next to nothing … with the parish paying two parts of a wage that barely bought a loaf of bread.”

  “And there are still those that play that game!”

  “And what about Wisdom,” said John, “and all the Boswell crew that are camped at Langdyke Bush?”

  “It is a sorry day,” said Parker. “And a man will no longer call to his neighbour across the furrows however-so-many acres he does or does not farm, for there will be hedges and fences between, and such lofty notions as make strangers of us all.”

  They fell into silence for a while. Then Ann turned to Sophie suddenly, as though she’d clean forgot she was there.

  “What, still up miss, when tomorrow’s work starts early. Up to bed with ye!”

  John stood and stretched.

  “And I’ll go too, for it’s been a long day.”

  *******

  John’s boots were under the bed, his breeches and shirt upon the wooden chest beside it, the daisy-chain hanging round the bed-post, his cheek to the pillow and him drifting into slumber, when he heard a creaking of floor boards. He opened his eyes. Sophie had slipped into the room and was standing beside the bed. She had a candle on a saucer. She set it on the floor and took his breeches. She slipped a hand into the pocket.

  “What are you doing Soph’?”

  She looked at him and said nothing. She pulled out the twist of paper from his pocket and tipped the cloves onto the saucer. She counted them in a whisper.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”

  She looked at John in disbelief.

  “There was fifteen when I give them to you John. You never even kissed her did ye? You never once even kissed her.”

  “What if I didn’t.”

  She widened her eyes and shook her head, picked up the saucer and tip-toed out of the room.

  “What’ll we do with you John Clare.”

  John reached above him to the bed-post. He felt the withered daisies between his fingers and smiled into the darkness.

  3

  Bird Nesting

  Tom Dolby always has hunger gnawing at his belly and like any growing boy will find as many ways to ease it as he can. Clearing stones, scaring crows, running errands, anything to put a few pennies in his mother’s apron pocket. He knows well enough that little of his father’s labouring wage will ever reach the table. It is whispered throughout the parish that Joseph Dolby would sooner see his children starve than forsake his pot of ale.

  So yesterday, when word reached Tom’s ears that the keepers on the Milton estate were paying sixpence apiece for buzzards eggs, he set off alone to Oxey Wood. He’d seen a nest in the fork of a great oak and he was determined to get to it. He found a woodman’s ladder and set it against the tree, but when he reached the top the birds swooped down on him and tore his face with their claws, and in the struggle the ladder slipped. It was some hours before Sam Billings heard him whimpering on the ground. Sam carried him in his cart to Snow Common where Kitty Otter cleaned his face and bound his arm into a splint.

  In the taproom at the Bluebell that evening Joseph Dolby, in his cups as ever, lifted his squint-eyed, straggl
e-bearded countenance, sunk into its shoulders like some ill-used fairground bear, and told Tom’s story. John Clare and Wisdom Boswell leaned forward on the plough-bench and listened with intent. They’d been sitting a little apart making a penny pot of ale last an evening. When Joseph had fallen silent Wisdom nudged John and whispered:

  “That’s the end of you an’ me bein’ bi luvva John. How many eggs are there to a buzzard’s nest?”

  John shrugged:

  “Three …four maybe. There was one I saw in the quarry cliff once at Swordy Well, it had three chicks to it.”

  “Four is a florin! That’s a shilling each John, that’s twenty four penny pots of ale! And there ain’t many trees as’ll get the better of me.”

  *******

  This morning, when the greater part of the parish was on its knees and muttering its prayers, or opening its throat in psalms and hymns, John Clare was making his way to Oxey Wood. Wisdom was waiting for him beside the Ufford Road. He was sitting in the grass with his back to a tree, there was a coil of rope on the ground beside him, he was holding one end of it in his hands. He’d bent it over and was fastening it into a loop. He looked up as John drew close:

  “Here’s the boy for the job John, I borrowed it from Ismael, and God help me if I don’t get it back to him safe an’ sound.”

  John squatted down beside him. Wisdom nodded to the road.

  “Look, there’s the marks in the road where Sam Billing’s cart stopped …and there’s the gry’s shit, look, where he stood and waited while Sam went into the wood.”

  Between the trees they could see the bruised and flattened bluebells where Sam had trodden.

  “He’s left us an easy trail to follow.”

  John smiled:

  “Sam Billings was never the man to walk on his tip-toes.”

  When the loop in the end of the rope was tied tight, Wisdom coiled it over his shoulder and stood up.