The Widow in the Bye Street

Cover

THE WIDOW IN THE
BYE STREET

BY
JOHN MASEFIELD

LONDON
SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI
MCMXII

Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A.
All rights reserved

Second Thousand

TO
MY WIFE

I

Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town,

There lived a widow with her only son:

She had no wealth nor title to renown,

Nor any joyous hours, never one.

She rose from ragged mattress before sun

And stitched all day until her eyes were red,

And had to stitch, because her man was dead.

Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard,

Letting the linen fall upon the floor;

And hungry cats would steal in from the yard,

And mangy chickens pecked about the door

Craning their necks so ragged and so sore

To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse,

But they got nothing in the widow's house.

Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds

For one rich undertaker in the High Street,

Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds

And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet;

And when one died the widow in the Bye Street

Stitched night and day to give the worm his dole.

The dead were better dressed than that poor soul.

Her little son was all her life's delight,

For in his little features she could find

A glimpse of that dead husband out of sight,

Where out of sight is never out of mind.

And so she stitched till she was nearly blind,

Or till the tallow candle end was done,

To get a living for her little son.

Her love for him being such she would not rest,

It was a want which ate her out and in,

Another hunger in her withered breast

Pressing her woman's bones against the skin.

To make him plump she starved her body thin.

And he, he ate the food, and never knew,

He laughed and played as little children do.

When there was little sickness in the place

She took what God would send, and what God sent

Never brought any colour to her face

Nor life into her footsteps when she went

Going, she trembled always withered and bent

For all went to her son, always the same,

He was first served whatever blessing came.

Sometimes she wandered out to gather sticks,

For it was bitter cold there when it snowed.

And she stole hay out of the farmer's ricks

For bands to wrap her feet in while she sewed,

And when her feet were warm and the grate glowed

She hugged her little son, her heart's desire,

With 'Jimmy, ain't it snug beside the fire?'

So years went on till Jimmy was a lad

And went to work as poor lads have to do,

And then the widow's loving heart was glad

To know that all the pains she had gone through

And all the years of putting on the screw,

Down to the sharpest turn a mortal can,

Had borne their fruit, and made her child a man.

He got a job at working on the line

Tipping the earth down, trolly after truck,

From daylight till the evening, wet or fine,

With arms all red from wallowing in the muck,

And spitting, as the trolly tipped, for luck,

And singing 'Binger' as he swung the pick

Because the red blood ran in him so quick.

So there was bacon then, at night, for supper

In Bye Street there, where he and mother stay;

And boots they had, not leaky in the upper,

And room rent ready on the settling day;

And beer for poor old mother, worn and grey,

And fire in frost; and in the widow's eyes

It seemed the Lord had made earth paradise.

And there they sat of evenings after dark

Singing their song of 'Binger,' he and she,

Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark

And 'You sing Binger, mother,' carols he;

'By crimes, but that's a good song, that her be':

And then they slept there in the room they shared,

And all the time fate had his end prepared.

One thing alone made life not perfect sweet:

The mother's daily fear of what would come

When woman and her lovely boy should meet,

When the new wife would break up the old home.

Fear of that unborn evil struck her dumb,

And when her darling and a woman met,

She shook and prayed, 'Not her, O God; not yet.'

'Not yet, dear God, my Jimmy go from me.'

Then she would subtly question with her son.

'Not very handsome, I don't think her be?'

'God help the man who marries such an one.'

Her red eyes peered to spy the mischief done.

She took great care to keep the girls away,

And all her trouble made him easier prey.

There was a woman out at Plaister's End,

Light of her body, fifty to the pound,

A copper coin for any man to spend,

Lovely to look on when the wits were drowned.

Her husband's skeleton was never found,

It lay among the rocks at Glydyr Mor

Where he drank poison finding her a whore.

She was not native there, for she belonged

Out Milford way, or Swansea; no one knew.

She had the piteous look of someone wronged,

'Anna,' her name, a widow, last of Triw.

She had lived at Plaister's End a year or two;

At Callow's cottage, renting half an acre;

She was a hen-wife and a perfume-maker.

Secret she was; she lived in reputation;

But secret unseen threads went floating out:

Her smile, her voice, her face, were all temptation,

All subtle flies to trouble man the trout;

Man to entice, entrap, entangle, flout...

To take and spoil, and then to cast aside:

Gain without giving was the craft she plied.

And she complained, poor lonely widowed soul,

How no one cared, and men were rutters all;

While true love is an ever-burning goal

Burning the brighter as the shadows fall.

And all love's dogs went hunting at the call,

Married or not she took them by the brain,

Sucked at their hearts and tossed them back again.

Like the straw fires lit on Saint John's Eve,

She burned and dwindled in her fickle heart;

For if she wept when Harry took his leave,

Her tears were lures to beckon Bob to start.

And if, while loving Bob, a tinker's cart

Came by, she opened window with a smile

And gave the tinker hints to wait a while.

She passed for pure; but, years before, in Wales,

Living at Mountain Ash with different men,

Her less discretion had inspired tales

Of certain things she did, and how, and when.

Those seven years of youth; we are frantic then.

She had been frantic in her years of youth,

The tales were not more evil than the truth.

She had two children as the fruits of trade

Though she drank bitter herbs to kill the curse,

Both of them sons, and one she overlaid,

The other one the parish had to nurse.

Now she grew plump with money in her purse,

Passing for pure a hundred miles, I guess,

From where her little son wore workhouse dress.

There with the Union boys he came and went,

A parish bastard fed on bread and tea,

Wearing a bright tin badge in furthest Gwent,

And no one knowing who his folk could be.

His mother never knew his new name: she,--

She touched the lust of those who served her turn,

And chief among her men was Shepherd Ern.

A moody, treacherous man of bawdy mind,

Married to that mild girl from Ercall Hill,

Whose gentle goodness made him more inclined

To hotter sauces sharper on the bill.

The new lust gives the lecher the new thrill,

The new wine scratches as it slips the throat,

The new flag is so bright by the old boat.

Ern was her man to buy her bread and meat,

Half of his weekly wage was hers to spend,

She used to mock 'How is your wife, my sweet?'

Or wail, 'O, Ernie, how is this to end?'

Or coo, 'My Ernie is without a friend,

She cannot understand my precious life,'

And Ernie would go home and beat his wife.

So the four souls are ranged, the chess-board set,

The dark, invisible hand of secret Fate

Brought it to come to being that they met

After so many years of lying in wait.

While we least think it he prepares his Mate.

Mate, and the King's pawn played, it never ceases

Though all the earth is dust of taken pieces.

II

October Fair-time is the time for fun,

For all the street is hurdled into rows

Of pens of heifers blinking at the sun,

And Lemster sheep which pant and seem to doze,

And stalls of hardbake and galanty shows,

And cheapjacks smashing crocks, and trumpets blowing,

And the loud organ of the horses going.

There you can buy blue ribbons for your girl

Or take her in a swing-boat tossing high,

Or hold her fast when all the horses whirl

Round to the steam pipe whanging at the sky,

Or stand her cockshies at the cocoa-shy,

Or buy her brooches with her name in red,

Or Queen Victoria done in gingerbread.

Then there are rifle shots at tossing balls,

'And if you hit you get a good cigar.'

And strength-whackers for lads to lamm with mauls,

And Cheshire cheeses on a greasy spar.

The country folk flock in from near and far,

Women and men, like blow-flies to the roast,

All love the fair; but Anna loved it most.

Anna was all agog to see the fair;

She made Ern promise to be there to meet her,

To arm her round to all the pleasures there,

And buy her ribbons for her neck, and treat her,

So that no woman at the fair should beat her

In having pleasure at a man's expense.

She planned to meet him at the chapel fence.

So Ernie went; and Jimmy took his mother,

Dressed in her finest with a Monmouth shawl,

And there was such a crowd she thought she'd smother,

And O, she loved a pep'mint above all.

Clash go the crockeries where the cheapjacks bawl,

Baa go the sheep, thud goes the waxwork's drum,

And Ernie cursed for Anna hadn't come.

He hunted for her up and down the place,

Raging and snapping like a working brew.

'If you're with someone else I'll smash his face,

And when I've done for him I'll go for you.'

He bought no fairings as he'd vowed to do

For his poor little children back at home

Stuck at the glass 'to see till father come.'

Not finding her, he went into an inn,

Busy with ringing till and scratching matches.

Where thirsty drovers mingled stout with gin

And three or four Welsh herds were singing catches.

The swing-doors clattered, letting in in snatches

The noises of the fair, now low, now loud.

Ern called for beer and glowered at the crowd.

While he was glowering at his drinking there

In came the gipsy Bessie, hawking toys;

A bold-eyed strapping harlot with black hair,

One of the tribe which camped at Shepherd's Bois.

She lured him out of inn into the noise

Of the steam-organ where the horses spun,

And so the end of all things was begun.

Newness in lust, always the old in love.

'Put up your toys,' he said, 'and come along,

We'll have a turn of swing-boats up above,

And see the murder when they strike the gong.'

'Don't 'ee,' she giggled. 'My, but ain't you strong.

And where's your proper girl? You don't know me.'

'I do.' 'You don't.' 'Why, then, I will,' said he.

Anna was late because the cart which drove her

Called for her late (the horse had broke a trace),

She was all dressed and scented for her lover,

Her bright blue blouse had imitation lace,

The paint was red as roses on her face,

She hummed a song, because she thought to see

How envious all the other girls would be.

When she arrived and found her Ernie gone,

Her bitter heart thought, 'This is how it is.

Keeping me waiting while the sports are on:

Promising faithful, too, and then to miss.

O, Ernie, won't I give it you for this.'

And looking up she saw a couple cling,

Ern with his arm round Bessie in the swing.

Ern caught her eye and spat, and cut her dead,

Bessie laughed hardly, in the gipsy way.

Anna, though blind with fury, tossed her head,

Biting her lips until the red was grey,

For bitter moments given, bitter pay,

The time for payment comes, early or late,

No earthly debtor but accounts to Fate.

She turned aside, telling with bitter oaths

What Ern should suffer if he turned agen,

And there was Jimmy stripping off his clothes

Within a little ring of farming men.

'Now, Jimmy, put the old tup into pen.'

His mother, watching, thought her heart would curdle,

To see Jim drag the old ram to the hurdle.

Then the ram butted and the game began,

Till Jimmy's muscles cracked and the ram grunted.

The good old wrestling game of Ram and Man,

At which none knows the hunter from the hunted.

'Come and see Jimmy have his belly bunted.'

'Good tup. Good Jim. Good Jimmy. Sick him, Rover,

By dang, but Jimmy's got him fairly over.'

Then there was clap of hands and Jimmy grinned

And took five silver shillings from his backers,

And said th'old tup had put him out of wind

Or else he'd take all comers at the Whackers.

And some made rude remarks of rams and knackers,

And mother shook to get her son alone,

So's to be sure he hadn't broke a bone.

None but the lucky man deserves the fair,

For lucky men have money and success,

Things that a whore is very glad to share,

Or dip, at least, a finger in the mess.

Anne, with her raddled cheeks and Sunday dress,

Smiled upon Jimmy, seeing him succeed,

As though to say, 'You are a man, indeed.'

All the great things of life are swiftly done,

Creation, death, and love the double gate.

However much we dawdle in the sun

We have to hurry at the touch of Fate;

When Life knocks at the door no one can wait,

When Death makes his arrest we have to go.

And so with love, and Jimmy found it so.

Love, the sharp spear, went pricking to the bone,

In that one look, desire and bitter aching,

Longing to have that woman all alone

For her dear beauty's sake all else forsaking;