The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel)
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THE GIRL ON THE DOORSTEP
Lindsey Hutchinson
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About The Girl on the Doorstep
Left an orphan, five-year-old Rosie Harris is found and raised by Maria, a Romany gypsy. Life on the road is hard, but the little girl soon feels one of the tribe with the travellers.
As she grows older, Rosie realises she has ‘second sight’ and is able to read people’s palms and see into their futures. Needing to make a living of her own, she befriends the canal folk, known as the ‘cut-rats’ traversing the Black Country waterways with their cargo, and so offers readings to anyone who can pay.
Pursued by Jake Harding, a Romany bandolier who wants her for his wife, Rosie instead finds herself falling in love with a married man. And despite growing ominous signs that her future may be cursed, Rosie can’t quite break away from the dream of a happily ever after…
Lindsey Hutchinson is a master storyteller, and her Black Country sagas are heart-breaking, uplifting and truly addictive.
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Girl on the Doorstep
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Acknowledgements
About Lindsey Hutchinson
Also by Lindsey Hutchinson
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For Diane Cooper, who has supported me from the beginning.
One
Rosie Harris sat on the front doorstep of the tiny cottage sobbing her heart out. Dribble and snot ran down her little fingers which were wedged in her mouth. Hair like a raven’s wing fell around her small face as the tears poured from her dark eyes. Her five-year-old mind couldn’t comprehend why her mummy was lying on the kitchen floor and wouldn’t get up. Rosie had called out and shaken the prone woman, having no idea her mother had died where she fell.
Hearing the sound of cart wheels rattle over the stony heath by the cottage, Rosie looked up. A shudder ran through her small body as she saw the beautifully painted gypsy caravan draw to a halt. A woman with hair which shone in the sunlight sat in the driving seat, and Rosie heard her speak softly to the horse before watching her jump deftly to the ground.
Rosie was afraid, she’d heard about the gypsies taking off with young children. Grabbing the edge of her pinafore she tucked it into her mouth, her fearful sobs sounding even louder. Staring up at the woman stood before her she heard the gentle voice again.
‘Now then little one, what are all these tears for?’
Rosie looked up into the coal black eyes of the woman speaking to her and shook her head. She’d had it drummed into her time and again by her mother to never talk to strangers. The gypsy woman’s soft voice sounded again.
‘I know what you’ve been told, sweetheart, but it’s not true. We don’t steal other people’s children. Now, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?’
‘My mummy won’t get up!’ Rosie blurted out before bursting into fresh tears.
‘Can I go in and see?’ the woman asked. With a nod from the child she stepped into the cottage and a moment later saw what the little girl meant. Walking over to the girl’s mother she felt for a pulse… nothing. The woman was dead. Shaking her head, she went back to the sobbing child.
‘What is your name?’ she asked quietly.
‘Rosie Harris.’
‘Well, Rosie Harris, your mummy has gone to live with Jesus.’ Seeing the little girl’s eyes widen she went on. ‘My name is Maria Valesco. Where is your daddy?’
‘I haven’t got a daddy,’ Rosie said looking even more forlorn.
‘I see. Well we need to tell the doctor and let him have a look at your mummy. Now, you should come along with me and we’ll tell him together,’ Maria said keeping her voice low.
‘I can’t leave my mummy!’ Rosie said indignantly.
Although still very young, Rosie knew what living with Jesus meant. She was suddenly aware that she was alone in the world and would most likely end up in the workhouse. She’d heard the grown-ups talk about the ‘Spike’ and she felt fear wrap itself around her.
‘Rosie my little rakli, it’s important that we fetch the doctor. Your mummy will still be here when we come back I promise, so why don’t you ride on the vardo with me? I’ll let you drive the horse if you want.’
With a sniff the young girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘What’s a rakli?’ Rosie asked.
‘It’s gypsy language for “girl”,’ Maria said gently.
Rosie nodded and climbing up onto the caravan she was resigned to her fate.
As they travelled, Maria thought Rosie had probably had some home schooling. She seemed bright and her voice had no trace of a local accent, in fact she was rather well spoken.
An hour or so later the barrel-shaped vardo pulled up once more outside the dilapidated cottage and Rosie scrambled down and ran inside. She saw the gypsy had not lied when she said her mother would still be here.
The doctor’s horse and trap stopped alongside the caravan and the man jumped down and rushed into the tiny kitchen. Ushering Rosie to move aside he knelt down to examine the woman on the floor.
Rosie’s tears fell again as she went to stand by Maria in the doorway. She felt the woman rest a hand on her small shoulder.
‘Heart attack by the looks of it, probably worked herself to death,’ the doctor said looking up. Getting to his feet he looked over at the child now clinging to the gypsy’s skirts. ‘Well, little ’un, I’m afraid it will be the workhouse for you now your mum’s gone.’
Rosie sobbed loudly as the doctor walked towards her. She hid behind the long skirts of the woman stood by her.
‘Come on, I’ll take you, then I’ll get the undertaker down here,’ the doctor said as he reached an arm towards the crying child. He winced
as the piercing scream almost shattered his ear drums.
Maria lifted the child into her arms and Rosie wrapped hers around the woman’s neck.
‘Seems she doesn’t want to go.’
‘Evidently, but she can’t stay here on her own,’ the doctor answered.
Walking out of the cottage Maria set Rosie on her feet once more and again, Rosie clung to her skirts.
The doctor had followed them out into the sunshine and grabbed Rosie’s arm trying to drag her to his trap.
In a lightning move Rosie snapped her head round and sank her teeth into the doctor’s hand. With a howl the doctor let go of her arm and Rosie ran to hide behind Maria.
‘Little bugger!’ the doctor yelped as he inspected the bite mark on his hand. More of a nip than a hefty bite, and he saw the skin was unbroken. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to see to the child. I’ll go back and inform the undertaker and notify the workhouse.’
Turning to walk away he heard the gypsy call out to him. ‘I will take Rosie in, she can live with me in my vardo. I will await the undertaker.’
‘Fair enough, it will save the Parish having to pay her upkeep.’ Rubbing his sore hand, he muttered, ‘Rather you than me!’
Maria and Rosie sat on the front doorstep once more to wait and they chatted quietly. Rosie learned the horse was called Samson and Maria told of her travels from town to town. The undertaker arrived with a rough wooden coffin on a long cart pulled by two Shire horses.
‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Maria said. The undertaker nodded.
‘Come on, Rosie, I want you to have a look at your new home.’ Lifting the child onto the step at the back of the caravan, Maria opened the door and Rosie stepped inside. ‘It’s all right, little one, you go and investigate while I talk to the man outside.’
Leaving Rosie to look inside, Maria handed the undertaker a small pouch of money. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The man nodded and took the pouch.
Rosie’s mother was not now to be laid in a pauper’s grave, something Rosie would be thankful for in years to come.
Once the undertaker had left, Maria climbed into her vardo. Rosie was sat on an upholstered bench to one side holding a small musical box.
‘Aha, you found my music box, it’s pretty isn’t it?’ Maria asked.
Rosie nodded and closed the lid shutting off the music. Replacing the box gently where she’d found it, Rosie looked around her.
The roof of the caravan was arched and every inch was painted in bright intricate patterns. There were benches either side covered in thick material which she later learned could fold down into beds. To one side was a tiny black leaded stove with a copper kettle sat atop and above the stove were cupboards holding crockery and food stuff. At the further end was a bed lying horizontally across the cabin, and a tiny window above it with pretty chintz curtains. Below the bed was a wooden cupboard adorned with gold swirls. Everywhere was a myriad of bright colours and ornaments littering every available space.
Rosie smiled. ‘It looks like the boats on the “cut”,’ she whispered.
‘Do you like it?’ Maria asked gently.
‘Oh yes!’ Rosie breathed.
‘All right then. Now, that will be your bed up there…’ Maria pointed to the small window, ‘and I’ll sleep on this one.’ She pulled at the bench and it folded out to reveal another bed already made up. Pushing the bed back into place she went on. ‘You know your mummy has gone from us?’ Rosie nodded, tears forming once again in her dark eyes. ‘So, you and I will live together in this caravan.’
Closing the door, the two climbed onto the driving seat and Maria took up again. ‘Rosie Harris, you and I will travel the country and we will have great adventures together. What do you reckon to that?’
Rosie’s beaming smile replaced her threatened tears as the horse walked on. ‘Oooh yes! What sort of adventures?’
Maria smiled at her new charge and said, ‘As many as you can count and as exciting as you can think up.’
As her fear drained away Rosie clapped her little hands together and settled herself closer to the woman who had saved her from a life in the workhouse.
*
It had been thirteen years since Rosie Harris had seen her home town of Wednesbury in the heart of the ‘Black Country’. Looking around her from the seat of the gypsy vardo, she guessed nothing much had changed. Then she remembered it was Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee soon and the townspeople would be in high spirits in anticipation of the celebrations. To celebrate, the streets would be decorated with bunting and flags and parties would be held where copious amounts of alcohol would be consumed. Everyone in their particular street would contribute what food they could manage, to be laid out on long trestle tables placed in the centre of the roadway. Music would echo its way between the buildings and folk would kick up their heels to its beat. Rosie smiled as she traversed the heathland known as Lea Brook. She kept her eyes peeled for the old disused coal shafts and guided the horse towards the Monway branch of the Birmingham Canal which bordered two sides of the massive triangle of waste land. The railway line curved around the Lea Brook side. They would stop over for a while in the hope of selling their wares, although she didn’t hold out much hope, for everywhere they stopped they were moved on the following morning by the council authority. Nowhere wanted gypsies around; people were afraid their children would be kidnapped or their houses ransacked and their goods stolen. Rosie clucked gently to the horse wondering for the hundredth time where people got these mad ideas from.
Nearing the towpath of the canal, Rosie tugged gently on the reins pulling Samson to a standstill. Jumping nimbly to the ground she began to unhitch the horse from the vardo, and tethered him to a nearby tree, leaving a long rope to enable him to graze further afield.
Her ears picked up the sounds of the ‘cut-rats’, the canal people, working their barges and narrowboats nearby. Her eyes caught glimpses of people staring and she waited for the inevitable shouts and jeers as she began to collect stones for a fire ring.
Setting the fire, Rosie called to the woman in the caravan. ‘Maria, fire is burning – time for tea.’
The dark head of Maria Valesco popped through the top of the split door at the back of the wagon. Climbing down Maria joined her young friend who was setting the kettle to boil on the iron trivet stood over the fire.
Looking around Rosie said, ‘No point in getting settled as I’m sure we’ll be moved on before long.’
Maria stroked the girl’s long dark hair and smiled. ‘It’s the life, my lovely, the Romanies are feared so we are pushed away. You know this as well as I do.’
‘I do, Maria, but sometimes I wish they would just accept us as we are – travellers.’
‘Don’t think on it, Rosie. Let’s eat before the darkness descends, then we shall see what the morning brings.’
Cooking their food in a frying pan on the iron trivet now relieved of the kettle, Rosie looked up to see a woman standing before her. She was dressed in an old long skirt and cotton blouse, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose bun at the back; her blue eyes twinkled and she was slightly overweight which made her pant after the walk across to them.
‘I thought this might sweeten yer tea,’ she said proffering a jug of milk.
‘Thank you,’ Rosie said as she accepted the jug and invited the woman to sit on a three-legged stool near the fire. Tea with milk was shared as the three women chatted quietly.
‘We thank you for your kindness, it is rarely given to the likes of us,’ Maria said.
‘Nor us, the “cut-rats” I mean,’ the woman replied. ‘My name is Margaret Mitchell; friends call me Margy.’ She lifted her tin mug in a salute which said for them to call her by her nickname.
Rosie introduced Maria and herself before saying, ‘It never ceases to amaze me how the general populace tars us all with the same brush because of a few rogues.’
‘It’s the way of the world, gel,’ Marg
y muttered. ‘We’ll be movin’ along in the morning and I suggest you do the same.’ She indicated the direction of her narrowboat with a tilt of her head.
‘Yes, I think you could be right, Margy. We should get going before the townspeople descend on us in anger,’ Maria said as she stared into the fire contained within the circle of stones.
‘Maria, we can’t – not yet!’ Rosie said, consternation etching her voice.
Maria sighed loudly. ‘I know what you are thinking, Rosie, but I must keep us safe while we wait.’
‘What yer waitin’ for?’ Margy asked, dying to know what was going on.
Maria and Rosie exchanged a glance before saying in unison, ‘The “Gathering”.’
‘What, ’ere in Wednesbury?’ Margy gasped. She had heard of this whilst on her travels on the canal. Seeing Maria nod, she laughed loudly. ‘Oh bloody ’ell! I’ll bet that will lead to trouble.’
‘It may, though I wish for no trouble with the town. The “Gathering” is a time for travellers to come together so our young ones can choose a life partner,’ Maria said with a nod.
‘I can see as ’ow that’s important. It ain’t like you can marry outside of yer clan so-to-speak,’ Margy ventured.
‘Oh we can, Margy, but rarely does this happen. However, people do not understand our ways; they think we are here to cause upset and unrest. That is not, nor has it ever been, our intention.’
‘Ar well, us “cut-rats” have much the same reception from folk when we moor up. They ain’t got no time for us.’ Margy shook her head sadly as she stood to return to her boat. ‘Good luck to yer both,’ she said but as she turned to leave, Maria called her back.
‘Give me your hand, Margy Mitchell.’
Retaking her seat, the woman did as she was bid. She watched as Maria took her hand in her own. Tracing a finger along the lines of Margy’s palm her voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘You have a strong son…’
Margy nodded.
‘He has given you strong grandsons, two good boys.’
Margy smiled at Rosie who sat silently watching the proceedings.