‘That’s the ones. Anyway, I can look at fossils and old bones in the museum while you are doing whatever you need to do. And then we could go back to yours maybe, do some homework, watch a DVD, hang out …’
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘Summer won’t be there – she has a ballet lesson in town.’
‘I know that,’ he says. ‘She wasn’t on the bus, and besides, I know her ballet timetable by heart. Maybe I just want to hang out with you, Skye!’
‘Maybe you just want to pick my brains about Summer,’ I correct him. ‘Or else you’ll just happen to be staying to tea when she gets home from dance class …’
‘That’s a great idea,’ he says. ‘It’s Tuesday. Mum is making tofu and black bean casserole with shredded cabbage, and I’d kill for pizza and chips.’
‘Too bad,’ I grin, pushing open the museum door. I step into the shadowy interior, Alfie at my heels like an over-keen puppy. Grace looks up and grins. ‘Skye!’ she says. ‘I was hoping you’d call in. I’ve copied out some names and dates from the parish register – Clara had two younger brothers, Charles and Robert, but both were killed in the Second World War. Kate Travers, your gran, was Robert’s only daughter.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘So Clara was … what, my great-great-aunt?’ It feels weird to put a name to it, but we’re family, Clara and I – that must be why I feel such a connection to her.
‘Exactly,’ Grace agrees. ‘I’ve also discovered some old farm records you might find interesting.’
She hands me an old ledger from Hazel Tree Farm, just down past the woods. The entries span the early 1920s, listing ‘itinerant Romany workers’ helping out with ploughing, planting, picking, harvest. It’s pretty much the same ones turning up year after year. Sonny Brown, Dan Cooper, Lucky Cooper, Sam Cooper, John Birch, Bobby Birch, Jack Sampson … there is no mention of the name Finch.
Maybe I invented the name as well as the boy?
Alfie stifles a yawn, but I ignore him.
‘Skye, here’s the entry I wanted you to see …’
The page is from February 1926, the black ink spidery and faded with age:
A great drama with the gypsies.
All winter they have been camped quietly in the woods, helping with hedge-laying and farm maintenence, mending pots and pans. Sometimes the women and children come to the village, selling clothes pegs or snowdrops, buying bread.
Today, in spite of the snow still thick upon the ground, all five wagons packed up abruptly and left the village. I questioned Dan Cooper as he led his piebald mare along the lane, and he claimed that Mr Travers at the big house had warned them off with threats and curses, telling them never to return to his land.
‘It was true then,’ I say, my heart beating hard. ‘Just like in the story.’
‘Seems so,’ Grace says. ‘I do know that gypsies used to camp by the shoreline by Low Meadows Farm, right up until the 1970s. It may be they were the same families, and just changed their camping place, or they may have been a different lot completely … I’m not sure if we’ll ever know for sure.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘This helps, anyway.’
‘I’ll let you know if I find anything else,’ Grace says.
‘What’s the obsession with Clara and the gypsies?’ Alfie wants to know as we head back out into the cold January afternoon. ‘You know what happened. She was engaged to a toff, fell for a guy who ditched her, then chucked herself in the sea. What more is there to find out?’
I frown. ‘The name of the gypsy boy,’ I sigh. ‘The date she died. I don’t know, Alfie – details, proof, anything!’
‘Why?’ he asks. ‘It won’t change anything.’
Because I need to find out who Finch was, I think, but that’s not something I can explain to Alfie.
Finch is real. I’m certain of it. He existed.
‘I need to know,’ I tell Alfie. ‘I can’t explain why … I just do. And if the museum can’t help, where do I go to find out about people who lived and died all that time ago?’
We walk past the post office, and Alfie grins. ‘How about Mrs Lee?’ he suggests. ‘She is always rattling on about how she’s descended from the Romany gypsies. Maybe she really is?’
I stop in my tracks. ‘You’re a genius, Alfie! Come on!’
‘What, now?’ he argues. ‘Skye, come on. Seriously, hot chocolate and marshmallows would be a much better option …’
He follows me anyway, hovering at my elbow.
‘Skye!’ Mrs Lee greets me. She sneaks a look at Alfie and raises one eyebrow knowingly. ‘How are you? How’s the romance going?’
‘There is no romance,’ I tell her. ‘Not with Alfie. Definitely, absolutely not.’
‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ Alfie asks, hurt. ‘You don’t have to be quite so harsh about it.’
Mrs Lee picks up my palm, shaking her head. ‘There is definitely something on your love line, Skye. No question about it. Love is in the air!’
‘I seriously doubt it,’ I say.
‘Can you look at my palm?’ Alfie says, opening his hand out on the counter. ‘Because I think my love line might be looking quite lively too. I am almost certain of it.’
Mrs Lee studies his palm and nods thoughtfully. ‘There is something,’ she admits. ‘But I’m seeing complications. Heartbreak and confusion. The course of true love never runs smooth.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Alfie sulks. ‘Because I don’t actually want heartbreak and confusion, thank you. That sucks!’
‘You did ask,’ Mrs Lee shrugs. ‘So, Skye, no post today?’
‘Um … no. I was actually wondering … I am doing some research into the gypsy travellers who used to pass through Kitnor years ago. I know you’ve got traveller blood, and I wondered if maybe you knew anything …’
Mrs Lee narrows her eyes. ‘Well, my mother was half-Romany, of course,’ she says. ‘Yes, she was born in a vardo – a bow-top wagon. It was a hard life but a wonderful one too … very free, in tune with nature, living close to the land. That way of life has all but vanished now … tarmac roads and cars made sure of that, and the way the farms were mechanized after the war. They didn’t need casual labour any more.’
‘I’d love to talk to your mum,’ I say hopefully, but Mrs Lee shakes her head.
‘Bless you, pet, but she died two or three years back now,’ she says. ‘My dad was a gorja, a non-Romany, and after a few years on the road they settled down in a village over Exeter way. I do have some old photographs you might like, though – I’ll look them out for you.’
‘Thanks. I don’t suppose … it’s a man named Finch I am trying to trace. You haven’t heard of him at all?’
She frowns. ‘I’m sorry, no,’ she tells me. ‘My mother was called Lin Cooper, Lin Martin after she married. I don’t remember her mentioning a family called Finch. I do have some aunts and uncles still living, though, Lin’s younger brothers and sisters. I could ask them.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I appreciate that. Really.’
I buy a chocolate bar out of guilt and drag Alfie out of the shop.
‘I don’t think she has gypsy blood at all,’ he huffs. ‘She got my fortune completely wrong, because I am meant for Summer and it is only a matter of time before she realizes that …’
‘If you say so,’ I sigh, handing him a square of chocolate.
‘“Complicated”,’ she said,’ he grumbles. ‘Why does it have to be complicated? Just my luck. Not that I believe all that rubbish, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ I say. ‘I wonder if she’ll remember to ask her aunts and uncles, or look for those old photos?’ Although I’m not holding out much hope they’ll give me the answers I need. It will probably turn out to be yet another dead end.
‘What difference can a few photos make?’ Alfie says. ‘This is crazy, Skye. You know what happened. That story didn’t have a happy ending – nothing you can do will change that. Let go of it. Live for the moment.’
He grabs my hat and runs
off along the street with it, and I laugh and follow, our feet loud on the icy pavements, our breath trailing behind us like wisps of mist in the fading light.
28
On the first day of the half-term break, we wake up to a still, wintry world. The bare trees sparkle with icing-sugar snow and a thick blanket of white stretches over the garden and down towards the cliff path.
I look down from the window at Fred the dog running in crazy circles with Humbug at his heels, and Mum picking her way carefully down to feed the ducks, leaving a trail of perfect footprints behind her. Cherry is up too, muffled in a hat and scarf, breaking the ice on the fish pond so she can feed the goldfish.
I think of the gypsies packing up their woodland camp all those years ago, setting off along the snowy lanes in the middle of winter because Clara’s father had driven them away in a fit of anger.
‘This had better be gone by Thursday,’ Summer says, appearing at my side. ‘I don’t mind snow, but why now? Why not last week, when we were at school? We might have got a few days off!’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Still, this way we get to enjoy it properly. It’ll all be gone by Thursday, but if not, then it’ll just make everything look even more magical. People will still come, Summer. Stop worrying!’
The bedroom door flies open and Coco runs in, dressed in about a dozen layers and wearing at least two scarves. ‘Are you coming out for a snowball fight?’ she grins. ‘We could build a snowman too. Or an igloo! This is so cool!’
‘Cool is the word,’ Summer says, pulling on a jumper. ‘I can’t, Coco, I have ballet practice.’
‘You always have ballet practice,’ Coco huffs. ‘You are worse than ever, lately. Don’t you have time off for fun sometimes?’
‘Ballet is fun,’ Summer shrugs, pulling on leg warmers. ‘And I’m too old for snowmen and igloos.’
‘Skye?’ my little sister appeals.
‘Can it wait till later?’ I ask. ‘Millie is coming over, so we could all make a snowman …’ I trail away into silence. ‘On second thoughts, strike that. Millie won’t want to. Let’s just do it … get Cherry too, she’s up already.’
‘Yesss!’ Coco says, punching the air. ‘I don’t see how anyone could ever be too old for snow!’
Mum has porridge on the go, and we wolf down big bowlfuls of it and bundle up and run outside, Fred the dog and Humbug the lamb trotting behind.
The three of us make a huge snowman right beside the fish pond, giving it pebble eyes and a carrot nose and one of Paddy’s hats. We are in the middle of a snowball fight when Mum calls from the kitchen to tell me someone is on the phone for me.
‘A boy,’ she says, raising an eyebrow.
‘A boy!’ Coco squeals. ‘Skye’s got a boyfriend!’
‘I haven’t!’ I growl. ‘It’s probably just Alfie.’
But Coco won’t let go. ‘Slush alert!’ she teases. ‘Skye and Alfie, sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G… .’
I grit my teeth and head into the kitchen, stomping the snow from my boots. Mum has been baking, and the rich aroma hangs in the air like a promise.
‘Yes?’ I say into the phone. ‘What do you want, Alfie?’
‘Your company,’ he says brightly. ‘I have a sledge and I am heading up to the hill beneath the woods, if you want to come? Um … anyone can come, obviously. Summer, or anyone. If they want to …’
I glance across at Summer, who is practising pliés with one hand on the kitchen dresser.
‘They don’t want to,’ I say tiredly. ‘Trust me.’
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ Alfie sighs. ‘But you can’t blame me for trying. Just you then, OK? It’ll be fun, I promise. And we need to talk.’
‘We are talking,’ I point out.
‘Talk properly,’ he says. ‘You know what I mean.’
Mum wafts a plate of golden, heart-shaped cookies under my nose, and I take one, still warm from the oven.
‘Alfie, I am kind of busy today. Millie’s coming over to try on her party outfit and test out some make-up ideas.’
‘I’ll bribe you with hot chocolate at the Mad Hatter,’ he offers.
‘Alfie …’
‘Just say yes,’ he pleads. ‘Take pity on me. I need your help. Really.’
I take a bite of cookie and give Mum a thumbs-up as it melts on my tongue. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Meet you at the sledging field at three,’ Alfie says briskly. ‘Be there, Skye. Please?’
I give in. ‘I suppose. It’s a date.’
I hang up the phone and Coco unleashes a long wolf whistle.
‘Skye’s got a date!’ she whoops. ‘With Alfie Anderson!’
‘It is not THAT kind of a date!’ I protest.
‘Leave Skye alone, Coco!’ Mum says, laughing. ‘And let me tell you about the phone call I had while you were all out in the snow! A woman called … what was it? Nikki Something-or-other. She works as a researcher for the BBC, and she’d seen the magazine feature about us, back before Christmas …’
Coco’s eyes are huge. ‘What did she want? Is she going to come and make a film of us? Are we going to be on the telly?’
‘No, love,’ Mum laughs again. ‘She’s researching for a period drama, and Kitnor is one of the locations she is looking into. She wanted to know about our gypsy caravan, she’d noticed it in the magazine pictures. Was it functional, did it still run, that kind of thing. She’s bringing some of her team over in March to check it out, take some shots of the caravan and the area.
‘They’re going to stay here while they’re researching too, so we’ll have some real live TV people staying. And maybe they’ll like the caravan … we’d get a fee for letting them use it, apparently, if they decide they want it for the actual series!’
‘Wow,’ Coco grins. ‘The gypsy caravan might be famous!’
I think of a dream: bright caravans parked together in the woods, a fire blazing, music, laughter, and a beautiful boy who doesn’t exist. I can’t help smiling.
29
An hour watching Millie stare into my dressing-table mirror while testing out dozens of glittery eyeshadows and lipglosses has me so bored I am practically asleep.
‘Does this look sort of retro?’ she asks, half a false eyelash dangling from the corner of one eye. ‘Vintage? It’s very sixties, right?’
‘Um … kind of,’ I say.
‘But will it clash with my dress?’ she wonders out loud as the eyelash drops off and lands in her glass of Coke. ‘Rats. I don’t think I attached it right. I wish Summer was here – she knows about make-up.’
‘She’s at ballet,’ I sigh. ‘She’s in a different class now. The times have changed.’
‘I forgot,’ Millie huffs. ‘When will she be back?’
‘Soon,’ I say hopefully.
Not soon enough, I think.
‘Want to take Fred out for a walk in the snow?’ I suggest. ‘Build an igloo maybe? Make snow angels?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for it. Isn’t Honey here? Or Cherry? I didn’t think it would just be us.’
‘They’re out,’ I say. ‘Coco’s helping Paddy down in the workshop, though. I don’t suppose you …’
‘No way,’ Millie says, piling her hair up on top of her head so that it looks like a demented pineapple. ‘I’m cutting down on chocolate.’
Millie isn’t cutting down on heart-shaped cookies, however. She has eaten at least six, in between telling me about the Valentine’s cards she is planning to send, one to Alfie, one to Aaron and one to Sid. I stifle a yawn.
‘Are you sending any?’ she wants to know.
‘No.’
Millie fixes me with a pitying look. ‘It’s OK, you know,’ she says. ‘Growing up is not a race. Some people can be very mature at thirteen, and others aren’t at all. You’ll catch up, Skye.’
I blink. I think my best friend just called me im-mature.
My feet crunch through a thick crust of snow as I walk down to th
e village and along the lane to the sledging field, my face stinging from the cold. As I approach, I see a lone figure with an old wooden sledge plummeting down the hill towards me.
Alfie swerves his sledge to a halt beside me, spattering me with snow. ‘You came!’ he says. ‘Cool! And only an hour late!’
‘I had to wait until Millie went home – I told you,’ I say. I don’t tell him that I’d been counting the minutes until then. I feel bad just thinking it, but Millie’s obsession with boys is starting to get to me, big style.
I look at Alfie and the seed of an idea takes hold – crazy but possibly brilliant.
‘Listen, I have been thinking, Alfie. You probably have a lot in common with Millie. And she is quite pretty, really, have you noticed?’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Alfie growls. ‘Set me up with Millie? I don’t think so! My heart belongs to Summer.’
‘OK, I am just saying. Millie is getting quite interested in boys,’ I tell him. ‘More than Summer, anyway. All she ever talks about is ballet. So maybe you should consider Millie? If you want to practise your kissing and stuff. I think she might quite like to kiss someone. She has been talking non-stop about boys and make-up and whether you can learn to kiss by snogging the inside of your elbow –’
‘Can you?’ Alfie asks, perking up. ‘I didn’t know that!’
‘My best friend is full of tips like that, these days,’ I say sadly. ‘Seriously … I sometimes think the old Millie has been snatched by aliens.’
‘You believe in aliens?’ Alfie asks. ‘Awesome! I do too! They could be watching us right now, and they have Millie, and they are planning which of us to capture next … how cool would that be?’
‘I was joking, Alfie,’ I say, and his face falls.
‘I knew that,’ he lies, jumping off the sledge to drag it back up the hill. ‘Anyway … I do not fancy Millie, OK? I wanted to talk to you about the party. It’d take more than an alien abduction for me to miss out on that! Wait till you see what I’m wearing. I have a real vintage tailcoat! It used to be Dad’s, but it is very cool, Victorian or something. Should I wear a trilby with it, or a top hat, do you think?’
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