The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  ‘We all try to show ourselves as better than we really are, Ellen. That’s the weakness of our pride. But your honesty does you credit.’

  ‘You see? First my loyalty and now my honesty. You will persist in thinking well of me. But I must work, whether it’s ladylike or godfearing or not. When Grandfer is called to his rest who will support Mother and I? Or do we return to London to be a burden on my brother John, who struggles enough just to keep himself?’

  ‘I have annoyed you, I see. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend – I think I don’t know how to speak to young women. I believe I didn’t even when I was a young man. That is why I need your help.’

  ‘My help?’ Ellen scanned the path in both directions, but no one was coming.

  ‘Yes. I don’t believe we are reaching those who need to be saved. Look round you next Sunday afternoon. Apart from your scholars – and you, of course – when I preach I look down mostly on grey heads. Other chapels have a young ladies parlour, cricket teams; they dress up and put on plays – operettas even.’

  Ah! Safe ground after all.

  ‘Grandfer doesn’t hold with play-acting and singing, except for hymns.’

  ‘I know. But there have to be stronger attractions than Mrs Stopps on the harmonium.’

  Ellen looked at him in surprise. But there was no leavening humour in Harold’s face.

  ‘We have to do something about the Overseas Mission collection. The task there is pressing,’ he said.

  How dreary this is! Aloud to Harold she said, ‘I shall give it some thought, Brother Chown.’

  They had drawn level with the wood. Ellen’s eyes flickered over the path towards the stile, and over the trees that had absorbed Sam and Vanlo.

  ‘There is something else I wanted to ask you, Ellen, if you do not think I speak out of turn. Um . . . might I enquire as to whether anyone has entered your heart since Charlie’s loss . . . ? Whether you have ever considered marriage?’

  ‘I have not,’ she said, her heart pounding. ‘I have met no one else I could marry. I must accept this as part of His plan. Just as you have, Mr Chown.’

  ‘You are right, of course. “It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not.” Forgive me my presumption. The ways of the Almighty are inscrutable at times. I have sometimes wondered . . . How can I put this? That the loss of Charlie was also part of His plan for you. I cannot see, Miss Quainton, that you live out that plan in that draper’s shop, pandering to the whims of those idle women, though Sister Colton is an excellent woman. It pains me, if I may speak honestly, to see one of your talents and personal graces exposed to the eyes of any casual observer. I find it hard, personally, to think of you as a shopgirl. Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Poor Charlie! Poor, poor Charlie!’ she cried.

  ‘My dear Ellen – Miss Quainton – I didn’t mean to offend—’

  ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Miss Quainton—’

  ‘I don’t know who your God is that makes plans like that! A cruel God, Brother Chown! Not any God I want!’

  She turned and ran, as Chown observed, like a child, her knees raised as far as her skirts would allow. Then, aware that she was being watched, she slowed to a march, arms swinging, fists clenched, shoulders rigid. She was saying something, but he could not distinguish her words.

  Harold Chown put his head in his hands. You old fool!

  *

  ‘Son?’ Harmony leaned over the half-door of the vardo. ‘Come in here a minute, will yer?’

  Sam got up from feeding the fire with sticks, wiping his hands down his trousers.

  ‘What is it, Ma?’

  ‘Up here and I’ll tell yer.’

  The old woman was rummaging in the drawer under the bed where she slept in wintertime, amongst what she called her ‘private treasures’. Sam had been shown these at times over the years: baby teeth, curls of dark childish hair, some little pieces of jewellery.

  ‘Where’s that one?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Lukey? Washing the pots in the stream with the others.’

  ‘Here, Sam,’ she said, turning round and handing him a small brown paper parcel. ‘’Tis a present. Fit for a lady.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Don’t play the innercent, Sam.’

  ‘’Bout what? I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘I ’ope not, but you’re thinking about it. I seed it in your face. I know my own son.’

  ‘So why this? This present?’

  ’Cause you’re all I got, my Sam! There’s not a day goes by I don’t think about your sister Miselda, and wish her well, wherever she may be, and ’ope her gaujo still loves ’er and she ’im, and that their tickners are handsome and strong – them as I should’ve helped into the world. Only your father wouldn’t have it any other way, an’ I dunt want you coming to the same end. It’s breaking my ’eart, seeing you with that look about you and you wandering all over, young Vanlo along of you. No use you looking away, my Sam. I’m right, aren’t I? If I can see it, Lukey’ll not be far behind me. Give the rakli ’er present and tell ’er she’ll not see you again.’

  ‘I done nothing, Ma, we only talked a bit.’

  ‘She know you’re rommered7? ’

  ‘I tole ’er. First time I saw ’er.’

  Harmony’s face cleared a little. ‘Well, if she’s a good gel she’ll not want to get ’erself mixed up with some other woman’s man. An’ if she ain’t, she’ll be easier for you to forget, Sam.’

  ‘What’s Vanlo said, Ma?’

  ‘Him? Nuffing. Best not go gettin’ him into trouble. You’re the world to him.’

  ‘I dunt know what to do,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I’ve just tole you. You can’t live two lives, my Sam. But I know it’s not Lukey keeps you here,’ she said, with a tilt of her head in the direction of the campfire. ‘’Tis me.’

  ‘I ain’t leavin’ you.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m not pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Can I open it, at least?’ he said, holding up the package.

  ‘Go on then.’

  He unwrapped the brown paper, kneading its contents. ‘Oh, who wouldn’t love this?’

  Sam put his arms round his mother and kissed the top of her head through her scarf. The old woman pushed him away, passing him in the narrow space, stumping down the steps. Sam sank onto a three-legged stool.

  Gev the girl her present, then, and stop this. Ma’s right; I ain’t got two lives.

  *

  For the next three evenings Sam forced himself to spend the last hours of daylight going round the farms with Vanlo in search of scrap.

  On the fourth evening he went back to the path and waited.

  ‘Good evening, Ellen.’

  ‘Mr Loveridge.’

  ‘Sam – please. Only the gavvers call me Loveridge – they don’t bother with the mister.’

  ‘Gavvers?’

  ‘Gavengros – the constables. Sometimes I tell ’em my name is Tom Boswell.’

  ‘You use a false name?’

  ‘Not really. My grandfer’s. We do that all the time. Anyways, who was that old mush you was with the other day, then? Him that went upsetting you?’

  ‘Oh, that was Harold Chown – my best friend’s father,’ she said as dismissively as she could. So he was there, all the time.

  Ellen couldn’t say what mush meant exactly, but ‘that old mush’ hardly sounded complimentary. She felt ashamed of knowing Harold, whereas that evening, in his presence, she had tried to convince herself that it was knowing the Gypsy she was ashamed of. Now, with Sam’s dark eyes gazing at her from under the brim of that extraordinary hat, what dull, sanctimonious old Harold might have thought didn’t matter at all.

  ‘He’s very attentive to you,’ said Sam.

  ‘What, Harold?’

  ‘He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, Ellen – not that he’s to blame for that, o’ course. So what’s your friend’s mother li
ke, then?’

  ‘She’s been dead more than ten years; Mr Chown is a widower.’

  ‘Well, he don’t want to stay one, evidently!’

  ‘You talk as if you’re jealous, Mr Loveridge.’

  ‘Sam. Well, I am. Or I would be if he wunt such a dinilo8 of a wooer.’

  He has a wife, Ellen! A wife!

  He hesitated in the face of her silence. ‘Here, I brought you a present.’ He pulled out the small brown paper package. ‘Sorry, it’s got a bit crumpled.’

  The strip of bobbin lace had been rolled quite tightly. She unfurled it gently: a pattern of acorns and leaves stood out against her palm. ‘Oh Sam, it’s beautiful! There must be three yards at least here. I have never had anything so lovely – but I have no idea how I can use it.’

  She glanced down at her plain blouse and skirt; the experiment of the pretty dress had not been repeated, Ellen lacking the courage to withstand her mother’s questioning looks.

  ‘They will ask me where I got it. They don’t like girls to wear finery.’

  ‘So don’t. Trim something they can’t see,’ he said, smiling. Ellen’s face flamed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that I can accept such a thing . . . It wouldn’t be right.’ She gazed at the lace, feeling its fineness between finger and thumb.

  ‘It’s only something to remember me by, Ellen. I can see you like it. I shall tell Mother so.’

  ‘Your mother made this?’

  ‘Yes. She made it for you. Don’t look so surprised, Ellen. A mother can read her own son.’

  ‘Who else knows about this . . . this present?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I am very grateful . . . but . . .’

  ‘Please accept it, Ellen. Mother would take it badly if you didn’t. I would too.’

  ‘I will. Please thank her for me. I shall write her a note to say so.’

  ‘You needn’t go to that trouble. None of us can read.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ To hide her embarrassment, Ellen concentrated on wrapping the lace again in the brown paper, and then held out her hand, awkwardly. He didn’t shake it, but as before lifted it to his lips, then with a swift twist turned it over and kissed her palm.

  Now, Sam. Tell ’er she’ll not see you again.

  ‘Shall you be here tomorrow, Ellen?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Till then.’ He touched a finger to his hat and turned into the wood. Then, ‘Ellen!’ he called after her. ‘Your Harold is wrong, you know. God don’t send men to war. It’s other men as do that.

  After he’d gone she unwrapped the little parcel again. It’s a keepsake, that’s all. As he said, something to remember him by. Once the harvest is over.

  7 Married

  8 Idiot

  CHAPTER 8

  I afterwards found that what is called the long sight of the Gypsies . . . is not long sight at all, but is the result of a peculiar faculty the Gypsies have of observing more closely than Gorgios do everything that meets their eyes in the woods and on the hills and along the roads.

  Theodore Watts-Dunton, Aylwin

  Falling

  ‘Vanlo!’

  The boy turned round reluctantly. He was afraid of his sister, though he admired her – but he loved Sam more. Lucretia had brought Vanlo up, for he had been six years old when their mother died, and nine years later he struggled to remember her. Lucretia had striven to make him her own when it became apparent that she would bear no child herself. Several days a month she spent sleeping alone in a bender, as custom dictated. No, there was clearly nothing amiss with her! But Vanlo hated it when his sister mocked Sam for their childlessness. He could see that she used it to get her own way – with this half-man who, for all his effort, could not plant a seed of his own in the world.

  ‘Sam ain’t hisself,’ said Lucretia. ‘He’s more of a dreamer than ever. He washes hisself mor’n he ever did and I’ve seen ’im with a comb. What do you and him get up to on them walks you take of an evening?’

  ‘You know what we do. We always brings back a rabbit – or a pheasant. You’ve seen. I keep watch for the keeper mostly. But I’m getting better with the catapult too.’

  ‘You was always good with it, little brother.’

  The boy flushed.

  ‘I like talking to him. An’ it’s easier without them children earwigging.’

  ‘You was always more like him than like your brothers, my Vanlo. Go on with you then. But if he gets up to anything, sees anyone, them holy boys included, you mun tell me. All right? ’Cause if I didn’t know ’im better I’d think he’d’ve got God but not wanted to say so.’

  Lucretia watched Vanlo walk off towards his eldest brother’s wagon. She turned her face away, feeling tears start to her eyes. Please let it only be the holy boys, my Sam!

  *

  ‘Take the catapult, Vanlo,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll whistle when I want you.’

  Vanlo hesitated.

  ‘What is it, bruv?’ asked Sam.

  ‘She’s been on to me – Lukey. Thinks you’ve mixed yourself up with the chapel people.’

  ‘I s’pose I have, after a fashion. What’ve you said to ’er?’

  ‘Nuffing. Just said we went for walks. But I’m mortal scared, Sam.’

  ‘I ain’t done anything, my Vanlo. And if I had, it’d be me to blame, not you.’

  Vanlo looked over Sam’s shoulder, seeing a slight female figure coming along the path.

  ‘Nuffing?’

  ‘Go on, Vanlo, get me that rabbit.’

  The boy went reluctantly into the trees, and Sam turned round to watch Ellen’s approach.

  ‘You’re earlier this evening,’ he said. ‘I med’ve missed you altogether.’

  ‘I asked to get away smart. There’s something I need to do.’

  She looked round.

  ‘There ain’t no one,’ said Sam. ‘I make sure of that, every time I sees you. And if there is, I make myself scarce. I dunt want to cause you trouble.’

  ‘You make it sound as though you’re spying on me.’

  ‘Not spying, watching out for you. And anyway, I wanted to ask you about the little maidy.’

  Ellen’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I should have said! She is much better – not completely well but getting there. Please thank your mother!’

  ‘Well, I’ll not hold you back. You said you was going somewhere.’

  ‘He’ll wait for me, Sam. I’m going to the war memorial. It’s Charlie’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh my poor girl.’ Sam took her hands, stroking her fingers. ‘You never tole me where you lost ’en.’

  ‘Arras.’

  He sighed. ‘I know the place. More than once I was there, bringing up the poor beasts I’d cared for from Abbeville to wherever it was they’d decided men and horses had to die next.’ He hesitated.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’

  ‘I had to lead a column of horses and mules along this road – a channel of mud was more like it, an endless battle with mud, always. It rots their hooves, you see. It was summer, but the only way you’d know that was the smell; it’s in my nose now. It was on my skin then, always, greasy-like. There was some trees left, but like spikes, twisted metal. No leaves, no grass underfoot. Warm rain – dirty rain. And the ditches both sides, full of dead horses, their bodies all puffed up – scores of ’em. And I had to take the new ones to the same end, after talking to them that morning, stroking their noses. And they knew I was betraying them. There was one time I passed a horse up to his hocks in the mud, unable to move. I promised him I’d dig him out when I came back, but when I did, there he was, on his feet still, but stone dead of exhaustion. I’ve never talked to anyone about that sight, Ellen.’

  ‘But what about the men? If there were dead horses, then surely . . .’

  ‘Don’t ask me about the men. Please.’

  She started to cry, quietly at first, then with great gulping sobs. Sam put his arm round her and pulled her towards him. She grasped fistful
s of his shirt, pressing her face into his chest. Gradually, against the insistent thud of his heart, with the rhythmic stroke of his hand on her hair, her cries subsided into shuddering. She felt his chin resting gently on the top of her head, and heard him whisper, ‘Ellen, oh my Ellen!’

  ‘I had a sort of collapse, you know,’ she said, her cheek against his shirt. ‘When the telegram came. I couldn’t look into a child’s face, for I was always looking for the little girl – or boy – who might’ve been ours. The doctor wanted me taken to Littlemore Asylum.’ She felt Sam flinch. ‘Grandfer stopped that,’ she went on. ‘Prayer and fellowship would pull me through, he said.’

  ‘And did they, Ellen?’

  ‘I live, don’t I? But my hopes – no, they’re as dead as that poor horse.’

  *

  That night she dreamed of Charlie. He was standing at the pump behind Grace’s cottage, stripped to the waist, splashing his face, his chest, his armpits. He turned to Ellen and smiled, talking volubly, but she couldn’t hear a word, and when she opened her own mouth, she couldn’t make a sound in reply. Ellen woke to find her pillow wet. But she found that she could remember Charlie’s smile.

  *

  ‘I have never slept outside a house in my life,’ Ellen said. She and Sam faced each other on the edge of the path, shaded by a beech tree.

  ‘What, never fallen asleep in a field beneath the wide dark sky? It’s the most wonderful thing, Ellen. There’s a skylight in our wagon so when we’re in the woods, I can see the branches of trees waving in the moonlight. When it rains, it don’t wake me, but if I’m awake already the sound of it drumming on the roof is a comfort – because I am inside and warm and dry. The horses I can hear snuffling at night – a horse is as good in his own way, if you’ll hear him, as any guard dog, though we’ve got them too. I can hear the birds – not just their song but the beating of their wings. If a fox steps on a twig I’ll hear him, or a badger’s grunt.’

  ‘I hear the birds too. My grandmother taught me to tell their names from their warble. Sometimes on a quiet night I can hear the panting of the hedgehogs at the back door but other times there are cats creating unless Grandfer goes out and throws a pail over them. I never know if they are fighting or . . .’