Ill Will

‘Not for me, thanks.’

‘That’s half your wages.’

‘I don’t drink beer more than I need to slake my thirst.’

‘Ah, spirits more your choice?’

‘I don’t drink spirits.’

‘I’ll have his portion,’ Jethro said, a short, stocky man with red hair.

‘Well, don’t think I’ll be paying you otherwise,’ the farmer said.

‘Leave him be,’ said his wife. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘Water if you’ve got it, please.’

‘There’s buttermilk?’

She fetched me an earthen pot of buttermilk.

The farmer seemed pleased with my work and said that he would take me on. For all my labour I was to be paid five shillings a week and a gallon of beer a day. I would drink what I needed to slake my thirst and sell the rest to the other labourers at thruppence a pint. If I could sell four pints a day, that would be another shilling, doubling my wage to ten shilling a week.

After I’d eaten I took a walk roundabouts. The farm consisted of a barn, a parlour, a dairy, peat-house, stables and mistal. There was also a chicken coop away from the buildings, with a fenced-in run where the birds could scrat. A dozen hens and a handsome cock. The window of the dairy had the word ‘Dairy’ carved into its lintel. I’d seen this before when we’d been out walking one time, Cathy. I remember you telling me that this was to ensure it would not be liable for the window tax. Another way the rich robbed from the poor.

I walked up the lane. A mile from the farmhouse, there was a short turn by a clump of sycamore. The lane was narrow and next to this a church. It was a small, steep-roofed, stone building, with a few arched windows in a stone tower, rising scarcely above the sycamore tops, with an iron staff and vane on one corner. There was a small graveyard, enclosed by a hedge, and in the corner of this, but with three doors opening in front upon the lane, was a long crooked old cottage. On one of the stone thresholds, a peevish-looking woman was lounging, and before her, lying on the ground in the middle of the land, were two girls playing with a kitten. They stopped as I came near and rolled out of the way, while I passed by them. One of the girls laughed, and the other whispered and pointed. The woman said something in a sharp voice. I wondered what she’d said and who she was. I felt that in some way I was being judged. Though they seemed far from a position of authority.

I wandered around the other side of the farm. Past the farmyard was another huge barn, a wagon-shed, the farmhouse, and the piggeries I’d ligged in the previous night. Close to was a mountain of manure that steamed and festered. The farmyard was divided by a wall, and milch cows were accommodated in the separate divisions. It was quite a place the farmer and his wife had. I wondered how he’d come by it. By hard graft or by cunning theft? Or by being born into it? Which is another kind of theft.

I made my way back to the outbuilding where the men were at their leisure.

Sticks asked me where I’d been. I told him about my perambulations and of the sharp-tongued woman.

‘That’s the wife of the farmer’s son,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘Be careful how you tread with the pair of them. She goes by the name of Mary and he goes by the name of Dick. I don’t know which is worse. I saw her crack a man’s skull open with a hemp-wheel last summer. He’s tapped different. He doesn’t lose it like she does. If he clobbered you over the head he wouldn’t raise his voice, or change his expression. There would be no sign of anger at all. Got to watch those ones, laa. The farmer’s no soft touch either. He’ll have you up at four o’clock in the morning and he’ll work you till dusk. You’ll earn every shilling, I’ll tell you that much. I’ve done all sorts in my time. At six years old I were a bird-scarer. I’ve been a gardener, land surveyor, bookkeeper for a brewery. Every type of manual labour. Doesn’t matter what you do, the master’s always got the upper hand.’

The farmer’s wife fetched more victuals. After bread and cheese and porter, the men brought out their pipes. One of them took a spill and lit it from the fire, lighting first his pipe, then passing it around. There was some conversation on the hardness of the times and the dearness of all the necessaries of life. There was talk of reform.

‘Why bother? It’ll only end up the same, either way,’ Jethro said.

Sticks butted in. ‘Listen, laa, why should the wealth be in the hands of so few? And why should they get to say how it goes, when we don’t get a say at all? Have we, as grafters, no right to get what’s fair? I’m talking about the courts of this land. They’re corrupt. Have you no opinion about that, soft lad?’

‘Opinions cost lives. That talk is high treason,’ Jethro said.

He pointed out that the penalty for which was to be hanged by the neck, cut down while still alive and disembowelled.

Jethro pulled a fork from the fire with a faggot on the end and blew on it to cool it. ‘And then, as if that’s not bad enough, his entrails burned before his face. Then beheaded and quartered.’ Just in case Sticks hadn’t got the message, he took the faggot and bit into it.

‘But apart from that, what’s the punishment?’ Sticks said.

There was much laughter at this.

‘Look, all I’m saying is that every man should have a vote. Whether lord or labourer, jack or judge,’ said Sticks. ‘Give every man his own acres so that he’s not beholden to any landlord. And give him a voice. Give him a say-so over his own matter, that’s all I’m saying.’

There was more grumbling and protestation.

‘I’m talking about universal suffrage, for heaven’s sake. God made us all equal.’

‘You won’t get that without a civil war, I’m telling you that.’ Jethro again, between bites of his faggot. ‘Mark my words, there’s them at the top and there’s men like us, and there’s no changing it.’

‘We’ve already had a war and where did that get us? Bloody nowhere, that’s where,’ said another man.

‘The only way you’re going up in this world is swinging from the gibbet,’ said yet another.

I let the sounds of their arguments drift over me. I had no interest in universal suffrage. Only in a particular form of suffering: yours and Hindley’s.

They talked some more, then the cards came out and I watched the men play.

‘Is that gypsy boy laikin’?’ Jethro said, pointing to my corner.

‘He’s no gypsy,’ Sticks said.

‘His skin is gypsy.’

Different games of cards were played and money changed hands. Jethro was well oiled by this point, and throwing his coins around. I watched him stroke his red hair distractedly as he chucked his money about. I saw him lose his hand, once, twice, then a third time, and in so doing, lose that week’s wage. I must learn to play this game, I thought. Jethro sat in his chair in the dark, smoking his pipe and supping ale. He was muttering under his breath, ‘What will she say? What will she say?’ Sticks, who was the winner, was smiling and laughing, dealing one more hand. Here was another man reaping where he had not sown and gathering where he had not strawed. There are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, Cathy. Ask a weasel.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Sticks to Jethro, ‘I’ll give you a chance to get even. How does that sound?’

Jethro pretended not to hear and sat in the dark sucking his pipe, which had now gone out.

‘Tomorrow even, bring that cock you were bragging about. I’ll bring one of mine, and we’ll have a little skirmish.’

Jethro grunted.

‘Suit yourself, then.’

But despite Jethro’s apathy, the next night after supper he disappeared for half an hour, returning with a cock in a willow cage. Inside was a black-and-red bird of some considerable size. A proud fowl with a penetrating gaze and a lustrous plumage. The men gathered around the cage to get a closer look. There was nodding of heads and a general air of admiration. Dan Taylor turned to Sticks.

‘Well then, get your battle stag, let’s see a bit of cocking.’

Sticks nodded. He stood up and shook the straw off his breeches. He walked off and returned with a cage containing a mottled brown-gold rooster, a similar size and weight to that of Jethro’s. It looked like the comb and wattle of both birds had been dubbed, so there was just a lip of red on the head of the birds, and a line of red under the neck. A party of men gathered around. I was introduced to Dick, Dan’s eldest son, and took an instant dislike to him. He had the same petty meanness in his eyes as Hindley. He was smaller than his father, with black hair and red skin. Where his father was broad and meaty, Dick was all bone with muscles like knots in string. The outline of his skull beneath his skin protruded. The men talked about which cock would win and bets were laid.

‘My money’s on Jethro.’

‘Mine’s on Sticks.’

‘Tha’s more a dunghill than a gamecock.’

Some men shuffled the bales of hay and straw so that an enclosed area was formed and the birds were released. The men jostled to get the closest. I watched the fight from some distance. The men were positioned at the furthest extremes of the makeshift arena. Before the fight the birds were slapped and their feathers ruffled to agitate them. At first the men held their birds by their back ends, lifting them up and down and towards each other. The spectators shouted encouraging words. The men approached each other so that the birds, still being held, could peck and squawk at each other to further agitate them. Then when the birds were fired up, the men let them go and they flew at each other. The feathers on the backs of the birds’ necks were stiff like a turned-up collar and what was left of their combs were gorged. Their tail feathers stood proud and they held their chests out. They faced each other, their necks protruding. The black one bobbed his head and the brown one followed. I imagined these cocks as me and Hindley. With me as the black one and Hindley the brown.