by Sara Fraser
Mother Readman suddenly winked, scowled and raised her voice. ‘Just fuck off, will you, you lanky streak o’ piss! I got nothing to say to you!’
Tom instantly turned and walked away, meeting as he did so a couple of shabbily clad men approaching the lodging house, who hissed at him as they passed.
‘You’ll find no informers in this neck o’ the woods!’
‘You’re lucky Mother Readman didn’t break your fuckin’ jaw for you!’
Tom silently walked on, confident that in the persons of Mother Readman and George Maffey he possessed two very valuable sources of information.
FIFTEEN
Monday, 3 August, 1829
It was not yet dawn when Tom rose naked from his bed and went to the open window of the garret. He stared out across the moonlit buildings, enjoying the warm, still air, and marvelling that the abnormally intense heatwave which had descended upon the English Midlands some days previously was apparently going to continue through this day also.
The Lock-Up bells suddenly jangled loudly and Tom hurried down to the first floor and opened the casement window which overlooked the front of the building. A shadowed figure was tugging at the iron bell rod and Tom challenged, ‘Who are you, and what’s your business here?’
‘It’s me, Sir,’ George Maffey called huskily.
‘All right.’ Naked and barefoot, Tom hastened to the front door and admitted his visitor.
‘Sorry to get you from your bed, Sir, but I can’t risk anybody spotting me coming here, can I? It wouldn’t be good for me trade,’ George Maffey apologised.
‘Of course you can’t, Corporal Maffey. Now, what do you have for me?’
‘The girl’s name is Carrie Perks and she was birthed in the Alcester Parish, but her was orphaned as a babby and raised in the Alcester Poorhouse. The man’s name is Jared Styler. He’s Studley born, but he’s got no living family or settlement in the Needle District now. From all accounts he moves around these parts a lot, and sleeps wherever he finds work to do.’
‘What’s said about his personal character?’ Tom queried.
‘Well, he’s got the reputation of being a very busy poacher, who’s been fly enough to get away wi’ it. But folks say that he’s a man who can turn his hand to all sorts o’ different tasks, so he has no trouble in finding folks who’ll employ him. At least, that’s when he troubles himself to look for work, which aren’t often. He don’t have any trouble picking up women, either. But apparently he turns nasty and knocks them about when he’s in drink, so they never stays with him for long. Folks says that he’s nigh on crippled some women, he battered them so hard, and done the same to a fair number o’ blokes as well.’
‘I didn’t get a very good look at him,’ Tom explained. ‘So has he got any distinguishing marks that I might be able to identify him by?’
‘Well, I did hear that a couple o’ months past a woman bit a big piece out of one of his ears. That’s one sweetheart he’s wishing he’d never used his fist on, I’ll be bound.’ Maffey chuckled hoarsely. ‘So if you spots a bloke with part of his right ear missing, it could well be him. That’s all I’ve been able to find out for you, and now I’d best go before folks are getting up and about and I’m seen here.’
‘If you wait a moment I’ll go and get your payment for this information, Corporal Maffey,’ Tom told him.
Again, Maffey shook his head. ‘No, Constable Potts, I don’t want any money from you. You did me a real favour by fixing me up with Mother Readman, so this bit of information is my way of returning a favour. I just hope it serves its purpose for you.’
With that he opened the door and was gone.
Nearly two hours had passed, day had dawned and Tom was still sitting at his breakfast table trying to formulate a plan of action. He accepted that it would serve no purpose to raise a ‘hue and cry’ for Jared Styler. He could arrest him for the assault on Carrie Perks, but he was almost certain that she would deny it was Jared Styler who had been her assailant.
The ringing of the ‘Waking Bells’ broke Tom’s train of thought and brought the remembrance that within hours he had official duties to perform. Today in Redditch the rare event of an Emergency Hiring Market was being staged.
The unusual intensity and duration of the heatwave which was gripping the Midland counties was proving to be a very mixed blessing for the farmers. All across the broad farmlands the fields of grain were ripening with unexpected simultaneous rapidity instead of the normal varied progression, and therefore the entire crops were in danger of becoming overripe, which meant that as the crops were mown the cutting impact of scythes or sickles would shake the over-hardened seeds from the dried-out corn ears and scatter them across the ground, resulting in heavy losses of grain and the subsequent financial income.
Faced with this serious threat, the farmers were forced to search for and temporarily employ large numbers of casual workers to harvest the crops before they reached this dangerous stage of over-ripeness. To enable them to obtain these ‘casuals’, the local magistrates authorized Emergency Hiring Markets to be held in the nearest towns to the affected areas.
To attract sufficient numbers of temporary harvesters, the individual farmers were forced to pay unusually high wages, and the prospect of such rare largesse attracted swarms of wayfarers, tramps, gypsies and the destitute, plus many unsavoury characters.
Today would be Tom’s first experience of personally policing such a market, and he was not looking forward to this virtual invasion, which invariably resulted in increased levels of drunken disorder, violent fights and assorted crimes.
Ah, well, he consoled himself. At least I’ll have Will Shayler and Ritchie with me. Thank God!
SIXTEEN
Monday, morning, 3 August, 1829
Although it was only just past eight o’clock, every hitching ring on the front wall of the Fox and Goose secured the reins of several horses and, inside the Select Parlour, Tommy Fowkes, Amy Potts and Maisie Lock were hard-pressed to satisfy the clamorous demands of this influx of landowners and farmers, while in the Tap Room Gertie and Lily Fowkes were equally hard-pressed serving the lower-ranking comers to the Hiring Market.
Outside on the broad triangular sward of the Green, down-at-heel, unwashed men, women and children were constantly arriving to swell the ranks of those who had slept on the ground overnight.
In the Lock-Up, Tom Potts, Will Shayler and Ritchie Bint were facing a group of visitors, but these were not opulently dressed farmers or raggedly clad paupers. These men were plainly dressed Workhouse Masters, Parish Overseers to the Poor and Constables from several of the neighbouring parishes.
Portly, pompous-mannered Edmund Scambler, Overseer to the Poor of the Alcester Parish, was the spokesman of the group, and it was he who explained the purpose of their being here to Tom.
‘Now, Master Potts, the constables are here to look out for and arrest any scoundrels who have committed, or are suspected of committing crimes in their respective parishes. As, no doubt, is the reason for Master Shayler being here also.’
‘It’s partly so, Master Scambler,’ Will Shayler agreed. ‘But unlike your other visitors, I’m also here on the instructions of Sir Francis Goodericke to aid the Tardebigge Parish Constables in any way they might ask of me.’
‘I’m sure there are many present who are prepared to do that, Master Shayler,’ Scambler retorted huffily, then continued, ‘Now, Master Potts, I will explain the purpose of we who are not constables being here today. Our respective Vestries have instructed us Overseers and Workhouse Masters to identify any of our own parish paupers who find gainful employment in the harvesting gangs. If, on their return to their parishes, they do not inform us that they have pockets full of harvesting money, and instead try to continue to claim relief, then the necessary steps will be taken to punish them.’
This information was greeted with sustained loud applause.
Tom instantly found himself silently sympathizing with any pauper who seized upon t
his rare opportunity to toil for long gruelling hours to supplement the pitifully small Parish Pauper Allowance.
Scambler noticed that Tom was not applauding and, as the noise died down, he challenged aggressively, ‘How now, Constable Potts! Why do you not show your agreement with what we are going to do to stop these parasitical paupers robbing we who pay our rates and tithes and taxes?’
‘Because, Master Scambler, not all paupers are parasites robbing us by choice. All too many have been driven to apply for “Poor Relief” by sickness and ageing and cruel Masters. I don’t believe that I would notify the Vestry either if I’d slaved night and day at the harvesting for a few shillings extra to buy food for my children.’
Scambler reddened with anger and retorted, ‘It seems that you lack both commonsense and true understanding of your lawful duty, Constable Potts.’
He turned to address the gathering again. ‘Now, Gentlemen, I shall not presume to advise the constables on their modes of action. However, I’m sure that I speak for all of us when I say that should the rabble become offensive and violent, the constables may be fully confident that they shall instantly receive whatever assistance we can render to them.’
Cheers and shouted affirmations greeted this statement, and Scambler flushed with gratification and bowed repeatedly.
Tom couldn’t help but hope that these affirmations would indeed be backed up by physical action should violence erupt and he and his friends be in need of such assistance.
When the noise lessened, Scambler clapped his hands and announced, ‘The time has come, Gentlemen. We go about our business now. Leave these premises discreetly, one at a time, and remember that we must observe our paupers from a distance and ensure that they are not aware of our presence. All that is needful is to discover and make note of the farmer who employs them, but do not approach him at this time.’
The group moved to the front door and began to exit one at a time.
Joseph Blackwell emerged from the kitchen alcove where he had been observing the proceedings and beckoned Tom and his two friends.
When they came to him he told them, ‘You’ll take notice that Edmund Scambler’s strictures will not apply to any of our own Tardebigge paupers who manage to find employment at this market. We shall let the poor devils earn a few honest shillings if they can without being penalized for doing so. Your only purpose here is to arrest anyone who commits a criminal act, or breaks the King’s Peace.’
The trio murmured their confirmations.
‘Good!’ Blackwell smiled bleakly. ‘And I now request you, Constable Potts, to draw me a flagon of your ale and permit me to sit here in your kitchen to sup it until all these people have vacated these premises.’
‘You’re most welcome, Sir.’ Tom grinned. ‘And I trust that you will not object to we three also supping flagons of ale in your company, until our visitors have all left.’
Blackwell emitted a reedy chuckle. ‘I shall thoroughly enjoy having your company, Gentlemen.’
In the Fox and Goose the crush of customers were rapidly lessening as farmers went out to look over the applicants for work. One fashionably dressed, darkly handsome man, however, seemed to be in no hurry to leave. He beckoned Maisie Lock to come to his table, and asked her, ‘What’s your name, my Pretty?’
Maisie smiled archly. ‘I don’t give my name to any stranger.’
He returned her smile, displaying white, even teeth. ‘Well, I’ll tell you mine and then we won’t be strangers, will we? My friends call me Vincent.’
‘And mine call me Maisie. Now where are you from?’ she queried. ‘You don’t sound as if youm from these parts.’
‘I’m from London, my pretty Maisie.’
‘Oh, am you one o’ them Cockerneys.’
He laughed. ‘We’re not Cockerneys, we’re Cockneys. And yes, I’m a true Cockney because I was born within the sound of Bow Bells.’
‘Have you seen the King and Queen?’
‘Many’s the time, and I’ve shook His Majesty’s hand more than once, and been a guest in his palace as well.’
Maisie shook her head disbelievingly, and called to Amy, ‘Come here a minute, Amy, and listen to the stories o’ this Cockerney.’
When Amy joined her at the table, Maisie urged the man, ‘Go on. Tell my mate what you’ve just told me.’
‘Well, what a very pretty one you are, Amy,’ he greeted her. ‘In fact, it’s hard to pick who’s the most beautiful of the pair of you.’
Maisie frowned and snapped, ‘Just tell her what you told me.’
He smiled at Amy. ‘I’m a true Cockney, Amy. Born within the sound of Bow Bells. And I’ve seen the King and Queen lots of times, and I’ve been a guest in His Majesty’s palace and shaken his hand more than once.’
Lily Fowkes came into the room and instantly joined their company, but the man ignored her and kept his gaze fixed on Amy. ‘Well, Amy, do you think I’m telling the truth?’
She shrugged and told him, ‘I neither know nor care, Master Cockney. But I’m telling you the truth when I say that we might be country girls but we’re not stupid bumpkins to be taken in by any tall stories.’
She turned away, telling Maisie, ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’
Another fashionably dressed stranger came through the door and called, ‘Come, Vincent, the wagon’s here and we need to get going straight away.’
The Cockney instantly rose and bowed to the girls. ‘I’ll have to love and leave you, Amy and Maisie. But the next time I call in I’ll have the proof of my tall stories with me.’ He swaggered out of the room.
‘Does you think he’ll be able to prove what he says?’ Maisie wondered aloud.
Amy shrugged dismissively. ‘Oh, yes, and it’ll be at that same time when he proves pigs can fly.’
On the Green, Tom and his two friends were marshalling the would-be harvest hands into long, stationary lines for the prospective employers to pass along and inspect.
Large numbers of curious spectators encircled the Green and mingled with them were the Overseers to the Poor, the Workhouse Masters and the Parish Constables.
The farmers and landowners clustered together in a sizeable group until the marshalling of the lines was completed. Then they split up and began their individual inspections and selections.
Tom met up briefly with his two friends before they started their separate patrolling of the serried lines and asked them if they knew Jared Styler or Carrie Perks.
Ritchie Bint shook his head, but Will Shayler nodded and smiled grimly. ‘Oh, yes, Styler was born and raised in Studley. He’s a bloody nuisance of a poacher, and when he’s drunk he’ll use his fists on anybody who crosses him, man or woman. Trouble is he’s been too fly for me to catch him at his poaching, and I’ve never been able to persuade anybody he’s beaten up to lay charges against him.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m after him myself,’ Tom explained. ‘His current woman is named Carrie Perks, and he smashed her nose on Saturday night, but I’m sure she’ll deny it was him. If she’s here she’ll be easy to recognize. Hugh Laylor dressed the wound, and the plaster covers the entire middle of her face and extends round her head.’ He turned to Ritchie Bint. ‘Because it was dusk I could only see that Styler was wearing a white smock and slouched wide-awake hat. He looked to be nigh on six feet tall and strongly built, and I’ve been told that there’s been a piece bitten out of one ear.’
‘Yes, his right ear,’ Shayler confirmed. ‘And he’s six foot and got thick black hair worn longish. He’s still remarkably young looking considering he must be over forty. His face is clear-skinned and he still had all his teeth the last time I saw him.’
‘D’you want me to grab him if I comes across him?’ Ritchie Bint asked.
Tom shook his head. ‘No, just come and tell me where he is and who he’s with. If it’s Carrie Perks and they look to be friendly then I don’t think there’ll be the slightest chance of her laying charges against him.’
SEVENTEEN
His temper seething, Judas Benton was pacing up and down outside the front door of his shop. Monday mornings were normally busy times for his business. In the aftermath of their husbands’ weekend carousing, many housewives would be bringing articles to pawn so that they had money to buy food to feed their families until the next payday.
Today, however, the possibility of obtaining temporary well-paid work meant that the vast majority of his regular Monday customers were up on the Green, standing in the lines of would-be harvest hands.
‘Fuck it! I’m just wasting me time down here!’ he cursed, and then came to an abrupt halt. ‘Maybe that bloke and wench who pawned the snuffbox might be up there looking for work?’
He locked the door of his shop and hurried up the hill.
Farmer Andrew Parkman halted and stared in surprised recognition at the burly, white-smocked man standing in the line in front of him.
‘Bloody hell, Jared! I didn’t expect to find you here!’
‘Oh, I just thought I’d see what was on offer, Master Parkman,’ Styler answered.
‘Have you had any offers yet?’
‘O’ course I have, Master Parkman. More than half a dozen already.’ Jared Styler grinned. ‘But you knows I’m very choosy about what work I does and who I does it for. So I’ve been waiting to see if you was to come past.’
‘And I’m bloody glad you did wait! If I’d known you was here I’d have come straight to you. You’re my Harvest Steward as of this very second.’ Parkman’s ruddy features were radiating satisfaction. ‘Now listen – my own people have made a start wi’ the scythe mowing, so I’ll get back to them straight away and leave you to do the business here. We’ll need to use sickles to cut the ripest ridges, so bring me half-a-dozen Sickle Reapers. That’ll be two blokes who are experienced Bandsters and four women. Then we can split them into a bloke to reap and bind and pair o’ women reapers per ridge. We’ll need another experi-enced bloke for the stooking and to help with some binding as well if needs be. Oh, and you can recruit an extra wench to do the odd jobs, so that’s a gang of eight all together.’