hardly was the baby born – it was a boy – before the old woman said,
‘There, my dear, you’ve a fine lad and now you can claim your Trimble.’
It was so early in the morning that I was still there, and I asked,
‘Her what ?’
‘Her Trimble,’ said Agnes. ‘God bless my soul. Where were you reared never to have heard of that saint among women, Dame Trimble?’
‘Let me hear now,’ I said.
So, what time she bound the belly-band firmly about my son’s raw navel, she told me about Dame Trimble as the story had been handed down a hundred years or more. A young girl, one of a large family reared in dire poverty, had gone to work for an old wool chandler, who married her and soon afterwards had died, leaving her well-to-do. She had no children of her own, but was all too well aware of the hardship which childbirth means to poor women. She was shrewd, too, and dealt wisely with the fortune she had been left, so that she died rich. She had founded a charity, now known familiarly as ‘The Trimble’ by which any poor woman in Baildon – poor meaning any woman whose husband was not a full journeyman or its equivalent – could claim upon the birth of any child, meat, bread and ale for forty days following, a woollen gown, a hood and a pair of shoes.
‘Dummy’s wife is still wearing the one she got with her first,’ old Agnes said,‘she sold the others. There’s a good market for such. And the food and drink are good too, very generous, enough for the woman, and her man, and a bit over for the midwife if the family ain’t too large, as in this case.’
‘Who hands it out?’
‘The monks. At the Alms Gate. One of the parents has to take the child and show it. It’s the father’s job, though I’ve known mothers to crawl out on the second day, them with no men to rely on. Dame Trimble made no difference, she didn’t even say respectable women.’
So, on the next day, I had to forgo my dinner and run home and take the child to the Alms Gate. I felt silly and sheepish, expecting to be the butt for jeers, standing there with a baby in my arms; instead I found myself an object of envy. And well I might be. Brother Justinius was doling out the usual pease-porridge and bread, but at the sight of me he called out to someone behind him and bade me wait a little. Kate’s Trimble, when it came was food for a family, more food and better than I had seen at one time since I left Rede.
‘The gown,’ Brother Justinius said, ‘according to the rules, must be of the woman’s own choosing, and the shoes made to her measure. So they must wait. By what name is the child to be baptized?’
‘Stephen,’ I said clearly. Kate had chosen the name, long ago, because Brother Stephen had been kind to her.
‘These Norman names, how fashionable they grow,’ said Brother Justinius, with something sour in his voice.
I put on my most stupid, dull-witted look and said,
‘Norman is it? We thought it came from the Bible.’
He gave me a sharp look. ‘It is to be hoped that you are not tainted with Lollardry, to be for ever referring to Master Wycliffe’s Bible.’
‘Master Wycliffe? I do not know him. Is he a Baildon man?’
‘Oh, get along with you,’ Brother Justinius said crossly, and slammed down the hatch.
I hurried home to Kate with all the good food, and a little tale to make her laugh.
Dame Trimble’s sweet charity carried us bravely through the next weeks; there was enough for Kate and me, and most often Old Agnes as well. Kate got back her strength and I gained some flesh. The baby throve surprisingly, and although he had been born a full year before my plans made me ready to welcome him, now that he was here I loved him very dearly.
April brought in the softer weather, with its one disadvantage to us who dwelt in Squatters Row; when the gutters of the upper town ran freely the Town Ditch often brimmed over until its stinking waters lapped our doors. Still, summer was coming in, and by the first week
‘There, my dear, you’ve a fine lad and now you can claim your Trimble.’
It was so early in the morning that I was still there, and I asked,
‘Her what ?’
‘Her Trimble,’ said Agnes. ‘God bless my soul. Where were you reared never to have heard of that saint among women, Dame Trimble?’
‘Let me hear now,’ I said.
So, what time she bound the belly-band firmly about my son’s raw navel, she told me about Dame Trimble as the story had been handed down a hundred years or more. A young girl, one of a large family reared in dire poverty, had gone to work for an old wool chandler, who married her and soon afterwards had died, leaving her well-to-do. She had no children of her own, but was all too well aware of the hardship which childbirth means to poor women. She was shrewd, too, and dealt wisely with the fortune she had been left, so that she died rich. She had founded a charity, now known familiarly as ‘The Trimble’ by which any poor woman in Baildon – poor meaning any woman whose husband was not a full journeyman or its equivalent – could claim upon the birth of any child, meat, bread and ale for forty days following, a woollen gown, a hood and a pair of shoes.
‘Dummy’s wife is still wearing the one she got with her first,’ old Agnes said,‘she sold the others. There’s a good market for such. And the food and drink are good too, very generous, enough for the woman, and her man, and a bit over for the midwife if the family ain’t too large, as in this case.’
‘Who hands it out?’
‘The monks. At the Alms Gate. One of the parents has to take the child and show it. It’s the father’s job, though I’ve known mothers to crawl out on the second day, them with no men to rely on. Dame Trimble made no difference, she didn’t even say respectable women.’
So, on the next day, I had to forgo my dinner and run home and take the child to the Alms Gate. I felt silly and sheepish, expecting to be the butt for jeers, standing there with a baby in my arms; instead I found myself an object of envy. And well I might be. Brother Justinius was doling out the usual pease-porridge and bread, but at the sight of me he called out to someone behind him and bade me wait a little. Kate’s Trimble, when it came was food for a family, more food and better than I had seen at one time since I left Rede.
‘The gown,’ Brother Justinius said, ‘according to the rules, must be of the woman’s own choosing, and the shoes made to her measure. So they must wait. By what name is the child to be baptized?’
‘Stephen,’ I said clearly. Kate had chosen the name, long ago, because Brother Stephen had been kind to her.
‘These Norman names, how fashionable they grow,’ said Brother Justinius, with something sour in his voice.
I put on my most stupid, dull-witted look and said,
‘Norman is it? We thought it came from the Bible.’
He gave me a sharp look. ‘It is to be hoped that you are not tainted with Lollardry, to be for ever referring to Master Wycliffe’s Bible.’
‘Master Wycliffe? I do not know him. Is he a Baildon man?’
‘Oh, get along with you,’ Brother Justinius said crossly, and slammed down the hatch.
I hurried home to Kate with all the good food, and a little tale to make her laugh.
Dame Trimble’s sweet charity carried us bravely through the next weeks; there was enough for Kate and me, and most often Old Agnes as well. Kate got back her strength and I gained some flesh. The baby throve surprisingly, and although he had been born a full year before my plans made me ready to welcome him, now that he was here I loved him very dearly.
April brought in the softer weather, with its one disadvantage to us who dwelt in Squatters Row; when the gutters of the upper town ran freely the Town Ditch often brimmed over until its stinking waters lapped our doors. Still, summer was coming in, and by the first week
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