The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  She lowers her voice to a whisper:

  “Though it pains me to press money into a gypsy’s fist … we didn’t think you’d begrudge us a taste of venison.”

  Ann pulls the pot away from the flames.

  “There, now I must leave it to simmer awhile, for Sophie will be waiting for me on the bean field.”

  She looks at John.

  “How was the supper last night? Old Joyce served you better than Mr Wormstall I’ll warrant? And was Mary there?”

  John smiles, and in his smile is all that his mother needs to know of the night before.

  “Ah good. And I hope as you and Jack Ward and the rest of ‘em didn’t get into your altitudes and make donkeys of yourselves.”

  John is just about to answer when there’s an urgent rapping at the back door. Ann Clare pulls it open. Lettuce Boswell is standing on the step. Her bright shawl is drawn over her shoulders and she’s breathless from hurrying the full length of the parish.

  “What do you want? Away with you! Two visits in a morning!”

  Lettuce’s words come spilling out before the door has swung shut in her face:

  “Wisdom is took! For pity’s sake they’ve took poor Wisdom as a felon. They’ve manacled him up in chains and took him to Peterborough and he’s to be brought before the poknies …”

  She gasps for breath and then covers her face with her hands and sobs.

  John runs forwards and pulls the door open again.

  “Wisdom took?”

  Ann steps aside with a sigh:

  “You’d better come inside …sit yourself down. John fetch a stool.”

  Lettuce sits down and composes herself.

  “They come this morning, not long after I returned from the village, seven of ‘em from Milton Hall, pointing their guns this way an’ that way. They searched the carts and tents but devil a scrap they found of what they was lookin’ for, for all their pokin’ and pryin’. ‘Hare’ we told ‘em when they lifted the lids of the pots, ‘Hollow meat’, and I wouldn’t have ventured as they believed us but they said no word …and they loitered and would not let us be until Wisdom come running back through the gorse from Kitty Otter’s Squat. ‘There he is!’ shouts one of ‘em.”

  Lettuce whispers beneath her breath:

  “O bengte poggar his men.”

  She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket, mops her cheeks and carries on:

  “‘There he is! He’s the murderous varmint that would have shot me dead!’ They seized poor Wisdom then and had him bound in irons in the blink of an eye. King Boswell came forward and held out his hands: ‘We have no firing piece, I swear to God, you’ve searched the camping ground and found nought.’ But one of the keepers, that Bill Henderson, curse his soul, leaned forward and spoke into King Boswell’s face: ‘The youth will hang for the pack of ye …we know venison when we smell it sir.’

  And then with Wisdom chained and the rest watching, they took our dogs and shot them. One after the other they put their muskets to the creatures’ heads and showed no mercy, throwing them in a heap at King Boswell’s feet. And he saw his own two precious bitches, that he has trained so that they read his thought, lying dead before him … and then the damned wesh-engros were gone, pushing Wisdom ahead of ‘em.”

  Lettuce falls silent awhile, and neither John nor Ann speaks a word. Then she stands and takes Ann’s hands in hers:

  “I know you and the rest of ‘em think low of my kind, for we are little understood …but your boy, bein’ thick with Wisdom, should know the truth before it’s rendered lies by wagging tongues.”

  She squeezes Ann’s hand, then she lets it go, and in a swirl of her shawl she’s out of the door.

  “But why Wisdom, of all of ‘em, why the chal?”

  And she’s gone, round to the street and away through Royce’s Wood.

  “I reckon as we know why.” Says Ann.

  John nods, and all the bright, blessed promise drains away from the day, and the smell of the stew seems to have lost its savour.

  6

  July Storm

  The Boswell crew have for some weeks been cutting rushes from the streams, leaning forward from the river banks and slicing the long leaves with blades that are tied tight to wooden poles. They have bound them into bundles and carried them to town. From door to door they have been mending rush-seat chairs for a few coppers a time. Housewives have gladly brought their chairs out onto the street and there’s few of them can fault the tight-wove work that their fingers bring to bear on them.

  With a careful-put question here and there the Boswell Crew have pieced together all they need to know of Wisdom’s whereabouts. They have learned that he is held in the Bishop’s Gaol and that he waits for the September assize where he must stand trial before Judge Ashurst.

  “There’s nought between him and the gallers …”

  A plump housemaid from one well-appointed household was mardling to Ismael Boswell as she watched him weave his rushes.

  “Save only a prayer …him shooting a keeper in cold blood … and didn’t he shoot again despite all pleas for mercy …and they say he shows no remorse …these are the times we live in … an’ all for a taste of another man’s meat …an’ him the Earl Fitzwilliam …”

  Ismael had had no qualms about slipping his fingers into her pocket when she took the chair into her fat hands and turned to carry it indoors.

  The Boswell crew have been to the Bishop’s Gaol, they’ve pleaded and cajoled for a glimpse of Wisdom, but all to no avail.

  “He’s locked away,” the turn-keys at the Minster Gate told them, “and none may see him until he’s brought to justice … least of all you.”

  John Clare, hearing where Wisdom is kept, has spent a portion of his shearing wage on bread and cheese and cake and carried it to Peterborough.

  The turn-keys were happy enough to take the food from him.

  “God bless you for your charity sir, but it is not allowed for any but officers of the law to visit the accused in his cell. We will deliver the vittles into his hands and doubtless he will thank you for them.”

  And John knew from the eye they cast on his parcel that there was small chance of any crumb reaching Wisdom’s lips.

  *******

  Day follows day as June slips towards hot July. The gypsies are suddenly gone. They’ve upped-sticks and disappeared beyond the circling orison vowing they’ll return for the assize.

  These long summer days the ragged village boys play by the hedgerows as they mind the cattle. Tom Dolby turns to the others:

  “Who am I?”

  Barefooted he walks across the grass with a studied self-regard, stands on a molehill and makes the sign of the cross with a finger.

  “In the name of the Father and the Son …”

  “Parson Mossop!” The others shout.

  Then he pushes out his belly and waddles to the branch of a tree, he pats it as though it was the neck of a horse:

  “There, there Billy …”

  “Sam Billings!”

  Then he strides along the hedgerow, his head drawn down to his shoulders, his legs bowed as though he would shrink himself further, and with a look of abstraction writ upon his features he speaks to himself so that the others cannot hear the words but only the pattern of them:

  “I put the pudding in the pot to boil …and seed the grimey goose upon the hedge …”

  He stops suddenly and bends to examine a leaf, then carries on muttering:

  “And farted all the way to kingdom come …and told her how it happens in the hay …”

  The other boys were falling about with merriment:

  “John Clare! John Clare!”

  Poor John. He is the creature of his joys and sorrows. He’s one moment thinking of Wisdom and fancying the rasp of the noose about his throat, the next remembering Mary, and then all of a sudden some text or tract will come into his mind, and then some sharp sound will startle him, and then he will be soothed by a line of verse he’s learned. Al
l day he is at the mercy of his wayward thoughts and at night he tosses and turns and finds but little rest. He is unsettled, and though he works at the hay harvest with the other men and women - mowing or raking or helping build the stacks – he swings with nervous thought like the weather-cock on Glinton Spire, turning with each interior wind. His eyes and ears, by habit so fine-tuned to all sensation, are drawn inward. He does not take his accustomed delight in the horses, their heads bowed as they pull the wains to the yards, the loaded hay rising up behind them like new-risen loaves; or the fly-crazed cattle flicking their tails; or the sudden regiments of purple-headed thistles grown shoulder high by the hedge-rows.

  And sometimes, forgetting himself or thinking himself alone, he mutters his monologue aloud, to the delight of any village boys who chance to hear him.

  John’s one stay and anchor is Mary Joyce. She is become his solace. Every Sabbath when the village is at prayer he walks to Glinton and waits at the lych-gate.

  This last Sabbath past when Mary came out of the church porch she whispered a word into her father’s ear, pushed her prayer book into his pocket and slipped away across the churchyard. She ran to the lych-gate and took John’s arm. They followed North Fen Lane to the bridge over Brook Drain. It was a hot, close morning and the warm wind that they could feel on their faces as they stood on the hump of the bridge was a sweet relief.

  “I have pleaded with Father on Wisdom’s account, John. And though he is no lover of gypsies he will not tolerate an injustice. He has ridden out to all the farmers who were at the Rogation feast whose word would carry some weight at the assize. He has spoken to Mr Bull, John Close, Thomas Bellar and Ralph Wormstall …”

  “And how do they answer?”

  “They laugh in his face that he should consider bearing witness on a Boswell’s behalf. And anyway, because it is the Earl of Fitzwilliam that is bringing the prosecution, they would not dream of standing against him …he being their landlord.”

  “What does your father say to that, Mary?”

  “He calls ‘em damned cowards, but I can see that he is torn himself, for all his living hangs on the Earl’s good will.”

  “Will he stand witness then?”

  “I am trying to persuade him.”

  “And what about his farm?”

  “He has paid rent and tithe as regular as the sun, and the Earl stops off particular to order his cheeses and hams if he is passing close by, and to drink a glass of his ale …and admires his husbandry above all his tenants …I have told him he should not fear for his farm …though he is not so sure as I.”

  She wrapped her arms around John and pressed her cheek against his cheek.

  “There is nothing more we can do …Look here,” she pulled away from him, “look what I’ve brought from the orchard, they’ve been in my pocket all through the morning service.”

  She tipped a handful of cherries onto the palm of her hand.

  John picked one up and popped it into his mouth. The sweet, fresh, sharp taste dispelled, for a moment, all fears. He took the other cherries from her and laid them in a row on the stone bridge wall.

  “Eat them without using your hands.”

  Mary leaned forward and picked one of them up between her teeth. She pushed it into her cheek with her tongue. She lifted her head, turned to him and smiled:

  “Eat it without using your hands!”

  She put her hands onto his shoulders and kissed him, as their lips met she pushed the cherry into his mouth. He chewed it and spat the stone into the stream.

  “Now it’s my turn.”

  He leaned forward, picked up another cherry between his teeth. They kissed again. She took it from him and pressed the red flesh against the roof of her mouth with her tongue. She spat the stone at John. It struck him just above the eye.

  “There, now we are even!”

  Then came a rumble of distant thunder and with it the old disquiet returned as sudden as it had disappeared. He looked up at the sky. It was piled high with clouds that were the bruised purple-grey of a pigeon’s breast.

  Mary pressed herself against him again.

  “And now I must go to Sunday dinner John. Father has invited the parson.”

  She pressed her lips to his cheek, broke away from him and ran away along the lane.

  John set off towards Woodcroft Field.

  There was a flash, and almost on the instant a crash of thunder. He ducked down. His shirt was wet with sweat. The first fat drops of rain began to fall. He straightened again and hurried onwards along the stony track.

  As he walked a storm-dread was gathering that he felt in every fibre, for the fears of childhood run deep as marrow-fat. The rain grew heavier and the dust danced at his feet and then turned to mud. Soon he was soaked from head to heel.

  At last he reached Woodgate. The cottage was empty. Though the rain was pounding heavy against the thatch and running in rivulets along the street, it was still hot indoors. He pulled off his shirt and hung it over the back of a chair. He was oppressed by the quiet and wished with all his heart that he had company. There was another crack of thunder. Maybe he should pray. With a trembling hand he reached into the cubby hole and pulled out the chap books and horn books and battered volumes and scraps of scribbled paper. All of them seemed vanities to him. And he could not lay his hand on the one book he sought. He rummaged again, and then he remembered that he’d given his prayerbook to Sophie. She liked to carry it to church and make as if to read. And not being book-learned she would hardly have noticed the tables of lessons and moveable feasts that John had torn out to light his fires …nor the forms of prayer to be used at sea …nor the form and manner of ordaining and consecrating Bishops, Deans and Deacons. All were ash now.

  When the knock on the door came he started. Uneasily he walked across and lifted the latch, half expecting the Ghostly Enemy to be standing on the step. It was Dick Turnill, the water dripping from his coat.

  “John, do you have an hour or so free?”

  John was relieved to have a distraction.

  “Ay.”

  “Parson Mossop drew me aside after church this morning and thrust a sheaf of tunes into my hand, asking if the church band might learn them. For he does prefer hymn to psalm … even if it be penned by them as favour Methody …I know you ain’t regular in your churching John, but you’re more regular than Old Otter …and Wisdom never comes …so you’re as close to a first fiddle as we’ve got.”

  In the ordinary run of things John might have been reluctant, but this afternoon Dick seemed like a visiting angel, and John saw in his request some divine intervention and sign.

  “Ay Dick, come in out of the wet while I fetch my fiddle.”

  He bounded up the stairs two at a time and returned with his fiddle under his arm. He pulled his wet shirt over his head.

  “Where are we to play?”

  “In the parlour of my house. The others will be waiting on us.”

  John grabbed his coat, tucked the fiddle and bow underneath it, and the two of them ran out into the storm. They splashed down West Street to the Turnill’s farm.

  It is a modest yard. The new thatched haystacks and the last of the ricks loomed above them as they ran through wet straw to the farm-house door. The farm dogs barked but did not run out into the rain to greet them. In the centre of the yard there was a pile of tarred fence posts, and against the stable wall row upon row of tarred wooden slats were stacked. In front of the house lines of quick-thorn seedlings, their roots wrapped in sacking, leaned towards the wall. Once they were inside the house Dick waved his arm at the yard:

  “They are for the enclosing of our entitlement, John, and have cost us very dear.”

  In the steamy kitchen Mr Turnill was sitting at the table with a huge Bible open before him. He was reading aloud, his finger following the text. Beside him his wife listened and studied the page as though even the pattern of the type might reveal some unfathomable mystery. His face, tanned like old leather from long hours
in all weathers, was furrowed with Sabbath concentration; while Mrs Turnill’s face, pale and round as a dumpling, nodded, beneath its linen cap, in solemn agreement with each word uttered. The rain lashed the windows, and drops fell down the wide farm-house chimney and hissed in the embers of the kitchen fire.

  When they became aware of Dick and John entering the room Mr Turnill fell silent. Husband and wife looked up at them.

  “Ah, John Clare, parson was asking for thee again at morning service. He’s compiling a list of them that are church-shy and you’re on it.”

  John looked at the ground and scraped the toe of his boot against the stone flags of the floor.

  Mrs Turnill shook her head:

  “And ‘twas not only Parson Mossop that was asking for thee. Our Lord and Saviour – as sees and hears all – did not hear your voice raised in prayer, and it pains him John, it pains him sore.”

  “Think on it,” said Mr Turnill, “For I do fear for thee sometimes. If your own father won’t rule you on this then I will.”

  There was a long silence. All four of them knew that Parker Clare, even though he takes his place in his pew every Sunday, has only a scant regard for Parson Mossop, and leans towards dissent.

  “Come on, John.”

  When they were out of ear-shot Dick said:

  “I’m sorry John, they are anxious. We are waist deep in debt for the fencing of our fields. They are both preyed upon by fears of ruin and it feeds their zeal.”

  When they came to the parlour the rest of the band were waiting for them. Sam Billings filled a wooden armchair with his bulk, his drum set on his knee. Jonathan Burbridge drew his bow across the strings of his cello so that the candlesticks rattled, he was fingering one of his fancier melodies and had one eye set on the third member of the party, a woman John had not seen before. Sam Billings pulled himself up to his feet.

  “Ah John, here you are, here you are at last, good.”

  He gestured towards the woman with one hand: