Gates of Paradise

by Beryl Kingston

  Harvest Home came and went without the invitation he wanted, the winter set in with more and more rain, and on top of everything else, Mr Blake kept bringing up his wretched portrait heads and they were the very devil, nasty heavy awkward things, for they had to be hauled up the stairs to the library, a step at a time, and then either hung according to Mr Hayley’s exacting instructions or, worse, manhandled down the stairs again to be redrawn.

  ‘I hates the winter,’ he said, as he and Bob, the boot boy, walked down to The Fox. It was miserably cold and the wind was moaning in Mr Blake’s elm tree and scattering the rooks from Dr Jackson’s garden. They fell and tumbled in the darkening air, cawing like handsaws.

  ‘Be better after a pint,’ Bob said. ‘Porter puts a different complexion on things.’ He’d just turned seventeen and considered himself an expert on matters alcoholic.

  The inn was certainly an improvement on the servants’ hall at Turret House: warm, companionable, booming with easy laughter, smelling of pulled porter and smoked tobacco, of horseflesh and pig sties and a hard day’s sweat. The candle flames glowed like welcoming beacons, the warmth of the coal fire could be felt at the door, the scattered sawdust was soft underfoot. If it hadn’t been for his constant frustration Johnnie could have enjoyed it a lot.

  ‘Evenin’ young shavers,’ Reuben called from his seat in the chimney corner. ‘We thought you weren’t comin’. Oi jist been sayin’ to your father, “Where’s that young shaver a’ yours?” Oi said, didden Oi Hiram?’

  ‘We’re late on account of we ’ad work to finish,’ Bob told him.

  ‘Work?’ Reuben mocked. ‘You don’t know the meanin’ a’ the word, you young fellers. What work was that then?’

  ‘Hangin’ pictures,’ Johnnie told him, ‘an’ don’t go sayin’ tha’s not work ‘cause we knows otherwise. We had two to put up this afternoon an’ they weigh a ton, the both of ’em. It took me an’ Bob here and Mr Hosier to get the last one up an’ our arms was fair broke in half. If that aren’t work I’d like to know what is.’

  ‘He’s still paintin’ then,’ Reuben said, ‘that ol’ engraver feller. Oi thought he’d be over for a point or two, now an’ then. Tha’s warm work that ol’ paintin’. That Oi do know. Oi remember when we ’ad to whitewash the barn. You’d think he’d a’ worked up a thirst by now.’

  ‘I don’t think he got time for a thirst,’ Johnnie told him. ‘On account of Mr Hayley’s got his nose pinned to the grindstone. He’s got all our noses pinned to the grindstone, come to that. Do this! Do that! Oh, I hates the winter.’

  ‘’Tis a bad ol’ season but it passes,’ his father said. ‘Oi thought you was a-goin’ to tell us ’ow the world wags. Aren’t this the day ol’ Mr Hayley go to Lavant to see Miss Poole an’ pick up his letters and his newspaper?’

  Johnnie agreed that it was.

  ‘Well, then, what’s the news? Or ’aven’t you read it yet?’

  News had little interest for his son, now that his senses were alert to other matters, though he admitted that he had taken a glance at the paper while he was in the library. ‘Nothin’ much so far as I can see,’ he said. ‘Bonaparte’s in Egypt so they say.’

  ‘Long may he stay there,’ Reuben said, chewing his teeth. ‘He can kill as many Gypsy-ans as he like, say Oi, jist so long as he leave us be. They’re onny savages when all’s said an’ done, an’ don’t know no better. Anyways we don’t want him hereabouts.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Hiram said. ‘But that aren’t all the news surely.’

  ‘I heard something this morning might interest,’ Mr Grinder told them, and when they looked enquiringly at him, went on, ‘we’re to have a census.’

  ‘An’ what sort a’ hanimal’s that when it’s at home?’ Reuben asked.

  ‘’Tis a head-count,’ Mr Grinder told him, polishing a row of beer mugs. ‘They mean for to count all the people in the country, town by town and village by village.’

  ‘Tha’s a dang fool idea if ever Oi heard a’ one,’ Reuben scowled. ‘We knows how many of us there is. You onny got to look round the village to see that.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mr Grinder said, ‘but they wants to know what sort a’ people we are, how many men could be took for the army, or press-ganged or some such, how many women and children would have to be took out the way if ol’ Bonaparte was to invade – which he could do any day so they say – how many carts an’ horses we got, how much grain we store.’

  ‘Which is nobody’s business but our own,’ the miller said trenchantly.

  ‘Not if it’s to be took to feed the army,’ Mr Grinder told him. ‘They mean to build forts and beacons all along the coast, so they say, like they done when the Armada was coming, and there’ll be troops stationed in every town, all a’ which’ll need feeding an’ housing, not to mention stabling an’ fodder for their horses, an’ barracks an’ cookhouses an’ all sorts.’

  The candles guttered as his listeners stirred uneasily in their seats, the coal shifted in the grate and began to hiss and spit, the wind rattled the window. And somewhere in the distance they could hear a dog howling.

  ‘Oi don’t believe a word of it,’ Reuben said stoutly. ‘They’ll be sunk mid-channel, that’s what. Nelson’ll see to that, you mark moi words. Sunk an’ drowned dead, every last one on ’em.’

  But the census was taken despite his disbelief and highly uncomfortable it was, for no fewer than four men arrived to gather information and, in the villagers’ opinion, they wanted an inordinate amount of it – how many people lived in each house, how old they were, where they were born, what occupations they followed, how many of them would be available to join the local militia. There was no end to it. The complaints in The Fox were long and loud. ‘Danged nuisances, every man jack of ’em, pokin’ their long noses in where they aren’t wanted.’

  ‘An’ all fer what?’ Reuben said. ‘Tha’s what Oi should loike to know. Oi don’t see no sense in countin’ folk. Never did, never will. Oh, ’twill all be writ down. I grant ’ee that. They been scribblin’ away at it ever since they come here. But what then? ’Twill all be hid away in some ol’ cupboard somewhere, tha’s what then, an’ no one’ll ever see sight nor sound of it again.’

  Chapter Five

  The Fox. Monday April 19th

  My dear Annie,

  I have spent the day pouring over the census returns in Chichester, which is the nearest market town to this village and the place where all local records are kept, but all to no purpose I fear. I had hoped to find some mention of the mysterious Johnnie Boniface, but despite painstaking endeavour, I am no wiser now than I was at the beginning of the day.

  The census of 1801 was no help to me, for it merely detailed the number of dwellings in the village (74 in all, so you see what a small place it was – it is twice the size now) and counted the number of inhabitants. There were 129 men and boys ‘capable of active service’, 8 men over sixty, 83 women and girls over seven years old ‘capable of evacuating themselves’ (which shows how real the danger of invasion must have been) and 81 incapable, including those with ‘child at breast’ who would presumably have needed some kind of transport to carry them to safety. There were 97 people described as being employed in agriculture and 41 in trade but none of them were named, so I found no record of the mysterious Johnnie and none of William and Catherine Blake either. Was he numbered among the 41 in trade I wonder? From what I have read in Mr Butts’ letters, I believe he considered himself an artisan as well as an artist.

  The census of 1811 was an improvement, since it gave names and addresses as they do today, but by then the Blakes had left and my quarry was gone too. I found plenty of Bonifaces, some described as fishermen, others as farm labourers, among them my farmer Harry, so they are obviously quite a large family hereabouts, and two were called John but neither were the right age. It is rather a disappointment.

  However I met a clerk in the office who told me that he thought records of local events would have been kept by the local newspaper
, and he thought I might find something about Mr Blake there, particularly if he had been sent to trial for sedition, which is what I believe to be the case. He very kindly gave me the address of their present offices and the name of a reporter whom I could contact, so the search will continue.

  Your letter was awaiting me when I got back to The Fox and has encouraged me marvellously. I shall do as you suggest and send my notes to you for safekeeping. This is an important work that we are undertaking, my dearest, for William Blake was one of our great artists and has been ignored for far too long. I am blessed to have your assistance in my endeavours.

  This at midnight and somewhat wearily, from your loving husband.

  Alexander.

  January 1801

  That January the winter set in with a vengeance. The sea was the colour of swords and rolled inexorably in to shore in long ponderous waves, while above it the sky was ominously white, leeched of all colour by impending snow. And what a snowfall it was, goose-feathering the village for days on end, and lying thick and heavy over fields and gardens, blotching Betsy’s bright cloak with patches of icy dampness, freezing the breath in Johnnie’s lungs and the last remaining hope in his heart. There was no chance of walking out now, he thought miserably. It was all very depressing.

  But on that first snow-muffled Sunday when the roofs were white-thatched and the overnight fall had frosted so that it crunched under his feet, he had a surprise. He’d set off for church feeling thoroughly miserable. There was no point in suggesting they might walk to the barn, not that day, in that weather. If a little light rain had been enough to deter his pretty Betsy, snowfall would be an impossible barrier. So when they emerged from the comparative warmth of the church into the chill of the air beyond the porch, he merely nodded at her, hunched his shoulders against the cold and prepared for the short trudge back to the house. But instead of nodding back as he expected and then giggling off with the others, she put a hand on his arm to detain him. Actually put a hand on his arm.

  ‘We could walk up to the barn if you’d like,’ she said. ‘’Tis dry enough.’

  He was so surprised his jaw dropped. ‘What, you and me?’ he said. ‘You mean, walk out like?’ What an amazing girl she was! After all these months saying, no, no, no, all the time, and on the one day when he hadn’t asked her, there she stood, actually asking him. Then he realised what a fool he must look, standing there gawping, and he closed his mouth and recovered himself enough to tease her. ‘What’s brought this about?’

  That was a question she couldn’t answer, at least not without revealing something rather shameful. The truth was, saying no to him had become a game. On that first Sunday she’d refused him because she’d been cold and tired and not in the mood for traipsing into the fields in the pouring rain, but, when she saw how put down he was, she’d had such a sudden and delightful sense of power that she couldn’t resist a repeat performance the next time he asked. She was the prettiest girl in the village and she could reduce a young man to stammering simply by saying no. It was irresistible. True, as the weeks passed and he became more and more miserable, the game grew less and less attractive, but by then she’d established a pattern and, besides, he asked as if he expected rejection, so he only had himself to blame. She told herself he should stand up for himself and go in for a bit of argyfying. That’s what she’d do if she was in his shoes. But her reasoning was unkind and in the privacy of her thoughts she knew it, and eventually she began to feel ashamed of the way she was treating him. At Christmas, when the hymns and carols were all being sung of goodwill and loving kindness, she made a bargain with herself. If he asked, she would go on saying no, that was only to be expected, but if he didn’t ask, she would offer. It was perverse and she knew it but as it didn’t seem likely that he would ever not ask, she wasn’t unduly worried by it. And now this morning, just when she wasn’t expecting it, he hadn’t asked and he’d walked away from the church looking so cold and downcast that her heart was squeezed with pity for him. Not that she could admit it. Nor answer his teasing question. She’d made her bargain and she’d kept to it. Now there was nothing for it but to take refuge in flirting. ‘Thought you might like to,’ she said, flashing her blue eyes at him. ‘Howsomever, if you’ve lost interest…’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, eagerly. ‘I’d love to. ’Tis just…’ And then, feeling that words would only fail him if he tried to explain, he offered her his arm.

  They walked briskly, for it was much too cold to dawdle, and reached the barn before she could think how to respond if he asked for a kiss. But by then he was too breathless with hope and desire to ask for anything. It was the first time they’d been alone together since September and he wasn’t going to spoil the moment by talking. He simply scooped her into his arms and kissed her, without a word and with such passion that they were both stunned by the sensations he roused.

  She stood in his arms, round-eyed and wondering. ‘Why Johnnie!’ she said.

  He had to answer the question on her face whether he would or no. ‘I love ’ee, Betsy,’ he said. ‘I’ve loved ’ee from the first day I clapped eyes on ’ee.’

  She was touched and humbled. ‘Oh Johnnie,’ she said again. And as her expression was so soft and welcoming, he dared to kiss her again. And again. And again.

  They walked back to the house in a daze of arousal with their arms round each other, their lips ruddy with kissing. ‘We’ll walk out again tonight,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. He was sure of himself now. He’d spoken and been accepted. They would walk out whenever they could.

  That night was impossible because Mr Hayley had one of his dinners and kept his entire household on the run until well after midnight, but the next evening they stole away as soon as the servants’ supper was over, put on all the clothes they possessed so as to keep warm, and walked down Limmer Lane in the moonlight, bundled and happy until they reached the shore. It was very peaceful away from the village and very dark, with the beach shrouded in snow and a full moon dropping a pathway of shimmering white scales across a sea so black that they couldn’t see the horizon.

  Betsy shivered. ‘D’you think them ol’ Frenchies’ll invade us?’ she asked, ‘like everyone says?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he admitted. ‘There’s no knowin’, is there.’

  ‘My Pa thinks they will. He don’t say nothing but he’s got a cart all a-ready for me an’ Ma to run away in.’

  He held her close, all bundled up in her nice warm cloak and her two day-gowns and her three thick petticoats. ‘I shall love you for ever,’ he said. ‘No matter what happens, if Boney invades, or the sea freezes over, or the moon falls out the sky, no matter what.’

  ‘Idiot!’ she said. But it was sweet to hear such things. ‘Why would the moon go an’ fall out the sky? Aren’t it fixed up there?’

  He remembered a nursery rhyme. ‘The man in the moon came down too soon and asked his way to Norwich.’

  ‘Tha’s poetry,’ she said. ‘That don’t mean nothin’. Not poetry. You can’t count that.’

  ‘You’d better not say such things back at the house,’ he teased, ‘or you’ll have Mr Hayley after you for blasphemy. He says poetry’s the highest form of human endeavour.’

  ‘Tha’s on account of he’s always writing the stuff,’ she said sensibly. ‘Why are we talking about Mr Hayley when we could be kissing? I’m getting’ cold just standin’ here.’

  So naturally she had to be kissed warm again.

  * * *

  In the next few weeks the snow gave them plenty of reasons to kiss one another warm but achingly few opportunities, for the cold weather increased the amount of housework that had to be done. Meals had to be served piping hot, fires stoked high, slush-smeared floors scrubbed clean, and such washing as could be done had to be dried in the scullery, which was a damp and inconvenient business. All of which meant less time for walking out, even after church. But they endured it patiently, telling one another the cold snap couldn’t last for ever.


  In February the snow finally thawed, but only because it was blown away by gales and piercing rain. The moon didn’t fall but Nature seemed determined to keep them apart with too few chances and too much clothing. Johnnie ached to hold her in his arms without the layers of wool and heavy cotton that now lay squashed and pungent between them. He yearned to kiss her neck and stroke her pretty arms and fondle her remembered titties but there wasn’t even the faintest chance of such delights with all that cloth in the way. He yearned for the spring, but what was the good of yearning? Nothing ever came of that. He would just have to bide his time, kiss when he could, dream of better things and be patient. But when you’re eighteen and lusty, patience is impossible.

  February kept his senses in a perpetual roar, cold though it was, March brought agonies of temptation, until one joyful Sunday, on a day of strong winds and bold blue skies, they spent nearly an hour in the shelter of the barn, and after kissing her until he was aching with frustrated desire, he persuaded her to allow him to put his hands under the warmth of her cloak ‘on account of they’re turnin’ blue. Look at ’em.’ For a well-behaved and warming interval they stood with his cold hands at her back, stroking and caressing, while he kissed her neck, which was a delight to them both and lifted him into such straining excitement that his member was as taut as a bowstring and it was a wonder it didn’t spill into his breeches. But then, warmed and too strongly tempted to resist, he moved one tentative hand until it was cupping her breast, her lovely warm welcoming breast, and as she didn’t scold, he began to fondle.