Captain Swing and the Blacksmith

Beatrice Parvin

Description

In a world of relentless poverty and harsh punishment, 17-year-old Sue Trindall scratches a living selling buttons and dreams of a better future. When she is deceived by the dark charms of blacksmith Jack Straker, her life is torn apart and she is banished from her home. Sanctuary in the remote village of Imber gives an opportunity to seek retribution - but an enchanting pearl button twists her life on to a path she could not have imagined.Steeped in the rich lyricism and storytelling tradition of British folk songs, this haunting tale of love and tragedy is played out against the notorious Swing riots of 1830, when the quiet fields of England blazed with violence and fires in the night.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 10 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803133546
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2017 Beatrice Parvin

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1803133 546

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd






For my parents


Contents
Acknowledgements

1st Verse
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

2 nd Verse
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

3 rd Verse
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

4 th Verse
Chapter 16
Chapter 17

5 th Verse
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20

6 th Verse
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23

7th Verse
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26

8 th Verse
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Amesbury, 1845

About the Author


Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people.
A big thanks to all my fellow students and tutors who pushed me further and gave so much encouragement on the MFA Creative Writing course at Kingston University, especially Dr David Rogers, Alan McCormick and Andrea Stuart.
Thanks to Rebecca Johnson, Catherine Elvey and Polly Tuckett who gave the thumbs up to early, very scratchy extracts; Lucy Kettlety for her Wiltshire wisdom; John Farndon, Lena Augustinson and John Eacott, Karen Vost, Lil Sullivan, Louise and Ghassan Nehaili, Amanda Rodgers and Alice Cescatti for keeping the faith; Sara Rennie, Helen Lindsay and Adrian Palka, for their inspirational country retreats; Friederike Huber for her fabulous design of the cover and CD; Ruth Underwood, author of ‘Forever Imber’ and the British Library; Torla Evans and Meriel Jeater at the Museum of London, for arranging access to the Tony Pilson collection of buttons; Alison Craig for all her enthusiasm and everyone at Matador.
The recording could not have happened without the talent and knowledge of Emmie Ward and Gili Orbach who first introduced me to the songs and thought it was a good idea; Rebecca Hollweg, who miraculously condensed 365 pages into eight verses; Pete Watson for his inspired piano improvisation and accordion; Frank Biddulph for his dedication to the project, soulful violin and for writing the perfect waltz.
A huge thanks to Simon Christophers, Yazid Fentazi and Andy Hamill for their skill and generosity, without whom we could not have produced the album.
And finally to all my family, especially my children Evelyn and Nico.


1st Verse
Imber, Salisbury Plain 1843


Chapter 1
I have been told that I am a glass-half-full person. I suppose that I am but it depends on the size of the glass. Before I ever came to live in Imber, and bad luck followed me, I would have agreed with all my heart. Not only did I tend to see the joy in any matter but my glass was more of a tankard: a great big pewter tankard that the landlord of the Coach and Horses would keep by for my father’s many visits. Of course, on the occasion when I did ponder on the wretched side of life my grief would be great but as those times were fewer than they are now, it was of little consequence. Now my glass is a tiny measure, the sort that gentlemen use after dinner for a small, strong sip of liquor. When half full I can barely taste the joy and when I see it empty, bitterness creeps down my throat. No forgiveness lingers in my heart, only the desire for retribution.
I was born in the year of our Lord 1822 and raised in the town of Amesbury, a place of middling size and respectability. A river, not too broad, circled the southern edge of the town like a necklace and pearls of the feathery kind glided upon the surface. Their long thin necks, coral and jet beaks, brightened the grey skies and soft greens of the willows giving the town a veil of tranquillity that hid discontent behind closed doors. They slid beneath the arches of our bridge ignoring the clatter of coaches passing above, to and fro on the Salisbury Road.
The town was chiefly known for a string of public houses that served these travellers and also its inhabitants who made generous use of their services. Drinking Lane, we called it. Here children found their entertainment; ragged boys would wait barefoot in the shadow of stable doors waiting for the sound of high wheels cutting through mire and gravel. When the horses came to a halt, sweaty and frothy at the bit, they darted forth, jostling and scrabbling with one another while Lord Such-and-such and Lady So-and-so descended briefly into the muck and disorder of our world.
‘If you please sir, a penny!’ they’d cry.
The coachman would raise his whip, snapping the air in mock anger. Once the tip of the whip had come close to filthy toes they would scarper up alleys and over walls waiting till they could next try their luck, though I don’t remember the glint of a coin ever coming their way.
We older girls gawped at a distance, taking in brief glimpses of fashion and colour. Like sponges we absorbed every seam, cut, lace, bend and flow of the fabric that covered the splendid creature. On worn stone steps or with arms folded while we waited our turn by the well we argued with one another over who had the better eye.
‘It were taffeta.’
‘No it weren’t. Chinese silk, I’d bet on it.’
‘I saw three frills, and another set in yellow peeping underneath.’
‘There were more than four. I counted six.’
‘I’m sure she was from London with such high fashion.’
‘She’s from abroad.’
‘How so?’
‘The funny cape she was wearing is known as a peleeze – from Paris.’
‘Oh, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
And so it went on.
Sisters or friends or any distant connection to the chambermaids at the Coach and Horses, the inn favoured by persons of quality, would be questioned about the said lady. Where she hailed from, how she spoke, moved and breathed was of interest. Any detail gleaned was gold and those possessing such nuggets of information used them as a kind of bargaining tool and were temporarily admired for the knowledge they held. Hannah, a scullery maid at the inn, was a keen informant – knowledge gained by carousing with young gentlemen. She told us all sorts, though I’m sure the only true information she could have been relied upon was the contents of their chamber pots.
The Coach and Horses was the largest and oldest inn on Drinking Lane, spilling rooms and outhouses by the side of the pavement like a paunchy squire. Buttresses and beams, walls and chimneys bulged and bent with the sheer weight and age of the place. Windows had no scheme or reason, scattered without order on the dirty cream walls. Grand glass panes sat with the commonplace, the leaded by the sashed. It was difficult to know how one room was linked to another, passages led to dead ends and doors led to cupboards. I did not know the inn personally but only from hearsay. My father was a regular customer at the Coach, but at the south end – quite another place from the north end where strangers dined at their leisure. The landlord, Mr Fothergill, knew his business and despite his efforts to attract a better class of customer kept this bar a going concern for any money earned is better than none. But he did not welcome the general riff-raff of the town. They found cheer at the other end of the lane at the King’s Arms or the New Inn. My father, though humble, was a man of letters which set him above the average customer and was always welcome as he had a talent for badinage. Indeed, he had his very own tankard brought out on his arrival. Though in my last years in Amesbury that welcome was not quite as generous as once it had been.
I worked as a presser and mender of linen. Tablecloths, nightgowns, shirts and ladies’ frocks were my living. I picked up the damp washing from the laundry and took it back to my cottage because that’s how I liked to be: on my own and not with some old girl breathing down my neck telling me to work faster. I would never have liked to work as a laundress because I wanted to keep my hands as smooth as I could till after I was married. You should have seen those girls that worked for Mrs Ainsworth; their hands were all raw and red from the suds. Sure enough, I got burns from that hot iron from time to time, but they were nothen like the hands of those washer girls.
It was a rum little establishment, cramped and not really fitting for the task. She had ten or more girls at a time all squashed together inside a room not much bigger than our scullery.
When I came to pick up my load at the hatch I’d see them out back, all of them bent over double, shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing and beating, moaning and gabbing behind Mrs Ainsworth who wasn’t that tall. The top of their white caps bobbed up and down in the damp steam like swans in the mist. One odd time a girl looked up to meet my eyes; I gav