The Ballad of John Clare Read Online Free Page B

having served his time as executioner, must trudge back to Close’s yard, clean his hoe and take his place in line to receive his paltry wage.
    And now, his pocket lined with pennies, he sought his solace.
    Once inside the woods and shaken free of the ceaseless gossip and the women’s shrill laughter and the hacking cough of poor Jem Farrar. Once he was free of the tireless scratching of iron to stony soil and the day’s slate had been wiped clean by sweet solitude, John Clare set his mind to the next day’s holiday.
    From the willows bordering Round Oak Water he cut slim withies and wound them together into a loop. From the may at the wood’s margin he found sprays that were breaking into early white blossom. He cut away their thorns and wove them into the loop. He took primroses from a bank that caught the afternoon sun and a fistful of early blue-bells and fixed their stems between the twisted withies until the garland was bright with pale yellow, creamy-white and blue flowers. He worked until the day’s light began to grow dim in the wood. Then he shouldered his garland and trudged home.
    Sophie Clare, her face pressed to the window glass, watched John hiding his garland in the lean-to where Parker stores his garden tools. She slipped out of the back door and stood quiet behind John as he pushed it among the shadows. He was startled by her voice.
    “It ain’t no good, John.”
    He turned to her.
    “I know what you’ve made and it ain’t no good.”
    Sophie was looking at him, her eyes so solemn and worldly-wise in her face that John had to smile.
    “What d’you mean it ain’t no good?”
    Sophie pulled the garland from its hiding place.
    “Everybody knows a garland’s gotta have some pear blossom.”
    She ran across the garden, climbed up into the pear tree and broke a spray of white blossom from it. She brought it back and thrust it into John’s hand.
    “Pear for fair.”
    John nodded and wove it into the garland. Sophie watched him with disdain. It was clear to her that John knew nothing about the ways of the world for all he was seven years older than her.
    “And where’s the yew?”
    “Yew?”
    “Yew for true of course. Every girl in Helpston knows that.”
    “All right, I’ll go to the churchyard and fetch some yew.”
    Sophie turned to run back indoors. John caught her by the shoulder. He pushed his finger to her lips:
    “Shhhhhh. Don’t tell!”
    She nodded fiercely, shook herself free from his grip and ran into the house.
    It was nearly dark as John made his way past Butter Cross and over the road to the churchyard wall. He cut a long sprig of yew, brought it home and wound it onto the garland. Now it was ready. He put it back into its hiding place and went indoors.
    His mother was lighting the candles.
    “Where’s Sophie?”
    “She’s gone to bed, John.”
    John climbed the steps. He leaned over her bed.
    “It’s done.”
    He could see her pale face searching his in the shadowy room.
    “Good.”
    He kissed her forehead.
    “Goodnight Soph’.”
    “You know what to do. Hang it on her door.”
    John nodded:
    “Ay.”
    She whispered:
    “Who is she John?”
    John stood up and turned away.
    “That’s for me to know and you to ponder upon.”
    “Who is she, or I’ll run downstairs and tell …”
    “You wouldn’t dare!”
    She jumped out of bed and made towards the stairwell.
    John seized the hem of her shift and pulled her back towards the bed.
    “All right.”
    She climbed under the blankets. John bent down and whispered in her ear. She peered at him with the doubtful look of a craftsman who is about to send some new apprentice out upon a task, and wonders whether he has the gumption to see it through.
    “You’ll need to wear your yellow scarf, and is your shirt washed? And money enough for the May fair. And she’ll want to hear gentlemanly talk, John, and don’t sweeten your breath with onions because look here, I’ve got something as I took from Farmer Close’s