by Hugh Lupton
“Come on son, let’s get thee home.”
The two of them get up to their feet. Ann Clare catches Parker’s eye and nods. Father and son slip un-noticed through the barn door and make their way along the village street. The autumn constellations are clear overhead: to the east the Tailor’s Yard-band, to the north Charles’s Wain with its three bright stallions and high above the orison the Shepherd’s Lamp shines its solitary light, all innocent of the flickering and dimming of human lives.
9
Michaelmas
Yesterday was Bridge Fair in Peterborough, and for those that have been promised another full year’s employ and are secure in their appointments, it was a high holiday.
On Joyce’s farm each man and woman in turn was called into the parlour - Will, John, Nathan, Kate, Lizzie, Hope and the rest - each hand was shaken, a silver florin pressed into it, and each of them was taken on for another year. It was a similar tale in John Close’s farm house, though ‘twas but a shilling given. But poor Bob Turnill has laid off all his men, for he knows he does not have money enough to pay even a pauper’s wage. For them, as for many another, it was the Michaelmas hiring that drew them to the Fair.
For the Clares it was a cheerful morning. Ann has promise of work at Close’s Farm. Sophie has been taken on in his dairy. Parker has sold the pears from the tree that spreads its shade behind the cottage and made up his Michaelmas rent. And John and Parker were easy in the knowledge that the enclosure work would provide for them this winter. The day of the Fair stretched before them with all its bright promise.
They set off early. Dressed as fine as they were able, with Ann and Sophie in bright cotton gowns and aprons and ribbons in their hats, and John and Parker with new handkerchiefs about their throats, not to mention John’s new winter boots that he has bought with his harvest fee.
Sam Billings stopped his cart and offered them a lift to town, and they were happy to climb up and hunker down on a heap of sacks with their backs to the rattling barrels he was delivering.
“Wheeee-up Billy!”
As they trundled along the Peterborough Road, Ann put her arm around Sophie’s shoulders and sang softly to her.
Behind and before them a thickening throng was making its way to Peterborough: some on foot, some on horse-back, some in gigs or carts, carriages or phaetons. The air was full of the clatter of hooves and the rattling and splashing of iron-rimmed wheels over the muddy tracks. And from all sides came the sound of voices lifted in expectation of all that the day might hold, men’s voices, women’s and children’s calling deep and shrill to one another as they left the fields behind and made their way through the city streets to Town Bridge and the meadow beyond.
When they reached the fair John and Parker thanked Sam Billings for the ride.
“Good luck friends,” Sam twitched the corner of his mouth and winked, “I hope Mr Ben Price is feeling kindly disposed this morning.”
They climbed down from the cart and cut straight across the meadow to the Hiring Fair where they knew Ben would be looking for labourers. They wound between clusters of shepherds, farriers, cow-men, house-maids, grooms and milkmaids, all of them seeking appointments that would fetch a few pence more than those they left behind; each of them, with crook or whip or pail, carrying some token of their trade.
In the far corner of the field a crowd of men was already gathered. There were many that John and Parker knew from Helpston, Glinton, and the villages close-by. But there were others that they’d never clapped eyes on before, for there are those that follow the enclosures from place to place and settle only as long as the work lasts.
Ben Price, in the Earl’s livery, his hands clasped behind his back, was standing beside a polished table. Seated, with his legs tucked under the table, was a clerk with his eyes fixed upon a ledger and a wooden box inlaid with brass. Ben shook a little bell and as it tinkled all fell quiet.
“The Earl of Fitzwilliam offers his employ this winter, from October to April, to any able-bodied man as’ll assist with the enclosure of the parishes of Maxey, Northborough, Glinton, Etton and Helpston. The wage will be one shilling and six pence per working day. And each man that commits himself shall receive from the Earl, as an earnest of his good faith, one silver florin. And any that breaks his bond will be brought to Court and fined according. Now then, now then, make a tidy line please gentlemen that we may choose them most fitted for the task at hand and take down names and full particulars.”
John and Parker joined the line, and being tanned and muscled from the long labours of the summer, they were duly taken on. The clerk opened his polished box, gave them each their florin and scratched their names into his book.
“John Clare, aye, of Woodgate, Helpston. And Parker Clare of the above. Good, good.”
Ben Price shook them by the hand.
“Monday next, and not a minute after seven.”
Then he caught a glimpse of the mending bruises on the side of John’s head.
“You ain’t been fighting have ye?”
“’Twas a horse Mr Price.”
“Good. ‘Cause we’ll have none of that caper in my teams.”
Behind them in the line was Jem Farrar, Ben Price took one look at him and turned him away.
“What, are you making a monkey of me! I doubt you could lift a mallet let alone crack a stone!”
“Have pity Mr Price, you’re all that stands between me and the parish.”
“Pity be damned, Jem Farrar, is the Earl running an estate or an alms house? Away with ye!”
As John and Parker pocketed their florins and turned away they saw Dick Turnill waiting in line.
“Dick. What are you doing here?”
John looked into Dick’s face.
“You look spent.”
“I’m doing the same as thee John.”
“But why? You’ve got your father’s fields to farm? He’ll need you more than ever this autumn.”
Dick shook his head:
“He’ll need this little pinch of money more. He borrowed over the odds to enclose his entitlement, and he’s borrowed again to buy a new gelding …he vows he can plough his fields himself. And though the wheat that was raked from the dyke is spoiled he reckons there’s enough in the ricks to see him through the winter, and he blames his past sinning for all that’s gone amiss …and when he ain’t working he’s on his knees.”
Parker put his hand to Dick’s arm:
“’These are hard times for poor Bob, but maybe his God’ll see him through Dick.”
“Maybe he will but …”
He looked at them both most candid:
“ …To tell ye the truth, I’d sooner be shifting stones and planting hedges with you boys than watching him and poor mother breaking their backs …and giving thanks for it.”
“Ay.” Said John with a sigh.
“And if I work six days that’s nine shillings a week, and they’ll need every penny of it for already their creditors are hammering at the door.”
“True enough, they will,” said Parker. “But Dick, today’s a holiday and soon you’ll have a florin tucked into your palm …you’ll allow yourself a little of the rigs and jigs of Michaelmas …you’ll join us for a penny pot and a chop … it’ll give you strength for tramping home, and the rest will be rattling in your pocket yet.”
“Ay Dick,” said John. “That’s two bright shillings over the odds!”
He laid a gentle punch to Dick’s shoulder and Dick grinned. He has always looked up to John as to a brother. And, in truth, they are of a kind, both being book-learned and candlelight scholars.
John and Parker made a winding, looping progress through the fairground. They passed blacksmiths, cart-builders and wheel-wrights with their displays of ploughs, tumbrels, wains and wheels of all sizes. They passed horse and cattle dealers. Parker paused to buy a ginger-bread for Sophie. John leaned over a table of old books, chap-books and ballad sheets. He picked up a battered leather-bound volume that spilled its page
s as he lifted it. He read the spine aloud:
“Paradise Lost.”
The bookseller looked up at John, a little surprised to see a labourer, of an age to have an eye for little but ale and wenches, turning such a book over in his big hands.
“It has fallen apart by Book Twelve ….but the best of it’s over by then my friend.”
John pushed the pages back between the covers.
“How much?”
“Thruppence.”
John looked at Parker, who shrugged. He handed his florin across and took the change. He slipped the book into a pocket.
They wandered on past gypsies, past tea-stalls and coffee stalls, past ale benches and roasting hogs. Parker is as short of stature as John, but stiffer in his gait and bald of head where John’s brown curls spill down beneath his battered hat. And if you were to look close into their faces you’d see that Parker’s mouth is thinner as if resigned to the hand of twos and threes that fate has dealt, while John’s is full lipped and eager to play his trump and sup his winnings down.
They lingered for a while at a sparring match. Five gold sovereigns were on offer to any man who could stay five rounds in the ring, bare-fist fighting with Johnny Jones, a blackamoor giant with fists the size of coal-scuttles. They watched two swarthy country boys go down with bloodied noses and cheered the victor, for both John and Parker have a taste for the Fancy.
“Here’s the man for Richard Royce!”
“Ay!”
They passed a velvet curtained booth in which could be viewed, for sixpence, the fattest man in Europe.
They passed cobblers and clothiers and drapers. They passed tables laden with glass lanterns, cracked crockery and cutlery. John bought a little pocket knife with a horn handle.
They found Ann and Sophie by the bird stalls. The wicker cages were swinging from a long pole and filled with canaries, goldfinches, linnets, warblers, all manner of pigeons and doves, ornamental pheasants and peacocks. And lined on a perch beside them, hooded and fastened, were falcons for sporting gentlemen.
Sophie ran to meet them with a fistful of bright feathers she’d gathered from the ground.
“Look at these! Ain’t they lovely?”
Parker stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
“Aye, they’re lovely pet, but would be lovelier yet if all these doors were opened and every bird was free to the wind.”
For Parker is of a mind with John concerning caged birds.
Sophie turned to John:
“Do you remember Tom, John?”
John nodded.
“How you did whack poor puss upon the nose whenever she came close to him until she fought shy, and Tom would perch upon my finger tip and take crumbs from my hand and flutter free about the house.”
“Ay,” said Ann. “And he never knew a cage, and then when poor puss had her kittens drowned she took him as her own and caressed him most kind and pressed her nose to his red breast.”
“And she brought him mice,” said Sophie. “And laid them at his feet, and he would flutter up and sit upon her head.”
They turned away from the cages.
“Poor Tom,” said John. “And we never found out who it was killed poor Cock Robin …though I reckon he took some other cat to be as mild as our puss.”
They walked away from the caged birds and stopped at a stall where they bought food and ale and sugared water for Sophie. Dick Turnill joined them. Parker passed him a hunk of mutton on a crust:
“Don’t be chastising yourself Dick. Get that down your neck ….and buy yourself a pot of ale.”
As they were finishing their meal and wiping the grease from the corners of their mouths, Farmer Joyce strolled past with Mary on his arm. When Mary saw John she tugged at her father’s arm:
“John! Papa, here is John Clare and his family!”
Farmer Joyce was dressed in his accustomed best: frock-coat, swansdown waistcoat and breeches tucked into polished top-boots. He turned his red face towards the Clares. On this high holiday he was determined to bear the world nothing but goodwill.
Ann Clare, flustered and discomfited, got up and brushed the crumbs from her lap. She curtseyed. Parker shook the farmer’s proffered hand.
“A very good day to ye both …and to you John Clare.”
John shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
“Good day sir.”
“We’ll have no sir-ing here John …there’s too much damned sir-ing in this world already, what do you say Mr Clare?”
He turned and fixed his eyes on Parker.
Parker Clare met the farmer’s gaze.
“Ay, that is my opinion.”
“A man can make his money, by God, without expecting every other soul to fawn before him like a frightened dog. We are all the sons of Adam after all. There ain’t much to choose between us.”
“Ay.”
Farmer Joyce leaned forwards and patted the battered book that was jutting out of John’s coat pocket.
“My Mary tells me your John has a good head on his shoulders, for all he comes with his pockets stuffed with hokum-pokum.”
Ann Clare curtseyed again:
“He’s a scholar, is John, and can unriddle any page you put under his nose.”
“Good, good, I’m glad to hear it, but a little cleverness never filled a larder. A good head ain’t worth a straw without stout arms and legs to do its bidding, what do you say John?”
John nodded uneasily and said nothing. The farmer turned to Parker again.
“I judge a man by what he can bring to table, for there is the true measure of his good sense.”
Mary pulled her father’s arm then:
“Papa, can I show John the French prisoners?”
Farmer Joyce gestured with his hand:
“Very well Mary, away with the pair of ye!”
When they were gone he lowered his voice:
“Ay, there’s the measure, and your John, for all his ABCs, must add some pounds to his ounces before I give him countenance …I don’t mind him at my table, but he’s a long mile to travel has that youth, a very long mile … though I grant he showed some pluck with the Boswell boy.”
Parker nodded:
“It was a harsh verdict.”
The farmer’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“A few lashes might have been in order for taking the sixth part of a buck …but the gypsy has paid an over-heavy price. Transportation is a bitter journey and there’s many don’t survive it, let alone what waits beyond. But at least he still has the breath in his body, and he’s young and strong. The law is an ass Mr Clare, and there are times when we should treat its loud hee-haws with the contempt they deserve …”
Then he raised his voice again:
“But the day is fine and all the fun of the Fair awaits us. There’s a bull that has been bred at Holkham that I would dearly love to let loose among my cows …I must show it to Nathan Cushion …I’ll bid you farewell.”
*******
“Have you seen them? There is such a display! Come!”
Mary steered John through the Fair.
“They have been brought, all chained and manacled, from Norman Cross, poor things. But John, they have made such carvings from wood and bone as you would not believe.”
They pushed through the milling crowd to a corner of the Fair he had not seen.
A great display had been made of the three French prisoners. They had shackles to their ankles that were joined to iron chains that were bolted to heavy iron balls. These in turn rested upon a tattered French flag that lay, mud-besmirched at the prisoners’ feet. They were sitting at a table with the Union Jack flapping on its pole over their cropped heads. To either side a soldier stood guard, dressed in the full regalia of the Northampton militia, with musket and sword at the ready.
The prisoners were dressed in old canvas shirts and trousers, with wooden clogs to their feet. The scene would have struck fear into the heart of any Boney-loving traitor, were it not for the
friendly ease with which victors and vanquished shared their tobacco, and filled the air with sweet smoke.
The people of Peterborough were not so kindly disposed, and the babble of talk around the stall was thick with shouted insult, for there’s many have not come home from the French Wars. And Boneparte still struts his bold tyranny as cock-sure as ever you please.
But the prisoners took no notice of the crowd, they eyed the girls, whistled, waved, made faces and held up their wares to any that lingered. John and Mary pushed to the front of the crowd.
“Look John!”
The table was covered in wonders. There were woven flowers of straw and coloured wood. There were tiny ships of bone, fully rigged with cotton sails. There were carved eagles. There was a likeness of Peterborough Cathedral fashioned from different shaded woods. There were children’s toys: spinning tops, painted soldiers and chickens that pecked the ground when they were tilted forwards. There was a tiny guillotine with a blade that fell and chopped off a man’s head so that it rolled into a basket.
One of the soldiers waved his pipe in the direction of the table and shouted at the crowd:
“All the work of Frenchie prisoners. Roll up and see. Every item for sale.”
Mary pointed to a man and woman made of bone who stood facing each other on a little wooden platform. One of the prisoners picked it up by its handle. He looked at Mary and smiled:
“L’amour!”
Underneath the ground the figures stood upon, a wooden ball hung on two threads. As the prisoner swung it from side to side the little bone man bent forwards at the waist and kissed the woman, then, as the man straightened, the woman bent forward and kissed the man. Backwards and forwards they kissed and kissed again: click clack, click clack.
Mary laughed out loud with delight:
“Oh John, look!”
John took it and tried it himself. Again and again the little marionettes met lip to lip: click clack.
“How much?”
These were words the Frenchman understood.