Short story - Where the Ramsons Grow

#folklore #shortstory #landscape

‘Out across the fields, where the ramsons grow,

The Little River flows by;

On the arch of the bridge my lover stood,

And away my heart did fly.’

A Wickwar Folk Song, source unknown.

The ancient bell chimed out the fifth hour as the sun dawned on this, new May day.  My boots clacking down the High Street and the chorus of the birds – the sparrows and swallows, tits and the odd call of a buzzard were the only noises to break the silence that filled the morning.

In the sleepy chambers around me, the shopkeepers and grooms, the house staff, gentlemen and chimney sweeps were unconscious and oblivious to the possibilities of the day, as a rush of summer filled the sap, and as I made my way slowly to Tan House Farm. 

I adjusted my eyes as I prepared to accept the familiar view across the woods, away to the East.  It was all there.  The paddocks and the emerald green of the underwood, the deeper greens of the sunken lanes criss crossing the canopy, and the shadow of the edge beyond.

Today was to be different though.  Today, above the woods and above the line of the escarpment, beyond the ancient churches and camps of the ridge and up, seemingly into the red sunrise, was a longed – for sight.  In a blue haze, easily mistaken for low cloud, and knowing in their presence were The Hills.

“See me; see me.” They seemed to say.  I stumbled on, my mind racing with the weight and the joy of a million consequences.  I imagined my friends peering along The Way, the path from their world to mine as their May Day dawned with mine and the elusive hills became clearer.

I scuttled into the yard a little breathless, and with knots in my stomache.  My poor, lovesick stomache. 

“It’s a May Hills day,” said Rose, stomping past with the pails.  “A red sun like that..”  I followed her into the milking shed and she sat next to her favourite heffer, skirts hitched.  “..a red sun like that, Annie Ansty…There’s a few since my ma’s time that ‘ave seen ‘em.  Hills out there, no one knows what or where.  Blue, they are.  Like mountains, out where Malmesbury would be.  But not always…”  she turned to milk.  “Only in May…”

I adopted a much practiced quizzical look.  “Oh?”

“Aint you ‘eard it Annie?  Cor, you work too ‘ard!  Always with yer head in an udder or a coppice, that’s your game!  Buns at break today – you better join us then girlie!  Your da needs to give you a rest!”

Rose lost interest in telling what she knew, and we settled to the rhythm of the milking. 

The morning washed past me.  The sophomoric rhythm of the warm milk hitting the pail only served to induce me into a trance.  Teasing images of the Farwithiel road as you drop down into the saddle of the hills filled my mind.  A hand holding mine to steady me as we approached the shores of Birchwater on horseback and I saw my sweetheart’s home for the first time.  The conifers and peaks around the village, and The Way, stretching back, endless over the hills and through my own world to Wickwar. 

At break, the other maids gathered in the hay loft and talked of a dance at West End on Saturday.  They swapped ribbons stashed in their pockets and talked of saving wages to take the train to Gloucester.  Life is changing these days.  It seems to have speeded up with the constant rumble of trains around us, beneath us and in the distance.  People don’t have time to notice any more.  The subtle changes in atmosphere, the good times to plant, the hint of rain and the pastures and woods speaking to us.  But for me, these warm, vital beasts and my days bent double in East Moon Riding, hearing the hazel stretch and grow about me keeps me alive to the possibilities of this magical land.

My sweetheart first saw me binding a fagot of hazel for the fire.  His is the gift of incredible sight and his gaze darted along The Way, past landmarks we both share, one May day eight years ago.  He picked out the pale stone of the escarpment and the mounds and tumps at Sodbury Camp.  He saw the tower of the church at Hawkesbury, the expanse of the Common and as his eyes followed a stag leaping the Little Avon he saw more keenly, and with a sense of knowing.  He says I looked like I was born to be in the woods.  My skirt was covered in clay at the base and my hair was wild from wielding the hazel. 

He followed the Way all morning until he came to the place where I had been.  Not finding me there, he woke the charcoal maker from his sleep and described me to him.  “It can only be Ansty’s daughter, the farm hand…” he said.  “She’s the only woman to work the woods.”

My sweetheart took the route out of the woods described by the charcoal worker, down through Lady Wood into the gully that meets with the river and onto the old arched bridge at the bottom of the paddocks. 

He reached the edge of the woods as I stepped onto the bridge dragging a cloth full of fagots.  I heard his footsteps in the gully behind me and turned to see him there.

I left the farm later that morning to make my way home where I was to carry out some chores for da.  I scurried past the bustle of people gathering on the High Street, going back and forth from The Buthay with May pole, barrels and ribbons.  At home, da was out and I was left to the occasional struggle in the butchery next door – something I have become good at blocking out.  I ran upstairs to watch as the hills faded throughout the day, and The Way closed to both me and to him for another year. 

An annual pilgrimage has taken me down to the arch bridge at sunset on May Day.  If we are to be together, we are to meet there.  My sweetheart will be there, heart pounding like mine and standing on the precipice of a life with unknown consequences.  Standing on the precipice of a life with me in my world where he may know our friends, our dances, stories passions and foes.  He could know my church with me, and my God.  He could know the ocean, my love and the vitality of life that mortality brings. 

It is now six o’clock.

Da comes in and we sit to a stew supper.  He tells me about the day at Perrett’s Brewery.  He smells of hops and sweat.  He is jolly today, with tales of funnies amongst the men, and a hand out of ale for the weekend.  We talk of ma’s birthday next week, and what she would have liked for a treat and da says again that she would have liked for me to have my own man, instead of dancing with William Cordy Jr – all soppy and in receipt of his father’s wares at the Inn.

I wash the pans and da sits on his seat in the vegetable garden, browsing his handiwork.  I set down my cloth and sigh, butterflies washing over me again.

It is seven o’clock.

I go up the stairs and root through my trunk for my good skirt.  It has lace and ribbon, handmade, sold in Bristol at the market.  I don’t find my good boots as the paddocks are damp in the hollow by the river and I may as well…..Oh!  I draw myself up from the trunk and take a deep breath.  The crackling excitement of my errand hits me again.  I will wear my work boots to meet my sweet heart.  If he is there.  I go back down with da and pretend to stitch.

At ten minutes past eight o’clock I set out from Back Lane.  The Hills are gone.  Did he come at all?  Did he turn back and miss his chance to reach his home?  Or is he there, waiting on a bridge hundreds of years in the shaping – worn with the feet of countless horses?

My skirt is getting damp as I stride across the fields.  The light is growing dimmer and the insects are picking at my breath, which is growing faster.  My palms are wet and my eyesight growing keen in the gloom.  I strain to see the dark of the woods.  My beautiful woods with their fire flies, toadstools and life of their own.  I trapse past the earthy smell of the bedded down horses.  Yarrow tickles my ankles as I reach the bottom of the paddock.  The garlicky heady scent of the ramsons reached my nostrils, carrying the cool scent of the river.  Nearly there.  I open the last gate, enter the dark copse and peer into the shade… onto the cool stone of the bridge.

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