“It gave Tom Yardley a lot of trouble once.”
“Did it then? But you like it?”
“I was found under it.”
“Oh, so it was there, was it? Do you come here often to look at it?”
I nodded.
“Well, I suppose you would. It’s not everyone who’s found under an azalea bush, is it?”
I hunched my shoulders and laughed. He joined in my laughter.
“How old are you, Carmel?”
I held up four fingers.
He counted them solemnly.
“Four years old? My word! That’s a fine age to be! How long have you been it?”
“I came in March. That’s why I’m Carmel March.”
“I’m Uncle Toby.”
Whose Uncle Toby? “
“Henry’s, Estella’s, Adeline’s. Yours too, if you’ll have me.”
I laughed again. I was apt to laugh without any definite reason when I was happy; and there was something about him which made me so.
“Will you?” he went on.
I nodded.
“You don’t live here,” I said.
“I’m visiting. I came last night.”
“Will you stay here?”
“For a while. Then I’ll be off.”
“Where?”
“To sea … I live at sea.”
“That’s fishes,” I said disbelievingly.
“And sailors,” he added.
“Uncle Toby! Uncle Toby!” Estella was running towards us. She flung herself at him.
“Hello, hello!” He picked her up and held her up above him while they laughed together. I was jealous. Then Henry came up.
“Uncle Toby!”
He put Estella down and he and Henry started talking together.
“When did you come? How long will you stay? Where have you been?”
“All will be revealed,” he said.
“I came last night after you were in bed. I’ve been hearing all about you, what you’ve been doing when I wasn’t here. And I’ve made the acquaintance of Carmel.”
Estella glanced rather derisively in my direction, but Uncle Toby’s smile was warm.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
“I’ve got lots to tell you and lots to show you.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Estella.
“Come on then,” said Henry.
Estella clung to Uncle Toby’s hand and pulled him is towards the house. I felt suddenly left alone, and then Uncle Toby turned to me and held out his hand.
“Come along, Carmel,” he said.
And I was happy again.
Uncle Toby’s visits were the happiest times of my early days. They were not very frequent but all the more cherished for that. He was Mrs. Marline’s brother, which never ceased to amaze me. There could not be two people less like each other. There was none of her austerity about him. He gave the impression that nothing in the world ever bothered him. Whatever it was, he would overcome it, and he made one feel that one could do the same. Perhaps that was at the root of his charm.
The household was quite different when he was there. Even Nanny Gilroy softened. He used to say things to them all which he could not have meant. Lies, I thought? Surely that was not very good. But whatever Uncle Toby did was right in my eyes.
“Nanny,” he would say, ‘you grow more beautiful every time I see you.”
“You get along with you. Captain Sinclair,” she would say, pursing her lips and bridling. I think she really believed it.
Even Mrs. Marline changed. Her face softened when she looked at him and I continued to marvel that he could be her brother. The doctor was also affected. He laughed more. As for Estella and Henry, they were always hanging round him. He was kind and especially gentle with Adeline. She would sit smiling at him so that she really looked quite beautiful in a strange way.
What enchanted me was that he always made a point of including me. I fancied he liked me more than the others but perhaps that was what I wanted to believe.
He would say: “Come along, Carmel.” And he would take my hand and press it.
“You keep close to Uncle Toby.” As if I needed to be asked to do that!
“He is my Uncle Toby,” Estella reminded me.
“He’s not yours.”
“He says he will be my uncle if I want him to, and I do.”
“Gipsies don’t have uncles like Uncle Toby.”
That saddened me, because I knew it was true. But I refused to accept it. He never made any difference between me and the others. In fact, I think he made a very special point of showing that he wanted to be my uncle.
When he did come to the house, he always made a point of spending a great deal of time with the children. Estella and Henry were having riding lessons and he said I ought to have them too. He set me on a pony with a leading rein attached to it and led us round and round a field. That was the height of bliss to me.
He used to tell us stories of what he did at sea. He took his ship to countries all round the world. He spoke of places of which I had never heard: the mysterious East, the wonders of Egypt, colourful India, France, Italy and Spain.
I would stand by the globe in the schoolroom, turning it round, and would cry out to Miss Harley: “Where is India? Where is Egypt?” I wanted to know more about those wonderful places which had been visited by the even more wonderful Uncle Toby.
He brought presents for the children and wonder of wonders for me, too. It was useless for Estella to tell me that he was not my Uncle Toby. He was mine . more than theirs.
My present was a box in sandalwood on which sat three little monkeys.
He told me they were saying: “See no Evil, Speak no Evil, Hear no Evil,” and when the lid of the box was lifted, it played “God Save the Queen’. I had never possessed anything so beautiful. I would not let it out of my sight. I kept it by my bed so that in the night I could stretch out my hand and feel it was there, and the first thing I did on waking was to play that tune.
Commonwood House was enchanted territory when he was there; and when he went away it became dull and ordinary again.
Yet still it was touched with the hope that he would come back.
When he said goodbye I clung to him; he seemed to like that.
“Will you come back again soon?” I always asked.
And his reply was always the same: “As soon as I am able.”
“You will, you will?” I demanded earnestly, knowing the inclination of grown-ups to make promises they never intended to carry out.
And to my almost unbearable joy, he replied: “Nothing would keep me away, now that I have made the acquaintance of Miss Carmel March.”
I stood listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves and the wheels of the carriage which was taking him away. Then, as we went into the house, Estella said: “He’s not your Uncle Toby.”
But nothing would convince me that he was not.
One day, during the spring following Uncle Toby’s visit, Henry came in and announced: “The gipsies are in the woods. I saw their caravans as I came past.”
My heart began to pound. It was years since they had been this way not since the time of my birth.
“My patience me,” said Nanny Gilroy.
“Something ought to be done about that lot. Why should they come here and pester honest folk?”
She looked at me as she spoke, as though I were responsible for their coming.
I said: “They’ve got a right. The woods are for everybody if they want to go there.”
“Don’t give me any of your sauce. Miss, if you please,” said Nanny. ‘ You might have your reasons for being fond of suchlike. I and there are thousands like me feel different. It’s not right to let them come here and something should be done about it. If they come here with their clothes pegs and their bits of heather, you can give them the rough side of your tongue, Sally, and that’s what they’ll get from me.”
Sally wisely said nothing and I put on my sullen look which was silly reall
y because it did not help.
There was a good deal of talk about the gipsies. People were suspicious of them. They would pester, it was said, try to steal things and in their way threaten with sly hints of misfortune for those who would not buy their wares or have their fortunes told.
They made fires in the woods at night and sat round them singing. From the garden we could hear them. I thought they sounded quite melodious.
Several of the young girls in the neighbourhood had their fortunes told.
Nanny cautioned Estella to be careful.
“They get up to all sorts of tricks. They kidnap children, starve them, and make them go out selling clothes pegs. People are sorry for starving children.”
I said to Estella: That’s not true! They don’t go round stealing children. “
“No,” agreed Estella.
“They leave them under bushes for other people to look after. Of course, you would stand up for them.”
She was jealous of me, I told myself. She was two years older than I and I could read as well as she could. Besides, Uncle Toby liked me specially.
She chanted:
“My mother said that I never should Play with the gipsies in the wood.”
“And why not?” she went on.
“Because they kidnap you, steal your shoes and stockings and send you out selling clothes pegs.”
I walked away and tried to look haughty, but I was disturbed. I wished Uncle Toby were here. I should have liked to talk to him about the gipsies.
I was very interested in them and found it difficult to keep away from the encampment.
I was six years old at this time, but I think I might have been taken for more. I was as tall as Estella and that trait in me for asserting myself was stronger than ever. After all, I was made constantly aware that, although I was fed and clothed and shared lessons and the nursery with the children of the household, I was only there because of the charity of the doctor and his wife. So I had to show them constantly that I was as good as, if not better than, the rest of them.
I loved Sally; I was fond of Adeline and Miss Harley. I was fond of anyone who showed me kindness and, of course, I adored Uncle Toby. I seized with great eagerness on any affection which came my way because I was so very much aware of the lack of it in some quarters.
It was easy for me to slip away and I invariably made my way to the encampment. From the shelter of the trees I could look out on the caravans drawn up there without anyone’s being aware of my presence.
There were several children, brown-skinned and bare footed, who played there together and young women squatting about weaving wicker baskets and cutting wood with knives. They sang quietly and chattered as they worked.
There was one woman in particular who interested me. She was by no means young. She had thick black hair with streaks of grey in it. She always sat on the steps of a particular caravan and worked away with the rest of them. She talked a great, deal. I was too far away to hear what she said, but I did hear her singing now and then. She was plump and laughed frequently. I wished I knew what it was all about.
I often wondered what would have happened to me if I had not been left under the azalea bush. Should I have been one of those bare-footed children? I shuddered at the thought. Even though I was not really wanted, I was glad that I had gone to Commonwood House.
I was doubly grateful to the doctor for insisting that they keep me.
He didn’t really want me, of course, but perhaps he thought it was a good idea and he might not go to heaven if he sent me away. Well, I was glad that they had kept me, whatever the reason.
It was a hot afternoon. I sat among the trees and watched the gipsies, the children shouting to each other. The plump lady was on the caravan steps as usual. The basket she was weaving was on her lap and she looked as if she might be dropping off to sleep at any moment.
I thought they were less aware than usual because of the heat and that I might venture closer. I stood up abruptly and did not see the stone which was protruding from the ground. I tripped and went sprawling into the clearing.
It happened so quickly that I could not stop myself from calling out.
There was a sudden pain in my foot and I saw that there was blood on my stocking.
The children were watching me and I tried to scramble up. I gave a cry of pain, for my left foot would not support me and I fell.
The plump woman started to descend the caravan steps.
“What is it?” she cried.
“Why! It’s a little girl! Oh my! What have you done? You’ve hurt yourself, have you?”
I looked down at the blood on my stocking. Then she was kneeling beside me while the children gathered round to look.
“Hurt there, dearie?”
She was touching my ankle and I nodded.
She grunted and turned to the children.
“Go and get Uncle Jake. Tell him to come here … quick.”
Two of the children ran off.
“Cut yourself a bit, lovey. Your leg. Not much. Still, we’ll stop it bleeding. Jake ‘un be here in a minute. He’s over there . cutting wood. “
In spite of the pain in my foot and my inability to walk, I was excited. I always enjoyed escaping from the dull routine of the Uncle-Toby-less days and I was glad of a diversion of any sort. This was particularly intriguing because it was bringing me closer to the gipsies.
The two children came running back followed by a tall man with dark curly hair and gold rings in his ears: he had a very brown face, white teeth displayed by his pleasant smile.
“Oh, Jake,” said the plump woman.
“This little Miss has had a bit of a mishap.” She laughed in a silent way and one only knew she was laughing by the way in which her shoulders shook. It seemed a clever thing to have said and I smiled my appreciation of her choice of words.
“Better get her into the ‘van, Jake. I’ll put something on that wound.”
Jake picked me up and carried me across the clearing. He mounted the steps of the caravan on which the woman had been sitting, and we went inside. There was a bench on one side of the caravan and a kind of divan on the other. He laid me on this. I looked round. It was like a little room, very untidy, and on the bench were some mugs and bottles.
“Here we are,” said the woman.
“I’ll just put something on that leg.
Then we’ll see about getting you home. Where do you come from, dearie?”
“I live at Commonwood House with Dr. Marline and his family.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Well, fancy that!” She shook as though with secret laughter.
“They’ll be worried about you, dearie, so we’d better get a message to them.”
“They won’t worry about me … not yet.”
“Oh, all right, then. We’ll get that stocking off, shall we?”
“You all right?” said Jake.
The woman nodded.
“Call you when we want you.”
“Right you are,” said Jake, grinning at me in a friendly way.
“Now then,” said the woman. I had taken off my stocking and was gazing ruefully at the blood which was oozing out of the wound.
“Wash it first,” she said.
“Here.” She indicated one of the children who had followed us into the caravan.
“Get me a basin of water.”
The child ran to do her bidding and half filled a basin, which stood on the overcrowded bench, with water from an enamel jug which also stood there.
The woman had a piece of cloth and began bathing my leg. I looked in horror at the blood-soaked rag and the reddening water in the basin.
“That’s nothing to worry about, dearie,” she said.
“That’ll soon heal.
I’ve got something to put on it. Made it myself. Gipsies know these things. You can trust the gipsy. “
“Oh, I do,” I said.
She smiled at me, flashing her magnificent teeth.
&nb
sp; “Now, this might hurt a bit at first. But the more-it hurts the quicker it’ll get better, see?”
I said I did.
“Ready?”
I winced.
“All right? You the doctor’s little girl, are you?”
“No. Not exactly. I’m just there.”
“Staying there, are you?”
“No. I live there. I’m Carmel March.”
“That’s a nice name, dearie.”
“Carmel means garden, and that’s where they found me, and because it was March, they called me that.”
“In a garden!”
“Everyone round here knows. I was left under the azalea bush. The one that gave Tom Yardley a lot of trouble one year.
The woman was staring at me in amazement and kept nodding her head slowly.
“And you live there now, do you?”
“Yes.”
“And they’re good to you?”
I hesitated.
“Sally is and Miss Harley and Adeline … and, of course.
Uncle Toby, but. “
“Not the doctor and his wife?”
“I don’t know. They don’t take much notice, but Nanny Gilroy always tells me I don’t belong there.”
“She’s not very nice, is she?”
“She just thinks I ought not to be there.”
“That don’t sound very nice to me, lovey. Now I’m going to wrap this up.”
“It’s very kind of you.”
“We’re nice people, gipsies. Don’t you believe all the things you hear people say about us.”
Oh, I don’t. “
“I can see you don’t. You’re not a bit scared of me, are you?”
I shook my head.
“You’re a brave little girl, you are. What we’re going to do is take you back. Jake will have to carry you because you can’t walk. But what we’re going to do first is give you a nice toddy, and we can have a little chat while you rest a bit. Your ankle will be all right. It’s only a sprain. It’ll hurt a bit but soon it will be well. Mustn’t walk on it yet, though. This is a drink of herbs … soothing after a shock and you’ve had one of them, dearie.”
The ‘toddy’ was rather pleasant. She watched me closely while I drank it.
“There now,” she said.
“You and me, we’ll have a little chat. You tell me about the doctor and his wife, and Nanny, and all of them. They feed you well, do they?”
The Black Opal Page 2
