Читать книгу Ill Will - Michael Stewart, Michael Stewart - Страница 10

Flesh for the Devil

That night I dreamed we were on the moor; the heather was blooming, and you were teaching me the names of all the plants of the land: dog rose, gout weed, earth nut, fool’s parsley, goat’s beard, ox-tongue, snake weed. Your words were like a spell. I watched your lips form the sounds. I saw your tongue flit between your perfect teeth. Witches’ butter, bark rag, butcher’s broom, creeping Jenny, mandrake. We looked around at the open moorland, but it had all been hedged and fenced and walled. There were men, hundreds of them, burning the heather, digging ditches, breaking rocks. There were puritans, Baptists, Quakers, inventors, ironmasters, instrument-makers. Our place had been defiled. The flowers of the moor had been trampled on. The newborn leverets butchered. The mottled infant chicks of the peewit had been crushed underfoot. Guts in the mud. You were in the middle of the mob, a heckling throng, staring around. I held my hand out but I couldn’t reach you. You were lost to me.

The next thing I was aware of was someone taking me by the shoulders.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

I was in the barn with the swine, and a lump of a man with a bald head was shaking me roughly. He wore big black boots and a leather jerkin. He looked more like an ogre than a man. It was morning and light from the open barn door poured in.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

I was too weak from sleep to fight the brute.

‘What do you think this is, a doss-house?’

‘I had nowhere to stay,’ I said.

‘That’s no excuse.’

‘I was tired,’ I said.

‘Get up and get out. This isn’t a hostel for gypsies.’

‘I’m no kettle-mender.’

‘What’s your name?’

I thought for a moment; I wracked my brains.

‘Come on then, lad, speak up. Have the hogs gobbled your tongue?’

I remembered that young boy at chapel, Cathy, you were friendly with him. Died of consumption a few years since. I always liked his name. It was good and whole and clean.

‘My name, sir, is William Lee.’

I’d stolen the name of a dead child. A boy we laiked with before and after sermon.

‘Well then, William, Will, Billy, that doesn’t sound gypsy to me, I give you that. What kind of work can you do?’

‘I can dig, build walls, tend fowl, tend swine. Any work you have.’

‘Are you of this parish?’

‘I’m an offcumden, sir, from the next parish.’

‘I do need hands, as it happens.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve a wall that needs building. And stone that needs breaking. A bloke did a flit after a drunken brawl a few nights back. I’m a man down.’

‘I’m that man, sir. I’m a grafter.’

‘Sure you’re not a pikey?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I don’t employ gyppos.’

He took me over three fields, two of meadow, one of pasture, to where there was a birch wood and a small quarry. As we stood by the delph I realised, in fact, that he wasn’t as large as I’d at first thought. Though still heavyset and big of bone, he was not the giant my waking eyes had taken him for.

‘This is where you get the stone. There’s a barrow there. Don’t over-fill it, mind. I don’t want it splitting.’

He showed me where it had been parked for the night. Next to the barrow were several picks and wedges, as well as hammer and chisel. Then he walked me across to another field where a wall was partly constructed.

‘And this is the wall. In another hour or so there will be some men to join you. Some men to break stone and others to build. The one they call Sticks will tell you what to do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘The name’s Dan Taylor. I own this farm.’

With that the farmer walked back down to the farm buildings and I sat on a rock. I amused myself by pulling grass stalks from their skins and sucking on the ends. I gathered a fist of stones and aimed them at the barrow. I watched the tender trunks of the birch wrapped in white paper. A web of dark branches. The leaves and the catkins rustled in the breeze. I waited an hour or two before the first of the men arrived. He was skinny as a beanpole and his hair was dark. He had a bald patch to the side just above his ear, in the shape of a heart. His beard grew sparsely around his chops. He told me the farmer had spoken to him about me.

‘Well, William Lee, you do as you’re told and we’ll get along fine, laa. The name’s John Stanley. Everyone calls me Sticks.’

He unfurled his arms the way a heron stretches out its wings and offered me his willowy hand to shake.

We broke stone for a time before two more men appeared and joined us. When we were joined by another two men, Sticks put his pick down.

‘Right, men, we’re all here and there’s lots to do. Looks like the weather will hold out despite the clouds.’

He pointed up. There were patches of blue but mostly the sky consisted of clouds the colour of a throstle’s egg. Not storm clouds though.

‘Good graftin’ weather,’ one of the men said.

‘This is William Lee. He’ll be working with us today. Me, William and Jethro will work here to begin. Jed, you barrow, and you two start walling. We’ll swap after a time. Come ’ed.’

We set to work again.

‘You from round here then, laa?’ Sticks said as he loaded up a barrow with freshly broken stones.

‘The next parish. About thirty miles east.’

‘So what brings you to this parish then?’

‘I’m just drifting. No particular reason.’

‘People don’t just drift. They always have a purpose. You’re either travelling to somewhere or running away from someone. Which is it?’

‘Neither.’

‘Suit yourself. Give me a hand with this.’

I helped him lift a large coping stone.

‘Had a southerner here last week. From Sheffield. Think he found us a bit uncouth. Only lasted two days. Could hardly tell a word he said, his accent was that strong.’

‘You don’t sound like you’re from round these parts yourself,’ I said.

He had a strange accent and not a bit like a Calder one. He had a fast way of talking and a range of rising and falling tones that gave his speech a distinctive sound.

‘You travel around and you take your chances. I’ve done it myself. Got turned out of one village one time. The villagers threw stones at me and called me a foreigner. It’s getting harder and harder for the working man to make a living.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Because a bunch of aristocrats are stealing the land beneath our feet. They’ll turn us all into cottars and squatters. Before you know it there won’t be any working men, just beggars and vagrants, thieves and highwaymen, prostitutes and parasites. Mark my words, laa.’

‘Is that so?’

‘The days of farm work is coming to an end. They’ve got Jennies now across the land that can spin eighty times what a woman can spin on her tod. A lot of the labourers hereabouts have gone off over to Manchester, doing mill work, building canals. I’ve done canal work myself, built up the banks, worked on the puddling. Dug out the foundations. It’s back-breaking work, I’ll tell you that. It’s said that on the duke’s canal the boats can travel up to ten miles an hour. And not a highwayman to be seen. Done dock work as well, in Liverpool. That’s where I’m from, you see, laa.’

I liked the way he pronounced ‘Liverpool’, lumping it up and dragging it out.

I thought about where I had come from. All that I knew was that Mr Earnshaw found me on the streets of that same town. Perhaps I would go back there. Seek out my fortune in that place instead. I wasn’t fixed. No roots bound me to the spot. Where there was money to be made that’s where I was heading. Enough money to get you and Hindley. If I were to make the journey, I could use Sticks’s know-how.

‘I’m heading that way myself,’ I said.

‘Be careful how you go, laa. It’s not safe to walk the roads. A man’s liable to be picked up by a press gang or else kidnapped and sent to the plantations. They’re building big mills over in Manchester. But you won’t get me going there. Worse than the workhouse. Have you heard of the men of Tyre?’

‘No.’

‘Pit men. They cut the winding ropes, smashed the engines and set fire to the coal.’

‘Why?’

‘To protest against their working conditions. It’s not natural to never see the sun. A pit is hell on earth. A mill is not much better. Folk call it progress. But there’s trouble brewing, mark my words.’

‘So what brings you here then? Why did you leave Liverpool?’

‘Oh, I travelled about. Done this and that. You know how it goes.’

We worked on all morning with Sticks chelping in my ear. At lunchtime the farmer brought bread and ale. I asked for water.

‘What’s wrong with ale, lad?’

I had no intention of turning into a Hindley.

‘Nothing, sir, I just prefer God’s water.’

‘Well, there’s a stream up yonder you can drink from. Or there’s the well in the yard.’

After we’d eaten we swapped around. Me and Sticks set to work on the wall. Behind us was a birch wood and down the valley the farm and the outbuildings. We could see the thatched roofs from where we grafted. I shifted the stones into different sizes, heaping them into sets, saving the large uneven stones for the coping. I enjoyed the work even though it was slow going, like piecing together a puzzle. Each stone had to be carefully selected so that it sat just right with its mates. We started with the largest, heaviest stones, for the foundation of the wall, working up so that it got slimmer as we built. Every now and again we would strengthen it with through stones that hitched the two sides. We chose the flat side of the stones to face the wall, filling in the gap between the two sides with the odd-shaped smaller stones left behind, then the large, boulder-like ones as coping to top the wall and make it solid. The sun was up and the larks were singing way above our heads. So high in the sky I couldn’t actually see them. I saw a puttock being attacked by two crows and later the same crows attacked a glead that was twice their size. It’s just one battle after another, I thought. Even in these placid skies.

‘Had a problem with rats last week. The barn was overrun with them. Had to get the rat-catcher in with his dogs. Took him the best part of the day to flush them out and even then he didn’t get them all,’ said Sticks as he looked to place the stone in his hand.

‘Well, where there’s hens there’s rats,’ I said.

‘You’re right there.’

‘And where there’s swine there’s rats.’

‘True enough. Where there’s folks there’s rats,’ he said and laughed. ‘Seems, sometimes, folks and rats are the same thing.’

We worked on in silence for a time, selecting the right stones, placing them, then finding a better stone for the job and starting again. For every three we laid we’d have to go back a stone. After we had built about half a yard, Sticks stopped working and took out his clay pipe. He sat on one of the stones and stuffed the bowl of the pipe with tobacco. He snapped off the end of the pipe and took out a striker and a brimstone match. He held the striker to the match until the sparks caught. Then he held the lighted match to the bowl. He puffed out smoke and smiled at his success.

‘What’s your vice then?’

‘Eh?’

‘Do you play cards at all?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘We usually have a game after supper. Ace of hearts, faro, basset, hazard. What’s your preference?’

On rainy days I’d played hazard with you plenty of times, Cathy. When the storms outside raged even too ferociously for our tastes. But the other games I’d never heard of.

‘I’ll probably sit this one out,’ I said.

‘No head for gambling, eh?’

‘Need to earn some money first.’

‘There’s a tavern up the road. There’s skittles and ring-thebull every night if that’s more your tipple.’

‘I’m not much of a player.’

‘There’s a cockfight at least once a week, sometimes a fistfight. If you’ve no taste for blood there’s always dancing.’

‘I’m not much of a dancer.’

‘Suit yourself. But if you work hard you’ve got to play hard. The one goes with the other,’ he said.

He finished his pipe and put it in his pocket. We worked on all through the afternoon. By the end of the day we’d built up two yards of wall. We cleaned our tools with rags and stored them safe for the evening, then we traipsed down the hill for supper. Sarah, the farmer’s wife, served up oatmeal, bacon and potatoes. She was such a wee thing that I couldn’t help but picture her union with Dan Taylor and wince at the prospect. Like an ox on top of a stoat. The farmer rolled out a barrel of beer. He untapped it and poured the beer into large flagons. He handed them around.

‘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.

Then the brown one flew up, making a piercing squawk, striking out with his spurs. The black one retaliated by jumping over his opponent. They turned to face each other again. There was a stand-off before the birds squared up once more, strutting and sticking their chests out, clucking and squawking. A flapping of wings and the birds flew up. The black one was on the back of the brown, but then the brown bird flipped over and the table was turned. More strutting, then they squawked and pecked some. They started to spar more aggressively and it was hard to follow the action. There was screeching and blood. Feathers and dust. I couldn’t make out the details. The men cheered on.

I noticed Dick Taylor, standing apart from the men, not joining in or cheering, but smiling inwardly. His black eyes seemed blacker in his red face. Unlike the other men, his pleasure didn’t seem to come from the game itself. His joy was derived from the suffering of others. After a time, the commotion was over but I couldn’t tell who had won in the chaos and confusion. Both birds seemed to be bleeding badly. Neither was the victor. Dick was still smiling as money changed hands, the smile only a skull makes from the grave. I realised it was a different kind of battle I wanted with Hindley. Where the scars are worn on the inside. Whoever the loser and whoever the victor, their cuts would heal in time and they would be ready to fight again. But I didn’t just want Hindley dubbed, I wanted to watch his very spirit crushed.

With the exception of the red-skinned Dick, and the politically minded Sticks, the farm labourers were a simple enough bunch of men. As long as they had work during the day, ale and bread at night, card games and somewhere to lig down, they seemed agreeable. We all slept together in the barn, with a chaumin dish burning flaights. The arrangement being not that much more than I’d found in the hog barn, but I couldn’t really complain. It was dry and it was warm. We ate together in the kitchen in the morning. Cages hung from the ceiling beams with songbirds trapped inside. A blackbird, a nightingale and a throstle. An oak chest, a chest of drawers, a long table that accommodated us all around it, and chairs for us to sit on. The floor and tops were strewn with bowls and tins, jugs and mugs, syrup tins and porridge thibles. In the back kitchen the food was stored, beer brewed and oatcakes baked. The farmer’s wife was helped out by Mary, the peevish wife of Dick.

I decided I would stay here for a while. The work suited me and I enjoyed the company of this Sticks character. Or at least he didn’t lock me in with the beasts or take a whip to me. I kept my head down, sold my ale rations to the other men, and saved my pennies. I was biding my time until I had enough bunce to move on to Manchester town, maybe even Liverpool. I would save four pounds. That seemed a sum that would keep me from destitution and set me up wherever I found work next. I calculated that I could be back on the road again in eight weeks, if I kept clean.

We worked all week on the wall and by the Sunday it was finished. We stood back and admired our work. The wall was good and strong. No wind and no beast would break it. I looked around at the landscape all around me. Meadow, pasture and field enclosed by stone walls and beyond that moorland. Walls that reached up steep cloughs and bridged over fast-flowing becks. Walls that marked who owned what and marred the land they squatted upon.

It was the end of the first week and the farmer insisted that I accompany him to church. As you know, Cathy, I am no lover of the chapel, but it was easier to keep the peace. He loaded up a coach with the members of his family and me and Jethro and a few others followed on foot. Sticks refused to accompany us, saying that he could worship his God any place he liked. He didn’t need churches. When we got to the place of worship, we were expected to walk up the church and bow to the parson. The squire and other parish notables sat in state in the centre of the aisle and erected a curtain around their peers to hide them from the vulgar gaze of the likes of me and Jethro and the other men. The minister talked of virtue and charity. But I had neither virtue or charity, just bile and contempt. God was not my friend. I sought only the company of the devil. Indeed, I had much in common with him, for had he not been cast out of heaven and was he not now wandering the earth in search of his revenge?

Days went by, then another week. I had saved a full pound as I’d planned to do and was a quarter to my goal. There were more walls to build and we worked steadily every day, taking it in turns, using hammer, wedge and chisel to break stones in the morning, then hand and eye to build the wall in the afternoon. The next day, we’d swap it around. It helped to break up the monotony of the job. I mostly partnered with Sticks and we grafted with me listening and him talking. His conversation ranged from the political to the personal within the same breath.

‘Have you heard of the tithe awards, laa?’

‘What’s that?’

‘A tenth of produce given to the rector of the land. One pig in ten, one egg in ten, one cow in ten. But the mill dun’t have to give a tenth of their produce. What do you think about that then?’

I shrugged.

‘I tell yer, it’s unfair is what it is.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘We’ve got to fight for a fairer system, laa. No one is going to make the world fairer, only us. By hard graft. You’ve got to fight for everything you get in this life. Even love. My first love was Mary. Fourteen years of age. I was seventeen. What a beauty. Like a painting. At the very first sight I was taken, I remember it like this morning. I had a feeling so strong for her that I forgot what I was supposed to be doing. I just wanted to be with her all day, morning, afternoon and evening. As soon as I’d finished my work I’d be there, like a dog. It was just like in the songs, when a temptress puts a spell on a man.’

Oh, I knew that feeling all right, Cathy.

The wall-building was slow but satisfying work. I liked holding the stones in my hands, turning them over. I liked their weight and hardness. Something that was solid and dependable. And it was good to stand back at the end of the day and look over what we’d achieved.

When the wall was done there was more work for me. Dan had stable work I could do and to which I was accustomed, and plough work to which I was not but soon became so. Every morning I rose before four of the clock and would go into the stable. There I would cleanse the stable, groom the horses, feed them, then prepare my tackle. I would breakfast between six of the clock and half past the clock. Then plough until three. I took half an hour for dinner, attended to the horses until I don’t know what hour, when I would return for supper. After supper, for extra bunce, I would either sit by the fire to mend the shoes of the farmer’s family or beat and knock hemp or flax, or grind malt on the quern, pick candle rushes, or whatever the farmer bade me do until eight of the clock. Then I would attend to the cattle. There was not much time for leisure, but the pennies were piling up and I kept a bag of them hidden in the woods in the hollowed-out trunk of an elm.

The other workers began and ended each day by thanking God, but I would do no such thing. And so this became my routine for the next few weeks. The work was hard but I grew strong and my thoughts turned again to my plan. I now had two pounds. I was halfway there. Perhaps in Manchester I could set myself up and be my own master. Every night I would wander to the hollow and count my pennies. Once I had counted them, I would pile them all carefully back into the bag and hide it in the hollow as a squirrel does an acorn. It was a disturbed night in the barn with the other labourers, as some of them snored or else talked in their sleep. When slumber did visit me I dreamed about you. Sometimes I would wake with you on top of me, but when I reached out to touch your skin you turned into air. In another dream, I came into your chamber and you were there in bed with Edgar and he was leering at me. Other times I’d dream I was with Hindley, with my hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him, and I would wake with a jolt and the disappointment of an empty grasp.

I would lie on my back, trying to block out noxious smells and the noisy racket, filling my head with plans of revenge. Yes, I would make my fortune in Manchester or Liverpool, but at some point in the future, I intended to return to you, an improved gentleman. I remembered the adage of the hare and the tortoise. I would take my time. I would savour my vengeance. I would linger as it lied.

With this in mind, one day I got into conversation with Sticks and asked him what I could do to improve my situation.

‘You need to read and write, laa.’

‘I know my alphabet,’ I said.

‘That’s a start. But you look around you at those who can read and write and those that can’t. Every labourer here is illiterate, me excepted. Do you think the squire is illiterate? Do you think the parson is? Or the doctor or the lawyer or the judge?’

‘So why do you choose the life of a farm labourer if you can read and write?’

‘Like I’ve said to you before, laa. There’s them that’s running to something, and them that’s running away.’

‘Which one are you?’

‘No matter, laa, no matter. Look, you want to improve your station in life then you start with your letters and your words. Everything comes from that.’

Sticks was right: if I were to gain dominion over Hindley’s mind and over his estate, and also gain your true respect and be a worthy adversary to Edgar, I would have to go beyond the rudimentary lessons you taught.

‘So how would I go about it then?’ I said.

‘I tell you what, laa, there’s a Sunday school that’s been set up in the village by the Methodists there. Been going a few years now, and it’s not just for bairns.’

Sure enough, when I went into the village the following Sunday I was informed that there was indeed a school for youths of both sexes, from fourteen to twenty-one years of age, and that it was in a commodious room at number four Sheppard Street. I attended one of the sessions. There were about twenty pupils sitting on the floor as there were no chairs. Most of them looked to be farm labourers. The teacher was a Methodist called George, simply dressed in black with a white silk scarf. His skin was pale and his hair was short and parted on one side. He copied out some passage from the bible in neat handwriting, using chalk and a slate, and said it was our duty to learn to read it for ourselves. He turned to us and picked up a bible. He held it aloft.

‘God gave you eyes and a brain. This book is not just for priests and nobility, it is for you and your kin, and it’s your duty to read the truth within.’

He called us ‘children of wrath’. He chalked up the letters of the alphabet on the board and we had to join in as he sang them out. It was a joyless and repetitive experience. I tallied that the classroom was not for me. I tried to take instruction but something in my head resisted. I was familiar with the alphabet in any case and would as much be able to self-learn given a book or two and some time. I went on three or four separate occasions and was by then further on with my learning but not sufficient as I’d hoped. When George was taken up with tutoring one morning, I took hold of one of the bibles in the room and secreted it inside my surtout. I knew its stories well from Joseph’s sermons, and figured this would help me to sightread. I waited for the lesson to come to an end, then walked out of the school bidding George good day and saying that I would see him the following Sunday, even though I had no intention of going to the school ever again.

So, the next Sunday, after telling the farmer and his wife that I was off to school, I walked up and onto the moor and, after some searching, I found a shallow cave where I could self-school. It was a good spot, a long way from any path, and well hidden. I spent every spare hour I had there. When the workers were playing cards and drinking ale, I would sit with my book. I brought blankets and made the space comfortable. I found a flint and steel in one of the barns, collected kindling and wood, filched a few flaights from the lower barn, and there I’d stay, with a fire to keep me warm, nicely sheltered. Once or twice I even spent the night there, waking at dawn and sneaking back into the barn while the others were still sleeping, joining the rest of the labourers without anyone the wiser. But mostly I studied. It was hard-going to begin with. I opened the book on the first page and commenced my learning. The first word was easy. I knew the sound of ‘I’ and ‘n’ and could put them together. ‘The’ I also knew. The third word was my first challenge, but by saying it aloud in stages, I got there. First ‘beg’ then ‘inn’ then ‘ing’: ‘beginning’. Many hours those first few pages took me and I was glad I had no company to hear my clumsy efforts. A Hindley or a Joseph would soon have made me regret my efforts, sure enough.

It was all God said this and God said that. And God made this and God made that. I always liked the story of the Garden of Eden. And I was pleased when I got that far. The story was familiar to me but it was good to reacquaint myself with its lesson. Though it was not the orthodox one. God lied to Adam and Eve. He said that if they ate the forbidden fruit then they would die. But the fruit was not poisonous and they did not die. In any case, God had made the tree and made the fruit. Then the serpent came along and talked to Eve. But the serpent did not lie because he said that if they ate the fruit they would know good and evil and the snake was right. They did learn good and evil when they ate the fruit. God lied. The devil told the truth. When they were cast out of Eden, I thought that this was for the best. Who would want to stay in Eden under the authority of a tyrant? I was on the side of the snake. For wasn’t the snake also a child of heaven?

I recalled that day when we clambered down Duke Top, through the wooded clough past Cold Knoll, resting in the heather near Lower Slack.

‘What’s that?’ you whispered.

I didn’t see it at first, so well hidden was it in the undergrowth, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw it, a viper’s nest, the mother with her babies underneath her belly. They were all curled around each other for warmth. The mother bobbed her head and flicked her tongue. She saw us watching her and coiled protectively around her brood. We sat and watched, as stiff as rocks, not wanting to disturb the scene. We hardly even dared to breathe. At last we crept away, leaving them alone again. There was something majestic about that creature and we had both been bewitched by her finery.

And I read of Cain and Abel, of Cain slaying Abel, and I realised that Cain had acted in haste and could have punished his brother much worse by not killing him. In this way Abel escaped his true punishment. I was determined that Hindley would not escape his. On I read, it getting easier verse by verse and chapter by chapter. So that by the time I got to Exodus my reading was accomplished. I read all the culinary advice God offered Moses. I read the Lord’s commandments and vowed to disobey them all: I would steal, I would bear false witness, I would covet my neighbour’s oxen, and I would kill if I felt like it. But better to kill a man’s spirit, to crush it entirely, while saving his flesh for the devil.