Gates of Paradise (6 page)

‘You're gettin' above yourself, my gel, tha's your
trouble,' Mrs Haynes scolded. ‘You're forgettin' your place.'

‘Times are changin' Ma,' Betsy said, fighting back. ‘We don't have to know our place, no more. We can rise out of it if we wants. Look what they done in France, stormin' the Bastille an' openin' the jails an' choppin' off the king's head. If they'd know'd their place they'd never ha' done that, now would they?'

‘And look what happen to them after,' her mother said tartly. ‘Think a' that. They had
their
heads chopped off too, every last one of 'em. You don' want to go follerin' the Frenchies. They're a bad lot.' She glanced back at the path, her face hard. ‘Now here's your father comin'. I don' know what he'll say about it, I'm sure.'

Mr Haynes was a man of some consequence in the village partly because he worked for Mr Cosens the miller and partly because he was so strong, tall, thickset and muscular, with fists like hams and shoulders that could carry a full sack of flour with no apparent effort. He had the reputation of being able to crack ribs if annoyed. But on this occasion he was in an affable mood and no help to his wife at all. ‘Mornin' Betsy,' he said, as he joined them by the porch. ‘You look pretty.'

It was praise but it was too late to soothe his daughter's lacerated feelings. Her occasion was ruined. She'd been scolded – and publicly scolded what's more – when she should have been praised and admired. As she followed her parents miserably
into church and took her place at the back behind the worthies, she was cast into a gloom. She wished she'd never worn her cloak to church and never bought it neither, even though she looked extremely pretty in it – she couldn't help but know that – and felt warm and snug wrapped in its folds, which was something she'd never known at a winter's service before.

Watching her, from his place on the opposite pew, Johnnie was torn by her distress. He rarely paid much attention to the service and usually contrived to doze during the sermon but that Sunday the sight of her biting her pretty lip and surreptitiously wiping those pretty eyes kept him in a state of painful alert, and as soon as the praying was done, he made an excuse to his parents and slipped out of the church so that he could hide behind the yew tree and join her on her way out without anyone knowing. She was almost the last to leave, dawdling so far behind her mother that she'd only just stepped out of the porch when her parents had spoken to the vicar, said goodbye to their neighbours, walked through the churchyard and were out in the road and on their way home. All he had to do was put out an arm as she passed and pull her behind the shelter of the tree.

Then what a torrent of tears was shed and how angrily she detailed the undeserved unkindness of her treatment. ‘I'd every right to buy it,' she wept. ‘It was
my
wages. She disapproves of everything I do. She as good as told me I was a spendthrift. A
spendthrift, can you imagine that? She knows very well I saved up for it for years and years and hardly spent a single mortal penny in all that time. I thought 'twas a good buy. I thought I looked pretty in it. But not her. Oh no! She just sniffed at me. She said I was gettin' above myself. You don't think I'm gettin' above myself do you?'

Oh, he didn't. He truly didn't. He thought she had every right to buy her cloak – it was her money – and she looked beautiful in it.

His admiration cheered her. ‘Do I? Do I really? You're not just saying it?'

‘Beautiful,' he said, devoutly. ‘Like a princess.'

She found a rag in her pocket and blew her nose. ‘It's so unfair,' she said. ‘She's always a-goin' on at me. 'Tent my fault I'm pretty. To hear her talk you'd think I'd done it a' purpose.' Then another thought struck her. ‘Are my eyes red?'

‘Why don't we go for a walk?' he said hopefully. ‘Fresh air'll clear them.' There was no need to rush back. People were expected to talk a little when they went to church. So she blew her nose again and they set off together to walk through the bean field behind the church, heading north to the barn and the village pound, and to his great delight she held onto his arm and allowed him to wipe away her tears with his thumb. And as they walked and he admired, she gradually calmed.

When they reached the barn, they stood indecisively in its shadow, not wanting to return. ‘We could go further if you'd like,' he hoped.

‘Best not,' she said, looking up into his eyes, but not flirting this time, simply looking, ‘or they'll be wonderin'.'

The earth was so damp he could feel the chill of it through his boots. ‘We shall take cold if we stand here long,' he said.

‘Yes,' she said. But she didn't move. And neither did he. How could he? He was bewitched by the mere sight of her, with her mouth so soft and her eyelashes still spiky from all the tears she'd shed and her washed eyes not red at all but blue as the summer sky.

‘Oh, Betsy,' he said. And as she still didn't move, he put his arms round her red cloak and, greatly daring, bent his head to kiss her. It was the merest touch, a gentle brush of lip against lip, but it was a commitment and it left him breathless. ‘Oh, Betsy, my dearest dear.'

She stood before him, plagued by the oddest thoughts. Over the last year, she'd grown used to having young men make sheep's eyes at her. At first she was confused by it, because it was all so obvious and the other girls teased her about it, but after a while she learned how to flirt and then she found it flattering – for it showed how pretty she was – and comical too because they made themselves look such fools. But here with Johnnie everything was different. He wasn't making sheep's eyes and he didn't look a fool. He looked – well, strange really. Sort of intense. 'Twas just a kiss, she thought, and not very much of one, if the truth be told. She was
used to kisses, for lots of young men had tried to snatch a kiss when they were alone with her – and had had their ears boxed for their pains, which had been splendid fun. But Johnnie was gazing at her as if he couldn't bear to take his eyes from her face. Was there really so much power in one little soft kiss? It was a sobering thought and really rather exciting.

‘Oh, Betsy, my dearest dear,' he said again. The sky was huge and white behind her bright hood and a sea mist was rising out of the village to swirl across the field in long grey swathes. It reminded him of those odd clouds in Mr Blake's funny paintings. But it was horribly cold. ‘We must go back now,' he said, trying to be sensible. ‘But we'll walk out again, won't we?'

She began to recover, managed a smile, rallied and began to flirt. It was easier when you could flirt. ‘Well, possibly,' she said. ‘I shall have to see.'

Sunday April 18
^th
1852

My dearest Annie
,

Your most welcome letter arrived late yesterday afternoon, which I have to admit was a relief to me, for I was beginning to worry lest you had been caught in Friday's April shower and had taken cold. You will say that you are a good deal too sensible for such foolishness and your letter proves you right. So I will tell you simply that I am glad of it, and that as my work here goes on apace I shall soon be home with you again and then I can shield you from the showers in person
.

I went to church this morning, partly for the sake of my soul and partly to pray for the success of my endeavours but mostly, I must admit, irreligious creature that I am, in the hope of seeing Mr Boniface again. You will be pleased to know that my hope was justified, for he was sitting in the pew immediately opposite to mine and smiled quite kindly in my direction. After the service I took the opportunity of conversing with him. Unfortunately, I learnt no more than I had done on Friday, for he said he could remember very little, on account of he was ‘only a boy at the time', not more than nine or ten or thereabouts, and most things went over his head
.
But as he seemed affable and plainly had a little time to spare, I asked him whether he thought his older brother might not remember rather more. ‘I would like to speak to him, if it were possible.' I said. ‘I am told he worked for Mr Hayley and would have known Mr Blake, would he not, being that Mr Hayley was his friend and patron. If he is still in the village, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me
.'

The change in him was so marked, there was no doubt about it at all. In The Fox I could have put it down to a fevered imagination or overmuch porter, but out in the churchyard, in bright daylight and sober as the most sober of judges, I could not help but notice it. ‘That ent possible,' he said. ‘on account of he's been gone these forty-eight years.' Then he turned on his heel and walked away from me
.

His abrupt departure left me nonplussed for I could not be sure of his meaning without further questioning, and that was plainly to be denied me. Did he mean that his brother had gone away and is now living somewhere else, or did the poor young man take ill and die? It is most perplexing and more of a mystery than ever. But one thing is certain. This other Boniface was involved in the Blake's affairs in some way or another and his brother does not wish me to know of it. With perseverance I mean to find out what sort of involvement it was and what light it throws on the character of our poet, for I am sure it will prove germane to my biography
.

A few minutes later the vicar very kindly introduced me to a grizzled old man who said he'd been a potboy in The Fox in Mr Blake's day and he was more forthcoming and told me that Mr Boniface's brother was called Johnnie and worked as a gardener up at Turret House, and that ‘our mad poet' was a good neighbour and worked ‘uncommon long hours. Used to see the candle in his little window so late at night, you wouldn't believe it. Hard worker, we used to say. Not afraid to put his back into it. Unlike some I could mention. That ol' Mr Hayley never did nothing but ride about the countryside on his great hoss and build that great tower and that great high wall, which aren't fittin' in a village this size. Between you an' me, I never had much time for Mr Hayley, but your ol' Mr Blake was a different kettle a' fish
'

So if I have learnt nothing else, I now know that Blake was respected by the villagers and has a good reputation here. However, if I could discover the whereabouts of Mr Johnnie Boniface, providing he is still alive, I am sure I would learn a great deal more. I will make other enquiries, you may depend upon it, since an unanswered question is an irresistible challenge
.

Meantime, I send you my fondest love. Stay well and avoid showers
.

Your own Alexander G
.

It was well into the first week of November before the ballad of ‘Little Tom the Sailor' was finished and printed, and by then William and Catherine were heartily sick of it. It had dominated their lives to the exclusion of everything else. His sister was bad-tempered with neglect, they were both exhausted and William hadn't been able to write a single word of his own nor touch a single canvas.

‘Never mind,' Catherine commiserated. ‘'Tis done now and you are free of it. Tomorrow I shall build up the fire and you shall work as you will.'

But there was one more matter to be attended to before he could turn his attention to the poem that was burning his brain. Now that the commission was completed, his sister decided they no longer needed her help and said it was high time she returned to London and the rest of the family. So the next morning the fire remained unlit and the three of them set off to walk the seven miles to Lavant and the London coach.

It was a raw morning and despite the fact that they were wearing their ancient greatcoats and keeping up a very good pace, they were soon pink about the nose and so wrinkled with cold that they looked completely unlike their indoor selves. Winter had changed the landscape too. The ploughed earth was ridged and dark and damp, the trunks of the denuded trees speckled pale green with ancient lichen, the bushes sharp-twigged and
rabbit-brown, and the cathedral spire, which had looked such a dazzling white against the blue of the summer sky, was a forbidding grey now that the sky had lost its colour.

‘All is perception,' William said when his wife commented upon it. ‘What is seen by one man in one place and time is not the same as that seen by another with a different perspective. Vision changes with the seasons and the time of day.'

His sister was unimpressed by such philosophical speculation. She walked doggedly, her mouth covered by her neckerchief. ‘How much further is it?' she complained. ‘I don't want the coach to leave without me.'

There was no need for her to worry. They were in plenty of time and for once she managed to get a seat inside the coach which pleased her so much that she said goodbye to them as if they were the dearest of relations and had never quarrelled in their lives.