The Gallows Pole

by Benjamin Myers

  Who?

  Thee.

  Me?

  Aye.

  Cunt?

  Aye.

  Me?

  Aye. You. Cunt. Deaf cunt. Daft cunt.

  How? said James Broadbent.

  Cause.

  Cause what?

  David Hartley shrugged.

  Breeding I expect.

  The men smiled and laughed, unsure as to the direction of the situation.

  But—

  David Hartley swung round in his chair and planted his feet on the floor. Cut him off. Cut James Broadbent’s complaint right off.

  What?

  You—

  What?

  You’re—

  David Hartley looked at him. His eyes were clear. They held within them the flames of flickering candles.

  Yes? he said.

  Nowt.

  Go on.

  No.

  Say it.

  Don’t matter.

  I’m what? I dares you to say it.

  No.

  Go on.

  No. I wasn’t saying nothing.

  Go on, said Thomas Clayton as he pushed his chair back. Call the king. Take his name in vain. I dares you. See what happens.

  Broadbent dropped his head and muttered something into his chest.

  What? said David Hartley.

  Nowt.

  Speak up, bog breath.

  I said nowt.

  You’ll say nowt alright.

  In one quick move David Hartley stood and lunged at James Broadbent with stealth and grabbed his wrist and squeezed it hard and James Broadbent’s fingers unfurled and David Hartley took the pebbles from his palm and jerked James Broadbent’s head back and before he could resist David Hartley shoved the pebbles into the bigger man’s mouth and tapped it shut with his fist on his chin and then spread his hand across his face like a spider’s web. The men roared with laughter. James Broadbent spluttered and tried to spit out the stones but David Hartley had his face in his hand and was squashing his nose as he pushed him backwards. At this the laughter of the men became even louder.

  Look at his phyz, said Isaac Hartley. The man’s a donkey, that one.

  With one forceful push David Hartley let go and James Broadbent spat the stones out onto the flags of the floor. He coughed and gasped for air as a pendulous glot of hockle hung from his lip. His eyes were red. He wiped his mouth.

  Scrofulous shit-rat cunt, said David Hartley as he returned to his chair and sat back with his boots raised. He closed his eyes and nodded off to the sound of more braying laughter that was as comforting to him as a mother’s lullaby to her sleeping child.

  A man with a gud wumman should not lay with another wumman unless that wumman is carrying his babbs in wich cays he can lay with uther wimmen for those three seasuns she is laden wich is how cums I’ve layed with Barbra on two occayshuns when in the drinke and I did feel that the sap it was a arising And oh my she was a fine buttaborl with luvley rownd cheeks and goode teeth and a sweet fanny and bran faysed with frekils she was An a stronge mind too And besides Barbra is a widowd and tho not short of offers shees ofting lonley becors some of the men rownd the valley are not the tipes that even an auld harryden with a fays like a boggart and dugs like curd borls dripdryen in cloth sacks wud want to lay with even if she were orl dryed up like a hamlet well in drowt seesun nevermind Barbra a wuman what keeps a fine inn and maykes good munny on the sides from looken after King Daevid and his merry band of men they do call the Turvin clippers Sweet Barbra I will misser I will misser so.

  The boy heard the stout chock sound of a hammer hitting stone. He walked towards it not because he was curious but because the dull noise came from down the sunken lane in the direction of which he was already heading.

  He whistled a meandering melody to himself.

  Brambles lined the lane but the previous year’s bounty had long since withered and rotted on the vine now. The small bulbous fruits had turned grey and dusty and were consumed into the intricate architecture of the spider webs that were now strung all the way across it. A city of arachnids occupied this intricate entanglement, and it seemed to the boy that caught in their webs were more flies than there were stars in the sky.

  Branches closed in above him and the chock sound of metal and stone came up the lane and then the branches pulled back again and the heavy sky was above him, and there was a bite to the air as the boy rounded the corner and saw the waller at work.

  The man was fixing a tumbledown gap of about ten paces. He had with him a hammer and a mallet. Chisels and a spade. Also a bait bag and beside that a dog, its chin rested on it paws, eyes wet and watching. With a twinge of sadness the boy thought of the hound he had lost to Hartley, but then thought of all that he had gained. The king had seen him right.

  Chock-chock.

  Beyond the wall was an uncut field busy with thistles and dotted with tussocks. It held no animals. A light breeze lifted and the boy heard it rustle through the grasses.

  Across the valley he saw the sloping funnelled cluster of Bell Hole woods and at the very top above it, where the land met the sky, he saw Bell House.

  The waller was bent double and he looked over his shoulder when he heard the dog give a low, throaty growl and then he said now then and the boy pushed his hat back a-ways and replied with the same words. Now then.

  He stopped and watched for a moment.

  Are you after fixing that wall?

  No I’m digging coffin holes for clog-poppers, said the waller. Of course I’m fixing this bloody wall.

  Is it hard, said the boy. The wall fixing?

  It is a skill to be long learnit.

  The man lunged to one side and hefted a large stone. He rolled it along the ground and then lifted it. The dog kept his eyes on the boy.

  Why, said the man. Are you interested in learning the ways of a waller?

  The boy snorted.

  This tickles you?

  Not bloody likely, said the boy.

  It’s honest work. People will always need walls. Boundaries are what makes us civilised.

  It’s a wonder they stand up, said the boy.

  These walls will be standing long after your children’s children’s have gone to the grass with their teeth upwards.

  He bent and sifted through some smaller stones for middle filling. Those that did not fit he tossed aside.

  The boy spoke.

  I don’t want children.

  Don’t want children?

  The waller said this to the stones.

  Everyone wants children, he said.

  I don’t.

  The boy looked at the wall. He saw the sheep creep that the man had built into it down the hill, and the larger tie stones that ran through the wall.

  Don’t want to work as a waller. Don’t want children. What is it you bloody want then?

  Not lug stones all day, the boy said to the man’s broad back.

  The waller stood and fixed the boy with a puzzled look.

  And how is it you’re expecting to feed yourself then?

  There are ways.

  Are there now?

  Yes, said the boy before falling silent.

  What’s your name young sprat?

  Bentley. And I’m no sprat.

  Bentley who?

  They call us Jack O’ Matts Bentley.

  I don’t recognise that as a Royd name. Don’t know no Matthew Bentley neither.

  That’s because I’m not from Royd. I’m from over Sowerby.

  The waller sized the boy up.

  And where is it you’re off to today then? This lane leads nowhere but to the valley beyond. Up there is Bell Hole woods and thems not a place for lads like you I shouldn’t wonder.

  Why not?

&n
bsp; Bell Hole is beyond the boundaries.

  What boundaries?

  The boundaries of the parish, said the waller. You’ve passed the stones.

  What bloody stones?

  The waller shook his head.

  What bloody stones, he says. The boundary stones, lad – and mind your tongue.

  The boy said nothing. He just shrugged. The waller continued.

  The Cuckoo Stone and the Bueldy Stone and Churn Milk Joan. These are the markers and you’d be best to stick within them if it’s Royd you’re visiting. Else you’re passing on the land of others and them might not be as friendly as I.

  Who said I’m going to Royd? I never said that.

  Where then? said the waller.

  I go where I want.

  Do you now?

  Aye I do. And no-one bothers us neither.

  Not yet, said the waller.

  Not ever, said Jack Bentley.

  That so?

  Aye.

  How can you be sure?

  Because Bell House is where I’m going.

  Here the waller paused. His face changed as he considered the boy anew. He did not say anything. Aware of the balance tipping in his favour the boy sniffed and then looked at the rocks scattered around and then he said: that’s why I don’t need to build no stupid walls to make my pie crust.

  This time it was the waller who kept quiet.

  There’s coin going through my fingers like water down a waterfall Jack Bentley continued. There’s peck in the cupboard and bottles full to the stopper of barleybroth and there’s plenty of bints to empty my nutmegs when it is they need emptying – which is often. A different piece every night if I want it.

  The waller frowned.

  And look, said the boy.

  Here he held up his hands, palms out.

  There’s no bloody blisters or callouses on these hands.

  He drew phlegm up from the back of his throat and held it there, just like he had seen David Hartley do. He rolled it around his mouth and then spoke through it.

  I’d say that’s good going for a boy.

  *

  The inn was empty save for one man asleep in the corner with his chin pressed to his chest, his shoes removed and drying by the fire, when the exciseman William Deighton drained his glass, threaded his arms into his coat sleeves and jerked it up onto his shoulders.

  The ale had tasted watered down. He would have to look into it.

  To the tender he touched his hat. He turned and left.

  Already the days were darkening and the town would soon be wearing a new mask. It seemed to him to be two places, Halifax. A town of two faces. One of sunlight and another of shadows.

  Autumn and winter would make secrets of the unlit corners. With the dying of the bright blue days of sun and insects and harvest song, the town and its people always turned inwards – collars up and curtains drawn. Conversations became clipped and hushed.

  Crown Street, so busy and bustling on trading day, seemed to close in on itself too; just one more empty street in the maze of alleys that ran through the town, a labyrinth of bevelled stone.

  The spaces between the street lamps seemed to be patiently awaiting new crimes to occur.

  William Deighton passed the Old Assembly Rooms and the Talbot Inn – a hostelry he suspected was embroiled in the yellow trade – and turned into The Square. Built in the aspect of the broad and bold spaces in London, it was the town’s most impressive corner. Robert Parker had done well for himself. Deighton had noted that the young attorney had expanded his business quickly upon his return from being articled at the chambers of one Matthew Coulthurst in Lincoln’s Inn in the capital. Back in Halifax where competition was lean, he had soon taken the reins of a stagnant partnership with the widower John Baldwin and revitalised the firm. Robert Parker was pragmatic and diligent and fearless.

  It was no secret that John Baldwin was connected to the Waterhouses and the Prescotts and the Rawsons and the Listers. Those families who ran the town. William Deighton knew all about them. Most did. At only twenty-two Robert Parker had married a Prescott. Ann, sixteen years his senior and the daughter of a surgeon. Their pairing had caused a minor scandal in some circles but not in the Fax where folk were not easily offended or simply didn’t care.

  William Deighton knew all about Robert Parker’s rise too. How he had turned the partnership loss into a profit within two years and still in his twenties, and with the help of his wife’s substantial legacies, had dissolved the partnership with the old man Baldwin to become the sole leading attorney in the town. His clients were the wealthiest and longest standing families of the Yorkshire Ridings.

  And now in his thirties Robert Parker was already leading a more comfortable life than William Deighton was in a house that felt permanently cluttered with steaming pans and drying sheets, living on a far less substantial exciseman’s wage. Yet for all its dangers, monitoring the business revenues of the more remote corners of the valley it at least allowed him plenty of time to himself. The fells may have housed many foes full of hostility towards him but as a representative of the crown none would be so foolish as to do him physical damage. Threats and curses were the worst he heard. He walked the hills unharmed.

  Robert Parker though. Robert Parker had a maid and a suite of offices and two articled clerks and a communal garden. He had a law library. He owned further properties.

  He ate well. He was handsome. Well-tailored.

  He cut quite a figure around the town.

  And where others might be envious, William Deighton couldn’t help but like the young attorney. He admired his fearlessness and fortitude, for it was people like Robert Parker – energised and educated young men – who would prevent the valley falling to the barbaric bandits and forgers entirely. Lawlessness must not prevail. Of that they were in agreement. An odd pairing nonetheless, thought Deighton. Me and he.

  The six houses of The Square were well-lit and imposing. They were the first to be built in brick. One open side led up to the wooded slopes of Beacon Hill.

  A sign at the gate-post marked out Robert Parker’s house and practice. William Deighton saw the attorney in the front room. William Deighton raised a hand but it was too dark outside for him to be seen.

  He opened the gate. He closed the gate.

  He smelled the subtle singed tones of autumn flavouring the night.

  The rainfall sped and eased at will. It fell with force and then it withdrew to a light sprinkle before returning heavier and more persistent than ever. It plunged with volume. With aggression. It dug and dredged. Dissected. Dotted.

  The day was not yet fully dark when a breathless James Broadbent banged on the door of Bell House. The dog barked in its kennel near by and James Broadbent hissed sherrup you. The bark settled into a low, throaty growl.

  Beads of sweat gathered on his brow and when she opened the door, Grace Hartley saw that the visitor had a wild look about him. He leaned on the frame.

  Is he here?

  Even through the smell of fresh earth that the rain had summoned she could smell the drink about him. She rested a hand on her swollen stomach.

  Is who here?

  Him.

  Who’s him – the sexton’s cousin?

  You know who, missus. Them the rest call the king.

  And what do you call him, James Broadbent?

  I call that man by his name because that is all he is. A man. David fucking Hartley.

  You’d be minded to watch your tongue when there’s children about.

  James Broadbent looked at Grace Hartley’s bulging stomach. He sniffed then pointed to her stomach. He leered.

  How did that get there then? he said.

  Don’t come that with me.

  He held his finger there, nearly touching the strained cloth of her pinafore.

&
nbsp; When does it drop?

  It comes when it comes.

  They say it’s a messy business, he said. Things splitting and tearing this way and that. Time enough for a nice tumble yet though, I’d wager.

  Grace Hartley stepped forward and closed the door slightly behind her. She lowered her voice.

  You’re a worthless bletherskite you are.

  James Broadbent grinned.

  Keep talking like that and you’ll see what happens, she said. Now what is it that you want.

  James Broadbent leaned in. His breath was stale with malt and tobacco.

  I want what it is that he’s got.

  What’s that then?

  He leered again.

  Everything, he said.

  You’ll find yourself killed.

  I just want what’s coming to me. A greater cut and a little bit of something extra fleshy for luck.

  Grace Hartley drew back into the house and closed the door. There were hushed voices and then seconds later it swung open again and there was a rush of bodies. Suddenly there were hands grabbing at him. Pulling James Broadbent in and then pushing him out.

  He stumbled. He tripped. Fell onto the stone flags. He was pulled back up again and then fists rained down upon him. He felt them to his face and stomach. Fists dug into his sides. He felt clogs kicking him. The wooden soles on his joints.

  William Hartley and Isaac Hartley and Thomas Clayton and Thomas Spencer had him. Were pushing him. They harried him out into the dank evening and he tried to swat them away but more fists and kicks came.

  They stamped and booted James Broadbent to a stone outbuilding with a burnt, blackened floor and a roof of worn wood, and where the smell of smoke was in the walls, and they pushed James Broadbent in there and then Isaac Hartley punched him hard in the face and he felt his nose crack. He tasted blood, thick and almost briny in the back of his throat.

  The rain fell and it sounded like spigot water spitting into a bucket.

  He was wiping the blood away with the back of his hand and feeling his lips swell when David Hartley strode into the room. David Hartley was buttoning up his shirt. His terrier was springing at his heel.

  He stopped in front of James Broadbent and then he quickly and neatly rolled up his sleeves. He nodded to the others and William Hartley and Isaac Hartley and Thomas Clayton and Thomas Spencer all grabbed him again and David Hartley walked up close to James Broadbent and said you want to give my Grace something is that right? Is that what you said? You want what it is that I have? And she carrying my child? The wife of the fucking king?