by Meg Rosoff
Esther nodded. A dense silence flowed between her and the little boy.
“Does he ever speak?”
Pell shook her head.
“Mute in the family’s considered lucky. Absorbs all the bad fortune, so they say.”
“Not so lucky for him, then.”
“No.” Esther’s laugh was harsh. And then, “Have you something for the little ones?”
Pell reached into her bag and pulled out the remainder of her bread, which the woman secreted in the large pocket of her apron. Once the meal was finished, it was easier to look and judge the state of the wagon, which was warm enough, with the musky smell of too many children. And when Pell did (far too late) check in every dark corner for predatory men, there were none, only a few untidy piles of belongings.
Plates were rinsed in a bucket of rainwater outside the wagon, and the children drifted inside one by one. Elspeth, the eldest, presided while the rest settled side by side on feed bags stuffed with straw, some head to tail and some not. To her surprise, Pell saw Bean crammed in among them, though it took a moment to determine which child he was. His head rested on Esmé’s skinny arm, and he looked more peaceful than he had since they left Nomansland. Pell realized all at once how little she replaced the crowded family at home, and wondered what his decision to accompany her had cost him.
She made a space in between the pots and pans at the side of the wagon, wrapped herself in her shawl, tucked her purse into the front of her dress, and settled down to sleep. The drip drip drip of rain running on canvas didn’t disturb her, for she was dry enough, and could lift the cover an inch or two and whisper to Jack, who puffed a little through his nostrils in return.
Sleep came right away. When she awoke in the night, Esther was snoring opposite, tucked up, with one of the children muttering softly by her side. Pell thought how strange it was to swap one family for another, and how effortlessly the conversion seemed to have occurred.
Just before sunrise came the smell of smoke fires, a clamor of voices, and the general clanking and clattering of pots and of wagons ready to pull up stakes and move on. Shaking the sleep from her head, Pell checked first on Bean and Esmé—their positions unchanged from the night before—then pushed out into the damp air to greet Jack. He looked in fine spirits after his night under cover, luxury for a horse who’d spent his whole life out of doors leaning into a gale.
Torn between gratitude and self-interest, Pell produced a wedge of cheese, hidden away for later, and shared it out among the children for breakfast. They swallowed it down quick as stoats and stared hard at her with rapacious eyes.
As the sun rose over the horizon, the Gypsy family put out their fire and packed up the caravan in minutes, ready to set off before Pell had even finished her tea. She wondered at their talent for quick departures, and what circumstances had honed the skill. Bean looked from Pell to Esmé, reluctant to say goodbye to his new friend, and when Esther suggested they meet later that day by the cathedral, Pell agreed. Bean ran alongside and waved until the caravan entered the great stone arch in the city wall and was swallowed up in the crowd.
Eight
As soon as they emerged from babyhood, the male Rid leys hired out as farm laborers, taking turns to trail behind their father from village to village, reluctant acolytes in the art of religious hectoring. Edward hid whenever his father was at home, and would rather take a beating than accompany him out preaching.
At home, with their mother in a near-constant state of lying-in, Lou and Ellen had responsibility for the carding, knitting, and plaiting of straw (for hats and baskets), the cooking and mending, the churning, cheese-making, and bread baking. Bean’s delicate fingers made fine straight plaits that fetched a good price at market, while Sally, lame from birth, sat and knitted, her stubby fingers counting the stitches of fine stockings and jerseys and drawers.
Pell and Frannie gathered wood for the fire, fetched water from the well, and tended the cow and the pig, when they weren’t out on the heath shearing and milking and herding for Birdie’s father. With what Pell and the boys earned out of doors, and all that Lou, Bean, Ellen, and Sally accomplished at home, the pantry would be filled for winter with fruit in jars, apples set on racks, potatoes in the clamp, hanging bacon, and maize flour ground arduously by hand to save paying the miller. But no matter how they picked and pickled, preserved and bottled and saved, there never was enough to feed them all through the long cold winters, so that each new child was born into hunger, a hunger that barely deserved a second thought.
“Look what I have for you,” Frannie cried one fine spring day, tumbling in through the doorway clutching a basket bigger than herself filled with wool.
Sally limped over to see the raw fleeces, prodding them with a disdainful finger. “I’ll have them when they’re clean,” she said frowning, and turned her back on the younger girl.
“I’m to catch and shear and wash them, too?” Frannie snorted. “I’ll have your job instead.”
“All right then, it’s yours,” declared Sally, hurling a half-knitted stocking at her.
Frannie picked up the work and examined it: perfect, without a single false stitch. To her credit, she surrendered at once. “My stockings would make us all lame,” she declared, giggling, and raced out the door without a backward glance.
And so Sally was left with the grease wool. She hauled the heavy basket up with a sigh and dragged it to the lean-to barn, where she found Lou and Ellen churning milk. Lou peered over into the basket. “What are we expected to do with that?” She poked a finger at the filthy wool.
“Frannie ought to clean it.”
“Yes, and I suppose she will—once the lambs and foals are born and fed and weaned and old enough to fend for themselves, and if we’re all still alive and haven’t forgotten the job altogether. Then, perhaps.”
“She says she fancies my job because it’s easier,” said Sally, her face sulky, and Lou kissed her.
“Never mind, sweet. She fancies herself a boy as well, and that’s no nearer true.”
Ellen looked on with interest. Older only than Bean, she made a feature of not attracting attention. In the scrabbling scrum of siblings, Ellen was the most reluctant to claim ground for herself, to instigate a row or take sides in a complaint. She was soft where Frannie was angular, slow where Sally was brisk; Lou loved her for her dreamy eyes and kept her close.
In the absence of a serviceable parent, Lou fussed over the little ones, soothed their feelings, and taught them all the manners and skills she knew. Thanks mainly to her efforts, there were times—with ponies in the garden, plums on the table, sun on the front wall, and Pa with the boys, a day’s or a week’s walk away—when happiness nudged at the cottage walls. All the joy that any of them could remember was lit by the low slow dwindling light of long June evenings with work finished and nothing urgent to do but knit and talk or race back and forth across the heath on horseback.
On winter nights when he wasn’t drunk, and sometimes when he was, Pa schooled George, James, Edward, and John in reading and Bible and history and how to add up numbers and preach to an empty church. Of the boys, only Edward paid attention to book learning. But it was Pell who sat with her back to Pa, plaiting straw for hats and going over each lesson in her head, while George and John made faces and pinched each other and James prayed to God to be somewhere else.
Mam didn’t hold by schooling. “Turns out boys too clever to be useful,” she said. “And girls no good to marry.” Well, and wasn’t she just the perfect example? Ignorant as a thistle, married to a drunk, and pushing out baby after baby, each of which had to be clothed and fed until it grew up and left, or died.
No one in the parish was what you might call well-off, and by the time Pell turned ten she and Lou had an expertise in stretching ends past straining point in an ever-hopeful and ever-futile attempt to make them meet. It was a skill practiced by every child in Nomansland, and each learned it from its mam who had, of course, learned the same way.
It was for this reason that Birdie’s father took on whichever Ridley girls were available to work, and gladly, for they were cheaper to employ than boys, and hard workers. As the years passed, however, the decision caused him some unease. For despite the bloodlines of his own children, each a pure horseman dating back ten generations, William Finch could not help noticing that the quickest learners, the best workers, and the children with the greatest natural affinity for the job did not belong to him.
Nine
Once inside Salisbury’s walls, Pell and Bean competed with half the population to cross roads crammed with the other half. Everywhere, fierce desperate little dogs raced back and forth, nipping and growling at the hocks of sheep and cattle to stop them stampeding down the long sloping chute of a high street. Jack pricked his ears forward, tossed his head, and danced crabways. There were so many sights to take in, so many people, so many varieties of bread and cheese and pies and ale and sweets; so many villains, cheats and players, vagrants, opportunists, showmen, and bawds. Salisbury was unnerving for a country horse, and exhilarating, too. Jack longed to plunge headlong into the chaos and add to it.
It seemed as if the entire equine world had found its way to the horse fair. Men led big cart horses harnessed by twos and fours with polished brass and gleaming leather, brood mares still suckling late foals, and stallions available for stud. And always some boy galloped full tilt with nothing but a bit of rope for a bridle, scattering all manner of panicked creatures in his wake. Pell saw a child escape death by half an inch under the wheels of a wagon, while a big handsome white bull with a ring through his nose—docile as a lamb one moment—turned and ripped open the belly of a screaming cart horse the next. Some of the younger boys cheered for the bull as the poor horse’s entrails sagged from the wound and the awful smell of organs came to Pell in a gust so strong she could taste it. The brawl that followed was fueled by blood and mud and looked certain to end in more death.
She turned Jack away from the scene just as Joe Ridley entered Salisbury through St. Ann’s gate in search of his renegade children. They passed within twenty yards of each other on either side of the frumenty seller’s striped tent, Pell and Bean heading toward the grounds of the cathedral, Joe Ridley to the nearest tavern.
In the cathedral close, among the restless horses and old-looking children, Pell found Esther camped near a man and wife, not young, with a splayfooted cob tethered to an ancient wagon. For an instant, Pell wondered why Esther had settled here, away from the Gypsy encampment.
Leading Jack, Pell asked politely if the old couple minded her taking the spot next to theirs, and seeing how young she was, with a boy they took to be her own and no husband in evidence, they took pity on her and granted their assent. They were glad to have a girl set down between the Gypsy wagon and their own, despite the questions raised by the fatherless child. The couple were Mr. and Mrs. Bewes, and pleased to make her acquaintance.
“This is Bean,” Pell told them, letting go of him at last as he struggled away after his new friend.
“An unusual moniker,” said the woman, drawing her eyebrows together. “Named after his pa, was he?” She was fishing, unable to settle for so little information.
“No,” Pell said, but on second thought smiled, not wishing to sow suspicion where she needed friends. “He is my brother. The youngest of five.”
“Five brothers!” crowed Mrs. Bewes, hands clutched to her breast. “What a comfort for your poor dear mother.”
Pell did not explain their circumstances further.
“And you are here to buy a horse? Or to sell one?” Mrs. Bewes looked at Jack.
I am in need of work, Pell thought. I left home in a hurry. My brothers are dead and my mother has only Lou and the little girls at home.
I will never, ever marry.
A knot of panic formed near her heart. What could she say to this woman? She forced herself to smile. “We are seeking—” she glanced at Bean, who was out of earshot—“to buy. Perhaps.”
“Well, then, without a doubt you’ve come to the right place.” Mr. Bewes looked kindly at her, but his wife merely nodded. If the condition of the girl’s clothing was anything to go by, money was not plentiful at home. Perhaps she was hoping for a bargain, or a miracle.
“We are in search of a nice solid pony, strong enough to pull a plow but not so heavy he can’t be rode to the next village in the dead of night.” It turned out that the old woman was a midwife, still active in her trade. “Our Pike deserves retirement and a quiet old age, poor thing, after eighteen years’ hard work. Nowadays, all he’s good for is to trundle along in front of a wagon at half a useful pace.” She grunted. “And that goes for his lordship as well.”
Pell smiled.
“Will you take tea with us?” Mrs. Bewes asked and, without waiting for an answer, poured out into delicate china cups, as genteel as if she were sitting in a velvet chair in her own gracious parlor. She removed a small leather bottle from her apron and tipped its contents into her teacup.
Pell caught a whiff of gin and peppermint.
Mr. Bewes explained that he was hoping to accomplish his business and set off for home as soon as possible. “I’m too old for this,” he said, and Pell understood. The atmosphere of the fair, equal parts thrill and menace, offered the kind of excitement that sickened the soul. An excess of alcohol had so far made the crowd cheerful, but she knew it would not be long before the mood turned.
“I’ll happily stay with the horses,” Pell offered, “if you would like to look round with Mrs. Bewes.”
Her offer was gratefully received, and she sat with Esther watching the comings and goings of the fair until finally the couple returned, and Mrs. Bewes urged Pell to take a turn with her husband. “The place is riddled with Gypsies and heaven knows what else,” she whispered, too loudly, with a meaningful nod at Esther. “I think you’ll find the protection of a man a blessing.”
Pell retrieved Bean from Esmé and, gripping him tightly by the hand, set off with the old man. She would certainly find work here, she told herself. Horses needed grooming and guarding, and owners would not want to leave a wagon, or a beast, unattended.
The noise did not abate as evening closed in, rather the opposite, owing to the combined effect of drink and high spirits. Everywhere fires burned; the wood smoke blew around Pell’s head and up her nose, a welcome smell over that of ordure and blood. She could hear pipes and fiddles emerging here and there in the dusk. The smoky gray evening made a perfect dull foil for flames and the flickering glow of lanterns.
She saw Bean’s eyes glow huge like beacons in the failing light. Plenty of ugliness to be found here, Pell thought, despite it lying low. And he’s just the child to see it all. She folded his cold hand between her two and squeezed it tight.
Pell managed to follow Mr. Bewes and discourage him once or twice from horses he’d regret buying. She offered guidance so subtle that it made no particular impression on him, but when he settled on a big skewbald gelding, well built and sound, it was thanks to judgment other than his own. Even in the half-light she could tell that the animal was strong, intelligent enough, and willing. As they turned to go, the owner swung Bean up onto his horse’s back, saying, “See? Quiet as a lamb he is. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The big horse turned his placid brown eye on Bean and they held each other’s gaze for a moment. And then Bean leaned forward and laid his cheek against the broad soft neck.
“There’s your answer,” crowed the man. “Boy knows a good horse when he sees one!”
Which was true enough.
Ten
&nb
sp; They returned to find the Gypsy caravan empty and Mrs. Bewes crouched over her fire, stirring a pot of barley-and-bacon soup. She insisted that Bean and Pell join them, and they ate together, Pell grateful for a hot meal and the luxury of meat. Mr. Bewes snorted when Pell asked if they were missed at home.
“Six married children, all with children of their own. There’s more than enough of them to run the place into the ground perfectly well without us,” he said. “And Mrs. Bewes does enjoy having no one to please but herself.”
The lady in question adjusted her skirts and settled back comfortably to prove his point. “Now if only I can prevent Mr. Bewes from finding himself a suitable animal for at least a day or two, I might even have a chance to see the sights.”
The old couple retired to their wagon for the night, and Pell lay beside Bean on a pile of sacks with Jack tethered close by. She felt comfortable enough but couldn’t sleep, despite being tired. It was impossible to ignore the party that had begun nearby with a pair of fiddles and a Jew’s harp, joined a few minutes later by a makeshift drum, penny-whistles, and flutes. At first the songs were loud and wild, but after some time they turned melancholic, and eventually, in a haze of half-waking, half-remembered dreams, Pell slept.
She awoke later in the dark to the sound of a gruff burble of words, stern and low at first and then sweet as a lover’s, and she wondered who might have settled behind them. The voice affected her oddly, its soft hypnotic flow insinuating itself into the space between sleep and wakefulness. With no face to put to the sound, she nonetheless felt the tug of it.
What remained of the night was restless. Men with too much drink in their bellies staggered into strange camps, attracted like moths to any lantern or campfire. Nearby, a stallion, smelling every mare on heat in the square mile, screamed and groaned unnnh unnnh unnnh, rearing up and thudding down with all his might. Those mares were answering him too, and the already volatile atmosphere thickened.
