Sussex Folk Tales for Children

by Xanthe Gresham Knight

  ‘Boring!’ he yelled.

  He had a point. In those days, Sussex was as flat as a pancake with a dusting of chalk like icing sugar.

  Just for fun, when the first star appeared he ripped it out of the sky and threw it at Hove. It’s still there, glittering in the park. The locals call it Golding Rock.

  ‘Now that’s more interesting!’ said the Devil. It gave him an idea. ‘I’ll tear up Sussex and drown the lot of you!’

  Nobody was listening. When the sun went to sleep, so did the people. Since the arrival of St Dunstan there had been no parties or dancing; there was no rollicking laughter after midnight. And as in those days there was no blue light interference from mobiles or tablets, the people slept like the dead.

  ‘Which you soon will be!’ guffawed the Devil.

  Scratching the salt from his hairy shins and flicking the ticks off his furry head he shot into the air.

  ‘I’ll drown you all!’ he bellowed.

  He leaped to Poynings Village, where the trees and houses stood like inky blots against the night. Lowering his horns, he started to plough a channel through the soil. When his neck grew tired, he turned round, raised his shaggy behind and kicked with bucking hooves. He gouged flint, raised turf, pounded earth and piled up the land on either side. You can still see where his hooves and claws have scored the rocks.

  His plan was to dig a trench all the way to the sea so it would sweep inland and swallow up Sussex. If he’d really wanted to do it, he wouldn’t have paused for a single breath, a solitary fart or a solo burp until all of Sussex was underwater, until all its people were beneath the waves, with fishes floating in their empty skulls and seaweed twisting through their pearly bones.

  If he had been less playful and kept his mind on the job, if he’d been more like, say, St Dunstan of Mayfield, he would have done it. He would have forged, not Devil’s Dyke, which only took him five minutes, but Devil’s Gorge, which would have taken him all night. It would have been hard work, but he could still have been safe underground by daybreak.

  But the Devil found it impossible to concentrate. He leapt up high and landed on his hairy buttocks, so heavily the land tipped like a seesaw and made a slide.

  ‘Wheeeee!’

  He bounced and slid a thousand, thousand, thousand times; up, up and down, down, which is why the slopes of Sussex are called ‘the Downs’. That done, he grabbed shoulder loads of earth and flung them in every direction to make hills and ridges.

  To get a better view of his handiwork, he catapulted to the moon.

  Grannie Annie was the only one awake. She was making Sussex Plum Pudding for her grandchildren, who were visiting the next day. With all the rumpus outside it was difficult to keep a steady hand weighing out suet and sugar.

  ‘Probably the Devil. Best ignore him,’ she grumbled. But when her house shook, she crossed herself, getting flour on her apron.

  ‘Tut!’ Brushing it off, she glanced up and saw the Devil’s silhouette, horns and hooves against the moon. Where she had once had an unbroken view of the stars, stood hills. She heard gurgling. A river was running by her window where no river had been before.

  Glancing at the clock she saw that there were still five hours before dawn. The rate the Devil was going, Sussex would be very untidy before sunrise. And that would never do.

  Quick as you can crack an egg, she balanced a sieve on its side in the window, lit a candle and put it behind the sieve.

  Without stopping to put on her slippers, she wet-footed it into the yard, where the cockerel was sleeping on his perch, his head under his wing.

  Grannie Annie stroked his purple and black feathers, ran a finger down his curly red crest, then shoved him off his perch.

  ‘Cock a doodle doo!’ scrabbled the bird in shock.

  The Devil turned. He saw a glow in the east. Never considering for a moment that it might be a candle diffused by a sieve, he panicked: ‘The sun is rising! I’ve been having as much fun as a Wessex Saddleback* in clover!’ With a screech, he sprang towards the Channel.

  The old woman carried on making her Sussex Plum Pudding, adding a few raisins by way of celebration.

  The next morning the people of the county saw that their landscape was no longer flat. Instead, before them lay the ridges of the Downs, Ditchling Beacon, Rackham Hill, Mount Caburn and Chanctonbury Ring. The Sussex we know today.

  As for the Devil, he hurdled across the sea, heading for a tin mine in Cornwall where he could hide from the light. A piece of earth fell from his hoof forming the Isle of Wight. Then he was gone.

  But not for long.

  Riddle answer: Plum Pudding.

  * Wessex Saddleback – a breed of pig (see page 109)

  * Claggy – dirty

  7

  Smuggler’s Boots

  • Isfield, Burling Gap •

  Running round the woodlump

  if you chance to find

  Little barrels, roped and tarred,

  all full of brandy-wine,

  Don’t you shout to come and look,

  nor use ’em for your play.

  Put the brishwood back again –

  and they’ll be gone next day!

  Rudyard Kipling, ‘A Smuggler’s Song’. Kipling lived

  in Sussex from 1897–1936

  A long time ago when Sussex was the smuggling capital of England, there was a tiny farm south of Piltdown and north of Isfield, where the Ouse River wanders through the water meadows before turning south to hold hands with the River Uck.

  A man lived at the farm with his four children. The youngest, Tom, was a boy of five, the second youngest, Don, a boy of six and a half, the middle child, Ron, a boy of eight and three-quarters and the eldest, Mary, a girl of fourteen and five-sixths.

  Life was hard since their mother died giving birth to Tom. Each child pitched in: bird scaring, flint picking and sheep shearing, but of all of them, their father worked the hardest. He was up before sunrise and back just before tea after a day of digging, hoeing, fencing, ploughing, seeding or harvesting, according to the season.

  At dusk, when their father finally came in through the low kitchen door, he would stand by the fire. Reaching up, now with this arm, now with that, he would arch and flex to stretch away the tension of the day:

  ‘Ahhhhh!’

  When he heard the satisfying crack of his aching back, he would sit down next to the hearth on his favourite chair, take off his boots and rub his feet together like a pair of snuggling ferrets. At the liberation of his wiggling toes, a broad, warm smile would cover his face. He was always very particular where he put the boots – not so close to the fire that they dried out too fast, nor so far away that they were still damp come morning. He’d had them sixteen years – they were a wedding present from his late wife and so well made that they would last a lifetime – they’d have to! With four young mouths to feed he would certainly never be able to afford another pair like them. Nevertheless, he knew that for as long as he and the children were fit, well, and able to work, they’d get by.

  Despite his heavy workload he was always generous in giving time to others. Early one summer morning as the birds were singing in the dew, he was helping a neighbour build a barn by the Shortbridge road, when a weighty timber slipped its rope and fell on him. The other men carried him back to his little house and put him into bed. Mary mopped his brow and fed him chicken soup, but it was clear that the heavy beam had injured him inside very badly. His forehead grew hot with fever. Realising that he would not recover, he sent the boys about their chores and spoke to Mary alone.

  ‘My girl, you make me very proud. You always work hard and take such care of your young brothers, I’ve no doubt you’ll look after them when I am gone.’

  ‘No, Father …’ she tried to object, but he raised a shaky hand to silence her.

  ‘Remember that nothing’s worth more than family. Apart from that there are two things on this farm which are invaluable to you:

  The first is our coppe
r brood mare, Gladys. She’s the envy of any man that sets eyes on her. The fine foals she bears and the work she does around the farm will make the difference between you having more than enough and going hungry. Take good care of her, set a guinea or two aside each time you sell one of her foals and eventually you’ll have the money to replace her once she’s old and out to pasture. Never sell Gladys. No man round here will offer what she’s worth.

  The second thing of value are my boots. They’re the finest ever owned by anyone in our family. Since your feet are largish for a girl and mine are smallish for a man they might well fit you. Take good care of them and they’ll take good care of you.’

  Then he reached beneath the mattress and pulled out a purse. ‘Here’s all the money we have. It’s not much but it will be enough to keep you going as long as you’re careful.’

  In a rasping whisper, he called for the boys and told each one how much they were loved and with that he breathed his last.

  The girl and her brothers worked hard through the autumn and winter and survived. In the spring, the mare bore a foal, long-legged and full of life. They called her Copper because she was the same colour as her mother.

  It wasn’t long before Mary noticed that men were coming to lean on the fence of the paddock to view the splendid mare and foal. They stood at the edge of the field pointing and nodding. Mindful of their value, Mary began to keep them close to the house.

  One night there was a storm. Lightning flashed, the wind wailed, the rain drummed and the rumble of thunder drowned out every other sound.

  When Mary went to check on the horse and its foal in the morning, they were gone. She ran inside and shook Tom, Don and Ron awake. They searched every corner of Piltdown and Isfield without success.

  For the next two weeks, Mary put on her father’s boots and set off to look further and wider. But no one had news of Gladys and Copper.

  Coming back from Hassocks one evening, she met Charlie, the wandering poet whose only home was the hollow of an old oak and the many lines of verse which filled his head. He bowed, saying, ‘You’ve not lived till you’ve done something for someone who can never repay you.’

  Mary understood he was asking for food or money. She gave him her last apple.

  ‘Thank you, Mary. You’re as kind and as generous as your father was. There’s many a time I recite my lines to empty pockets. Nobody has anything for a poet in these days of thieves and smugglers.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Mary simply.

  ‘Where have you been and where are you going?’ asked the poet.

  ‘I’ve been to Hassocks and now I’m going home,’ she said. ‘You’d be very welcome to share a meal with me and my brothers.’

  Once inside the small house, Mary showed Charlie to her father’s seat by the fire and invited him to sit. She removed her boots and placed them near the hearth, not so close as they dried too quickly, not so far as they’d stay damp. Charlie eyed them.

  ‘As the Russian man said, “I prefer a good pair of boots to Shakespeare!” and those are fine indeed, but Hassocks and back? What you need is a horse!’

  Mary’s voice quivered as she told Charlie about the loss of Gladys and Copper.

  ‘Everyone can master a grief but she that has it!’ recited Charlie in a voice so kind Mary allowed herself all of two tears. He continued, ‘I was at Birling Gap a few days ago and I saw a mare with a white blaze and a copper foal in a paddock by the inn.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t stay long, mind – smugglers everywhere!’ He tapped his nose and whispered, ‘Watch the wall, my darling, as the gentlemen go by …’

  After tea, and despite Mary’s offer of shelter for the night, Charlie levered his bones out of the chair and shambled off into the dusk, blowing Mary a kiss as he tipped his threadbare top hat.

  The next morning Mary packed some apples and her father’s purse and strode out of the farm. Tom was sweeping the yard, Don was feeding the chickens and Ron was fixing a fencepost.

  ‘Look after each other – I may be gone a few days!’ she called over her shoulder.

  Mary followed the river to Isfield, walked the gentle curves to Ringmer and traipsed the chalky tracks to Glynde, where she stopped to drink from a well and eat an apple before starting the slow climb towards Alfriston.

  At dusk, she reached East Dean. Walking down the hill in the gathering darkness she heard the gulls and the waves slapping at Birling Gap. She saw an empty paddock next to the inn. As she entered, the smell of beer and sweat made her cough. Unshaven men, eyes hidden beneath their hats, huddled around their tankards at the tables. Their low voices fell away to silence as they noticed the girl’s presence in the room.

  A young woman with a flouncing dress laced up at the front clicked her scuffed boots and put her fists either side of her silver belt buckle. ‘What do you want, farm girl?’ she growled.

  ‘Do you have a bed for the night?’

  ‘How much have you got?’

  ‘I can pay a shilling.’

  ‘For a shilling, you’ll have to share. The other lady snores.’

  Mary nodded and followed the barmaid up the musty stairs until they reached a small room in the rafters.

  ‘Will this suit your ladyship?’ she sneered and then with a mocking drawl, ‘Can I help with anything else?’

  Mary couldn’t resist, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen a copper mare with a foal?’

  She gazed steadily at the barmaid whose cheek began to twitch.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask questions around here if you know what’s good for you,’ she flashed, flicking her head towards a rough straw mattress slung under the slope of the roof.

  As she slammed the door behind her, a noise like the ungreased axle of a laden hay wagon filled the small space. Mary looked at the old lady snoring on the bed. As she breathed out, a moth dropped from a beam and flew across her face. She snored again, sucked it up into her nose, then coughed and breathed it out through her mouth. The moth flew as fast as it could towards the only candle in the room.

  Mary heard voices outside and looked through the tiny window into the night. Men with burning torches were carrying wooden barrels out of the inn and into the stables. A small, restless man pointed and gestured with one hand and held up his torch with the other. Mary saw that his face was fine boned and foul tempered. The other men tensed as they passed near him; every so often he gave one of them a shove. With a sudden twist of his neck, he looked up towards the window and Mary drew back. Charlie’s words made sense in an instant:

  Watch the wall my darling as the gentlemen go by …

  They were smugglers. And they had seen her see them.

  She sat down on the edge of her hay mattress and took out the last of her apples, but was too anxious to eat. She decided to pretend to be asleep, just in case anyone came to check. She quickly untied the laces of her boots, placed them by the door and leaped into bed.

  She was so tired her legs ached and she longed to comfort herself by rubbing one foot on top of the other, but she was too frightened to move. When she heard heavy steps on the stairs, her heart seemed to beat in her ears. The door burst open. Without opening her eyes, she knew it was the small man.

  ‘What do you mean coming to my inn, asking questions and watching from windows?’

  Mary opened bleary eyes. ‘Sorry?’ she said in a sleepy voice.

  ‘Who are you?’ the smuggler innkeeper demanded.

  ‘I’m Mary – just a farm girl looking for my horse and her foal. I’ve been asking everywhere. She was lost in last month’s storm.’

  The man snorted. ‘A farm girl who spies from windows?’ At that moment, a gunshot echoed outside, then a loud, commanding voice boomed, ‘The inn is surrounded. Surrender yourselves, we’re coming in.’

  It was Captain Crosby and his Customs Officers, looking for smuggled goods – contraband.

  The small man strode towards Mary, face red, fist raised, but stopped sharply as he noticed the old lady’s dress and bonnet on a chair.
He grabbed them and pulled them on over his own clothes. As he made for the door, he saw Mary’s boots and snatched them up.

  ‘You can’t have those, they were my father’s!’ Mary shouted.

  He laughed at her. ‘I’ve already taken your mare and foal – now I’ll take your boots for your nosiness!’ He laced them up swiftly and slipped through the door, locking it as he left.

  Mary banged and shouted so loudly that the old lady turned on her side in her sleep.

  Downstairs, the smuggler innkeeper rushed out through the main door, making his voice high like a woman’s. This, combined with his small stature, fooled the Customs Officers into thinking he was an innocent female guest.

  ‘Help, help! Did I hear the word smugglers? Let me out of here!’ He fanned his face and made to faint. An officer caught him. ‘Please, pity a young woman and escort me to the road.’

  Deciding that a hysterical girl would hinder their search, the officer kindly escorted the very man they wanted outside.

  The officers searched the inn from bottom to top, discovering secret passages and hiding holes, all empty. Eventually, they found Mary and the old woman in the rafters.

  ‘Did you catch the horse thief?’ Mary blurted to Captain Crosby.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ he replied. ‘Apart from the serving staff, we’ve found only one young woman and set her on her way safely.’

  When Mary explained that the innkeeper had taken the old woman’s dress and stolen her father’s boots, the Captain rushed back down the stairs. Mary followed. It was too late. The innkeeper/smuggler/horse thief was long gone. Crosby shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have done any good anyway. We know this man is a smuggler and a thief, but we’ve never managed to find the proof. Even this search of the inn has been fruitless, which is a great shame. If you had been able to provide us with the evidence leading to his arrest you’d have received a £500 reward!’

  Now Mary shook her head. ‘It’s not in the inn, it’s in the stables. I saw them moving it all by torchlight.’ She led the officers to the outbuilding. Once inside, she noticed that the straw in the middle of the floor was fresher than round the edges. She grabbed a broom from the wall and started to sweep, revealing a trapdoor. Beneath it a staircase led down into a secret cellar. The Customs Officers found it piled high with tubs of spirits, chests of tea and bales of silk, all contraband. While they searched the store, the girl heard the whinnying of a foal and the whickering of a mare. It was coming from the back of the stables.