Free Gates of Paradise by Beryl Kingston

‘You don’t know the meanin’ a’ the word, you young fellers. What work was that then?’
    â€˜Hangin’ pictures,’ Johnnie told him, ‘an’ don’t go sayin’ tha’s not work ‘cause we knows otherwise. We had two to put up this afternoon an’ they weigh a ton, the both of ’em. It took me an’ Bob here
and
Mr Hosier to get the last one up an’ our arms was fair broke in half. If that aren’t work I’d like to know what is.’
    â€˜He’s still paintin’ then,’ Reuben said, ‘that ol’ engraver feller. Oi thought he’d be over for a point or two, now an’ then. Tha’s warm work that ol’ paintin’. That Oi
do
know. Oi remember when we ’ad to whitewash the barn. You’d think he’d a’ worked up a thirst by now.’
    â€˜I don’t think he got time for a thirst,’ Johnnie told him. ‘On account of Mr Hayley’s got his nose pinned to the grindstone. He’s got
all
our noses pinned to the grindstone, come to that. Do this! Do that! Oh, I hates the winter.’
    â€˜â€™Tis a bad ol’ season but it passes,’ his father said. ‘Oi thought you was a-goin’ to tell us ’ow the world wags. Aren’t this the day ol’ Mr Hayley go to Lavant to see Miss Poole an’ pick up his letters and his newspaper?’
    Johnnie agreed that it was.
    â€˜Well, then, what’s the news? Or ’aven’t you read it yet?’
    News had little interest for his son, now that his senses were alert to other matters, though he admitted that he
had
taken a glance at the paper while he was in the library. ‘Nothin’ much so far as I can see,’ he said. ‘Bonaparte’s in Egypt so they say.’
    â€˜Long may he stay there,’ Reuben said, chewing his teeth. ‘He can kill as many Gypsy-ans as he like, say Oi, jist so long as he leave
us
be. They’re onny savages when all’s said an’ done, an’ don’t know no better. Anyways we don’t want him hereabouts.’
    â€˜Amen to that,’ Hiram said. ‘But that aren’t all the news surely.’
    â€˜I heard something this morning might interest,’ Mr Grinder told them, and when they looked enquiringly at him, went on, ‘we’re to have a census.’
    â€˜An’ what sort a’ hanimal’s that when it’s at home?’ Reuben asked.
    â€˜â€™Tis a head-count,’ Mr Grinder told him, polishing a row of beer mugs. ‘They mean for to count all the people in the country, town by town and village by village.’
    â€˜Tha’s a dang fool idea if ever Oi heard a’ one,’ Reuben scowled. ‘We knows how many of us there is. You onny got to look round the village to see that.’
    â€˜Ah!’ Mr Grinder said, ‘but they wants to knowwhat sort a’ people we are, how many men could be took for the army, or press-ganged or some such, how many women and children would have to be took out the way if ol’ Bonaparte was to invade – which he could do any day so they say – how many carts an’ horses we got, how much grain we store.’
    â€˜Which is nobody’s business but our own,’ the miller said trenchantly.
    â€˜Not if it’s to be took to feed the army,’ Mr Grinder told him. ‘They mean to build forts and beacons all along the coast, so they say, like they done when the Armada was coming, and there’ll be troops stationed in every town, all a’ which’ll need feeding an’ housing, not to mention stabling an’ fodder for their horses, an’ barracks an’ cookhouses an’ all sorts.’
    The candles guttered as his listeners stirred uneasily in their seats, the coal shifted in the grate and began to hiss and spit, the wind rattled the window. And somewhere in the distance they could hear a dog howling.
    â€˜Oi