Read Online The Newgate Jig by Ann Featherstone - Free Book Online

harness, and
then I think of the farm they might have come from and the clean simplicity of
that life. Perhaps, turning out of its yard, waiting for his master to close a
gate or call to his boy, the patient carthorse tugged at a tuft of grass and
enjoyed its freshness, his last taste of the countryside before the city. And,
because of his eagerness, a blade or two is caught in his harness and travels
with him, through the night, along the lanes, a gentle reminder that there is
home and a comfortable stable after his hard day's labour. As a child, I lived
for a while among fields and hills, and it was perhaps the happiest time of my
life and why I take pleasure now in earth and sky rather than bricks and
buildings. The city is all I have known for many years, but I have sweet
memories of yellow fields of corn and the smell of the rain upon dry earth, and
those remembrances will calm my terror of the shadows and sweeten dark
melancholy.
    We had our destination
in view now, and following the carts over the bridge and along the road a way,
we came to a little fence and a sign that said 'Strong's Gardens. Finest
Quality Vegetables. Suppliers to Royalty'. I unlatched the gate and we went in.
This was the spot, and it gives me such pleasure to come here that, sometimes,
I have waited by the bridge just to make the pleasure of arriving last a little
longer! Today though, my boys were ahead of me, bounding down the path, on
either side of which are fields of cabbages, all as neat and tidy as a widow's
pocket. At the end of the path is a small house (once a lodge, I think, for
this area belonged to a lord and there was a great house, long since destroyed)
and, in the doorway, Mr Titus Strong. He is built like one of his horses -
broad-shouldered, a strong head and a clear eye - and, like them, good-natured.
The best of men. He is perhaps sixty years of age (it is difficult to be
certain for, to me, he has always looked the same), but he it was who gave me
friendship and a kindly word when I was in great need, and who I visit
whenever I can.
    We went into the
kitchen and I sat at the scrubbed table and watched him cut bread and bacon and
fill a cup with strong tea. He pushed the plate towards me and bade me 'Eat
well and God be wi' ye, Bob' (for he is a religious man of the Methodist
persuasion and struggles to keep it to himself) whilst he fetched scraps and
water for Brutus and Nero. Then he settled himself opposite me and filled his
own cup and talked about the Gardens and the crops, what cabbages will fetch
and how he had bought strawberry plants 'to try out and see if they will do
anything' this year. After I'd supped, he picked up his hat and stick and we
went out into the chill air. The gardens were misty and damp, and the cabbages
rose like so many heads from the ground. We took this path and that, winding in
and out, and my friend pointed to 'that plot, Bob, by the big plum tree, where
I shall try artichokes this year and see if they will do anything'. That is his
philosophy: to 'see if it will do anything'. Never forcing a crop, but tending
the soil and the seeds and making the beds just so with spade and muck, and
then simply watching and waiting. For if he has a quality which rises above all
others, it is that of patience.
    'And now, Bob, you know
what I want to hear. Have you seen her, my Lucy?'
    Brutus and Nero
lingered at either side of him and when he touched their heads, ever so
lightly, they wagged their tails in appreciation. He smiled down at them.
    'These are your
children, Bob. You care for them, keep them safe. You would give your right arm
to protect them.'
    I
thought of the Nasty Man and his wicked handkerchief.
    'I hoped you had come
with news of my child. But I see you haven't.'
    He struggled to control
his grief, and coughed loudly, turning away so that I shouldn't see his tears.
But his wife, Grace, had, coming through the gate with a basket of eggs. She
was tall, very tall, and with features which, though