The Ballad of John Clare Read Free Page A

hand to answer and he said ‘Yes Mary’, and I mouthed the words and made no sound. He picked up his ear trumpet, d’you remember, ‘Speak up child’ he said and I did mouth again. And he said ‘I cannot hear thee, is there anyone can give me the answer as can speak up like a man?’ And you put your hand up. ‘Yes John Clare,’ says he. And you mouthed the words as well. And old Merrishaw frowned then and put down his trumpet and made his way out of the church. And we all climbed up to the windows and we could see him among the gravestones poking a rag first into one ear and then t’other. When he came back we were sitting in rows as though we had not shifted.
    ‘Now then John Clare,’ says he, ‘as you were saying.’ And he lifts the trumpet to his ear once more, and you stood up and shouted the answer so that he jumped clean into the air, but said no word thinking as he’d cleaned his ears of all obstruction.”
    And John laughed and nodded and delighted in her as she was this day, sitting beside him. And he delighted in memories of how she had been. And in his mind he was forming a design on how things might be one day between them, though he could not bring any word to his tongue to express it.
    Her talk turned first one way and then another.
    And then, suddenly, it was interrupted.
    “A word if you’d be so kind.”
    They looked up and Will Bloodworth was standing above them, swaying a little, for the farmers had been sweetening their small ale with a flask of French brandy. His pipe was smouldering in his left hand and his right was drawn tight into a fist. His voice was raised, as one who has drunk over the odds, and on hearing him the congregation quietened.
    His sister, sensing trouble, called out to him.
    “Come and sit down Will.”
    He paid her no heed.
    “I want a word with our gypsy friend.”
    Wisdom got up to his feet as though nothing in the world would hurry him. He met Will’s gaze with a wry lop-sided smile, with nothing in it of fear or servitude. If Will had been master and Wisdom apprentice, that smile would have been rewarded with a wallop for its cock-sure cheek. Will whispered:
    “What’s your bloody name?”
    “Will! Sit down!”
    Wisdom’s brown eyes looked steady into Will’s.
    “Wisdom Boswell.”
    Will raised his voice:
    “Ah. One of them as camps out on Emmonsales and helps himself regular to what ain’t his.”
    There were muffled grunts of assent from all sides. Wisdom said nothing. And Will, grown bold with the ready sympathy of the crowd, carried on:
    “Well I’ve heard as you ‘Gyptians, for all you’re a pack of thieves, can read the future in tea leaves or the lines on a body’s hand. If I was to give you sixpence what could you read of me?”
    There was laughter and old Miss Nelly Farrar shouted out:
    “Ay, and ain’t I still waiting for that handsome devil I paid Lettuce Boswell thruppence for?”
    Will smiled with his mouth, though there was little of a smile in his eyes. He uncurled his fist and held out his hand palm upwards, there was a silver sixpence lying on it.
    “Come on Wisdom Boswell, unravel for me all that is writ in the stars.”
    It was clear he meant to make a mock of Wisdom. And every face was on the two of them now as Wisdom reached across and took Will’s hand into his own. He picked up the coin and pocketed it.
    “It’s the women as usually do the dukkering, but I’ll tell you what I can.”
    He stroked the palm tenderly with his thumb and looked down upon it with a great attention. Will Bloodworth turned to the crowd and raised his eyebrows.
    “It ain’t often I hold hands with a damned gypsy.”
    There were titters of laughter again.
    The children did not laugh though, for since the riddy stone Wisdom was as a native chief to them, and they his tribe. Nor did Sam Billings, who watched Wisdom with a bright, shrewd eye, knowing more of the Boswell crew than most.
    Wisdom traced the lines on the palm with the tip of a finger.