by Lynch, R J
‘Jeffrey, man,’ he said. ‘Is there no woman who’d come in and clean for you?’
Drabble looked affronted. ‘What’s wrong with the place?’
‘Is this a new job for constables?’ asked Jackson. ‘Riding around to insult the habits of people who are poorer than they are?’
‘No,’ said Bright, nettled by the hostility he had stirred up. ‘The Constable’s new job is chasing after buckets and finding out where they came from and why they were burned.’
Jackson’s eyes gleamed from his domed and hairless skull. ‘Blakiston sent you. The bliddy man will not rest till he’s seen me hang for someone else’s murder.’
‘Just tell us the story, man,’ said Bright. ‘I’ve been told to ask and I’m asking.’
‘It’s not a story, it’s the truth.’
‘That’s what I mean. Tell us what happened.’
Drabble handed the Constable a chipped cup full of dark brown tea. Bright would have liked to ask for sugar, but sugar was expensive and he did not wish to offend the man even more.
‘There was a bucket,’ said Jackson. ‘It was charred by fire, and useless. Someone left it outside my door and I burned it on the fire. That’s all.’
‘You’ve no idea who put it there?’
‘A good Samaritan. Someone who saw I was in need of firewood and gave it to me. I wish they hadn’t now, all the trouble it’s caused me.’
‘How did it smell?’
‘Horrible,’ said Drabble.
‘Not you an’ all,’ said Jackson. ‘You didn’t say owt at the time.’
‘I was glad of the heat, man. As you were. But it did smell a bit funny. Did you not think so yourself?’
‘Aye,’ said Jackson. ‘I did.’
‘Was the smell blood, do you think?’ asked Bright.
‘How should I know that, man? What does blood smell like when you put it in a bucket and set fire to it?’
He had a point, Bright could see that. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else...’
‘Nothing.’
‘He didn’t drink his tea,’ said Jeffrey Drabble when the Constable had left.
‘Give it to me,’ said Jackson. ‘I’ll not waste it.’
The Ryton Enclosure Bill had been prepared and Sir Edward Blackett would present it in Parliament. He and the Bishop of Durham wanted enclosure to go ahead and it seemed that they would get their wish, whatever reservations Lord Ravenshead might have. Blakiston met His Lordship to discuss what the effects would be. Their only sources of information were what had happened in the two enclosures recently carried out in Durham County, at Hamsterley and Heworth Common. Blakiston had studied each of these carefully.
‘Hamsterley went well enough,’ he said. ‘If by well enough we mean without unrest. The commissioners travelled there and did what the Act said they should. There were more than fourteen thousand acres of common lands and moors the ordinary people believed were theirs. They have none of it now. Not one single acre. The value of the common lands was fixed at two thousand and thirteen pounds seven shillings and fourpence.’
‘A goodly sum.’
‘Indeed. Members of what I believe to be the Blackett and Vane families, along with the Bishop of Durham and some local notables claimed more than two thousand pounds of that money. I confess, your Lordship, I have included a relative of your own, Edward Liddle, in that figure. He took seven pounds and fourteen shillings.’
Ravenshead nodded with a downward turn of the mouth.
‘The remaining eleven pounds and a few pence was divided between the luckier commoners in the parish. One received fifteen shillings. A woman had twelve; I assume that her needs were deemed lower than those of a man. But most, as we may be sure was intended, received nothing. Families who since times that cannot be remembered had grazed their cattle, raised hay and vegetables and collected firewood on the common lands now have nowhere to do so. They have gone in five years from sufficiency to starvation.’
‘And no resistance.’
‘The militia were turned out at the first sign of trouble. And there were coal pits where jobs could be had, though many men have died there and their families are now even worse off than before. But Heworth Common has been a different matter. People have resisted and people have been killed. The unrest is not settled even now.’
‘Oh, Blakiston. Whatever happens, we must ensure Sir Edward Blackett and the Bishop of Durham are held to a more equitable way of dealing.’
‘We can try, your Lordship.’
‘I cannot bear the thought of our people suffering so.’
‘We must try to explain the moral reasons for good behaviour. And that it has been shown that labourers who have their own allotments work better and more willingly for the landowner than those who do not. Perhaps your Lordship is better placed for that than I.’
‘I believe I shall ride over to Matfen Hall tomorrow and tell Blackett of my concerns. We can only hope he listens. Listening is not something that family is known for.’
It was a sad Lady Isabella who sat down that evening to write in her journal.
Friday 25th March,1763
I have not written here for some days, for I have been ill in body and sick at heart. On Tuesday I lost the babe I was carrying. I have prayed to God for the strength to bear my grief but, oh, it is so hard.
Of course there is a reason why God visits these heartaches on us. But when I ask Thomas what it is, he says only that when we are in Heaven we shall know; that all will be clear then. I know that. It makes it no easier to bear the pain now.
Thomas read to me from the Book of Genesis, where God tells Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. And Abraham is prepared to do so. But God spared Isaac at the last, and he did not spare my child.
I shall not criticise Thomas, though. He has been so solicitous towards me, reminding me of the gentle and loving man I married, and he means to comfort me when he speaks of God’s will, which we must not question.
He wanted to send for my mother, but she is ill herself and the journey could kill her. Indeed it may not be long before I have to travel there, to ease her going and to make my goodbyes.
Rosina has been so good, preparing food especially to tempt me, and Sarah has been up and down the stairs all day long. They brought my lovely Catherine to spend time by my bedside.
And now I am downstairs again, though my days are short and I sleep much longer than I am used to.
Just before this terrible thing happened, I finished the drawers. They are put away and I do not know if I shall ever wear them. I have asked myself: was this a sin? Did God take my child because I had sewn a garment that displeased him? Or because I grumbled about the way things are in His kingdom on earth?
I have told James that I wish him to entertain Mister Blakiston on Sunday as always, but I do not think that I can dine with them. Perhaps next week.
And I have just heard from Rosina that Florrie Greener’s husband Robert has died. It was expected, but she will be sad nevertheless. I must see her as soon as I am well. And when Lizzie marries Tom Laws, she will remove to Chopwell Garth! Always in the blackest times God gives us something bright to comfort us.
When George Bright came to tell Blakiston that he had learned nothing about how the bucket got from Church porch to Dick Jackson’s hovel, and had earned Jackson’s enmity in the process, Blakiston waved him away. ‘Enough. The story is known. Martin Wale put it there.’
‘The curate, Master?’
‘Aye. He thought he was doing Jackson a good deed, giving him something useless to burn to heat his home. Think no more of that matter.’
But George Bright found that an impossible instruction, for Martin Wale doing someone a good deed was something he could simply not imagine.
Chapter 21
On Easter Monday, the Fourth of April, Lizzie Greener married Tom Laws. Normally such a marriage would be conducted by the Curate, but the Rector took this one himself. Lizzie wore no special dress and carried no flowers. Her expression, her every gesture said that she did not want to be in this place performing this act. The one thing she could not prevent was the ringing of the bells, for the first time at any wedding in Ryton. When she had said she did not want them, Thomas had been apoplectic. ‘I have wanted these bells for so long, and now at last they have taken their place in the tower, and they shall ring. Bells you shall have, young lady, whether you want them or not.’
Lizzie had scowled but accepted defeat.
In one matter alone she took pleasure. She had wanted no guests, but without telling her Florrie had got word to Lizzie’s brother Joe, and Joe had walked from Winlaton to be at the church. Lizzie took him by the elbow and propelled him into a corner of the nave where her whispered query and his astonished answer would not be overheard. When she turned away, some of the lines of worry had disappeared from her brow. Joe had assured her that he had been nowhere near Reuben Cooper’s hovel, and knew nothing of the old man’s death.
Had Lizzie only known it, her worries about Joe would return, multiplied seven-fold, within a very few weeks.
Lady Isabella took Florrie to one side after the wedding. ‘I understand Isaac Henderson has a new wife?’
Florrie laughed. ‘The widow Robinson took him in my place.’
‘Her daughter lost her betrothed?’
‘Martin Higson? No-one knows where he is. He has simply gone. It seems it must have been the farm he wanted, not the girl. Like Tom.’
‘Let us not be hard on Tom. He is a good man. He will be kind to Lizzie.’
‘If she lets him.’
There was no wedding breakfast. There was no honeymoon. Within two hours of the Rector pronouncing Tom and Lizzie man and wife, Tom and Ned were in their working clothes and out on the land. It wasn’t long since cultivation here had been on the strip system, and most fields were still open. Hedges would not grow until there was better drainage. Using one of the new seed drills introduced by Jethro Tull, the last act of the late Farmer Robinson had been to sow clover and turnips as a winter crop to improve the soil. In the spring, a horse drawn plough would be used in place of oxen for the first time anywhere in Ryton parish to prepare the land for oats and barley. Now, Tom and Ned worked hard with two men from the village to dig ditches in the wettest places, piling the waterlogged soil in mounds along the side of each ditch. Blackthorn would be planted on those mounds as soon as they had dried.
Tom wanted the ditches dug and the mounds settled in plenty of time. Without the young earl’s ravishing of Lizzie, he knew he would have been one of the labourers hired for the day instead of the farmer who did the hiring. The Baron was not to be allowed to regret his choice of tenant.
There was another advantage to being in the fields. When he was out here, he was not in there. Not in the house, constantly aware of Lizzie’s baleful glare. He felt so sad for Lizzie. He would happily have taken her in his arms and held her to him. Not out of desire. To comfort her. To tell her that he understood. That he knew what a vile trick life had played her. A trick from which she had suffered and he had gained.
However strong the wish, he never did reach out his hand. Sometimes his heart ached when he saw her turn away from him, but he knew better than to attempt to touch her. In law, Lizzie was his wife. The reality was somewhat different. They did not share a bed and most of their communication took place through a third party—sometimes Florrie, sometimes Ned, sometimes Ned’s younger brother Miles.
Ned, seven years younger than Tom, could not match him for strength but regular food and hard work were already combining to put new flesh and muscle on him. Florrie had let out the clothes handed down by elder brother Robert, away in service as a groom two years already, and she knew that she must soon make or buy more to fit the growing lad.
They had been working by moonlight for three hours when Tom paid off the day labourers and he and Ned made their way back to the house. Tom still had most of Lord Ravenshead’s twenty pounds, but some had gone on bringing James Batey from Bolam to make him and Ned a pair of the boots for which Batey was famous. Ned’s had deliberately been made too large, in light of the rapid growth they anticipated. Tom felt for the hired men making their tired way through clinging mud in footwear that kept out none of the cold, none of the wet.
When they reached home, Tom and Ned rubbed themselves dry with rough linen towels before sitting at the table. Supper was usually bread and cheese, but tonight Florrie had made broth, too, to warm them. While they ate, young Miles cleaned their boots and left them standing by the banked down fire for the night. In the morning he would rub pig fat into them to keep them supple and waterproof.
‘I saw Isaac Henderson creeping along the hedgerow,’ said Ned as they ate.
Tom smiled.
‘He had been at the warren. There were two fat rabbits in his hand.’
Tom dipped his bread into the broth.
‘They are your rabbits,’ persisted Ned.
‘They are Lord Ravenshead’s rabbits. He lets me take four a week, which is more than we need and fewer than the rabbits themselves produce. I have promised your mother to look away when Isaac is about.’
‘His lordship would not approve.’
‘Enough, Ned,’ said Florrie. ‘I cannot see the widow Robinson lose her man for a thief. I have already taken her home.’
‘But given her a husband.’
‘A poor exchange.’
Lizzie, busy with her darning, allowed herself a smile but said nothing.
Chapter 22
At nine o’clock four weeks later, Blakiston rode up the lane to Chopwell Garth just as Tom and Ned returned from the fields for breakfast. He declined the offer of a meal, but accepted a bowl of tea. He had, he said, eaten before he left home. Closer to gentry than a farmer he might be, but Blakiston did not choose to ape the new upper class habit of taking meals later. ‘I am a working man,’ he said. ‘Like you.’
As the family sat over their bread and cheese washed down with tea, Blakiston introduced the subject of his visit. Despite himself, his eyes kept moving to Kate, who sat without speaking but watched him every moment. The calm he had so admired was clear for anyone to see. If only she were a young woman of better family. But madness lay in even thinking such a thing. ‘You’ll be familiar with the work of Townshend and Robert Bakewell, Laws?’
Tom looked blank. ‘Is this the man they call Turnip Townshend, Mister Blakiston?’
‘Some might. I suggest we don’t, him being a Viscount and you and me humble working men.’ Blakiston smiled to take the sting out of his words. When his eyes went once more to Kate he saw there a keen interest in what he was saying, but no answering smile. ‘They call him that because he showed how to keep cattle alive through the winter by feeding them turnips. Your grandfather would have kept a single cow, because he had not feed for more. And the cow he had was probably a poor spindly thing. It gave scant milk and when they put it to the bull there was little meat on the offspring. Enough for one family, no more.’
‘Turnips make them bigger?’ asked Ned.
‘Turnips keep them alive. Making them bigger is where Robert Bakewell came in. He knew his animals weren’t all the same. Cows, pigs, sheep, horses, it made no matter. Some were big and healthy and some were small and sickly. Just like people. What Bakewell did was to breed only from the big, healthy stock. In the last fifty years, the weight of English beef cattle has nearly doubled. Laws, we could sit here and discuss farming all day long. You have things to do and so have I. Let me tell you what this means to you.
‘We have followed Bakewell and bred only our best stock for some years now. The cattle at Home Farm and
South Pontop are bigger than any our fathers would have known. It is time to expand the herd. We have been watching you, Laws. It is early yet, but his lordship is impressed by the way you work. So am I. And by the boy here, by the way. Ned, is it? Later this year, we wish to bring our improved cattle to Chopwell Garth.’
Ned was preening at the unaccustomed praise. Compliments were not something often handed out by Tom.
‘But, Mister Blakiston,’ said Tom. ‘Where can we put them? And how will we feed them?’
‘Feeding will be easy,’ said Blakiston. ‘You are already to sow oats in the spring. Which, by the way, will grow much better thanks to the clover and young turnips you’ll be ploughing in. After the oats you’ll marl the land, and spread manure the cows provide for nothing, and then you’ll grow more turnips. This time as fodder. As for where… Sir Edward Blackett has an enclosure bill before Parliament.’
He scanned the faces around him. ‘I see that is not a welcome word.’
‘Where?’ asked Lizzie. ‘What land does he mean to enclose? And what is he to us? Lord Ravenshead is our landlord.’
‘Sir Edward may not own this farm, but he and the Bishop are the largest landowners in Ryton parish,’ replied the overseer carefully. ‘And there are none greedier or more rapacious than the Blacketts, though I’ll thank you to tell no-one I said so.’ Again his eyes flickered to Kate; again he found himself the subject of close study. ‘Lord Ravenshead is not convinced the time is right for enclosure, but if the Blackett estate and the Bishop want it then it will happen. As to which land, there are several pieces. Perhaps, Laws, it would be as well if you came to my rooms to look at the plans. Sunday, say? Before dinner?’
