On one such afternoon, a Saturday, a thin young man rode into Clevely, hitched his horse outside the church gate, vanished into the shade of the yew trees and after a few minutes emerged again and rode away. The body of the old Squire lay in quiet corruption under the great stone tombstone, and his ghost did nothing to forestall or hinder or punish the young man in his action; which was strange. For it had happened; enclosure had come. The new notice stated that the necessary Act for the enclosure of the parish had been passed and that all those who had claim to the Waste and had not already done so should furnish a clear and correct statement of those rights within one week, either to Sir Richard Shelmadine’s bailiff or to the office of Mr Turnbull, attorney, in Baildon. It looked official but harmless enough, and even Matt Ashpole, when it had been read slowly and distinctly twice over to him, said:
‘Well, that ain’t so bad as I feared. That don’t say nowt about mucky little owd bits of paper. That say a correct and clear claim. Well, all of us hev claims that are correct and Amos shall see that they’re set down clear. Of course we’ll take Matt Juby’s owd paper and Bert Sadler’s, just to show the sort of thing we all had, no doubt, till some silly young bitch used ‘em as hair curlers; and for the rest Amos shall write out clear correct statements. I’ll give him the gist of it and he’ll put it proper-like.’
Amos, duly approached, said, ‘Well, it’s like this here, Matt. You don’t go to chapel and I don’t care about the Waste; so if I bother with your business, you’ll hev to bother with mine. I got the chapel walls so high now that I can’t manage any longer singlehanded, and with the days so short and the roads so bad I can’t get anybody to labour with me regular. S’pose I say I’ll draw up your paper, will you come and help me with the last three layers of timber? I don’t aim to go much higher than that, and anyway I ain’t got much wood left. Next thing I’ll hev to reckon with is the roof….’
‘Now you come right down off that there roof of yours,’ Matt said. ‘I do wish you’d get it into your skull, Amos, that you ain’t doing us no mortal favour. You live on the Waste, same as us; so do Shad’s new donkey that I got for him—best bargain I ever struck. Now when you want leather fetched from Baildon, who cart it? Shad do. You picture for yourself when there ain’t no Waste, nor no donkey. Nor my owd Hoss. I did reckon I’d got him provided for, come what might, but I was wrong!’ Matt’s voice turned sour. The ejectment of the Fullers had been a heavy blow to him. ‘None the less, Amos, if you’ll scribe out a decent paper for us, all right, I’ll come and give you a hand with your tabernacle, though I’m church myself,’ said Matt, who never went near the church, but did occasionally send his children so that they might qualify for the parson’s ‘dole’.
After much argument and much crossing-out and insertion of phrases a fair copy of the statement was produced; a strange combination of pomposity and naivety.
‘To Sir Richard Shelmadine, Bart.; His Majesty’s House of Commons; the Commissioners for the enclosing of Clevely parish and all else whom it may concern—We the undersigned be the dwellers on the Waste in the said parish and this be our case. From time immemorial we have lived on the Waste and made our living thereby. Saving Matt Juby and Bert Sadler we don’t have papers to show; theirs are enclosed herewith as a sample of the lot. We beg leave of your honours to say that in the eyes
of God and by right of custom we have claim for some provision to be made for us when the Waste shall be divided. We think your honours would not wish to have on your conscience the misery and hardship that would come upon us if we be driven off the land where we support ourselves as our fathers and forefathers did in years gone by. Trusting your honours to consider our rights and throwing ourselves upon your justice and mercy, we be,
sirs, your humble and obedient servants––’
‘Ah,’ Matt said judicially, when Amos read out the final draft, ‘that read very well.’ He savoured the businesslike sound of ‘sample of the lot’, his own contribution. ‘Now you sign, proper fashion, Amos, and if you’ll be so kind as to write my name for me I’ll make shift to copy it somehow; then Dicky Hayward can put his—he can write a bit. Amos, maybe we should have made special
mention of Dicky, him losing his arm and all–-‘
‘It would be hard to work it in now,’ Amos said. He was tired of the whole business.
‘It could go in after “divided”. It could read on “specially in the case of Dicky Hayward what give his arm for King and Country”—that’d read very well, Amos.’
‘I don’t think it’d be wise to make any special cases. Once you start where would you stop? You could go on and mention Shad with his donkey to provide for and old Mrs Hayward who must hev somewhere to hang out her wash. Best leave it as ‘tis, to my mind.’
There was still quite a lot to do. Amos had to write out Matt’s name to be copied; and for the others, less ambitious, he must write the name on the paper itself: ‘Kate Hayward, her mark; Matt Juby, his mark’—quite a number of names; then the marks must be made.
It was Wednesday by the time the paper was ready, the two legal claims folded within, with whole enclosed in a clean sheet, sealed with a blob of cobbler’s wax and addressed to Mr Turnbull.
‘I’ll journey into Baildon tomorrow to deliver it all safe and sound,’ Matt said. It was he who had insisted that the paper should go to Mr Turnbull, not to Mr Hadstock.
Mr Hadstock was Squire’s man; the lawyer, he thought, was impartial.
‘And then on Friday,’ Amos said, ‘you’ll come and give me a hand with the chapel.’
‘Oh—the chapel,’ Matt said. ‘I ain’t earned nowt this week yet, Amos, galloping to and fro on this job. Gimme Friday to knock up a crust; don’t, I’ll be too weak and feeble to heave for you. Thass all right for you—I see that there mawther of yours carting a bloody great basket of goodies for you every week. Not that I blame or grudge, mark you. I only wish one of mine had done as well for herself. Look, I’ll give you a hand Satterday.’
A few minutes later Amos said to Julie, ‘Next time Damask bring anything across the road, whether I’m here or not, you tell her to take it straight back. I never did feel easy about it, and I ain’t heving Matt Ashpole saying we take charity. I always hev earned what we need, and so long as God gives me health and strength so I will. We don’t need no luxuries!’
One could only hope, Julie thought, behind the meek mask which she presented to Amos, that Damask would choose her time for visiting carefully. It was such an easement to have a cup of tea whenever one felt like it.
Mr Turnbull admitted that he had a sentimental side; so he permitted himself to sigh a little as he opened the package and spread out the paper which bore the mark of several different dirty thumbs and fingers, and which seemed to have been in close contact with onions, leather, human sweat and horse manure. It had, the old lawyer thought, another odour too: the sad smell of simple man’s invincible trust and hope for justice and mercy— in this case all misplaced and doomed to disappointment, Mr Turnbull thought as he laid aside the modern document and turned to the enclosed, aged ones. They, at least, did constitute valid claims; Matt Juby and Bert Sadler would probably receive an acre or two apiece to compensate them for their lost rights. As for the rest… And really this was no way for a man of law to be
thinking, he reflected briskly; rights were rights, legal documents must be preserved and ready to produce when called for, or where would lawyers be in the scheme of
things?
Nevertheless the phrase ‘in the eyes of God and by right of custom’ had an oddly haunting quality.
The three commissioners—the same ones who had surveyed and redistributed the parish of Greston—set up their headquarters at Baildon, at the Hawk in Hand, a comfortable little hostelry within reasonable reach of the acres which were to be rattled into fragments and then painstakingly reassembled after the manner of a jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately the eldest member of the group, a Mr Sawston, was assigned the largest and best-furnished bedchamber, which faced east, and on the first night of his stay the wind blew, unhindered, straight across from Russia, across the flat plains of northern Europe, across the ruffled North Sea, in at the estuary where Bywater stood and on until it came to the old, ill-fitting casement window of the Hawk in Hand at Baildon. Mr Sawston arose next morning with a very stiff neck which made him irritable and impatient. He and his colleagues were receiving two guineas a day apiece, which was a considerable remuneration in a period when a farm-labourer earned seven shillings for a week’s hard toil and a country clergyman was ‘passing rich’ with fifty pounds a year. But Mr Sawston, moving about, with his head a little on one side, in an aura of pungent embrocation, was in no state to linger over the job, fond as he was of money and useful as he found it. His one idea was to get back to his comfortable chambers in Chancery Lane. Under his guidance the commission carved up Clevely with the despatch of a butcher, with a shop full of customers, jointing a new carcass.