The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  The day after she did the same again, but this time a man detached himself from the trees and stood in front of her, not quite barring the path.

  ‘Miss Quainton!’

  ‘You startled me, Mr Loveridge.’ Ellen looked round. ‘Where’s Vanlo?’

  ‘I sent him to get kindling. We’ve been to see Horwood about the harvest.’

  ‘Did you get work, then?’ Ellen spoke as lightly as she was able.

  ‘Oh yes. I’ve been there before. He knows me for a good worker, but he made me go through the hoops for him anyway.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘P’raps you wasn’t looking!’

  Ellen coloured.

  ‘What do you mean, he made you go through the hoops?’

  ‘About the war. I didn’t fight, see, not really.’

  ‘Perhaps he’d a right, then. Mr Horwood lost a son, and the other, Reggie, came back not much good for farming!’

  ‘I’m sorry for it. I’ve to take Reggie out in his chair, he said.’

  ‘Take him out on a horse and cart, Mr Loveridge. Reggie would like that best,’ she said, in an inspired moment. ‘He loved getting up on the trap . . . before. I remember he used to get into trouble for going out in it on a Sunday. And if you sit him alongside you he’ll look the same as any other man – and that will mean a lot to him.’ Ellen looked away, close to tears.

  ‘I’ve known Reggie Horwood all my life,’ she added. ‘When we were little he got put in the corner time after time at Sunday school. And once he told the teacher I had my eyes open during prayers! He got ribbed about that for ages! But he’s precious little chance to be naughty now.’

  She faced him.

  ‘So how was your war, Mr Loveridge?’ she asked.

  ‘Various clinks to start with – then Dartmoor. Hard labour – stone-breaking under the rain, mostly. In with all those varsity men, the conchies. I was like a cat in a cage.’

  ‘Better than being a dead rat in a ditch.’

  ‘I know that. Lost my brother Noah – Verdun. We dunt even know where he lies.’

  ‘Oh – I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ain’t your fault. But dunt be angry with me – it dunt suit a face like yours. I didn’t wait for you to make you so. Anyways, I didn’t stay in Dartmoor long. I’d avoided call-up because I didn’t know how I’d manage with someone bawling and shouting at me what I should do, that was all; I can’t say as it was my conscience – I just couldn’t see the why of it.’

  ‘You couldn’t see why? How were we to defend ourselves?’

  ‘Defend what, Miss Quainton? I dunt see much thanks for them that came back. I meet plenty of them in my life – mumpers – tramping up and down the country begging – all they’re fit for now. They tried all ways to trick me into soldiering; the first place I was held with these other fellows, our togs was taken away, every stitch, and we had the choice of wearing a blanket or wearing a uniform. I’m sorry, I can see from your face I shouldn’t be saying these things to a lady.’

  ‘No, please – go on. I have never met anyone who did . . . what you did. I heard there were some in the connexion – in the chapel – that wouldn’t enlist, though everyone round here did that was called up. There was a lot of division and argument about it, though.’

  ‘And what did you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought . . . oh dear, I thought it wasn’t fair that some went to die and some stayed behind in the lap of luxury.’

  Sam laughed. ‘Tole you that, did they? ’Twas hardly luxury! Well, I didn’t put the uniform on and was glad of it, for those that did went to court-martial like they was already soldiers. Then after a bit I’d be brought five minutes before some bristling moustaches at another tribunal and they said a Gippo didn’t have no conscience beyond what was comfortable to his own self and gave me prison. Never met anyone that’s been inside, have you?’

  ‘No!’ said Ellen, thinking herself very daring.

  ‘Well, I was in a cell on my own, no mattress to begin with, and then only let outside for half an hour a day, just to walk round in a line. And you mayn’t look at the sky. You chapel children you say are tole to shut your eyes ’gainst God’s creation, but just looking at it I think’s a prayer itself. I was forever doing that, by getting on a stool and looking through the bars, but they always catched me at it – and then I’d get put on bread and water and no mattress again for a bit. And in the yard, you’d to keep your eyes to the ground. My ears was all cold ’cause my hair was cropped, but my face all bristly because they left us to grow beards whether we wanted ’em or no – and I never did. Made us all look the same. I’ll tell you, taking your hair off you is worse than having no clothes, just about. I got a whopping too, off a guard. Don’t they do prison visiting, your chapel people?’

  ‘They do, but not round here. I’ve never been let to go, anyway.’

  ‘Not a place for the likes of you, Miss Quainton.’

  She looked at him sharply, but could see no trace of sarcasm in his expression.

  ‘The worst was the silence rule. Couldn’t speak to the other men, not even to the wardens, and them not to us ’cept to tell us what to do. Must be why I talk so much now. Not that anywhere was quiet – iron staircases and wardens’ boots. Dartmoor was better that way. We were let to talk and the cell doors wunt locked – must be a bit like what living in a reg’lar house is like.’

  ‘So hard for you! Whilst other men were fighting and the poor women that loved them not knowing if they’d ever see them again, or if they’d come back like Reggie!’ Ellen fumbled for a handkerchief but Sam was quicker.

  ‘Here,’ he said. She stared at the piece of cloth in his outstretched hand. It was crumpled, but looked clean.

  ‘Thank you, but I have my own!’ She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose, turning her head away.

  ‘We never got Noah’s telegram for a long time after – he’d given them a pub near Maidstone for his address. Only o’ course my old mother said she knew.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Loveridge. You must think I’ve been inexcusably rude to you today – rude and ignorant. But I must go now – they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you for listening to me, Miss Quainton. But would you give me your hand again, like you done last time?’

  ‘Oh – of course.’

  *

  ‘Ellen! Where’ve you been?’ Flora came out of the scullery drying her hands on her apron. ‘Butter the bread, would you? The table’s already laid . . . Wait, child!’ Flora laid damp, cool fingers on Ellen’s forehead.

  ‘Your eyes is all bright – but you’ve no fever I can see. You’ve not the curse, have you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mother. I’ve never been better.’

  ‘I dunt know how I should bear it if I was to lose you too,’ quavered Flora. ‘I still ask myself what I done to offend the good Lord, that He saw fit to take my little girl.’

  Ellen turned back and put her arms round Flora. Her mother’s bones felt as fragile as a sparrow’s.

  ‘Hush, Mother, Grandfer’ll be in soon.’

  ‘I know what he’d say. That I mun never question the will of God. That He has His reasons. But did He have to take my Sally? And your poor father so soon after?’

  ‘Let me get the bread buttered, Mother. Then after tea we could walk over to the churchyard, if you’d like that.’

  ‘Bless you, child. And bless your Grandfer for bringing them back home. I couldn’t have borne it if they was in one of them grett big burying places in London. There’s nowhere so lonely as a city, and that’s as true when you’re dead as when you’re alive, I’m sure.’

  ‘But you’ve always said the dead went to their reward, Mother.’

  ‘I have, haven’t I? Let’s just hope it’s true.’

  ‘Ssh! That’s Grandfer now, scraping his boots.’

  *

  The following morning Ellen followed her usual routine, of preparing and wrapping he
r sandwiches in the back pantry whilst her mother laid the breakfast table.

  ‘Morning, Mother! Morning, Grandfer!’

  ‘Morning, Ellen,’ said her mother, and paused. ‘Why’ve you your best frock on?’

  ‘Thought I might as well wear it. It’s only going to waste in the wardrobe.’

  ‘But nobody’ll see it under your overalls.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I won’t know it’s there.’

  ‘Can I get on and say grace, daughters? Then perhaps our day’s work can begin,’ growled Oliver.

  *

  Ellen dawdled on the path home. She had almost reached the ridge, feeling drear with disappointment, when she heard a twig snap, and turned round.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Quainton, I’m a bit late. I was kep’ back to physic one of Horwood’s nags.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise, Mr Loveridge. It is not as if we made an appointment,’ she said, trying hard to hold back a smile.

  ‘Mebbe not, but like I said, I like talking to you.’

  ‘The horse?’

  ‘He’ll do. Them togs suit you.’ He fingered the short sleeve of the cotton dress: sage green sprayed with forget-me-not flowers. ‘That blue matches your eyes.’

  ‘Charlie said that too – my fiancé.’

  ‘You ain’t worn it since, have you?’

  ‘Not much.’ Not at all. ‘But I’d taken a lot of trouble over it, back then.’

  ‘You made it? Is that your work then, doing the stitching?’

  ‘No, I’m a draper’s assistant. I just sew for myself, and for my friend Judy.’

  ‘You dunt talk like a shop girl – not that I talk to a lot of ’em, but they’re not usually so fine-natured as you, Miss Quainton.’

  ‘Oh . . . well, I was a teacher.’

  ‘Why ain’t you now, if I may ask?’

  ‘It got harder to go on – after Charlie died. I’ve been urged often enough to go back, and to go away to college to qualify properly. I still teach the Sunday school.’

  ‘Ain’t that meant for a day of rest?’

  ‘Our busiest day!’ laughed Ellen. ‘Sunday school and worship in the morning, then again in the afternoon.’

  ‘So what does a young woman like you do to enjoy herself?’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty. Camp meetings, if there’s a visiting preacher. Sewing meetings. Picnics . . .’ She faltered, looking up at him. ‘I expect you think I have a very dull life.’

  ‘No, but I think a girl like you should have more call for pretty dresses.’

  ‘It’s not all I hoped for, of course. But there are so many girls in my position. So many babies not born . . . I do like the Sunday school, though, even if they aren’t my children. Do you go to church, Mr Loveridge?’

  Sam laughed. ‘We’re Christian children all right but we’ve our own ways of being so. We dunt hold with much in the formal way. My old mother’ll go and sit in a church for an hour at a time, but run off if ever a parson comes near her. It ain’t so easy to go to a service when all those good Christians turn and look at you and draw in their skirts. Or when you’re handed a prayer book and dunt know which way up to hold it because you can’t read what’s in it anyway. But I was christened in a church, several times over in fact!’

  ‘Oh! ’

  ‘I was born to the north of this county, I’m tole. The parsons thereabouts would give money to a poor family for the baby, so my father would hitch up the wagon and take us from parish to parish. I see I shouldn’t have told you that, only I had no say in the matter.’

  ‘And have you done the same with your own children, Mr Loveridge?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘I wish you’d call me Sam. I have not – I’ve not been blessed with children.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps they’ll come soon.’

  ‘No. I’ve been wed as long as I can remember – as soon as they saw I needed to be!’

  Ellen flushed and looked away.

  ‘I’m wed regular, Miss Quainton,’ he said in a changed voice.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this!’

  ‘Because you’ve the kind of face that says you’d listen! I did think about getting free once or twice, but I was too young to find the courage to say what I thought, and I wasn’t sure what that was anyhow. Where would I have gone to? We was rubbing along all right, even without a tickner to cry us awake at night. I just wondered in a way if there wasn’t greater happiness on offer somewhere than what we seemed to have.’

  Ellen could not meet his eyes.

  ‘You understand then why I’m idling about here instead of at the camp,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a pleasure for me to hear your gentle voice. If you never speak to me again I’ll always be grateful that you did at all.’

  ‘I think it’s time I went home, Mr Loveridge. I really shouldn’t let you talk to me about such things.’

  ‘Let me kiss your hand again and I’ll let you go, then.’

  ‘Here.’

  He took her hand but this time examined it intently, passing the ball of his thumb across the clean, oval nails with their sickle-moon rims.

  ‘You’ve pretty hands. Go with your pretty dress.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ellen, pink with delight. Her hands were one of her few vanities, along with the bright brown hair, which she wore unfashionably long but wound in a bun low on her nape, to allow her hat to fit. But for her twenty-first birthday her mother had given her a manicure set that she treasured. She knew the watered lining of the zipped pigskin wallet could only be artificial silk, and that the implements themselves were of plated base metal that would eventually flake, and their handles resin, not tortoiseshell. But it was a secret pleasure to use each of them in turn, in a weekly ritual. And this Gypsy, with dirt under his own nails, and hands scabbed by work, actually noticed her effort! Finally he kissed her fingers, holding her gaze and smiling.

  Walking on afterwards, Ellen looked round to make sure that he was gone, then stopped and hugged herself.

  Oh where’s the harm? I thought nobody would say such nice things to me ever again. And he’ll be gone by September.

  *

  The following Monday, her mother stopped her just as Ellen was leaving for work. ‘I nearly forgot, daughter. Would you go and see Mrs Hempton after work?’

  Flora heard the slightest intake of breath and looked into Ellen’s face; the disappointment vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and the veil of obedient resignation that was the girl’s usual expression slipped back into place.

  ‘I thought you liked going to Mrs Hempton’s, Ellen? She’s always pleased to see you. Her poor little Joan has the whooping cough, and I said you’d go as you’re safe, seeing as you had it yourself years ago. The tea-meeting voted that we’d pay the doctor for her. You could pop by his house on your way and settle what’s outstanding.’

  For the next three days Ellen called at Mrs Hempton’s cottage after the shop closed and tried to find hope of recovery in Joan’s damp, exhausted face. She was convinced she could hear the child’s gasping cough wherever she was: walking home later along the now deserted path, in the kitchen garden pulling carrots, unpegging the washing. Then the doctor was due again, so she told the child’s mother she would call instead on Saturday, and set off home, telling herself Sam would have already given up on her, that it was better that way.

  But just ahead of his usual place, with a rustle quiet as a squirrel’s, he stepped out onto the path.

  ‘Oh . . . you look very smart today, Mr Loveridge. Sunday best but not on Sunday?’ Where did I learn to be so pert?

  ‘I’ve took Reggie out on the cart. Thought I’d go to a bit of trouble for ’en – a clean shirt and trousers ’stead of my working togs.’

  ‘That was a kind thought.’

  ‘’Twas a pleasure to do it. Where you bin, though?’

  ‘There’s a widow in a cottage in Chinnor whose little girl has the whooping cough. I’ve been keeping her company.’

&nbs
p; ‘How does the little maidy?’

  ‘She’s bad – worn out. She’s never been a strong child. Her mother is beside herself – she comes out to the door with me when I leave and holds my arm and asks me again and again, “Will Joan live? She’s all I have!” Joan’s father died in Flanders without ever seeing her. If it weren’t for the kindness of neighbours they’d both be in the Union.’

  ‘I s’ll ask my old mother,’ said Sam. ‘What to do for the cough, I mean.’

  Ellen hesitated.

  ‘I dunt mean she’ll call there. She med be the mother of a fallen hero, but it dunt mean she gets treated any better. I’ll tell you what she says, so you’ll know what to do. Tomorrow I’ll be off the harvest at six. Shall I see you here?’

  ‘Yes – and thank you.’

  ‘I’ll go, then, but it’s done me good to have seen you again. I thought you was avoiding me, maybe.’

  ‘Oh no, not that!’

  He touched a finger to his hat. ‘I mun see where my Vanlo has got to. Goodbye, Miss Quainton.’

  *

  The following evening Ellen walked as slowly as she could. She wanted to be late, just a little late. This is foolishness, she thought to herself. I don’t suppose he can even tell the time. And I’m only coming for Joan’s sake. She scented a faint drift of tobacco on the cooling air, and looked up, aware that she was being watched. Sam was leaning against a tree, smoking. He threw down the stub and carefully stamped it out.

  ‘Coltsfoot and thyme, Miss Quainton. Brew it as tea, like it was nettles or sage – the leaves, not the flower. You know the difference, don’t you, ’tween coltsfoot and a dandelion?’

  ‘What country child doesn’t?’

  ‘Begging your pardon. But that should ease the little maidy’s cough. My mother physicked all of us. She lost two babies, mind, but not to the cough. I’m all she’s got left, after my sister went too, and I’m healthy enough.’

  ‘You had a sister?’

  ‘Have, I suppose, for strictly speaking she ain’t dead. Just dead to us.’

  Ellen’s hand went to her face.