‘You lost a daughter…’ Maria glanced up at the sad eyes which looked back at her, ‘have no more worry, she’s happy where she is now in the arms of the Lord.’
A dry sob escaped Margy’s lips.
‘Watch for one close to you for she is out to hurt you. Your husband needs a potion for his bad chest…’ Maria nodded to Rosie who moved to the caravan and returned with a tiny linen bag tied with a ribbon. ‘Make tea for him with this – he will recover well.’
Margy nodded her thanks.
‘You will live long and be healthy, Margy Mitchell.’ Maria let go of the woman’s hand.
Giving her thanks, Margy rushed off to infuse the herbs with hot water. Her husband did indeed have a bad chest; he’d had a barking cough for weeks and nothing he’d had from the doctor had helped. Margy had high hopes for the ‘tea’ she would brew and like it or not, her husband would drink every last drop!
Later that night, lying in her small bed in the cramped wagon, Rosie called to mind the first time she’d met Maria here in this very town. She recalled the story told to her often over the years of how they had fetched the doctor back to the little cottage. He had pronounced her mother dead and she did remember the discussion that took place thereafter. The doctor saying Rosie would have to go into the workhouse which had scared her witless, and Maria dismissing the idea out of hand. Rosie had become a traveller that day and had been on the move ever since.
Her mind flew back in time to when she was growing. She’d asked Maria why she was alone, why she didn’t have any children of her own.
Maria had explained about the ‘Gathering’ and how she had chosen not to take part. Her parents had been fairly well-off and had left her enough money to buy her own vardo. It was small, so relatively inexpensive, and she had painted it herself. The fittings inside such as the beds and cupboards had been added as and when she could afford it.
As time passed, Maria had settled into living a life with only herself to answer to. She caught up with other kumpanias, gypsy clans, now and then when news would be passed over a shared meal.
Rosie had wondered if Maria had been lonely. At times she was, the older woman had said, but on the whole Maria had been happy.
Rosie then thought back over the years and how she’d learned the ways of the Romanies. She reflected on how they were, and still are, shunned, all because they lived in a vardo, a traditional barrel-shaped gypsy caravan, rather than a house. But no, it was more than that, people were afraid. Tall tales had led them to believe bad things about gypsies, of them stealing children, of casting spells, of them talking to the dead!
Rosie smiled into the darkness. How could folk be so stupid? Lack of education – not knowing the ways of the travellers. Always people were afraid of what they did not understand. There again, they would not take the time to learn and she guessed it was an impasse that would never be breached.
Her thoughts moved to Margy Mitchell, the woman who they had met that day. Rosie instinctively knew, as did Maria, that the woman’s husband was ailing. She recalled feeling uncomfortable at Maria’s warning to the woman about betrayal because Rosie had somehow known this too.
She asked herself the same old question as she lay listening to Maria’s gentle snores. How had she known these things? Did she have the ‘sight’? Had she learned during her years of growing up with Maria?
The following morning a banging on the vardo door woke Rosie with a start. Draping a huge shawl over her nightgown she opened the top hatch and peered out into the bright sunshine.
‘Sorry to wake you,’ Margy Mitchell said as she shoved a parcel into the girl’s hands. ‘My ’ubby is so very much better this morning. He ’ad a restful night and I came to say thank you.’
Rosie smiled saying, ‘You’re most welcome, Margy, and be assured he won’t take poorly again.’
Margy stared at the girl then cleared her throat. ‘We’m on the move now but I wanted to thank you afore we went.’
‘Thank you too for this.’ Rosie held up the small package.
‘Oh, it’s only a bit of bacon, but it will give you both a good breakfast and set you up for the day. If ever yer should need ’elp, yer can pass a message through any of the “cut-rats”. It will reach us. Just ask for Margy on the “Pride of Wednesbury.”’
‘I will, thank you and safe journey. We will meet again Margy Mitchell.’ Rosie waved as the woman scurried back to her boat.
As Rosie got herself dressed and set the fire in the stone circle to cook their breakfast, she felt the uneasy sensation settle on her. There was trouble in store for the kind woman and the warning given to her regarding being hurt was at the root of it. Rosie knew when they met again, Margy would have quite a tale to tell.
Two
The massive expanse of heathland between Lea Brook and the towpath at the end of Portway Lane began to fill with gypsy caravans. Small camp fires were set and the travellers greeted each other enthusiastically.
Maria and Rosie had walked the town over the few days they had been in Wednesbury in an effort to sell their wares, but as usual, doors had been slammed in their faces and children were called indoors.
On the Wednesday, Rosie set out once more with her basket of pegs and lace over her arm. Walking up Portway Lane she crossed beneath the overhead railway bridge into Portway Road. Once in the town she knocked on every door but no one was buying. Turning into Foster Street she headed for the Holyhead Road, hoping she would do better with the houses there. Looking around her she saw large warehouses with shops dotted between. Further down were terraced houses, joined together with a ginnel to all at the furthest end. Everywhere was covered with a layer of grime and dirt and nowhere could she see any sign of nature. There were no trees or bushes, just bricks and mortar.
As she walked she considered changing her approach to the householders. ‘Buy some pegs from a gypsy’ certainly was not working. Knocking on a door at the top of the road she waited. The door was opened by an older woman.
‘Good morning madam, can I interest you in some washing pegs?’ Rosie spoke confidently.
‘How much?’ the woman asked screwing up her eyes in mistrust.
‘Three pennies a dozen, and they’re good strong ones,’ Rosie answered.
‘Ar all right,’ the woman said dipping her hand into her apron pocket.
Rosie counted out twelve pegs then said, ‘I thank you for your custom, madam. Tell your husband he will get the job he goes for.’
The woman’s mouth dropped open and before she even had the door closed she was yelling to her man to get on over to the railway station and land himself the job of porter there.
Rosie smiled as she moved along the row of houses. She’d made a sale, her exchange with that woman had worked.
By the time she returned to the vardo, her basket was empty and her purse was full. Maria was delighted and had their supper ready, a pan of thick stew simmering on the trivet.
Rosie saw the beautifully painted vardos had been pulled into a large circle with a huge campfire set in the centre. The ‘Gathering’ was ready to begin.
As she ate her supper Rosie eyed the woman who had raised her. Maria would be more interested in the ‘Gathering’ this time. She would be hoping Rosie would be on the lookout for a life partner. Her thoughts roamed as she ate her broth. She was eighteen years old now and at the age when partners would be considered. Did she want a husband? In all honesty Rosie felt she did not. One day she wanted her own caravan, or maybe even a cottage. Could she live in one place again after all her years of travelling? Did she want to sell pegs for the rest of her life? No, she was adamant she wanted to do more with her years.
The sun dipped behind the horizon and the campfire was lit. Rosie heard someone tuning a fiddle and the excitement of the occasion grew in her. She watched as the men took their seats around the fire. A few notes sounded on an accordion and a tambourine shook. Fiddles whined as they were tuned accordingly and a baran rattled out a rhythm to keep the b
eat.
Rosie glanced around at the faces showing excitement in the firelight as darkness surrounded them. She knew the gypsy girls would be readying themselves in their wagons. It was an important evening for them and they would be wearing their finest dresses. They would dance around the fire in the hope of catching the eye of a young buck from the many watching them.
Suddenly a merry tune sprang up from the musicians and everyone clapped along with the beat. Beer and cider would be drunk in copious amounts before the night drew to a close.
‘You not joining in now you’re eighteen, Rosie?’ Maria asked as she sat next to the girl.
The two had celebrated Rosie’s birthday in March with a quiet meal in the vardo.
She knew the question would be asked and shook her head. ‘Not this year, Maria – maybe never.’
The older woman regarded the younger saying, ‘You will marry one day, you know.’
Rosie smiled. Maria’s predictions almost always came true and she had no reason to disbelieve this one.
‘I want to do things, Maria – I’m just not sure yet what those things might be.’
It was Maria’s turn to smile. A cheer rang out which brought their eyes back to the firelight.
The back doors of the vardos were flung open and young girls ran into the circle of light. The music picked up its rhythm and the girls pranced and spun around the fire. Rosie heard the jangle of their bangles and the bells around their ankles as they whirled past her. She watched as full skirts were swished from side to side giving a tantalising glimpse of shapely legs.
The music, dancing, firelight and laughter was intoxicating but Rosie had no wish to be part of it. She wanted more than she felt the Romany way of life could give her.
A massive cheer rang out as a young man shot from his seat and scooped a dancer into his arms. The couple moved to sit with the girl’s parents, the smiles broad on their faces.
More and more couples, who had eyed each other over the years, came together until at last the music quietened. No girls were left dancing in the light of the fire.
Rosie watched as people talked quietly and the music faded out. The ‘Gathering’ was complete for another year. Now would come the planning of the weddings.
Looking across the circle of people, Rosie saw the eyes of a young man watching her as he had throughout. She guessed what he had been thinking. He was hoping she would take part, and it was evident he was disappointed by the look on his face.
Rosie stood and with a goodnight kiss to Maria’s cheek, she retired to her bed, Jake Harding’s eyes watching her every move.
*
Margy and Abner Mitchell had moored up in a town not far from where the carousing of the ‘Gathering’ was taking place. Margy was excited but full of trepidation as they walked through the streets of Bilston. The sun began its descent towards the horizon and she was eager to see her grandsons; it had been a long time since they had last met.
Knocking on the front door of the end of the well-kept terrace house they waited and presently it was opened by their daughter-in-law.
Sarah Mitchell, wife to their only son Bill, had a face like thunder when she saw who was at her door. ‘Bill is out!’
‘Well, we came to see all of yer,’ Margy said as she took in Sarah’s appearance. She hadn’t changed a bit, her grey eyes screwed up in a pinched face. Her mousy brown hair caught back in an untidy French pleat.
‘I told you before, Margy, I don’t want you here!’ Sarah said spitefully.
Abner laced an arm around his wife’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Come on, I told yer we wouldn’t be welcome.’
Then to Sarah he said, ‘We ain’t ’ere to cause trouble, we just wanted to see the boys and our son. We’ll be at the canal overnight if ’e has a mind to visit.’
‘Bill won’t be visiting – and neither will my sons! Now please leave my house and don’t bother to come back – ever!’ Sarah spat.
Margy and Abner stepped away and heard the door slam behind them. Margy cried all the way back to their boat, Abner doing his best to console her.
Once aboard, Abner brewed tea and they sat talking quietly about their daughter-in-law, Sarah Mitchell and what had made her so spiteful.
‘I don’t understand it, Abner. Why is ’er like this? What ’ave we ever done to her?’
‘I don’t know, Margy.’ Abner hung his head in sadness.
‘Do you think our Bill knows her’s like this? Do you think her’ll mention we called?’
Abner just shook his head. ‘I don’t expect her’ll bother,’ he began.
Margy cut in, ‘That gypsy told me about this yer know.’ She saw her husband raise his eyebrows in question. ‘Oh ar, ’er said as one close to us would hurt us, and in a way ’er was right.’
Abner nodded then said quietly. ‘Margy that’s the last time Sarah will throw us out. I ain’t ’aving you go through this every time we come ’ere.’
‘But, Abner…’
‘No wench! Look at you, sobbing like yer ’eart will break. Every single time this ’appens it cuts yer deeper – I ain’t ’aving it Margy, and that’s an end to it!’
Margy burst into tears again and her husband wrapped his arms around her in an effort to comfort her. ‘This ’as been ’appening for too many years and I can’t bear it any longer. Now, whether our Bill knows what’s goin’ on or not, I don’t know. What I do know is he can get a message to us via the “cut-rat” grapevine if he’s a mind to. The fact that he ’asn’t in the past tells me he won’t in the future. We ’ave to resign ourselves to the fact our son doesn’t want to know us anymore.’
Margy’s tears became a flood and Abner held her tightly. ‘Come on, let’s get to bed, we ’ave an early start in the mornin’.’
In the cramped bed in the small cabin of the ‘Pride of Wednesbury’ Abner listened to his wife’s breathing finally settle. Staring into the darkness, silent tears ran down his cheeks as he relived past years in his mind.
Bill Mitchell had loved being on the canal with his parents until that fateful day he’d married Sarah. Flatly refusing to live life on the canal she had insisted Bill find work on the land. Thinking himself in love, he had acquiesced and now worked on the railway as a signalman. The twins were born twelve months later and all were delighted.
Abner’s thoughts roamed over the years of the twins’ growing. Strong and healthy, the boys favoured their father in looks. Then one day Abner and Margy had called at the house and Sarah had turned on them. Alone in the house she had screeched her disgust of them and their way of life. She had thrown them out saying she wanted nothing more to do with them, and they were forbidden to call again.
She had said they didn’t see enough of the twins, in fact the boys hardly knew them so infrequently had they visited.
Questions formed in Abner’s mind. Did Bill know what his wife had told his parents? Was he aware they had been forbidden to see their grandsons? Or had Sarah twisted her explanation to lay blame at their feet?
Unbeknown to Margy, the last time they were in the area he had visited the railway where his son worked but was told Bill was not in work that week. Abner had left a message for his son to contact him, but nothing had come of it. He had considered going to the house but Margy would have played hell with him for not telling her about the visit so she could accompany him. He also had to think of their work on the canal and the money needing to be earned, so he’d returned to the boat.
Over the years, Abner had tried to contact his son but it seemed the Fates intervened at every turn. Bill Mitchell was never around when his father chose to visit. Eventually, Abner had given up trying. Either his messages were not being passed along, or more likely, Bill was ignoring them. It was breaking his heart to think his son had disowned his own parents.
Sighing into the darkness of the cabin, Abner wiped away his tears. All he could hope and pray for now, was that Bill might make contact in the future.
Hearing a dry sob from Margy as she
turned over in bed, Abner sighed again. He had come to a decision. They would take on no more jobs that would bring them to the town their son lived in. If Bill wanted to contact them, he knew how to get a message to them. The ball was now firmly in Bill’s court – Abner could do no more.
*
The next morning, over on the heath, Rosie Harris sat by the fire crackling within the circle of stones. Sipping her tea, she read the local newspaper given to her by another of the clan. She shook her head as she read the article on the front page.
In Old Park Road, on 14th April 1897, a chasm opened up due to spontaneous combustion of the coal seam lying beneath. Night watchman Thomas Hodgkiss, employed to keep people away, fell into the burning hole and was roasted to death. With the aid of a ladder and pulley, PC Richard Goldby retrieved the body of the night watchman with no concern for his own safety. PC Goldby received a commendation from Queen Victoria and was presented with a medal by the Prince of Wales.
Then Rosie watched as the caravans drifted away and slowly the place became deserted once more.
She and Maria had decided to remain in Wednesbury for a time, providing of course they weren’t run off by the council.
Waving to the last wagon as it rolled over the scrubland, Rosie felt a sadness settle on her. It wasn’t her own unhappiness she felt, but that of another. The woman they had met a couple of days ago; the woman from the canal, was breaking her heart over something which was tied into the prediction given to her.
Rosie felt the hurt the woman was feeling; Margy Mitchell was in great distress.
Closing her eyes Rosie looked into her mind’s eye and saw a young man. Blond hair and blue eyes twinkled as she watched his image. He would be the one, he would be the catalyst. There was fierce trouble ahead and that boy would be at the heart of it. Rosie felt there was something missing in the boy though, as if only half of his mind would be committed to the cause that lay before him.
Maria broke Rosie’s thoughts saying, ‘We should be out in the town, time’s a wasting.’
The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel) Page 2
