The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  He dropped his spade and ran to the house, as pale as a cheese-cloth. He shouted his alarum, and soon enough a team of men with wet muslin tied over noses and mouths were lifting a corpse from the midden.

  Mrs Elizabeth Wright and all her household came out into the yard and watched as the body was laid out on a board and no word was spoken between them. It was as all had feared. It was carried into a barn and washed down with bucket after bucket of water. The smell was so strong that Mrs Wright could not come close and stood in the barn doorway, the tears trickling silently down her cheeks. The warmth at the heart of the midden had half-cooked the corpse so that the blackened skin was falling away from the flesh. But it was clear enough that this was the corpse of Will Bloodworth. His sister had rehearsed the clothes he’d last been wearing over and over in her mind, and the stinking tatters that were laid bare before her eyes were Will’s right enough. And it was clear to all who looked upon him how he had met his death. There was a clean cut to his throat where a sharp knife had been drawn across it.

  Long before Mr Bullimore the constable had arrived on the scene, long before the coroner had been fetched, long before Parson Mossop had ridden across with his whispered consolations, or Jonathan Burbridge had begun to measure for the coffin, the village was whispering like an aspen in the wind. The gossiping speculation that had fallen into a slumber had been woken with a jolt, and was voiced urgently across door-step, street and furrow:

  “It has the mark of gypsy upon it.”

  “Ay, if they’d hung the Boswell youth, Will Bloodworth would be living and breathing yet.”

  “Damn them all, I say, transport the lot of ‘em.”

  “I knew him, he was a tricky lad, but not vengeful, I don’t see his hand in it.”

  “I do, for their smiles run skin deep only, and think of some of them others that camped at Langdyke …”

  And those in the village that know more than they will say of the rigs and the jigs of that winter’s night hold their tongues and keep their council. For they know in their hearts who is innocent and who guilty.

  When Bill Bullimore came to the barn he drew the same conclusion as the village, as did the coroner in his turn. Warrants were drawn up for the arrest of Wisdom Boswell on suspicion of murder. Enquiries were made across the region, but no soul has seen sight nor sign of the Boswell crew since mid-winter. Every gypsy camp between Peterborough and Stamford has been ran-sacked, but no evidence has been found beyond hostile stares, shrugged shoulders and shaken heads.

  The Earl of Fitzwilliam has alerted the Bow Street Runners, and every lead is followed, but all to no avail.

  *******

  Mrs Elizabeth Wright paid Jonathan over the odds for a lead-lined coffin so that Will could rest in her parlour the last two nights before his funeral, with candles at his head and foot. The curtains were drawn and the household dressed in its black mourning. And all day the villagers came to pay their respects, part out of curiosity, part out of pity, and part to keep favour with Elizabeth Wright.

  The Earl of Fitzwilliam had sent a wreath garlanded with yellow daffodils that took pride of place upon the coffin lid.

  They filed past with their grave faces, the Turnills, Crowsons, Closes, Dolbys, Bains, Wormstalls, Bullimores, Royces, Samsons, Bellars, Farrars, Dyballs and all the rest.

  Parker and Ann Clare came, for Ann had known Will when he was little more than a boy, having worked in old man Wright’s kitchen. They stood a while in the dark parlour and spoke condolences and then made their way out of the farm house and across the muddy yard. It was just as they were passing the gate that Farmer Joyce arrived, sitting high in a painted gig with Will Farrell at the reins.

  “Parker Clare! Rein in the horses a moment Will.”

  As the horses slowed to a walk he sprang down from the bench of the gig. He bowed to Ann.

  “Good day to ye both …and a sorry one.”

  “Ay, it is.”

  “I wonder if I could draw you aside a moment Mr Clare for a few words in private.”

  He took Parker by the arm. Parker turned to his wife:

  “You go on ahead Ann, I’ll catch up with ye.”

  The two men withdrew to a corner of the yard and stood with their backs to the ricks. Farmer Joyce fixed Parker with an iron gaze:

  “It seems the law is not such an ass after all Mr Clare … maybe it would have been better for us all had the gypsy hanged.”

  Parker shook his head.

  “There is no blood on Wisdom’s hands, not a drop. He did not have it in him.”

  Then he lowered his voice to a whisper:

  “And besides he rode north with Ismael Boswell on Christmas night, as soon as ever he was clear of Peterborough … but I cannot say the same for King Boswell.”

  There was a silence between them, then Farmer Joyce said:

  “Well, whatever King Boswell did or did not do is outside our conscience, thank God.”

  He turned towards the farm house.

  “And now I must go and pay my respects …”

  Then he lowered his voice again:

  “ …Though, between you and me, they are directed more to the living than the dead.”

  “One last thing,” said Parker Clare, “before ye go …”

  He looked down at his boots.

  “My John and your Mary are fallen out …and something is broke in John that will be a very long time a-mending … and if it’s his lack of prospects as have brought about your discouragement, then I beg you to think again.”

  For a while Farmer Joyce said nothing. Then:

  “My Mary is like a bird that has lost all delight in flight and song and I cannot read her …but she’ll get over it …she’s little more than a child.”

  Then his voice hardened:

  “I ain’t so blind that I can’t see there are some things as are beyond the measure of money … but marriage, Mr Clare, ain’t one of them.”

  He turned and strode across the yard.

  And Parker made his way out of the gate and along Crossberry Way.

  *******

  On Easter Sunday Betsy Jackson came to the morning service with her oboe. When Jonathan Burbridge spied her stepping through the church door in her Sunday best he leaned his bass-viol against the pew and sprang to his feet.

  “Betsy, we was beginning to despair of ye.”

  She smiled at him:

  “I had been a little under the weather this winter Jonathan, but now am fully myself again.”

  He made a space for her and she sat down, opened the wooden box and fitted together the parts of her instrument. She blew a shrill note and looked round at the members of the church band: Jonathan, Dick, Sam, and John Clare.

  “And ‘tis a pleasure to be musicing again with you gentlemen.”

  When the first hymn began she lifted her oboe to her lips and blew as full-cheeked and undiminished as when first she’d played with the band, and gave no sign or indication of any secret pain.

  John Clare had paled when he’d seen her come, and had passed an anxious eye over her when she was turned away from him to see how her belly swelled. But she seemed to give no sign of her condition. Indeed she seemed to him to be trimmer than he remembered her.

  Prayer followed hymn, and hymn followed prayer. When the sermon came Jonathan Burbridge’s head fell forwards, for he had been at work in his shop since first light. Betsy pushed her elbow into his ribs and he woke with a start. He turned to her and she smiled, he flushed and for a moment held her gaze. And in his face Betsy saw a promise of all she lacked: a kindly welcome, a safe haven, a place where she might ease her wound. And he saw in hers the cherished hope he’d nursed since first they’d met.

  When the service was finished, when Parson Mossop had given his blessing and the congregation was making its way out of the door, Jonathan addressed the band, with a particular eye to Betsy:

  “This afternoon is Eastwell Spring ain’t it.”

  “Ay,” said Sam Billings, “Ea
ster afternoon, same as ever. They’ll be coming from all over: Glinton, Barnack, Northborough, Maxey, Marholm …there were some came from Deeping last year.”

  “And some from Peterborough,” said Dick.

  Betsy Jackson wrinkled her rounded brow:

  “What happens at Eastwell?”

  “Have ye not heard of it? It is an ancient spring. They come to take the waters, Betsy. They are said to be wonderful restorative and will cure rheumatics and fevers and all manner of aches and pains.”

  “Ay,” said Sam Billings. “The ipsy, the pipsy, the palsy and the gout, the devils within and the devils without.”

  “They come with leather bottles to fill, and some plunge in up to the chin. And Mrs Bullimore makes a tidy trade sugaring the water, for it has a bitter savour.”

  “So,” said Jonathan, “I have been thinking, what if the band was to position itself somewhere by the spring, and play out some tunes, with a hat passed round for pennies …?”

  “Jonathan, that’s a devilish good plan,” said Sam Billings. “It’ll be a good crowd and all in holiday spirits. If we don’t come away a few shillings the richer then I’ll be beggared.”

  “So what say we meet at Butter Cross. At three of the clock?”

  “That’ll give me time to cook and clear away,” said Betsy, “I’m game.”

  “And Old Otter is bound to be there, for he and Kitty swear by Eastwell Spring Water as the fount of all their good health …”

  Jonathan turned to John and Dick:

  “What about you lads?”

  John and Dick nodded their assent.

  “Ay, we’ll be there.”

  *******

  John is grateful for any diversion on a Sunday. The hours when he used to walk to Glinton weigh heavy on him now, though the ache of Mary’s absence is becoming something familiar to him. It is a pain that he is adjusting to. As Parker Clare has adjusted to his aching knee by leaning more heavy upon the other, so, likewise, John’s letters are giving way to the scribbled verses that he either burns or folds and shows to nobody. And some small part of him still lives in hope.

  Having nothing better to do he walked early to Butter Cross and sat on the stone step watching the slow procession making its way along Church Lane towards Eastwell Spring. Some had hired carts and filled them with those too lame to walk. Others came on horseback. Others had hobbled all day, clutching sticks and crutches. He watched Mrs Bullimore wheeling her barrow with its wooden jug and bags of demerara sugar, beaming at the prospect of trade.

  Then he saw Betsy Jackson hurrying along the street towards him. His first impulse was to get to his feet and walk away.

  “John!”

  Her voice cut through him, it carried in it such a confliction, such twisting impulses of desire and fear, of anger and loss that he found himself powerless to move. He was still standing rooted to the spot when she reached him. She sat down and put her wooden box on her lap. Her voice was soft and resigned and not without kindness:

  “John Clare you need not fear me.”

  She put her hand to her belly.

  “I lost it …it is gone. There’s an end to it.”

  John looked down at her. He nodded. A weight was lifted from him, but it brought him no joy. He could find nothing to say. She whispered:

  “And life must carry on, John …we must take our chances where we find ‘em …willy-nilly …for though the world is harsh there’s no virtue in despondency.”

  And then, from behind their shoulders, came a beery breath:

  “There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile …”

  Betsy’s face, turned towards John, bore for a moment its burden of sorrow. Then she turned and tutted with her tongue:

  “Oh shush, for shame Sam Billings!”

  “But look on ’em Betsy.”

  “They’ll give you none of their crooked sixpences if they do hear you mock, Sam. Anyway, I’m surprised you ain’t ferrying them in your cart.”

  “Oh I’ve already delivered a baker’s dozen of ‘em from Deeping …Look, here comes Jonathan with his sack of potatoes.”

  Jonathan Burbridge sat down on the step and leaned his instrument, still in its sack, between his knees. His beard was trimmed, his hair and whiskers combed, a bright green neckerchief to his throat, his boots polished and all sawdust swept from his jacket and breeches.

  He nodded to them all:

  “A very good afternoon to ye.”

  Betsy made as if to take him in, eyeing him up and down and drawing in her breath through her nose.

  “And to you Jonathan.”

  At that moment Dick Turnill arrived.

  “And here’s Dick and now we are complete.”

  The village band crossed the street and made its way slowly among the hobbling pilgrims, along Church Lane towards Eastwell Spring.

  As they drew close they could see that the elms and willows, that last year had made a green and shady grove around the spring, had been dragged to the saw-mill. It is a scarred and barren slope that now leads down to the little pool. The crowds were lining up to fill their leather bottles and jugs. Charlie Turner stood white and shivering, waist deep in water, pulling his ragged half-wit daughter Isabel towards him while she wailed like a lost soul. Mrs Bullimore had set her jug upon a wooden table. Children were jostling around it with farthings in their fists, eager for a cup of sugared water.

  “If we was to set ourselves up here, between the lane and the spring, then we would be heard by all, and every soul must walk past us as they trudge homewards.”

  “It’s as good a plan as any!”

  They took out their instruments and settled down on the grass.

  “Oooh, it’s a little damp …”

  Jonathan took off his coat and laid it on the ground for Betsy to sit on.

  “I’m obliged to you Jonathan.”

  “What shall we play?”

  “I say the Red Petticoat Hornpipe.”

  “That’ll loosen their limbs!”

  They played the tune several times over, then followed it with ‘The Beef Steak Hornpipe’, ‘The Shooters Hornpipe’, ‘The Stony Step Hornpipe’, ‘The American Hornpipe’.

  They put down their instruments to catch their breath.

  “Go on John, pass the hat around.”

  “I ain’t got a hat.”

  “Take this then.”

  Betsy passed him her oboe box.

  It was as he was carrying it down towards the crowd that Parson Mossop came striding past him, his cassock billowing in the breeze, to bless the water. He raised his hand over Eastwell Spring and the people fell silent:

  “And John came into the country about the river Jordan, preaching the baptism of repentance for the remission of sins: ‘Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low; and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways shall be made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’ And the multitude came forth to be baptized.”

  “Amen.”

  The Parson turned on his heel to hurry back to his horse that was tied to the lych-gate, for he is uneasy with these village ways that seem to him to smack of witchery. But he had barely taken three paces when there came the sound of a voice across the hollow.

  “This is the last time!”

  The crowd turned their heads and saw Ralph Wormstall walking towards them, his thin face, under wig and tri-corn hat, a mask of righteous indignation. Under his arm he was holding a sheaf of printed papers.

  “This is the last time.”

  His thin voice echoed across the spring,

  “This is the very last time. There shall be no more cavorting on my land. No more taking of my water. D’ye understand? Or I shall bring down all the weight of the law upon ye. I’ll give ye until five of the clock, and any as ain’t gone shall be arraigned for trespass.”

  He began to hand out the papers, but most being unable to read were none the wiser.

  Parson Mossop
seized one, pulled his spectacles from his pocket and scanned it. He walked across and took Ralph Wormstall by the arm:

  “This is ancient usage Ralph. The village has always taken water from Eastwell Spring. You have no right to stop them, enclosure or no enclosure.”

  Ralph Wormstall turned to him.

  “I damned well have Mr Mossop. This is modern usage sir, the rights are mine and I have the title deeds to prove it.”

  He jabbed the paper with his finger.

  “I have spelled it out for you, along with the map that settles it. Do ye not have eyes to read sir!”

  He turned to the crowd again:

  “Away with ye!”

  It was with an empty box that John returned to the band. Already the crowd was gathering its possessions and hurrying to leave. There was a scrummage at the edge of the water as people pushed forward to fill their bottles for the last time.

  Betsy flicked the pages of her tune book.

  “This is a sorry turn. Let’s play some more to see them home.”

  They struck up ‘England’s Glory’ and ‘Bobbing Joan’ and ‘The White Cockade’. The crowd trudged and hobbled past, but they were in no mood to fling farthings into the open box.

  “One more!”

  Betsy played the first bar of ‘Smash the Windows’ and the rest fell in with her, and then it was ‘Mary no More’. By the time they’d played each tune through a few times they were alone, the crowd had dispersed.

  Jonathan shrugged:

  “Oh well, we’ve Mr Wormstall to thank for thin pickings …”