The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  ‘And that’s when I saw him – Chown – on the little bridge over the lock. He was staring down into the water and his shoulders was shaking. First I thought he was laughing, but I was starting to sober up by then and asked myself who would stand in the pouring rain like that and stare into that dark water and laugh if not a madman. I didn’t want to pass by him, but then he looked up and I saw his face in the lamplight and it was all screwed up. It gave me quite a turn to see who it was, with his clothes wet through and him not minding.’

  ‘How did you know it was Chown?’

  ‘In my line of business you get to know all the godbotherers. I remembered him particular because he’d such a pretty wife used to give out the soup. Most of ’em religiousy ladies is about as pretty as the coal-house door, but not her. Anyway, he wasn’t laughing, poor fellow. But though I wasn’t meaning to ask, when he saw me he reached in his pocket and gev me a handful of coins. I thanked him and asked him did he not want to be getting home seeing what a bad night it had turned into? “Home!” he exclaimed, all sharp. Now for me home is the best word there is in the English language, and it means a lot to me seeing as I’ve hardly ever had one of my own my whole life long, but he said it in such a bitter way as if it was something hateful, and perhaps it was, if what the papers say is true and the pretty lady with the soup was carrying on with the gippo. I’ll bet he’s a young and handsome one like some of ’em are to gev her more joy than an old husband full o’ sermons. Anyway, I asked him another time if I could help him home, thinking I’d get a glance at the pretty lady again and maybe something to warm my bones now the ale was wearing off, but he just shook his head and went back to looking into the mill race – muttering something about “bitter water”, he was.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what he said?’

  ‘Sure as I can be. It put me in mind of more ale, you see. So I went on my way, though I nearly ended up in the drink myself for them boards on the bridge was all wet and greasy with the rain and I’d to grab for the rail.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I’m just coming to that. I got to the Millers but they was already shutting up shop. Must’ve been half past ten or just after. But they let me into the stall in the yard and I got a good sleep on the hay.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else whilst you were talking to Chown?’

  ‘No, who would want to be wandering about in that weather?’

  *

  ‘You can go home, Mrs Chown,’ the sergeant repeated patiently. Ellen stood with her back to the door and daylight, twisting her handbag. He leaned towards her.

  ‘What’s that you say?’

  Ellen murmured something.

  ‘No, we won’t be wanting you back. There are no charges. You’re free. Shall we send for your brother?’

  ‘Oh, don’t go to that trouble . . . it’s not far.’ She turned towards the doors, hesitated, and turned back again. The sergeant and Tornapo Hearn’s grandson exchanged glances.

  ‘Are you sure she’s all right, Sergeant?’ whispered the younger man.

  ‘Matron seems to think so,’ said the sergeant gruffly. ‘She’s a bit pale, right enough. If you’re not busy you can go with her.’

  The constable didn’t wait for his superior to change his mind.

  ‘I’ll take you home, Mrs Chown,’ and he took hold of her elbow gently and led her unresisting out onto the street. She shrank back in the glare of daylight, tucking her chin into the collar of her coat. Only as they crossed the road with the arch of Westgate to her right did she hesitate, and peered under the arch, as if looking for something or someone. The constable couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but noticed that the woman had somehow got some courage from somewhere. He felt her arm stiffen; she straightened up, and then looked directly into his face and asked clearly: ‘What will happen to Mr Loveridge?’

  ‘He’s in the prison, Mrs Chown.’ Seeing the spasm of fear cross her face, he hurried on: ‘I don’t think he’ll be there long, though I’m not meant to tell you that. So don’t say anything or I shall cop it.’ Poor little thing, he thought. It’d be worth the sergeant shouting at me just to see her a bit happier.

  ‘There’s new evidence, see. A witness has come forward, which washes your Mr Loveridge out. The coroner has reconvened for tomorrow morning. I can’t see as how they could find for murder again – no, don’t you cry, Mrs Chown, there’s no need for it!’

  Moved by pity for the exhausted face hanging on his words as though life depended on it, he plunged on. ‘I’ve seen your Sam. He’d have swung for you, Mrs Chown – oh, he won’t, he won’t. He’d have agreed to anything to get you out is what I mean. But he didn’t have to. Your stepdaughter – lively girl, ain’t she? – she got him his lawyer and he told him fair and square not to agree to anything and not to sign anywhere.’

  Ellen smiled faintly, remembering the effort that had gone into Sam rounding out the letters of his name for her in that room above the Flying Horse, staring down at the page as though at a tangled sum – That’s me, then, Sampson Loveridge, in black and white! Will my teacher kiss me now, do you think?

  ‘And I told him that too – when the sergeant wasn’t there to hear it, o’ course! But you should be a bit pleased, knowing he’d have done anything for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart!’

  ‘My sincere pleasure. Now, do you want me to see you to your door or shall I watch you go in from here?’

  ‘Oh, I think I should go in myself . . . to not have the neighbours talk, I mean.’

  ‘All right, I shall bid you good day, then. I’ll just give you one piece of advice: even if all goes well tomorrow, you might need to be careful about who you open the door to over the next few days. There are plenty of nosey parkers as’ll want “your story” but you’d best keep out of their way. Give them a fortnight and they’ll’ve forgotten about you – or pray that some other scandal comes up that they can go sniffing round instead. And try to rest easy about Mr Loveridge.’

  He watched Ellen cross the road and go straight to her door, without looking round her. Sharp-eyed, he also saw the shudder of the curtain in the neighbour’s window.

  *

  ‘Come on, Loveridge, off your arse. Get your things together. You’ll not be getting breakfast from us this morning.’

  ‘Where are you taking me now?’

  ‘Deakin’s downstairs waiting for you. Come on, get your things together, I said. You’ll not be coming back up here.’

  Sam followed the warder down the clanging stairway; another walked behind him. The galleries hummed with contained silence. Sam didn’t know what time it was, but guessed from the skylight far above that it was about half an hour before slop-out. He was afraid of what they would do next, but clung to the thought that Deakin might indeed be waiting for him. Otherwise, what? A rattling ride in a prison van to another gaol, where Ellen, wherever she was now, would not be able to visit him? Or would it be the humiliation of another search, with their laughter crashing round the cell – ‘Now we can see what the lady saw in you, Loveridge!’ Sam hadn’t been able to eat much for days now, yet the reminder that he was empty only led to the thought of the food they brought him in here and that was enough to dispel hunger. Ah, but to crunch on a fresh apple! And to think that the orchards in Kent were groaning with the weight of them now.

  The warder’s keys clunked and crashed at a lock. Then they were marching forward again along a brick-walled corridor, painted a shiny custard yellow; here the ceiling was lower, oppressively so. The cells were spaced further apart; he could sense their inmates listening. The place smelled of carbolic, disguising a whiff of urine and the unmistakeable scent of pacing men in ill-ventilated spaces. Again they paused, again the flash and crash of the keys. Another corridor, much like the previous one. Were they still moving in a straight line? Sam wasn’t sure, and the lack of natural light heightened his disorientation. Would they go round in a circle and then upstairs a
gain, in a cruel game, like a man who is about to be shot hoping the delay may mean a pardon, a pardon that never arrives? No, the door at the end of this corridor had a fanlight, though iron-barred like every window here, and through that fanlight he could see pale daylight. Then another thought crossed his mind, and he stumbled. In some prisons, he’d been told, the gallows shed was outside, not deep within the building.

  ‘Mind your step, Loveridge,’ said the guard behind him, but his words sounded kinder than he had heard in here before.

  Dordi, was this the end then? Not quite, or not yet, perhaps. The doors were open on this corridor, and glancing from side to side without moving his head he could make out empty desks, bookcases with bulging files. Someone was smoking, and Sam felt a longing for tobacco that was as strong as hunger.

  They stopped outside one of these doors, the only one that was closed. The warden knocked, then opened the door.

  ‘Morning, Mr Deakin . . . In you go, Loveridge!’

  Sam entered. Deakin was getting to his feet the other side of a table, which, with two plain chairs, was the room’s only furnishing. He was stretching out his hand to Sam. The door closed at his back. He looked round. They were alone.

  He shook Deakin’s hand.

  ‘Sit down a moment, Loveridge. Congratulations. You’re free.’

  ‘Say that again, sir.’

  ‘Free. Insofar as any of us are, this side of the grave.’

  Sam put his face in his hands. ‘I thought I was for it, Mr Deakin,’ he said indistinctly. ‘I thought I’d never see her again.’

  Deakin leaned across, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. The first thing he needs is a square meal.

  ‘Mrs Chown is at home. She’s been there a few days now – I’ve returned her sons to her. I told her not to try to see you here, as she’s been through a lot and both Miss Chown and I thought it best she didn’t have to contend with somewhere like this.’

  ‘No, the company is not the best,’ said Sam.

  ‘Chown was seen after you’d left him. The Coroner’s Court sat again yesterday to consider that new evidence. They found for accidental death.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘You mean do I think Chown could have done away with himself? Frankly, I don’t know. In the normal way of things I’d’ve said not. It goes against all religion, of course. The jury was taken to the spot. They saw the space below the rail, which a grown man could easily slip through. It’s only a surprise that it hasn’t happened before, especially with those rolling home from the Millers Tavern. They were shown some scrapes that might or might not have been Harold’s, or might indeed have been the witness’s; he spoke of slipping, and it was a wet night, as you remember. That bit of evidence told on the jury. In my view they’d rather bring in a verdict of accident than suicide – unless there’s a letter, of course – and that’s what they did. Kinder to the family. The wood of that bridge is always damp with the spray from the wheel. The coroner’s clerk also obliged by procuring a bucket and sluicing the bridge with water, for them to all test the boards after. They did that very gingerly, I must say, but nevertheless the whole proceeding did strike me as properly scientific.’

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  ‘They’ll have brought your things. I’ll wait outside. There’ll be something to sign, then I’ll take you wherever you want to go. But there’s something else I have to tell you. I’ve known it for a while but you had enough on your plate.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Chown lost the baby. I’m very sorry, Loveridge.’

  ‘Oh, oh Ellen . . . oh.’ He sagged. ‘Mr Deakin? I know you med think it wrong, but we made that child out of love.’

  *

  Sam blinked and swayed in the fresh air. His clothes felt loose, as though they belonged to someone else – as they had once, a Gypsy’s clothes being begged for the most part. He looked to his left, and marvelled at a farmcart descending into Longport, a placid shire horse ambling gently between the shafts. The sight gave him immense pleasure, a sense that normal life perhaps could be resumed, just as it had continued in his absence. Though he had only been in Canterbury prison a matter of weeks, it had felt so much longer than his time in Winchester. Opposite, two old men sat on the low wall in front of the almshouses, watching him with interest. They must do that every morning, he thought, sizing up what the prison don’t want anymore.

  ‘Where do you want to go, Loveridge?’ asked Deakin.

  ‘Ellen,’ he whispered, then, ‘Ellen,’ more loudly.

  ‘May I make a suggestion? Let me get you something to eat first, and somewhere you can shave.’

  Sam’s hand went to his chin. ‘O’ course. I’d clean forgot. I always asked ’em for a razor after breakfast – whether I’d eaten anything or not. They never left me one of my own.’

  ‘They wouldn’t. Not with what was hanging over you – if you’ll forgive the unfortunate choice of words. Have you one in that bag?’

  ‘If they’ve not took it. And I’d be glad of your offer. Truth is, I do feel uncommon faint. The last time this happened – I mean, when I was let out of Winchester – it wasn’t like this.’

  ‘There was a bit more at stake this time, Loveridge. Come, then. Broth, bread and strong tea.’

  32 ‘Good luck, brother!’

  33 Clergyman

  CHAPTER 32

  A man must love, for all his wit;

  There’s no escape though he should die for it,

  Be she a maid, a widow, or a wife.

  Chaucer, The Knight’s Tale

  Respectable

  Deakin waited until Sam had devoured the soup and bread before speaking.

  ‘You’re a free man by law and right,’ said the solicitor, keeping his voice low, ‘but remember that Canterbury is not much more than a village. People talk. You will want to consider what would be best for Mrs Chown – what about a new start where neither of you is known?’

  Sam looked up, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and said: ‘I’ve wandered all my life, and that was normal for me, though sometimes it could be hard – the not knowing of it, I mean. Not knowing if you’d be moved on, sometimes at all hours, sometimes when you had just got the fire going and the meat spitted. There’s them as think it’s a romantic way to go on – firelight and the night stars above an’ telling stories and all that – but they don’t live like that year round. They don’t have to catch – or beg, which is harder – whatever goes in their bowl. I’m in this place here because I’m with you and they knows you here. I doubt I’d be let in otherwise. I saw that respectable lady over in the corner there,’ he tilted his head almost imperceptibly, ‘draw herself in when she saw me, though I don’t know her and she don’t know me, much less that I wish her no harm. That mother there with the little girl eating all them buns – she’s been watching me ever since we came in the door, though she pretends not to. That’s how her girlie has eaten mor’n she should. Those that knows me, Mr Deakin, generally treats me well. You, fr’instance. Without you, I don’t know where I should be, but probably not in a good place.’

  ‘I can’t take that credit. It was all made easier when that tramp came forward.’

  ‘You say that, but if you hadn’t been there, they could have sent him and his evidence packing if they’d wanted to, and I’d’ve been none the wiser.’

  ‘You can’t say that, Sam.’ For the first time Deakin spoke with irritation. ‘I think we have a constabulary and a judicial system to be proud of.’

  ‘P’raps I’m too hasty. There was one young one who was a perfect gent with me. I couldn’t trust ’em when I heard they’d took Ellen, that’s all. Anyways, what I meant to say is that I’ve always wandered, except when I’ve been stopped, as you might say, by main force. I can’t go back to that life, and even if I could, I wouldn’t take Ellen there. She’s never asked me, right enough, but I’ve let on to her how tough it is to live that way, impossible for a girl not brou
ght up to it. But you’re right, sir, even though it’s me now as wants to stay in one place, let the ivy grow up my legs, if you like. I mun pack up and move on again somehow – this time with my family.’

  He looked at Deakin proudly, repeating the phrase as though he had not long learned it and needed to fix it in his memory: ‘My family, Mr Deakin!’, his thin face transfigured by his smile.

  ‘I s’ll make them boys all the wooden trains – and cars and wagons and horses – they could ever want,’ he said, his voice growing louder and more confident. ‘And Ellen can fill ’em with broth as good as this one – but I’ll never be so distracted as to let ’em eat all the buns!’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the mother with the little girl flinch and reach for the sugar bowl.

  *

  Sam raised the knocker but paused before letting go. I’ve stared at this house often enough, he thought, but I’ve never see’d how she lives. He saw her again smiling up at him, lying on a blanket in Surman’s Wood, amidst shimmering green leaves, birdsong and the chattering of the stream, and in the shabby little room in the Flying Horse, which her presence had made a sanctuary. When he’d been given back his own clothes he had found the key in his pocket, a talisman.

  A shadow moved behind the net curtain of the neighbouring house. Sam stared pointedly in its direction, until he sensed Mrs Clerk’s retreat.

  My family, he thought, as he let the brass knocker fall.

  A curtain twitched in the window and a moment later the door opened three inches, with Judith almost hidden behind it.

  ‘Quickly!’ she hissed, and pulled the door back.

  Sam stood in the little parlour, feeling large and awkward and crowded by Millie’s overstuffed armchairs, their embroidered antimacassars, the treacly veneer of the Chappell piano, the framed flowered texts and the tinted photograph of a young Oliver Quainton, already magnificently bearded. He stepped back from the garish red-blue-gold of the carpet that covered the centre of the floor, preferring the firm feel of the varnished floorboards round its edge. Thump, thump went Judith’s feet up the Brussels matting of the staircase, noisy as a donkey on a dirt track. He heard murmured words above, then Judith thundered down again, threw a rapid ‘just going out!’ over her shoulder and disappeared through the scullery.