by Betty Burton
These thoughts did not come clearly, logically or in any order, but simply as an awareness of what ownership, power and the right to rule meant.
The possession of Charlotte Trowell suddenly appeared trifling in comparison.
Blackbrook Fair was a fair by ancient charter, held on the third Monday of September. For more than six hundred years people had been saying that Fair Monday weren’t the same as when they were young. Even so, for more than six hundred years people from all over Hampshire and West Sussex had continued to flock into Blackbrook on the Monday; and on the rest of the days of Fair Week, when fair and market combined.
Good or bad harvest, wet weather or fine, it was a pause in the lives of the rural community and a diversion for urban dwellers. Everybody who could make the journey went to Blackbrook sometime during Fair Week, and the streets thronged with people: velvet jackets rubbed stiff linen smocks, silken flounces jostled home-spun woollen skirts, and traders took pence as willingly from brown and calloused fingers as from finely manicured ones.
During the four or five days preceding Fair Week, children in the area rushed out whenever they heard unfamiliar-sounding carts and wagons, calling to others to look, look, quick, look. These wagons, thrown over with bright covers, were often highly decorated in gilt paint and gaudy colours; with symbols and pictures illustrating – without restraint – the extraordinary powers, entertainment, wonder, magic and horror to be expected when the proprietor had set up his stall.
Gipsies, who had been trekking the country in small family bands since early in the year, now began to make their way into Hampshire, bringing their beautiful, sprightly ponies and horses to trade with each other – and beautiful-looking and apparently-sprightly animals to sell to undiscerning Hampshire Gorgios. Local people were suspicious of gipsies, and everyone had some apocryphal tale – vanished children, missing sheep or pigs. Nobody knew the truth of why gipsies should want to take children when they seemed to have more than enough of their own, but it was likely that gipsy women envied local mothers their white-skinned offspring, or something like that. For all their prejudice against them, the sight of the first gipsies going to Blackbrook started the anticipation of pleasure in the hearts of the local people. By Sunday, every available field in the area had been rented out to the travelling people.
Jude and Hanna approached Blackbrook. They were each riding a donkey and carrying extra clothes in a bundle. Hanna was unusually animated and excited, as much because they were going to stay in the house that Hanna idealised, as the novelty of staying for the whole of Blackbrook Fair.
She saw a bear being led along the road on a chain; then in a field a cage on wheels with a canvas cover down so that no one could get a free look before the fair started; even a laden and covered farm cart looked as though it might be something. Look Jude! Look! It was difficult to believe that it was Sunday.
Being able to walk without pain and no longer having to lean on a stick, Jude felt free and light-hearted. Occasionally she thought of the dark hole in which she seemed to have lived during those days before she ran from the field, but once she was back to her old self she found it difficult to recall how she had felt then. It had been a very strange illness – if you could call it that. The invitation from Mrs Warren to stay in Blackbrook for a week, and Hanna’s bubbly chatter, infected Jude with almost childish excitement.
The Warren’s house in Blackbrook was very much different from the one in Motte where Jude had spent her Sunday afternoons learning to read and write. Fred’s one hundred pound partnership, his aunt’s advice, but mainly his hard work and likeable personality had finally provided Fred with work he enjoyed, and Mrs Warren with a house in the town. It was situated away from the main square; yet even here the fair was spilling over, with strings of little flags, notices, and graphic pictures of dancing bears and other animals which snarled and clawed out at passers-by. Look Jude! Look!
Mrs Warren greeted them warmly.
People who had known her as Molly Tarrant, the grocer’s pretty daughter, said she had worn very well. And she had. From her pink, plump shoulders to the top of her curled and beribbon-capped head, she had worn very well indeed. Her eyes were the same bright colour, her nose as pert, her lips as full and her eyebrows as nicely arched. But four live children and others that might have been – if not for the hand of God, who plucked one fevered baby from its cradle, or a thick bitter concoction that plucked others from Molly before they were hardly the size of a bean – were commemorated by legs roped with veins, a belly with an ever-pregnant appearance, breasts that had begun to sag, and glands that did not always function reliably.
Considering the fifteen years of marriage and child-bearing, it was true that Molly Warren, at the age of thirty-two, did seem to have worn very well below her frilled-lace neckline and strings of beads.
Overawed in the presence of wonderful Mrs Warren’s fine house and rustling dress, Hanna became her usual more serious self for a while and showed nothing of the excitement and delight that were frothing in her eight-year-old soul. She missed nothing.
“There my dears. Make yourself at home. I let Peg and the others have a little walk down to the Market Place – you wouldn’t think she was fourteen, getting all excited about a drummyderry animal. Mr Warren went out to unlock the store. There been that much call for feeding stuff, unexpected, he had to go out Sunday – day-of-rest or no.”
She had an easy way of speaking to everybody, learned early in childhood in the grocer’s shop. She had never lost her urban Hampshire way of talking, which was tight and a bit whining: but to Hanna it was “town” and sounded much better than their slow country talk. She took it all in.
“There’s room in the cupboard and there’s some room in the chest of drawers. When you’ve put your things away, come down and we shall have some tea.”
As soon as Mrs Warren had gone back downstairs, Hanna rushed to Jude and hugged her about the waist. With an explosion of withheld anticipation of pleasure, she said, “Oh Jude!”
Jude was stirred by the unusual sparkle in Hanna’s eyes. The day to day routine at Croud Cantle never caused Jude or Bella to think too deeply about Hanna, except to be sure that there was nothing wrong with her. They took her to market and occasionally to Newton Clare, and she appeared to be contented, but looking down at her now, Jude remembered her own unspoken desires at the same age, when she had wanted very much to be always going to Blackbrook like Jaen. Jude was sorry that she had not thought about giving the child a few more pleasures.
Jude swung Hanna round. “We shall have the loveliest time we ever had in our lives.”
“Can we see the drummyderry?”
“All right. We shall see everything. Be quick and put your things away so we don’t waste any time.”
Even though she was bubbling over, she was still neat and methodical in putting away her few clothes. As they were going downstairs she whispered to Jude, “What is a drummyderry?”
Mrs Warren and the young girl who lived in as general help had laid tea. Hanna’s eyes widened at the sight of the pretty cups and cut-cake laid on an embroidered cloth. At Croud Cantle they “laid-up” on high-days and holy-days, but nothing that her grandmother owned was so covered with flowers and birds as the pieces on the Warren table.
There was a sudden eruption of noisy voices and Fred came in with his four children.
“Ah, they’ve arrived!” said Fred.
The youngest boy slapped the back of a chair with his cap.
“We was too late for the dromedary. They’d took him back to Johnson’s field and Peg wouldn’t let us go.”
“Manners!” Fred took the cap and slapped the boy on the head with it in a friendly way. “Sam won’t ever be invited to meet the king.” He hit his son playfully again. “Say good afternoon to Judeth and Hanna.”
Peg, Freddie and Jack each said good afternoon and Jude remarked on how grown up they all were since she had last seen them. Mrs Warren poured tea and they all ate ca
ke as though it wasn’t a treat, except Hanna, who did everything a bit behind the others. She watched them to learn how to manage cups in saucers with spoons sliding around.
They discussed whether or not there would be a chance of seeing the dromedary if they went out again. Mrs Warren said she wasn’t having anybody late in for supper, so Fred said that he would go with them and have them back on time. As soon as they had finished eating, he took the five young people off, leaving Jude, whose leg was aching a bit from the ride, to give a hand to Mrs Warren and the girl.
In the kitchen, Mrs Warren exchanged her fancy cap for a plain one and covered her flouncy dress with a white coverall, and plunged straight into an explanation about why she preferred to do her own cooking. You had to know her for a while to be able to follow her silent train of thought, which sometimes led her to answer questions that had not been put.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t, it’s just that I’ve always been used to doing it my own way. (Millie, pickles.) And your mother is coming over tomorrow then? (A bigger piece than that Millie.) The children’s been all very excited having you come to stay. You was always a favourite, specially with Jack. (Cut that into slices, Judeth. Saves a mess in there.) He’s quiet. Don’t say much.”
Jude moved about under Mrs Warren’s directions and very soon the tea things had been removed and a good supper laid in its place.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. In the Warren household, everybody appeared to want to say something important at the same time. The four Warren children were obviously encouraged to join in discussion, causing Fred obvious satisfaction when they expressed opinions. He drew Hanna out, prompting her to tell about the various preparations for the fair that they had seen on their walk. Life at Croud Cantle seemed gloomy when thought of in such lively surroundings.
When at last Fred said they’d all had enough treats for one day, the three boys all protested.
“There will be another day of treats tomorrow. Mrs Nugent will have her dinner with us and Will’s coming for supper.”
Jude went to bed with mixed feelings about the next day and stayed awake a long time, enjoying sharing a bed with the warm softness of Hanna’s relaxed little body. She remembered Jaen, thinking momentarily how uncomplicated life had been then.
Mrs Warren refused any offers of help from Jude, telling her to make the most of it, there’d be plenty of work waiting when she got back to the farm and, in any case, she had help coming in. Fair week meant a lot of extra work at White’s, and Fred would be busy. So Jude went out with Hanna and the Warren children, with an injunction from Mrs Warren to go into Fred’s if her leg gave her the least trouble.
Jude took the children out early. The Market Square and side streets were transformed. Little booths and stalls formed a sort of parallel but ramshackle, colourful, town-within-a-town. Already people were streaming in from outlying villages, wanting to get a good day in before they had to leave in order to get back in daylight. Already there was a constant chink of coins being handed over in exchange for knick-knacks and trinkets of design only found at fairs; for humbugs, hot-clove sweets, Emsworth oysters and cockles; for goes at three thimbles and a pea, looks at freaks and peep-shows; for futures seen by gipsies and for Fair beer – which was not much different from everyday beer, except that it was served in smaller measures at the usual prices and was drunk whilst walking about the streets – and for a potent hot drink made from rum, sugar and cream which was drunk in a hot little booth.
Bella had provided a bit of money for Hanna, but there was much to do and see without spending anything at all. She was quite content with the free entertainment and the look at the disappointing dromedary, which Jude paid for. They agreed that the dromedary depicted on the painted notices, galloping across a desert with a mysterious, robed rider, was not much like the smelly creature they had crowded into a canvas booth to see. That made Hanna open up, and as they wandered about Blackbrook she gradually lost her reserve until she was chattering and skipping about. She was particularly animated with Sam and Jack, who were nearer her age and whom she had seen once before, on the occasion of the short call at the Warren’s house that had made such a lasting impression upon her.
In the middle of the morning, Jude heard Bella’s voice calling. Bella was wearing her high-days and holy-days skirt – the one she had got for Jaen’s wedding – and an old-fashioned but pretty jacket that Jude had not seen before. The first words Bella said were, “I had it for years and it still fits me,” smoothing the waistline self-consciously, not saying that it had been packed away since the last time it was worn – at her own wedding. Hanna talked non-stop for five minutes, and they all went round everything again so that Bella could see it too, until it was time to go back to the house.
As they passed The White Horse, a large and prestigious coach-house, a well-dressed man emerged from the public rooms. He was approaching the age of fifty, wearing a coat of fine cloth which he filled well, and a hat with a buckle which suited him finely. He looked prosperous and important.
“Bella. A rare day when you takes a holiday.”
“Ben Hannable. Ah well, ’tis only one day.”
He had raised his hat like a gentleman and given a little nod in Jude’s direction, to which she replied with a polite smile.
“You looks pretty well, Bella, and the rest of the Estovers.” He patted Hanna’s head.
“You looks well yourself, Ben Hannable. There must be more money in oil than vi’tles.”
“Fingers in pies, Bella, fingers in many pies.” His expression was smug and confident. He rearranged it to a ponderous solemnity.
“You heard about my tragedy?”
Bella said that she had not.
“Mrs Hannable. Died all of a sudden. Four months gone of a child. Only twenty. I’m surprised you hadn’t a heard. It was a terrible thing to me, but I got over it.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I hadn’t a heard you was even married, Ben.”
“Ah, a couple a year ago. Rose Cash as was. You wouldn’t a known her, come from Andover.”
Jude walked on with the children and after a minute Bella caught her up.
“You wadden very polite.”
“If I’d have stayed there another minute, I don’t know what I should’ve done. His tragedy! Terrible for him!”
“Ah well, I dare say he was hoping for a son.”
The way Bella said it. It had never entered Jude’s head before. They walked in silence for a few minutes, being jostled and forced to step aside in the crowded streets.
“Should you have liked a son?”
Bella’s answer came too slowly to be reassuring.
“No. Always clod-hopp’n about the place, scerfing food out of house and home. But there, they don’t give you other worries, I suppose.”
A street-seller with a cage of bright green birds gave a good excuse not to continue the conversation. They were back to enjoying Fair Monday.
Back at the Warren’s there was a laden table to which Croud Cantle had contributed generously. Fred joined them briefly, then went off to Blackbrook again in company with the children and with Peg in charge. Mrs Warren insisted that Jude rest her leg and Bella insisted that she help in the scullery, from where Jude could hear the confidential murmur of their conversation. There was less difference in age between Jude and Mrs Warren than between Mrs Warren and Bella. There was, however, a great difference in Jude’s status. She had no personal knowledge of men and childbirth, or the changes wrought upon women’s minds and bodies by both. Consequently they kept their voices confidential as, inevitably, they talked of little problems and remedies.
Mid-afternoon the three of them walked out again. At about four o’clock, Bella said that she’d had enough of Plough Fair till next year, and in any case she’d better get back to see what mess they’d made of things without her there. Before she went she gave Jude some money to buy herself something decent – “don’t thank me, thank the bees and them that’ll pay fo
urpence ha’penny a pound for combs this year.” Apart from small coins, Jude had never had any money of her own. Everything they needed, except for haberdashery kind of things, Bella bartered for or did deals over.
Jude found unexpected pleasure in having the money.
Mrs Warren, Jude and Peg prepared the various dishes for supper, whilst Hanna and the servant girl fetched and carried things. Freddie, Jack and Sam went out to meet their father.
“Judeth, you must let Peg do it. She is a very genie,” was the end of a thought about Jude’s hair, spoken aloud.
With Bella gone, and nipped only slightly by conscience that she was pleased because of it, Jude felt that she could now begin to enjoy herself. The cheerful, easy-going atmosphere of the Warrens and the knowledge that she was taking part in Blackbrook Fair – living in its midst – gave her a strange feeling of recklessness, and she cheerfully fell in with the suggestion. Under Mrs Warren’s guidance, with Hanna following every movement, Peg rolled and pinned and bound the red mass into a fashionable shape.
As with the money, Jude felt pleased at the novelty of this time-wasting. She liked the look of herself, in spite of a feeling that the pins would never hold.
“You should get yourself a dress, Judeth,” Peg said.
“Yes,” agreed her mother. “With the new, narrow skirt.”
“That stripe we saw; the silky sapphire.”
“Oh yes, she would suit that. Narrow skirt and stripes – it’d make you look a six inches taller, Judeth.”
Jude laughed with pleasure at the frivolity of the conversation. “What would I want with a sapphire dress on the farm?” Bella’s training. Automatic reaction to small follies and gallivanting.
“You could put it away till you get married, Jude,” said Hanna.