by Livi Michael
Told you – it's magic this place! I run as far as I can into the crowd, then slow down because no one's following. The turnips bump against my ribs and I'm thinking that this should cheer Annie up. And that it'd be grand to get her working with me like that, in a team, but somehow I can't see that happening. And I feel annoyed at her, because you can't get Annie to do owt.
I pass a tall young man with pink cheeks who's addressing a crowd. ‘How many good weavers have been sent to their graves?’ he's saying, and the crowd all nod and mutter. ‘Who among you here remembers when all this land was in common – it belonged to no fat lord? They put walls up around your land, then they accuse you of thieving and trespass!’
More angry muttering and cries of ‘Aye!’
I walk on past, still looking for Barney, left and right. Then, just when I'm getting worried, I see the wagon. There's another cart in front of it and Barney's fixing the axle.
‘Where's Ann… Jill?’ I say, running up.
‘She's still under there, lad,’ Barney says, nodding towards the wagon. ‘She won't come out. I've tried.’
I sink to my knees in the mud and crawl under the cart. There's Annie all right, with her head tucked into her knees, rocking herself. She smells. She's wet herself, I notice. Disgusting. All because she wouldn't come out.
I feel a bit bad that I've been gone so long. ‘Annie, I'm back,’ I say, but she doesn't look up. ‘It's grand out there,’ I say. ‘You should have come with me.’
This time she does look at me, all hollow eyes and pale face. ‘I brought you these,’ I say, holding out a turnip. She grabs it and starts chewing in a fury. She's not got much in the way of teeth, Annie, but she can't half chew. Like, her legs are a bit bendy but she can run when she wants to, fast as a hare. I sit with her a bit to make her feel better and start telling her everything I've done.
‘You should have heard me telling a tale, Annie – there were a massive great crowd. And when I finished, bloke says, “That were grand. Best tale-telling I've ever heard. You've done so well, lad, you can have a penny!”’ But Annie's not listening, she just goes on champing on the turnips.
After a while Barney pokes his head under the wagon.
‘Is there a party going on?’ he says and, ‘Can anyone join in?’
I scramble to the edge of the cart and look out. Seems like the light's going and the rain's all soaked into the ground, making it muddier than ever. Crowd's got a lot thinner and Barney's pulling the cover over the wagon. ‘What's going on?’ I ask.
‘Market's over,’ he says. ‘Thought it might be time for a bit of refreshment.’
I crawl out further at this and he jerks his head towards the big tent. ‘Thought we might've earned ourselves a bowl of furmety,’ he says.
Never heard of it, I'm thinking. But if it's food, it'll do. Seems like I'm always hungry these days. Much hungrier than I was in the workhouse. I crawl back to Annie. ‘Come on out,’ I say. ‘We're going to get fed.’
All her back hunches up. ‘Come on,’ I tell her. ‘You can't stay under here all your life, eating turnips.’
When she still won't come I grab her arm and pull. It's not easy but I'm feeling strong. Tom Hickathrift's got nothing on me. Soon I tug her out into the mud.
‘Are we ready then?’ Barney says. Annie just stands by me, glowering. If she had any fur it'd be lifted right up.
There's a lot of noise from the tent and I hold Annie's arm tight to stop her bolting as we follow him in. This is where everyone's got to! There's loads of people inside, standing around, or sitting at long tables that run along the sides of the tent. At the top end there's a stove over a charcoal fire, and a huge crock hanging over it. A withered old woman's stirring it – looks about a hundred years old. You can hear the scrape, scrape of the spoon and the steam rises. Smells a bit like damp bread. Barney goes right up to her and we follow on, hanging back a bit, like, because of the racket. Next minute he's handing us a steaming bowl with two spoons.
‘Try your teeth out on that,’ he says, turning back to the woman.
I look down. There's a kind of slop in the bowl, with grains floating about in it like pips. I drag up a spare stool and sit on it. Annie stands beside me and we both tuck in.
It's not half bad. Bit chewy, though, and the grains get stuck between your teeth. I'm in a race with Annie to see who can shovel down the most. When I glance up at Barney I see he's slipping the woman a few extra pence, and she pours something into his bowl. I recognize the smell – the old hag who called herself nurse at the workhouse used to drink rum all the time. He finishes that bowl quick and gets another, without looking round to see if we might want some. Then he gets talking with a group of men.
I can feel my eyelids starting to close. Don't know why I'm so tired, I haven't done much. I'm beginning to wonder what Barney's plans are for the night, when one of the men says loudly, ‘Are these your littl'uns?’ looking at us.
‘Nay,’ says Barney. ‘Just some waifs and strays I picked up.’
‘And you're feeding them?’ he says. ‘I hope they're workers.’
I look at him. He's a big man with a big bald head. His nose is all red from the rum. I don't like him.
The talk moves on to the cost of wagons, but the big man keeps looking our way. ‘Lad looks wiry,’ he says. Barney's helping himself to more furmety-rum.
‘Aye, he'll do,’ he says. His face is all flushed now, like Baldy–head's nose.
Baldy-head gives me a long look, from my head to my toes. I glower back.
‘He's a bit small for his size, innee?’ he says.
Barney says, ‘It's not size you need, but strength and willingness to work.’
‘True,’ says Baldy-head. ‘And the littl'uns take less feeding.’
I don't like the way this is going. I look round the tent wondering whether to leave, then Barney's next words make my hair prick up.
‘Sounds like you're looking to buy some labour.’
‘I might be,’ says Baldy-head.
‘Are you buying?’ says Barney.
‘Are you selling?’ says Baldy-head.
‘Eh,’ I say, getting up, but Barney pulls me to him.
‘He might be small, but feel his arms,’ he says, and next minute Baldy-head's prodding me with his big, meaty paws.
‘What's going on?’ I say, trying to twist away.
‘What's your price?’ says Baldy-head.
‘Ten shillings apiece,’ says Barney, and Baldy-head laughs, a short, hard laugh. ‘Pull the other one,’ he says. ‘It's got bells on.’
I'm staring at Barney trying to catch his eye, but it's like some change has come over him. He's looking at me and through me, but not as though he can see me. Then a man with a long, bony face says, ‘I'll give you ten bob for the pair.’
‘No way, man,’ Barney says. ‘Ten shillings apiece is my last word.’
I try to wrench my arm away, but he holds fast. ‘Give over,’ I cry, and all the men laugh. I look at Annie and she hasn't moved. She's staring at me like a frit rabbit. Then Barney gets up and seizes us both, hauling us to the middle of the floor.
‘Listen up!’ he bellows. ‘Market's not done yet. I've got these two fine workers to sell. Lad's a real workhorse – tough as they come. Littlun's wiry too. Now, who'll give me ten bob apiece?’
There's a general murmur at this, and I hear someone cry, ‘Shame!’ and look round to see who it might be. But someone else is saying, ‘I'll give you five.’
‘Gents,’ Barney cries, ‘do me a favour. The lad's trainable – you can get any amount of work out of him. And the lass'll cook and sew and clean. Ten shillings apiece is a giveaway price. Daylight robbery!’
‘Aye, but who's robbing who?’ one man says, and they all laugh.
I've had enough of this. I wrench my arm back and cry, ‘Give over, mister. We're not for sale!’
‘Lad's got spirit,’ says a thin man with a goat beard.
Suddenly there's a pile of men crowding
round, and I'm stuck like a runt in a litter. The words Annie spoke last night come back to me sharp and clear and hard. Leave, she said. Leave now.
I wish I'd listened. This is the worst mess yet. Men and women are prodding and poking us now.
‘You could sell 'em separate,’ says a sharp-faced woman, and she lifts Annie's hair, looking for marks and scars. Annie twists round and spits, and there's cries of ‘Watch it!’ and ‘Eh – the little witch!’
‘I'll give you six bob for the lad,’ someone says.
I yell at them, ‘Are you deaf? We're not for sale!’
‘Needs a good whipping, that one,’ says Baldy-head.
They're all crowding round me so close I can hardly breathe. Annie's eyes are rolling like she might have a fit. I wish she would – that'd make them back off.
But they're not backing off. They're crowding closer yet, poking and tugging. I kick out at the nearest one and get my ears boxed in payment.
‘Six shillings!’ says one and, ‘Seven and six!’ another.
Then suddenly one voice rises above the others.
‘I heard slavery's been banned.’
Some of the racket dies down and a young man pushes himself through the crowd. He stands in front of Barney, who glares up at him. ‘The buying and selling of all persons,’ he says, ‘is no longer lawful.’
I recognize him now. It's the same man that was speaking to the crowd earlier, about handloom weavers. His cheeks are very pink but he stands facing Barney, and he's a good six inches taller.
‘If you don't like it,’ says Barney, ‘you know where the door is.’
The young man doesn't stir. ‘I don't like it,’ he says, ‘and I'll not stand by and watch it happen.’
There's some yelling and jeering at this, but I'm staring up at him.
‘Don't let him sell us, mister,’ I cry. ‘We're not his to sell.’
‘I can see that,’ says the young man.
But Barney says, ‘What's it to do with you? Get you back where you came from!’
In a moment things turn nasty. ‘Mind your own business,’ someone cries and, ‘What's it to you?’ But then someone else says, ‘He's got no business, selling childer,’ and the voice of the woman selling furmety rises above all the others.
‘I'll have no fighting in my tent,’ she says. ‘Clear off, or I'll have the law on you!’
‘Officers are coming round anyway,’ says the young man. ‘They always do at market close. So I'd let the lad and lass go, if I were you.’
Barney glares up at him, breathing hard. But he can tell that the mood in the tent's changing at the mention of the law. Folk are already turning back to their own business. For a minute I think he will let us go, but then his face turns ugly.
‘What'll you give me for 'em?’ he snarls, then quick, without warning, he picks up one of the lamps from the tables and dashes it at the young man, who staggers back. The lamp crashes behind him catching the skirts of a woman who screams, and the next minutes are all confusion. Barney's let go of me but he's dragging Annie, so I make a dive for his feet and trip him up. The woman's skirts and one of the tablecloths are on fire and everyone's stamping and roaring. Barney lets go of Annie and she scuttles away before I can get to her. Someone knocks over a long table in the general dash for the door.
‘Annie!’ I cry. ‘Annie!’ And then, with a great heave and a creak, part of the tent comes crashing down.
The next moment's a blur of tramping feet and crashing things and swearing. I'm swearing myself as more than one boot kicks me or stands on my hand, yet somehow I make it through what was once the door of the tent, out into the wet blue evening.
‘ANNIE!’ I roar at the top of my lungs, then suddenly I see her, disappearing round the back of the striped tent. But she's not alone – someone's pulling her along.
‘ANNIE!’ I bellow and I take off after them, fast as I can go. ‘ANNIE!’
And she turns, tugging backwards on the arm that's pulling her, and whoever it is turns too, and I see with a stab of relief that it's the young man who spoke up for us in the tent.
‘We were wondering where you were,’ he says, and all I can do is pant.
11
Alan of Hirst
‘We thought we'd best be leaving,’ Pink-cheeks says, his stride lengthening as we trot along. ‘No use hanging around trouble. Officers'll sort that rabble out.’ And in fact we can see them arriving now, on horseback and foot.
Well, I'm in no rush to meet officers of the law, and it seems like Pink-cheeks isn't either, for he's striding fast. He leads us over some wooden planks across a ditch, then through a stile, and then cuts through a field.
‘Right,’ he says, on the other side of a copse of trees. ‘I suppose it's too much to hope that you've got a home to go to?’
I look at Annie, Annie looks at the ground. ‘Thought not,’ says Pink-cheeks. ‘So. Where are you heading?’
I can answer that one. ‘Manchester,’ I say, looking up, and Pink-cheeks puts his hands on his hips, considering. ‘Are you now?’ he says. ‘Have you got folk to go to?’
I shrug. Seems like I'm all out of stories.
Pink-cheeks shakes his head. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘You'd best follow me.’
I hang back. Right at this minute I'm not keen on following anyone. I mean – I thought I could trust Barney Bent-nose. Seems like you can't trust anyone. Travis was right about that. I think of Travis walking the roads of England in freedom, and here we are, falling into one trap after another. It's because we're kids, I think, and I wish with all my heart I was grown, tall as this feller standing here.
‘What's up?’ he says, then a bit awkwardly, ‘It's all right – I won't harm you.’
I look at Annie again. Pink-cheeks sinks down on to a fallen branch.
‘My name's Alan,’ he says. ‘Alan of Hirst. What are your names?’
Here we go again. ‘Jack,’ I say, rubbing my forehead. ‘And –’
‘Annie,’ says Alan, before I can say ‘Julie’ or ‘Jill’. ‘Well, Jack and Annie,’ he says, ‘what's your plan for the night?’
I don't answer. Plan? I'm thinking. That's a good one.
‘I can't just leave you in a field,’ he says, and I shrug again. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘A little way from here there's a travelling fair. I know the man who runs it, and he's all right. And they happen to be travelling to Manchester. And if I ask him nicely, then maybe he'll take you along.’
My ears prick up at this. I've always wanted to see a travelling fair.
‘I don't suppose either of you have any skills or trade?’ Alan asks without much hope.
But I say, ‘I can tell a story,’ with my chin lifted up. I nearly add, ‘And Annie here can see the dead,’ but don't.
For the first time Alan smiles. ‘I dare say that's better than nothing,’ he says. ‘We'll have to see what Honest Bob has to say.’
Honest Bob? I'm thinking. Who'd trust a man with a name like that? But we follow Alan anyway, since we've no other ideas, and he takes us across this field and over a wooden bridge that spans the river, and round the side of the hill. And I can see the fair already – a small huddle of painted vans.
As we get closer I can see that there's little men feeding the horses. Men only just bigger than Annie, but with big heads and hands. Dwarves, I think. Creatures from folk tales. And my heart starts to beat a bit faster.
‘Hi there,’ Alan calls as we draw near, and I'm staring now. ‘Is Honest Bob around?’
The nearest little man looks up and I want to laugh. Everything's too big for him – big nose, big mouth and teeth, big eyes like a dog. I nudge Annie but she's got that blank look on her, like she's not looking at anything.
‘He's in his tent, same as ever,’ the little man says, waving towards a small green tent propped up by sticks. His voice is higher than a man's – more like a duck quacking – and I want to laugh again, but then I see that the other little man's actually a little woman dressed like a man and I'm st
aring again.
‘Horse'll need shoeing again, Balthasar,’ she says.
He ignores her. ‘He's a bit worse for wear if you ask me,’ he calls after us as we stride towards the tent. At least, Alan strides and we trot behind. He lifts the flap of the tent and calls Honest Bob's name. There's a deep groan from within.
‘Honest Bob,’ Alan calls again, ‘I've brought someone to see you.’
‘If it's the beadle, I'm not in.’
‘It's not,’ says Alan. ‘It's Alan of Hirst. And two children.’
More groaning, then shuffling, and finally a head pokes out. A bleary, grizzled head. The eyelids are red and swollen shut, one of them more swollen than the other, with a darkening bruise.
‘What time is it?’ he growls.
‘Night-time,’ says Alan, holding the flap up for him. ‘You've got two guests.’
The reddish, grizzled face swivels towards us, though the eyelids barely open. ‘I hope they're paying guests,’ he says.
‘Well,’ says Alan, ‘not as such.’
The grizzled head disappears again.
‘Wait!’ Alan says, poking his own head in through the gap. ‘They need to get to Manchester, that's all. And they can work for their keep.’
Silence. Alan pokes his head in further. ‘You owe me one,’ he says, into the tent. ‘Or shall I speak to the beadle?’
There's a kind of growl from inside, then Honest Bob's head appears again, looking fierce. ‘Christ almighty,’ he says. ‘What does a bloke have to do to get some sleep around here?’
Alan is unmoved. ‘Is it a deal then?’ he says.
Honest Bob waves a hand at him. It's a very grubby hand, fingernails even blacker than mine. ‘Flo'll deal with it,’ he says. ‘Go talk to Flo.’ And he disappears again, this time pulling the flap to behind him.
We stare up at Alan and he smiles encouragingly at us. ‘Flo's all right,’ he says. ‘Wait here a bit.’ And he walks over to the two dwarves.
I stare round at the wooden wagons, just three of them in all. They're all brightly painted and carved, with strange faces and masks, some laughing, some crying, animal heads round the borders. The rain's let up now but I'm soaked through and cold. I look at Annie but she's looking at the ground. She seems calm though, not like in the market.
