Voices in a Haunted Room

by Philippa Carr

  Then we drank to the great hero, Lord Nelson, and to our own Jonathan who had died for his country. Claudine was overcome by emotion and I saw the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  “There will be bonfires all over the country tonight,” said my mother.

  “We must see them,” I cried.

  “Well,” went on my mother, “I suppose we could all go out. They won’t light them until after dark.”

  “I want to go out and see them, don’t you, Amaryllis?” I cried.

  “Oh yes,” she answered.

  Our parents exchanged glances and my father said: “We’ll take the carriage. It will be near the coast… right on the cliffs, so that any watchers from the other side of the water may be able to see them. Bonfires all along the coast telling the plaguey French what we think of their Napoleon. David, you can drive us. We’ll all go.”

  The elders looked relieved. I followed their thoughts. There would be revelry round the bonfires tonight and they did not want their daughters to be out of sight.

  At dusk we set out. The excitement was intense. People were making their way to that spot on the cliff top where the bonfire was to be lighted. Already there was a crowd assembled there. Driftwood and rubbish of all sorts had been piled up, and on the top of the heap was an effigy of Napoleon.

  The crowd made way for our carriage.

  “Down with the Boney Party!” shouted someone.

  There were cheers for our carriage. My father waved his hand and called a greeting to some of them. Nothing could please him more than this display of feeling against the French.

  Our carriage pulled up some yards from the bonfire.

  People were looking anxiously at the sky. It must not rain. It occurred to me that people who had such a short time before been worried because they feared an invasion, now seemed equally so about the weather.

  We were lucky. The rain held off. The great moment had come.

  Several men approached carrying flaming torches. They circled the heap and with a shout threw their torches into the mass of accumulated rubbish and paraffin-soaked wood. There was a burst of flame. The bonfire was alight.

  The air was filled with shrieks of delight; people joined hands and danced round the bonfire. Fascinated, I watched. They looked different in the firelight. One hardly recognized the sober people one had known. They were servants, most of them. I saw the little tweeny, wide-eyed and wondering. Her hand was seized by one of the stable boys and she was whirled off into the dance.

  “They are going to get wilder as the night progresses,” said David.

  “Yes,” replied my mother, “there will be some merrymaking tonight.”

  “I trust the after effects will not be more than some of them have bargained for,” added my father.

  “Crowds scare me a little,” said my mother.

  My father looked at her tenderly. “This is rejoicing, Lottie,” he murmured gently.

  “I know. But crowds … mobs …”

  “Would you like to go?” he asked.

  She looked at me and Amaryllis. “No,” she replied. “Let’s wait awhile.”

  I felt a great desire to mingle with the crowds, to dance round the bonfire. Two of the men had brought fiddles with them and they were playing songs we all knew—The Vicar of Bray and Barbara Allen and the one which set them all shouting with fervour as we all joined in:

  When Britain first, at Heaven’s command

  Arose from out the azure main,

  This was the charter of the land,

  And the guardian angels sang the strain:

  “Rule Brittania, rule the waves Britons never will be slaves.”

  The words rang out into the night air; below the waves washed against the white cliffs.

  “Never, never, never,” chanted the crowd, “Will be slaves.”

  All the pent-up emotions of the last months were let loose as the fear of the havoc an invading army could wreak evaporated from their minds. Not that any of them would admit that they thought it could really happen, but the relief was intense, and I could hear it in those words. “Never … never, never …” they went on singing.

  The music changed. Now the fiddlers were playing a merry tune:

  Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads

  And away to the maypole hie …

  It was not Maytime but the tune would do for a dance and the lasses and lads had joined hands and were dancing round the bonfire as though it were a maypole.

  I saw some of the gypsies mingling with the crowd and yes! there he was. He was hand in hand with a sloe-eyed gypsy girl. Creole earrings flapped in her ears; she wore a red skirt and had wild dark hair.

  He danced gracefully, leaping round the bonfire. He came close to our carriage and saw me. For a few seconds his eyes met mine. He released the hand of the girl with whom he was dancing and she went leaping on without him. He stood there just looking; and although he did not beckon I knew that he was telling me how much he wanted me to be down there dancing with him. His gaze implied that our acquaintance was a secret… a delightful secret—something daring and forbidden.

  My father said: “The gypsies are here.”

  “Well, I suppose there is no reason why they shouldn’t be,” replied my mother.

  “They seem to be enjoying the occasion,” added David.

  I was amazed to see Dolly in the crowd. I would not have expected her to venture out on such a night, and certainly not to come to the bonfire. She was standing on the edge of the crowd, looking frail and pretty because her deformity was not discernible. She looked like a young girl though she must be past her mid twenties.

  I whispered to Amaryllis: “Look, there’s Dolly.”

  And at that moment Romany Jake was beside her. He seized her hand and, drawing her along with him, began to dance.

  “Dolly … dancing,” said Amaryllis. “How very strange.”

  I followed them with my eyes for as long as I could. Once or twice as they came round the bonfire they were quite close to the carriage. Dolly looked ecstatic. He glanced my way. There was something I did not understand in his expression but I knew he was telling me how much he wanted me to be dancing with him round the bonfire.

  I waited for them to come round again, but they did not. I continued to look for them but I did not see them again.

  “This will go on through the night,” my mother said.

  “Yes.” My father yawned. “David, take us home now. I think we have had enough. This sort of thing becomes monotonous.”

  “It is a good thing that they all realize what dangers we have come through,” commented David. “There can’t be a man or woman in England tonight who is not proud to be English.”

  “For tonight, yes,” said my mother. “Tomorrow may be another matter.”

  “Lottie, my dear,” said my father, “you have become a cynic.”

  “Crowds make me feel so,” she replied.

  “Come along, David,” commanded my father, and David turned the horses.

  So we rode the short distance back to the house through the lanes which were illuminated by the light from the bonfire. We could see other bonfires spread along the coast like jewels in a necklace.

  “A night to remember,” said David.

  What I would remember most was the sight of Romany

  Jake standing there almost willing me to leave the carriage and go to him; and then hand in hand with Dolly he had disappeared.

  A few days later there was trouble.

  One of the gamekeepers came to see my father. He had caught two gypsies stealing pheasants in the wood. There was a definite boundary between those woods in which the gypsies were allowed to camp and those in which the pheasants were kept. There were notices in every conceivable spot warning that those who trespassed in the private woods would be prosecuted.

  These two men had been seen by the gamekeeper with pheasants in their hands. He had given chase and although he had failed to catch them he had traced them back t
o the gypsy encampment.

  As a result my father rode out there and warned the gypsies that if any more attempts were made to encroach on the land which was forbidden to them and if those stealing his pheasants were caught, they would be handed over to the law and suffer the consequences; and the gypsies would be moved on and never allowed to camp on his ground again.

  He talked of them over dinner that evening.

  “They are a proud race,” he said. “It’s a pity they don’t settle down and stop wandering over the face of the earth.”

  “I think they like the life under the sun, moon and stars,” I said.

  “Poetic, but uncomfortable,” said Claudine.

  “I suppose,” added David, who always brought a philosophical turn to the conversation, “that if they did not prefer it they would not continue with it.”

  “They’re lazy,” declared Dickon.

  “I am not sure,” contradicted my mother. “They have been doing it for generations. It’s a way of life.”

  “Begging … scrounging … making use of other people’s property!”

  “I believe,” I put in, “that they have an idea that everything on earth is for the use of everybody in it.”

  “A misguided philosophy,” said my father, “and only adhered to by those who want what others have got. Once they have it, they would endeavour to keep it to themselves with more vigour than any. That is nature and no philosophy on earth is going to change it. As for the gypsies, if they are caught in any more mischief, they’ll be out. They’re an insolent lot. There was one fellow… He was very different from the rest. He was sitting on the steps of one of the caravans playing a guitar of all things. I thought he might have got up and done a bit of work.”

  “That would be Romany Jake,” I said.

  “Who?” cried my father.

  “He’s one of them. I’ve seen him about. In the kitchen they talk about him a great deal.”

  “Colourful character,” said my father. “He was a sort of spokesman for them. He’s certainly not at a loss for words.”

  “I saw him at the bonfire,” I added. “He was dancing.”

  “He’d be good at that, I daresay. It would only be work he was shy of. I shall be glad when they’ve moved on. Thieves, vagabonds, most of them.”

  Then he started to talk about what might happen on the Continent. Napoleon would be anxious for success in Europe. He had to restore the people’s faith in the invincible Emperor whose fleet had been crippled beyond redemption at Trafalgar.

  It was a week or so after the bonfire. We were all at dinner when one of the servants came rushing in crying that the woods were on fire.

  We left the table and as we came out into the open air we were aware of the smoke and the acrid smell of burning. My father soon had the servants rushing out with water. I went to the stables and mounting my horse galloped in the direction of the fire. I knew that it was in those woods where the gypsies had their encampment.

  A scene of wild disorder met my eyes. The grass was on fire and the flames were running across it towards the trees, licking at their barks while I watched in horror.

  My father was in the midst of the melee shouting orders; cottagers who lived nearby were running out with buckets of water.

  “We have to stop it reaching the thicket,” cried my father.

  “Thank God there’s hardly any wind,” said David.

  I could see how the difficulty of getting water to the scene made us helpless. This went on for some time and the fire fighting method was most inadequate. I was sure that part of the woods could only be saved by a miracle.

  And it came. The rain began to fall, a slight drizzle at first which soon changed to a downpour.

  There was a shout of relief from everybody. We stood, faces uplifted, letting the precious rain fall on us.

  “The woods are saved,” said my father. “No thanks to those plaguey gypsies.”

  He noticed me and cried: “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to come, of course,” I replied.

  He did not answer. He was watching the flames being beaten out. Then he shouted to the gypsies: “You’ll be off my land tomorrow.”

  He turned and started to ride away. I followed with David.

  My father was up early next morning, and so was I. He was preparing to go out and I said to him: “What are you going to do about the gypsies?”

  “Send them packing.”

  “What? Now?”

  “I’m riding out in a few minutes.”

  “Are you going to blame them all because one or two were careless?”

  He turned to me, his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it? These people nearly burned down my woods. If it hadn’t rained how much timber do you think I would have lost? I won’t have them burning down my trees, stealing my pheasants. Thieves and vagabonds, the lot of them.”

  “The woods weren’t burnt down. And I don’t suppose you’ll miss a pheasant or two.”

  “What does all this mean? Why are you making excuses for a band of gypsies?”

  “Well, they have to stay somewhere. If people won’t let them camp, where can they go?”

  “Anywhere, but on my land.”

  With that he strode out. I went to my room and hastily put on my riding habit. I ran down to the stables. There, they told me that my father had left a few minutes before.

  I hurried out and caught up with him before he had reached the woods. He heard my approach and looking round pulled up sharply and stared at me in astonishment.

  “What do you want?”

  “You are going to see the gypsies,” I said. “I am coming with you.”

  “You!”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”

  “You’ll turn right around and ride straight home.”

  “I don’t want you to go alone.”

  I saw the familiar twitch of his lips. At least he was amused.

  “What do you think they are going to do to me? Truss me up like a pheasant and eat me for supper?”

  “I think they might be dangerous.”

  “All the more reason why you should not be there. Go back at once.”

  I shook my head.

  “So you would disobey me, would you?”

  “I am coming with you. I am afraid for you to go alone.”

  “Do you know,” he said, “you get more like your mother every day. Plaguey daughters! I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  He was laughing inwardly, well pleased. He turned his horse and started to trot towards the woods. I fell in beside him. It was far from his mind that there would be any trouble or he would then have insisted that I go back. He must have been dealing with gypsies all his life and I doubt he had ever known rebellion, either from them or anyone else with whom he came into contact.

  We came to the gypsies’ encampment. There were four caravans there—brown and red—together with a van which was laden with baskets, clothes pegs and plaited rush mats. A fire was burning and over it sat a woman stirring something in a pot which smelt like a stew. Several horses were tethered in the bracken and four or five men were seated near the fire watching us.

  It was clear that no preparations for departure had been made.

  I felt a shiver of apprehension as I glanced at my father. The blood had rushed into his face. He was going to be very angry and show these people who was the master here.

  He said in a voice of thunder: “I ordered you off my land. Why are you still here?”

  The group near the fire did not move and the woman went on stirring. They just behaved as though my father was not there. This was the quickest way to anger him. He urged his horse forward towards the group of men. I followed.

  “Get up, you louts!” he shouted. “Stand up when I speak to you. This is my land. I’ll not have you despoiling it… stealing my birds. Take your horses and your caravans and go. Go, I say. You were here with my permission. That permis
sion is now withdrawn.”

  One of the men got slowly to his feet and sauntered towards us. There was insolence in his very movements. Colour burned under his brown skin and his eyes were fierce. I saw that his hand rested on a knife in his belt.

  “We do no harm here,” he said. “We go when we are ready.”

  “No harm!” cried my father. “You call setting fire to my woods no harm! No harm … stealing my pheasants. You will go when I say and that is … this minute.”

  The man shook his head slowly. He stood there threateningly but my father was not to be threatened.

  My throat was dry. I tried to whisper that we must go at once. The gypsies in this mood were dangerous; they were a wild people and we were unarmed. It was folly to stay here. They were so many and we were but two.

  “Father…” I whispered.

  He made a gesture with his hand. “Leave me,” he said. “Get away … at once.”

  “I will not go without you,” I answered fiercely.

  Another of the men stood up and started to come towards us. Others followed. Four … five … six, I counted. They came very slowly. It was as though time had slowed down and they were taking a long time to reach us.

  “Do you hear me,” cried my father. “Start packing … now.”

  “The land belongs to the people,” said the man with the knife. “We’ve got a right.”

  “Much right as you have,” shouted one of the others.