The Ballad of John Clare by Hugh Lupton Page B

on his breeches, shirt and boots. He rakes his fingers through his hair. He makes his way from his little room in the servants’ quarters, down the wooden stairs and outside to the courtyard. Bill Bullimore, the village constable is waiting, his hands behind his back, whistling between his teeth and staring up at the great brick chimneys and the roof of the hall with its seeming acres of grey slates and red tiles. Behind him his horse is being led to the trough. As Will approaches he brings his gaze down to the level:
    “Morning Will.”
    Will nods.
    “I’ve heard your story. I’m told a buck has been killed, shots taken, and you’ve seen the face of the varmint that fired the gun.”
    “Yes, I have.”
    “Was it a face you knew?”
    “It was a face I’d seen before.”
    “The Earl has sent orders to press charges. Could you lead me to him?”
    “Ay, I could.”

    *******

    At the same time as Will wakes, Wisdom is being shaken to wakefulness by King Boswell. He beckons with his thick finger.
    “Avata acoi, chal.”
    Wisdom pulls himself out from the warm blankets under the cart and follows, pulling on his clothes. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and bubbling stew. The dogs are happily crunching bones.
    King Boswell thrusts the deer hide into Wisdom’s hands.
    “Rig the stannyi mutzi to Kitty Otter.”
    Wisdom nods. He can see that Ismael and Lettuce are out to the villages, and guesses that already they’re knocking on back doors and selling the meat. If any gorgios come to the camp prying and asking questions there will be little for them to find.
    King Boswell smiles, showing his white teeth.
    “And when ye come back, chal, ye can dip a spoon into the stannyi simmeno and sup.”
    Wisdom swings the rolled hide onto his back and makes his way across the parish to Snow Common.
    Kitty’s geese, with their grey goslings in tow, stretch out their necks and hiss as he approaches her squat. Kitty lifts the door-flap and pokes her wrinkled face out into the light. She looks to left and right, her head jutting from the bowed, blackened canvas like a tortoise from its shell. When she sees Wisdom she cackles:
    “Ah Wisdom, good boy, d’ye have the hide? Bring it inside, bring it inside.”
    Wisdom pushes through the flaps, he ducks beneath the woven baskets of rush and willow, the tied clusters of herbs and the cured skins that hang from the roof. His nose takes in the strange, strong smell of the place: the sweet herbs, the tickling smoke, the wet canvas and something sharp and fetid like the lair of a wild animal.
    “Old Otter ain’t here, he’s away at the hay-making.”
    Wisdom passes her the bundle and she unfastens the twine with nimble bony fingers. She spreads the dappled hide across the floor.
    “ ’Tis a good one. A buck.”
    She pinches it.
    “Ay, ‘tis a good one. There’s boots here, or a jerkin …when ‘tis scraped and salted …”
    She looks across at him sharply.
    “Did ye bring me a cut o’ meat?”
    Wisdom reaches over and folds back the neck of the hide to reveal a cut of red meat tucked inside. She sniffs it.
    “Good boy, good boy. We’ll dine like kings and queens tonight Wisdom.”
    She picks up the meat and drops it into an iron pot.
    Wisdom turns towards the flap:
    “Mutzi and meat are payment Kitty, for the mending of the net. King Boswell thanks you from his heart. ‘Twas torn again last night though, and will need more mending.”
    “’Tis fair payment, ay, ‘tis payment fair enough. Bring the net and I’ll fix it for ye again Wisdom.”
    She puts her hand on his shoulder, Wisdom turns and she winks at him with her shrewd, sharp eye, blue as a dunnock’s egg.
    “And we’ll do business again, no doubt, when the time’s ripe.”
    She rolls up the hide.
    “We ain’t so different, you an’ me.”
    She tucks it into the shadows.
    “Only you Boswells journey far and wide and me an’ Otter stay where we’ve allus been …an’ you’re brown as Turks