Curious, Cara stared at the highwayman with her big brown eyes. She wasn’t the kind of girl to get scared:
Lead for you, or gold for me?
Speak now, sharpish, what’ll it be?
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
‘Give me everything!’ Flint’s voice was harsh.
‘All I have is this one penny, and I can’t give it to you because I need it to buy bread and milk so that my mother and I can eat this week.’ Cara held up a grubby coin in her palm. It vanished from her hand and Flint laughed as he walked away.
‘What would a phantom highwayman want with one penny?’ Cara called out.
Flint stopped and turned. ‘What?’
Cara continued in a kind and steady voice: ‘You must be very unhappy to be so mean and angry.’
‘Are you mad? I love being a highwayman, always have and always will. I was mean when I was alive, and I’m meaner still dead.’
Cara looked doubtful.
‘I’m evil! Run!’ bellowed Flint.
Cara stood her ground. ‘How did you come to be evil?’ she asked. ‘Did you love someone who died? Did you suffer in a war? I know that pain makes my mother very angry.’
‘Turn your eyes away from me!’
Obediently Cara turned away, sighing, ‘I’m so sorry for you.’
‘I don’t need pity,’ Flint roared. ‘I’m famous! I answer only to the Prince of Darkness!’ He hoped that mentioning the Devil would turn Cara against him. It had the opposite effect.
‘I’ll pray for you. Take my money. If I had gold, I’d give the Devil every penny to free you, but all I’ve got is love!’
At the word ‘love’, lightning forked. Cara looked up at the sky and saw a shooting star. When she looked back, Flint had gone. In his place was a glittering pile of stolen treasure. Cara put it in her basket with the yarrow she had collected and went home to her mother.
First thing in the morning, she took the stolen valuables to the courthouse to be restored to those whom Flint had robbed, but since so much of it belonged to people long gone and untraceable, only a fraction of it could be returned. The rest the judge awarded to Cara.
She used it to buy better medicines and food for her mother, who grew from strength to strength and was fully well again within a few short weeks. She never shouted at her daughter again.
After that, Cara would often wander out onto the Lancing road at dusk, and leave white and yellow yarrow flowers by the carriageway, just so that Flint, wherever he was, would know he was always in her prayers.
10
The Shepherd and the Moon
• Saltdean, Telscombe •
Old Mother Slipper Slopper jumped out of bed,
And out of the window she poked her head,
Oh John, John, the grey goose has gone,
And the fox is off to his Den-o!
Folk song
There was once a shepherd boy called Pup Moppet who was slow moving, slow speaking and as clever as a magpie. He was long and lanky and wore a cloak, buttoned-up leather leggings and a billycock hat. His hands were the colour of potatoes, so large he could fit a full-grown hare in each palm. But despite the thickness of his fingers, all the tunes Pup played on his rusty mouth organ were sharp and fast.
With his sheep, up there on the hills above the sea, Pup felt like a sailor. He could taste the salt on his lips and read the signs. Shoals of porpoises heading east meant wind from the west. If Worthing was visible, eighteen miles down the coast, rain was coming.
It was February and Pup had been busy. He had built the high-walled pens for the ewes to protect them from the vicious north-east winds, bedded them down in clean straw and now he was feeding warm milk to an orphan hob-lamb from the crooked stove of his shepherd’s caravan that he liked to call his Den-o.
Outside, the frost was silently covering the stubby gorse and winter blackthorn. The moon was full and Pup was alert. One rustle from ‘Maas Reynolds’, Mr Fox, and he might find all his lambs savaged. He heard an owl. Sound travels a good distance on still nights and he guessed the bird was beyond Telscombe. A few moments later, he heard boots thudding over the turf. As the thuds got closer, Pup detected heavy wheezing and the sound of slopping inside wooden containers. He concluded two men were running away from something, each carrying a barrel full of whisky.
The fire in his stove had burnt low, which was lucky. Smugglers don’t like to be seen. Pup bit his cheek, his ears prickled. He listened until the men were half a mile across the fields and when they were at the outermost edges of his hearing, he caught the faintest of splashes. Only then did Pup’s face relax into a sly smile.
He left it an hour or two, took his shepherd’s staff made of hazel wood, and set out across the white chalk paths towards the dew pond. The sides of his tongue tingled at the thought of whisky heating up his belly.
He came to the dew pond where he was sure the smugglers had thrown the barrels. The full moon shone on the water like a giant silver sovereign. Pup lay down on the crispy grass and, plunging his staff in the water, began to dredge the pond, forwards and backwards, searching for the whisky. For once, his concentration obliterated all sounds. He had just hit something when a voice so surprised him, he nearly tumbled in, head first.
‘Who are you and where are you from?’
Pup was on his feet. A Customs Officer in white trousers, black top hat and blue jacket was standing on the other side of the pond. His smart gold buttons glittered in the moonlight.
Quick as a farmer drinks his first cider after loading the final bale at harvest, Pup had an idea. Speaking as slowly as a carthorse plods, he replied, ‘I’m just a poor shepherd from the Village of Porridge!’ He knew that shepherds had a reputation for being stupid and he played up to it, twisting his mouth to the side and twisting his cloak with his thick fingers.
‘Where’s that?’ asked the Customs Officer, cracking his knuckles with irritation.
‘It’s a pinch of salt across from the Mine of Treacle.’
‘Don’t be an idiot! What are you doing?’
Pup widened his eyes then furrowed his brow, ‘What am I doing? What am I not doing! Such a long day! It all started this morning when I put my boots on backwards. I didn’t know if I was coming or going. Then the willow started weeping so I had to tie all my hankies on her branches. And when I finally got to my fields, I found they were sopping wet so I had to hang them out to dry. Why, that took till it was dark and now, because I’ve run out of candles, I’m fishing for the moon. When I hook her, I’ll have a lamp for my room. I’m no gom’uril.’*
Pup whacked the pool and began to heave his staff out of the water: ‘I think I’ve got her! I think she’s coming!’ He groaned and pulled and splashed.
The Customs Officer was soaked. He flicked the tails of his jacket, brushed the dirty drips off his crisp trousers and strode away, muttering, ‘Beetle head!’*
As soon as he was out of sight, quick as ‘Maas Reynolds’ himself, Pup hooked his crook, hauled up two barrels and took them back to his Den-o.
The following evening, long after the exhausted sun had flopped behind the line of the sea, Pup opened his first barrel of whisky. He gave each of his sheep some milk mixed with a drop of the hot stuff, poured the tiniest dram for himself, picked up his mouth organ and began to play. When his stomach was as warm as a lamb nestled in the wool of its mother, Pup covered himself with a corn sack and, using a pile of grain for a pillow, fell asleep for a full hour.
I heard that those barrels of whisky kept Pup and his sheep warm for many winters.
* gom-uril – Sussex dialect meaning a silly person who talks too much.
* beetle head – daft person.
11
A Thimbleful of Sugar
• Rottingdean •
For there’s many a dark and cloudy morning
Turns out to be a sun-shiny day.
Folk song: ‘Banks of the Sweet Primroses’
Bob Copper was a man who loved
to sing. His family had worked the land and fished the sea in the village of Rottingdean for 400 years. But during the Second World War, Bob became a police constable and one of his jobs was to investigate sudden deaths: bombing raids, planes falling into the sea, or just the kind of deaths that happen every day. It was a hard job for a young man.
One dark and cloudy morning he was called to West Street. A ten-month-old baby had died two days before and his very young mother wouldn’t let go of him. She was all alone. The father of the baby was a Canadian squaddie – a soldier who had been posted abroad.
Bob knocked at the door. It was opened by a girl with red eyes and hair that was as matted as a cotted fleece.* ‘Go away!’ She turned her back, but left the door ajar. In her arms was her child, wrapped in rags and woollen blankets. She clutched him tightly. He still felt warm.
‘He’s still alive!’ she shouted.
Bob didn’t know what to do, and was relieved to hear the voice of old Mrs Tuppin behind him. She was famous for her home remedies and cooking and knew everything that was going on in the village. ‘I think everybody needs a cup of tea!’ she said briskly. Glad to have something to do, Bob lit the single gas ring, made tea and poured it into chipped enamel cups. He and Mrs Tuppin sipped in silence. The young mother glared at them for a while, then relaxed, sat down on the stained settee and began to rock the baby.
After a few minutes, Mrs Tuppin blinked her quick brown eyes, ‘There now! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! I have a special recipe that will help the little one! All I need, my girl, is for you to fill this thimble with sugar from any house that lies between the hills and the sea and bring it back to me.’
Mrs Tuppin took out a little silver thimble engraved with leaves and flowers from her apron pocket. She used it every day to help her push her needle through thick cloth. ‘Take it!’ she said, hobbling over to the settee.
The young mother’s eyes began to shine. ‘Every house in Rottingdean is between the hills and the sea, someone will surely give me some sugar!’
Mrs Tuppin put a moth-eaten shawl around the girl’s shoulders, but just as she was leaving, the old woman said, ‘One other thing. The sugar must come from a house where the people have not felt the pain of death.’
The young mother nodded and ran out of the door, still clutching the child. She knocked at the first house a little anxious, because this was the war and sugar was rationed to eight ounces per person.
‘Please may I have a thimbleful of sugar for my child?’
‘Of course,’ said the neighbour with one look at her and the bundle in her arms. ‘You can have all our sugar for the week!’
‘Just to check,’ said the young mother, ‘I need sugar from a house that hasn’t felt the pain of death.’
A little girl appeared between the neighbour’s knees.
‘Purrkins my cat died last week,’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘I cried a lot.’
The young mother tried the next house, but it was a grandfather who had passed away. Every family in Rottingdean had suffered loss.
After a long morning of knocking on doors, the young mother turned back towards West Street where the old lady and Police Constable Bob were still waiting. Without a word, she handed the baby over to Mrs Tuppin, who said a prayer before reaching a second time into her apron to bring out a little pair of scissors. Taking a snip of the baby’s soft hair, she put it into the silver thimble.
‘Keep that to remember him by,’ she said, and pressed it into the young mother’s empty hand.
That evening as Bob Copper sang ‘Banks of the Sweet Primroses’ with his father and brothers round the fire, he came to the lines:
There is many a dark and a cloudy morning
Turns out to be a sun-shiny day.
He thought of the young mother in West Street and heartily wished her some sun.
And in years to come she managed to live with her sadness. She had many children, but she always kept the silver thimble on the mantelpiece and often stroked the whorl of silky hair within it.
* cotted fleece – a fleece matted together during growth.
12
The Rise of the Sussex Doughman
• Lewes, Alfriston and Firle •
I had a little hen, the prettiest ever seen,
She washed me the dishes and kept the house clean;
She went to the mill to fetch me some flour,
She brought it home in less than an hour;
She baked me my bread, she brewed me my ale,
She sat by the fire and told many a fine tale.
Traditional poem
The capital of Sussex is Lewes. Lewes is an ancient town which straddles the River Ouse and climbs up the High Street toward its very own castle. In days gone by, it was an important river port with a mint that made gold coins.
One frosty morning, a woman with silvery hair and a dress frayed at the cuffs and hem came to the town looking for kindness. She sat on the bridge over the river, took off her moth-eaten hat and held it out to passers-by. She was uncomfortable because the cobbles poked her thighs. The merchants walking by looked the other way or were too busy to notice her as they counted their gold coins, passing them from one hand to the other. At the end of the day, all she had succeeded in gaining was a hat full of peas someone had given her from their garden. This was not at all what she expected, but at least she’d have some supper.
Towards dusk, a large man with rosy cheeks walked past. ‘Sir?’ she said. He looked round. ‘Over here, Sir.’
Leonard Lardycake looked down, saw her and screwed up his face. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
She took in his long pointy shoes of soft leather, bright yellow stockings of fine wool, and embroidered jacket with sleeves to the ground. His velvet hat, the shape of a pie, was decorated with a feather.
‘I’m hungry and cold – might I share one tiny corner of your good fortune?’
The man tutted and turned his back on the old woman.
‘Sir?’ the old woman called again.
‘What is it now?’ the man snapped.
‘Begging your pardon, but what’s your business?’
Now this posed a problem for Lardycake: on the one hand, he wanted to ignore the woman; on the other, he was not only the Mayor of Lewes, but also the most successful and prosperous baker in the town and therefore in all of Sussex. He could not bear to miss the opportunity to boast, even to an old woman in rags.
He turned to face her. ‘I am the master baker of Lewes, I own nearly all the bakeries in this town. The men and women I employ sweat into the night to make the bread that feeds both great and humble. Not only that,’ he broadened his shoulders, ‘but take note, I am also the Mayor!’
‘Certainly, Sir, I will take note. You are the Mayor, a man who has almost everything.’
‘Almost? Almost? What do you mean almost? I do have everything!’
The old woman nodded. ‘Yes, Sir, of course, Sir. Very nearly.’
‘Very nearly?’
‘Yes, Sir. Only one tiny thing missing.’
‘What? What?’
‘Everlasting fame. I could make you the most famous Mayor that ever was or ever will be.’
‘How?’ The baker’s eyes bulged like a fish on the end of her line.
‘All it would take is a tiny piece of gold.’
The baker hated giving anything to anybody, but could not resist the promise of everlasting fame, so with a sly smile he took a fat gold coin out of his purse and a pocketknife out of his pocket. ‘A tiny piece of gold you say?’ The woman nodded. He shaved a minuscule filing off the edge of the coin and dropped it into her hand. She had to squint to see it.
‘There you are,’ the Mayor said, ‘our bargain is struck,’ and as he walked off, he was laughing so much he trumped.
The woman was on her feet, surprisingly tall. ‘Our bargain is struck indeed. I’ll make you famous alright!’ She picked up the frayed hems of her dress with such force they knocked o
ver her hat full of peas. She crumpled.
Passing by at that moment, leading a scrawny old ram, was a boy. Quickly tying up the creature, the lad zipped here and there to rescue the peas.
‘Don’t worry! I’ll get ’em, every one,’ he shouted cheerfully and it wasn’t long before they were all safe in the old woman’s hat. He handed them back with a bow. ‘Chols, at your service!’
His worn coat and jaunty cap made the old woman smile.
‘I’ve just spent hours shelling those peas for my tea, thank you. I’m too old and stiff to go running and bending. You are very kind, young man, and one good turn deserves another. That is the scrawniest looking ram I’ve ever seen, where are you taking him?’
Chols looked sad and shook his head. ‘He used to be big and strong, but he’s been ailing recently with Dad being sick. Mum and I don’t think there’s any hope for him. He’s a tough old beast but I’m taking him to the butcher.’
‘No need for that,’ the old woman said. ‘Today’s Midwinter. Take him to graze on the fat grass in the fairy ring at midnight tonight and he’ll be good as new. Better, even.’
‘Where is it?’ Chols asked.
‘Over by Burlough Castle in Alfriston,’ she replied.
Chols swallowed. Alfriston was nine miles from Lewes over the Downs, and he’d have to climb Firle Beacon. It would take ages. Nevertheless, he thanked the woman and set off in the direction of Mount Caburn – what had he got to lose?
She called after him, ‘Kindness always brings good luck!’
He turned to wave, but she had disappeared.
As night fell, Chols trudged along the eastern banks of the River Ouse, up flint paths, then leant against the cold wind from the sea as he topped Firle Beacon. After four hours he arrived at the mounds of Burlough Castle. The Downs stretched ahead for miles in the moonlight. The ground was cracked from being dried year-round by the constant gusts, but in a circle, several paces across, the grass was vivid green. Chols realised that this must be the fairy ring the old woman had described. He let the ram loose to graze. That done, he sat with his back against a wind-blown tree, tugged his coat close, pulled his hat over his eyes, and settled down for a chilly nap.
Sussex Folk Tales for Children Page 6
