Strandloper

by Alan Garner

  “I am, that!” said Esther.

  Both men laughed.

  “Fecks!” said Grandad. “It’s got the makings of a rollicking good year! The two on you?”

  They ate.

  “Fecks!” Grandad spluttered into his potatoes and grease. They all laughed.

  “Side the table, Het,” said William.

  The meal was over, and he went to a corner cupboard that hung on the wall and took out a quill and ink-horn and the paper that Edward Stanley had given him. Esther cleared the table, and Grandad sat in the man’s chair by the fire. William laid out the materials with care, while Esther scraped the plates in a pancheon of cold water.

  “Did you find me a dish or owt while you were at Congleton, Mr Buckley?” said Esther.

  “Oh, ay. I was forgetting,” said Grandad, “what with all the to do;” and he leant down and rummaged in a sack that was on the floor. “There was this here in the market. Ever such a nice gentleman, called Mr Minton, from Spode, out of Pottery, he had a stall, and I fancied this.”

  “Eh! It’s grand!” said Esther. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and took the plate that Grandad was holding and carried it to the window. “How much shall you be stopping out of me wages?”

  “Not much,” said Grandad. “Say half a day. You see, I had three pullets with me; and this Mr Minton, a very clever gentleman he must be to have made yon, he took to them pullets, so it was ‘swoppery no robbery’. He was that pleased, I didn’t like to tell him as two on them had gone light and were off their legs.”

  “See at this, Will,” said Esther.

  “What is it?” William had been only half listening as he gathered himself to write.

  “China.”

  “What’s china?”

  “This is.”

  “And what good’s that?”

  “It’s for looking. See at it!”

  The plate was round and white, edged with a pattern. In the middle was a landscape: a fence, and beyond it three buildings, and a boat and boatman on a river and a bridge across. Three figures were on the bridge. There were two big trees, one a willow, and, in the sky, two birds flying. And both edging and picture were in blue.

  “And that’s china?” said William.

  “Ay.”

  “But what’s china? Is it pot or is it picture?”

  “I don’t know,” said Esther.

  “Rum place, if it is,” said William. “I’ve never known folks be blue.” And he sat down at the table to write.

  Esther put the plate on the sideboard. “It’s grand,” she said. “Thanks ever so much, Mr Buckley.”

  “Ay, well, just so long as you’re pleased,” said Grandad.

  “Oh, I am,” said Esther, and she gave the plate one more look before she went back to scraping the tin.

  Grandad lit his pipe and stared into the fire.

  “Best year were when Shick-Shack were Squarker Kennerley,” said Grandad, “and Three-quarter Sarah, she were Teaser. By! I recollect there was some Christenings March following. Bigod, ay! What? There was some Christenings!”

  William looked at the writing exercises, and read each one before copying it. The ink had run in the wet of his shirt. His lips moved. Then he wrote, holding the quill upright, and steering it with his little finger.

  “But Squarker were a bugger for cross-cutting when I were top man at the pit, and he were bottom. You can be cross-cutting a piece of timber, two on you as know what cross-cutting is, and it isn’t hard work; but get one as doesn’t know what it is, and he’ll maul your belly out; and yet he thinks he’s working! He is! And hard work for you and all! ‘I don’t mind you having a ride, but keep your feet up!’ That’s what I tell ’em. And they look at me like a cow at a cabbage.”

  William-read what he had copied.

  “‘The strongest poison ever known

  Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.’”

  He started the next exercise.

  “Ay,” said Grandad. “But, oh, they’ll murder you, some of them will, for cross-cutting. Oh no, bigod, they’re murderous! But they don’t know they’re doing it. Squarker didn’t. Oh, ay! He had to go.”

  William read: “‘A rumour is spread from the south, and it is terrible to tyrants’.”

  “I recollect, when Waggy Worth was wheelwright,” said Grandad.

  “Eh up. We’re off,” said Esther. “‘Waggy’s Coffin’.”

  “Ay,” said Grandad. “This chap had died, like, and Waggy’d nowt put him in, sort of thing; and he come to the pit for us to cut him a suit of coffin stuff And it was that clean, the wood, you know, he’d stop a bit extra long and have another suit cut, you see.”

  Esther finished her tidying and sat by the fire, but she did not settle. William read: “‘Ancient abuses are not by their antiquity converted into virtues’.”

  “And then Tiddy Turnock,” said Grandad, “he was there, and he said, ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘it’d pay a man for to die to have a suit of this sort!’ And that were it. Ay! Waggy had it in the week, right enough. He picked his mortal own coffin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll have that, and I’ll have that, and I’ll have that. And a bit of old shelving will do for the bottom.’ And he had it hisself in the week, bigod. Ay!”

  “‘Man has rights which no statutes or usages take away’.”

  “Have you not done, yet?” said Esther.

  “Wait on,” said William.

  “Hold still,” said Grandad. “You’re up and down like a dog at a fair.”

  “It was in the hiring,” said Esther. “It’s what were agreed. Saturday night’s for sitting up.”

  “‘And lasses is lads’ leavings.’”

  “Hush up, Grandad,” said William. “‘They little think how dangerous it is to let the people know their power.’”

  “And you think on, and all,” said Grandad. “‘A slice off a cut loaf isn’t missed,’ is it? It’s there, you know. Oh yes! A slice off a cut loaf isn’t missed.”

  William laughed, and put the writing in the cupboard, and took out the book. He looked at the eagle and child. Grandad leaned forward in his chair, and pointed with his forefinger, waving his hand away from him.

  “What’s that article?” he said.

  “A book,” said William.

  “And whose book?” The hand was in a palsy.

  “Stanleys’.”

  “Sarn it! My stockings, youth! If yon’s found here, you’ll piss before you’ll whistle!”

  “I tell’t him,” said Esther.

  “I’ve only lent it; from Yedart. He’s a chap very fluent in giving.” The hand stopped its shaking, and the finger jabbed at the leather.

  “Yay?” said Grandad. “Giving? With that lot, it runs in th’ blood like wooden legs!”

  “Haven’t you done?” said Esther.

  “Not yet,” said William.

  “Oh, what the heck,” said Esther.

  Grandad sat back in his chair and stared into the fire. He muttered to himself. William opened the book, studied it for a while, and began to read aloud. Esther poked the fire, rattling the irons against his voice.

  “‘I thence

  Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,

  That with no middle flight intends to soar

  Above th’ Aonian Mount’

  – What’s th’ Aonian Mount? Is it a horse or summat?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Grandad.

  “– ‘Above th’ Aonian Mount, while it pursues

  Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rime.’”

  Esther flung the irons down and shouted, “Will Buckley! Are you coming, or aren’t you?”

  William grinned, and closed the book. He looked at the emblazoning again.

  “You’ll do, Het. You’ll do.”

  He put the book with the writing in the cupboard and shut it. He took Esther by the hand.

  “Here, Gyp.”

  The dog rose from the fire and came to heel.

  “Good night, Grandad.” />
  “Good night, Mr Buckley,” said Esther.

  “Eh!” said Grandad. “And when you’re in that barn, watch your twiddle-diddles. There’s rats.”

  William, Esther and the dog left the kitchen. Grandfather stared back at the fire. “No. A slice off a cut loaf isn’t missed – unless you cut too deep.”

  3

  “BONELESS!!”

  He sat up, flailing his head and arms. The dog yelped and leapt to the wall, barking.

  “Shurrup, Gyp!” Esther shouted. The dog whined.

  “Boneless!”

  “Wake up, love. You’re dreaming.”

  “Boneless. It’s Boneless!”

  She held him, and he stank of fear.

  “It was a bad dream,” she said; but, awake now, there was terror still in him, and he shook and nestled into her, a child, sobbing.

  “It’s him. It’s Boneless.”

  “You make no sense.”

  The sobbing died, and the only sound was his breath, deep and quick. She held him.

  “What’s ‘Boneless’?” said Esther.

  The words fell from him, without pause, broken only by the rasping air.

  “It’s Boneless come for to ketch me, and Granny calls me a nowt and tells me get back to sleep, but I can’t, I’m that feart.

  “Then me Grandad, he sends me go robmawkin on Tiddy Turnock. And Tiddy has this mawkin in his field, and it isn’t any old mawkin. No. Tiddy must have summat different; and he’s rigged up this contraption, like a gallows, sort of thing, with the mawkin hanging from it, and clog soles on its arms for clattering, and the whole lot turns in the wind. Well, me Grandad fancies the red weskit and the britches that are on this here mawkin; so he gives me his own weskit and britches and sends me for fetch Tiddy’s. So I go. I’m only little. And this mawkin is big. Tiddy’s made it out of old sacks and stuffed them with grass, and cut holes for the face, and the grass is sticking out of its eyes and its nose and out of its mouth, and I don’t like it, not one bit.

  “Anyroad, I ketches hold on it, and I’m carrying Grandad’s weskit and britches, and I tries get weskit and britches off mawkin, but it won’t hang still. It keeps twisting and turning, and seems like it’s ketching hold on me instead. And then it falls over, on top of me, and its great face and all that grass are staring at me in the moon, and it’s soft and then it’s Boneless; and I let out such a skrike, and run all the way back home. And doesn’t Grandad tan my hide! But ever since, that mawkin comes at me, and I know it’s Boneless.”

  “There, love,” said Esther. “It’s gone now. It was a dream.”

  “It’s real,” said William. “But it’s different tonight. I know him. And sky’s purple.”

  “Who is he, then?” said Esther.

  “I’m his uncle. But I can’t be, can I? And he wants summat. He wants me to get him summat.”

  “What?”

  “A crow. He wants me get him a crow. That’s daft. Mawkins are for scaring crows, not fetching them.”

  “Eh, dear. Best be doing, love,” said Esther. “It’s light already, see.” The day was shining through the cracks in the wall panels of the barn, between the timbers.

  “And I’ve got a sick headache,” said William.

  “Where’s it hurt?”

  “Here. This side. I’m bilious.”

  “You’re always the same, you, after sitting up.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m bilious.”

  “Come here,” said Esther. “Give us your head.”

  William lifted his head out of her lap, and she cradled it, stroking his brow. She sang.

  “‘Lu lay, lu lay,

  Lu lara lay;

  Bayu, bayu,

  Lu lara lay;

  Hush-a-bye, lu lay.’”

  “Sing that again.”

  “‘Lu lay, lu lay,

  Lu lara lay;

  Bayu, bayu,

  Lu lara lay;

  Hush-a-bye, lu lay.’”

  “I like that.”

  There was the clumping of boots outside the barn, and a stick banged on the walls.

  “Come on! Let’s be having you! Cow wants milking! And you! Get the straw out of your arse and lay the fire!”

  “He’s got a sick headache!” said Esther, trying to be loud without hurting.

  “What the ferrips do you get up to, the pair on you?” shouted Grandad. “You must be a right un!”

  “He’s bilious!”

  “Bilious be buggered! I want my breakfast!”

  Esther pulled her clothes together. “You stay there,” she whispered. “I’ll see to the old devil.” She went out of the barn, opening the door as little as she could, to keep the dark. “I’m coming! Wait your sweat!”

  William lay in the straw, his hands to his head, moaning. The dog snarled. He opened his eyes.

  “No.”

  The timbers of the barn, wall and roof glowed and shimmered with rainbow patterns: lines, curved and crooked; dots, spots and twisted circles; some like the shapes he saw in his head when the pain was bad, but not all; and every one was on the timber, and on only the timber, leaving no space. The wood was carved with light. And the May dawn wind that was blowing around the barn carried a sound in it, like none he had ever heard, unless it was women wailing; but never as he had heard women; and it was faint, though near. And the dog heard it, he could see, and the dog was watching the light in the wood, too.

  “Bloody no.”

  He threw the door open and ran into the sun, which screamed in his brain, but this he knew, and he ran to the house and into the kitchen and threw himself onto the settle. The dog stayed in the barn, watching.

  “Lie still,” said Esther; and she left the fire and poured vinegar into a bowl, steeped a cloth in the vinegar, squeezed it, and laid it as a poultice on William’s forehead.

  “I’m badly. I’m badly.”

  “Lie still,” she said again. “It’s best.”

  And he lay still, all through the morning, his eyes shut, because of the light that was sound; and the sound that was lights slowly changed back to the right way, and the pain died, until he heard a thrush and a blackbird singing, clear as dew, the only sounds in the world, as they were when the sick headache left him.

  Esther came and sat with him. She washed the china plate, and dried it with a clean cloth. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Isn’t it? I wonder who all them folks are: him in the boat, and three on the bridge. And what are they doing? Fishing, or running or what? And they’ve all getten pigtails. Are they sailors?” But he was too weak to move, and he fell into a sleep.

  The dog’s barking woke him. A horse stopped in the lane, and there was a knock at the door. Esther went to open it, and he heard her talking.

  “Who is it?” shouted Grandad from beside the fire. “What they wanting?”

  “It’s Mr Yedart.”

  “Let him in!”

  Grandad pushed Esther aside. He spoke a formal welcome, broadening his voice to the custom.

  “Come thi ways within air o’ th’ fire, Mr Yedart, and get some warmship.”

  Edward Stanley took off his hat and entered.

  “Good day to you, Mr Buckley, sir.”

  “Sit thi down. Tek thi bacca. Stick thi nose up chimney,” said Grandad, ending the ritual.

  Edward smiled his thanks, but refused the man’s chair, taking one from beside the table. “And when and at what hour is the churching?” he said.

  “That’s for you to ask and us to know,” said Grandad.

  “Ah. Then what is wrong with you, William?” said Edward.

  “It’s an allegar poultice for his sick headache,” said Esther.

  “‘Sick headache’!” said Grandad. “Yay. And you ask him how he gets them Saturday nights regular! ‘Sick headache’, ay, bigod. He’s a right un. Soft as me pocket. ‘Sick headache’! So what’s he going to do with cockle-bread? ‘Sick headache’, as sure as a red pig for an acorn!”

  William started to pull himself up,
but Edward stopped him. “Stay there,” he said. “I’ve come for your hand practice, and to leave you some other.”

  “Will Sir John not be vexed?” said Grandad.

  “How shall he be vexed when he does not know?” said Edward.

  “He doesn’t mind his servants reading,” said Esther.

  “I’m no servant,” said Grandad, “and I don’t read.”

  Edward laughed. “He suffers reading because servants may take instruction thereby. But with writing: with writing, one may instruct. There he is not so generous. And noise of revolution aids little.”

  “Ay, well, here’s what youth wrote last night,” said Grandad, and opened the cupboard and gave Edward the sheets of paper and the emblazoned book. “And I’d be a sight happier if yon were out of this house. I’m not inclined to dance at the sheriff’s ball, me.”

  “It would never come to that,” said Edward. “You have my word.”

  “Yay,” said Grandad.

  Edward looked at the sheets. His face stiffened. He looked again, closely.

  “William. What is this?” His voice was cold.

  “Real writing, Yedart.”

  “‘Real writing’? This?”

  “The best I was able,” said William.

  “This?”

  Edward pulled the cloth from William’s brow and thrust the paper at him. William looked, through half-closed eyes, which opened when he saw. There were no exercises. Below each example were drawn patterns of dots and circles and waves and zigzag and criss-crossed lines, many as he had seen in the barn, some as on the blue plate; and the last example had under it the shape of a serpent made up of the parts in the foolish lines.

  “I never!”

  “I do not risk my father’s wrath,” said Edward, “in order to be made a mockery by a peasant.”

  “I never.”

  “You shall fulfil your promise, as I have seen it in you. You will write this again.”

  Edward flung more paper onto the settle and stalked to the door.

  “Your servant, Mr Buckley,” he said, and he pointed the word.

  “Leave the book!” William shouted. “Don’t take me brid and babby!”

  “‘Brid and babby’?” said Edward. He opened the book, and read aloud. “‘What in me is dark illumine, what is low raise and support; that to the heighth of this great Argument I may assert Eternal Providence, and justify the ways of God to men.’” It would seem that you may have work to do yet, William, before you are competent to philosophise on matters such as this.” And he snapped the book shut, thrust it into his pocket and left the room. Esther closed the door after him.