Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  The new gypsy camp had been set up in a narrow valley called Kingston Hollow. It was some way from the town of Lewes, but experience had taught the Romany it was better to be outside a town if their man should win the fight.

  John sat alone in the silent vardo. His chest was bare and all that covered him was a pair of loose cotton leggings tucked into his most supple leather boots, yet he was warm, his pulse steady. A flutter of anticipation squirmed in his belly as the night breeze carried the distant murmur of voices from the fairground. The other men had told him it was a lively crowd tonight, with money to wager and beer in their bellies. The gents were turning up in their carriages, the whores were doing a brisk trade, and there would doubtless be trouble before the night was through.

  He took a deep breath and looked around the only home he’d ever known. The vardo was partitioned into two halves, one for cooking, the other for sleeping. The kitchen area at the front had a stove with a narrow chimney passing through the roof, which worked well as long as the wind didn’t blow in the wrong direction and fill the enclosed space with smoke. There was a larder, several chests full of grandmother’s special bits of crockery and linen, and the walls were strung with copper pots and cooking utensils.

  He was sitting in the back, on the broad, double berth he would share with the old lady until he married and could afford to have a vardo built for himself. It was draped with the same snowy lace that hung at the windows, and the collection of fans and tambourines on the walls above it enhanced the cluttered feeling. The lamps had been lit some time ago, and their diffused light softened the jarring colours of the rugs and cushions his grandmother loved so well. The brightly decorated jars and pots gleamed on the narrow shelves, and the intricate vines and leaves Sarah had painted so many years ago on the roof still had the power to convince him they were real.

  This was all he’d ever known, all he’d ever wanted – until now. But his travels had shown him a glimpse of different worlds and he knew that if he was ever to capture his Rose he must leave this sheltered place and find his fortune elsewhere.

  John eased his well-oiled muscles and flexed his fists. The sinews and veins coiled proud beneath the tanned flesh. He could feel his strength course through them. Tina had done a good job this evening, he admitted silently. Grandmother had taught her well in the arts of massage and healing.

  He grinned as he smoothed back his long hair and tucked it behind his ears. The two women were hardly subtle and, truth be told, he was enjoying the attention. Tina was certainly a fine catch for a man. If his affections hadn’t been elsewhere, he might have taken advantage of the situation. But this was not the time to think of Tina and Rose. He had a fight to win.

  He knew of his opponent but they’d never met. Mad Jack Jilkes was a seasoned fighter with an impressive number of victories behind him and a large band of followers. There had been a time when Jilkes was considered good enough to contend for the British championship, but his fondness for the drink had ruined his chances and now he was forced to find his fights in the bare-knuckle arenas of the country fairs.

  John flexed his fists, breathing deeply, concentrating all his energy on thoughts of his opponent. Mad Jack was almost fifteen years older than him, and despite his legendary past, John had seen his last two fights and knew he could beat him. He felt strong, almost invincible, and was impatient to step into the ring.

  The vardo rocked as heavy footsteps climbed the steps to the door. The sharp rap was followed immediately by his cousin Tom Wilkins’ voice. ‘You ready, John?’

  He nodded and stood up, mindful of the low roof. ‘About as ready as I’ll ever be,’ he said firmly.

  Tom’s round face split into a grin. ‘Should be easy pickings tonight, John. Mad Jack’s been drinking and his crowd are laying heavy bets. Reckon you only need show up to win.’

  John’s hand clamped down on his cousin’s pudgy shoulder. ‘Don’t ever underestimate the opponent, Tom. Jack might be drunk but he’s an alley cat. He’ll fight until his last breath, and fight dirty and all. This won’t be no walkover.’

  ‘Have you looked at yourself, lately, John?’ Tom didn’t wait for a reply but rushed on, his eyes bright with admiration. ‘You got muscles bulging all over you, and your belly is as ridged as a wagon rut. You gleam, John, as if you were made out of copper, and I wager any man facing you tonight will know he’s beaten before he lays a fist on you.’

  John rather liked the flattery, but knew it for the heroworship it was and could therefore dismiss it. ‘It ain’t the way I look, boy, it’s the way I handle meself. Now get out of me way. I got a fight waiting.’

  Tom’s hand stilled him. ‘There’s something I gotta tell you, John. And it’s important.’

  He sighed as he pulled on a thick jacket against the cold. ‘You’re stretching me patience, Tom,’ he warned softly.

  The boy shrugged, his face eager to share his news. ‘Dad said he saw Big Billy Clarke come in with Jack’s crowd and you know what that means, don’t you?’

  John stood still, excitement and hope high in him. ‘Big Billy?’ he repeated. ‘Jack’s manager?’ He shook his head, reason taking over. ‘Probably only here to keep an eye on his fighter.’

  Tom rushed on. ‘Dad reckons word’s got out about you, and the man himself has come to take a shufti. Mad Jack’s had ’is day is what Dad says, and ’e reckons Big Billy’s looking for another fighter to put up for next year’s British title fight.’

  John tamped down a flutter of excitement. He had to remain calm and focus on winning. ‘Better give ’im something to watch then, hadn’t we?’

  *

  ‘Gentlemen,’ shouted John’s Uncle Harry, Tom’s father. ‘I present this evening’s entertainment for your pleasure. In the red corner – Gypsy John Tanner.’

  John raised his eyebrow at his young cousin. ‘Since when have I been called Gypsy John?’

  ‘Since Dad thought it up about five seconds ago,’ Tom hissed back. ‘You know what he’s like – anything to get the punters going.’ He grinned. ‘Good luck. I got a few bob on yer meself.’

  ‘And in the blue corner, gentlemen, I present – Mad Jack Jilkes. Champion of the ring in over forty fights.’ Harry’s voice was drowned in the roar of welcome as the big man stepped into the ring.

  John watched as Jack raised his arms to acknowledge the crowd. At first sight he had lost none of his awesome height or width. But although the fists were still the size of hams, John could see that the other man’s face bore the scars of too many fights. The once iron-hard body was running to fat and the leg muscles were wasted where once they had been mighty pillars. Yet the impression of a man at the end of his fighting career was a false one for as Jack turned with a sneer to face him, John could see the killer gleam in those yellowed and blood-shot eyes. Mad Jack might be past his prime and ale-sodden, but he was still a fighter who would hold on to his glory for as long as he had breath. This would not be an easy fight.

  They squared up to one another as Harry Wilkins stood between them, milking the moment until the crowd reached fever pitch. He recited the meagre list of rules that governed a bare-knuckle match but his words went unheard as John returned glare for glare, his pulse slowing, his mind and thoughts cooling with icy purpose for the task that lay ahead.

  ‘So they send me a gypsy cur to put out of its misery,’ Jack growled through the remains of his teeth. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  John would not rise to the bait. It had been tried many times before and he’d learned to deal with the insults. His gaze was steady as he flexed his fists and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.

  Jack spat on the floor, inches from John’s boots, but there was a gleam of something in the older man’s eye that told John his calm demeanour was getting to him.

  He tensed, waiting for Harry’s signal to begin. Mad Jack was known to be a dirty fighter and John would have his work cut out to avoid the steel-capped boots Jilkes wore as extra weapons.

  The
right hook came from nowhere with such speed and ferocity that as John dodged out of the way, he felt the wind of it sail past his ear. Mad Jack was fighting true to form by beating the bell.

  With Jack unbalanced by the punch and his body exposed, John connected with the man’s flabby gut in a series of hard jabs. The bruising, vicious blows appeared to have little effect on the big man, and as John closed in, he was caught by a meaty fist in an upper-cut that almost lifted him off his feet and left his ears ringing.

  He was thrown into the arms of his handlers who had thirty seconds to get him back into the three-foot square. They shouted encouragement as he tried to clear the flashing lights from his head. The breath was trapped in his lungs, sweat stung his eyes, and as his handlers shoved him back into the centre he felt real fear. He had lost sight of his opponent.

  John shook his head, met his opponent’s fist with his chin and staggered. The coppery taste of blood and the baying of the crowd seemed to bring him to his senses. He began to dance around the square, making the big man lumber after him. Time was what he needed. And the chance to catch his breath and clear his head.

  Jack’s strange yellow eyes were shot with blood and rage as he swung futile punches at the air between himself and the dancing man before him. ‘Stand still, you mongrel,’ he growled. ‘Fight like a man.’

  John danced lightly on the balls of his feet, his gaze now clear and steady on his opponent as they circled one another. His long arm shot out, the fist catching Mad Jack’s cheekbone. A slash of red opened up and blood mingled with sweat on the punch-drunk face.

  Another blow, another cut. Bone jarred, splintering beneath his hammer blows. But it did nothing to quell the rage in those feral eyes.

  The kick caught him just below the knee, making him stumble and lose his rhythm. Mad Jack closed in, fists like hammers as they found the soft flesh beneath John’s ribs. He danced away, gulping air into his battered lungs, favouring his injured knee. Mad Jack would have to be dealt with swiftly before he caused further damage. The bastard might be ale-sodden, but he was mean and strong and far more dangerous than his condition and age had led John to believe.

  With sweat slicking his face, he dodged another swinging punch, then closed in quickly for a series of hard, quick jabs to the other man’s exposed belly before dancing away again.

  Mad Jack stumbled. He was off balance and winded, his punches flailing the air. He swatted away his handlers who shouted for him to take the permitted thirty seconds, and bellowed with rage. Raising his fists to ward off further blows, he shook the blood and sweat out of his eyes and lurched around the square after the dancing figure. ‘You’re dead, you bastard,’ he yelled.

  John threw a dummy punch.

  Mad Jack lifted his arm to deflect it and didn’t see the upper-cut sledgehammer that caught his chin such a glancing blow he was rocked off his feet. He crumpled, swayed for an endless moment, then hit the floor with a crash that sent shivers through the soles of John’s boots.

  The crowd were on their feet. A roar of anger exploded like a tidal wave over John’s head as he danced around the fallen man. ‘Come on then, loud mouth,’ John yelled above the noise. ‘Get up and fight.’

  Mad Jack was hauled to his feet by his handlers as Harry Wilkins began the count, but the ageing fighter had survived too many bouts to be disorientated for long, and soon shrugged his minders off. Blood, snot and sweat flew into the baying crowd as he shook his head like a great hound. But the man’s evil temper made him careless. Mad Jack’s punches were flailing wildly now, missing their mark, throwing him off-balance.

  John neatly side-stepped, caught the older man off-guard, and with every ounce of strength he had left, swung a mighty punch to his chin. It hit square on, snapping Mad Jack’s head back, making his eyes roll, his mouth drop open in shock. The mighty shoulders sagged as the arms drooped and the fists uncurled.

  The crowd fell silent. A deathly hush enveloped both men as they faced one another, and John could feel the animosity suspended in that terrible silence.

  Mad Jack swayed, his eyes unfocused, his once mighty legs trembling.

  There was no time for pity, no place in the boxing ring for complacency. John hit him again. A swerving, accurate punch that caught the giant square in the face.

  The big man tottered, blood streaming from his nose. Then he fell to his knees as if in homage to the younger fighter. His great bulk trembled, and like the chalk face of a cliff in a high sea, he slowly collapsed on to the ground.

  Harry began the count. Jack’s handlers had thirty seconds to get him upright and back in the ring. John stepped away. The silent crowd leaned forward as one, every eye on their fallen hero.

  ‘Time’s up,’ yelled Harry into the ominous silence. ‘We got a winner.’

  The crowd erupted. Rotten fruit sailed into the ring, swiftly followed by the wooden seats and benches. Cushions were followed by ale pots and shoes as Mad Jack Jilkes was lifted by his handlers and hauled ignominiously out of the marquee.

  Harry ducked a flying chair leg. ‘Time we got out of here, boy,’ he yelled above the uproar.

  John didn’t need telling. Surrounded by his handlers, he leaped out of the ring and tore through the canvas curtain into the night. The darkness was absolute after the light of the marquee, but the Romanys who’d been waiting for this moment had their night-sight and John and Harry were guided swiftly to the hidden horses.

  As John spurred on his horse, his thoughts were bitter. The pattern would be repeated tonight as always. His victory meant his people had to hide, for the disappointed locals had no respect for their women or their property. If their camp was found, there would be fires set, stock stolen or set free, and their lives put at risk. The game was not worth it.

  Tonight the camp was well hidden, and as John and the others turned their horses into the valley, they were certain they had not been followed.

  Tina and Sarah were waiting for him. ‘Drink this, boy. It’ll put life back into you,’ Sarah handed him a foul-smelling brew which he knew had magic powers to heal, and heal quickly. He gulped it down.

  ‘John Tanner?’ The voice rang out, clear and demanding from the darkness.

  The men formed a protective line in front of the women. They had been so certain of their escape – now they were compromised. ‘Who wants him?’ John stepped forward but could see only shadows shifting in the darkness.

  ‘Billy Clarke,’ came the answer.

  John and the others exchanged glances. ‘Light the torches,’ he whispered. ‘And be ready if it’s a trick.’ He took another step away from the protective line. ‘Show yourself, Billy Clarke,’ he called.

  The silhouette of a man on horseback moved against the starry sky and began the descent into the valley. The flickering torches showed a tall man, squarely built, who sat easily on the back of a thoroughbred.

  John waited, his pulse racing. He could hear no other horses, could feel no aura of danger surrounding the visitor – perhaps it really was Big Billy Clarke.

  The man swung down from the saddle and stepped forward, his hand outstretched in greeting, his expression friendly. ‘I’m sorry to intrude like this, but you left so swiftly, I didn’t have time to catch up with you at the fair-ground.’

  John heard the murmur of the others behind him, but all he could focus on was the other man. Billy Clarke’s eyes were steady in an honest face, his handshake firm. ‘No point hanging around when there’s a mob after your hide,’ John said. ‘But you took a risk coming here like this.’

  The big man smiled as he looked at the circle of people before him. ‘I didn’t expect pachiv, certainly, but I see no risk in visiting my niamo.’

  There was a stunned silence followed by a murmur of suspicion. ‘Pachiv is a ceremony given only for honoured guests,’ said John solemnly. ‘And although you say you are visiting relatives, your accent is not of our tribe, but Lomavren.’

  Billy Clarke took off his hat to reveal thick black hair. ‘My tribe ca
me from Armenia, but surely as Romanys we are one family against the gadjikanes?’

  John laughed. ‘So that’s how you were able to follow us without being discovered! The gadjikanes would have made a lot of noise, crashing about on the downs with their clumsy horses and yapping dogs. But you surprise me, Billy Clarke. I didn’t know you were of the blood.’

  Big Billy Clarke smiled, his dark face creasing into a thousand lines. ‘Old habits die hard, boy, and although I’ve been living amongst the gadjikanes for a long while, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.’ He looked around him. ‘As for my blood, sometimes it isn’t politic to reveal my ancestry.’

  There were nods and murmurs from the others as they crowded around the big man, and after introductions John led the way to his vardo. The men and women of his tribe followed, squeezing into the confined space until they were spilling out on to the steps or left to look through the windows.

  Heat rose from the press of bodies as lanterns were lit and the ale was passed round. Voices rose and fell as pipes were smoked and the evening’s fight was discussed. There was finally a lull in the debate and Billy turned to John. ‘How would you like your next fight to be in a real boxing ring in London?’ he said casually.

  The lull became a heavy, expectant silence as all eyes turned to him.

  ‘Depends what you can offer – and who the fight’s with.’ John’s voice was calm but his thoughts were in turmoil. The famous Billy Clarke was offering him his dream – yet dreams could be won or lost in a moment’s carelessness. He had to remain clear-headed despite the thrill of anticipation that shot through him.

  The big man smiled. ‘That is something we need to discuss, John. Because I see you as the next contender for the British title.’

  6

  Cordelia was more weary than she’d ever been. The retelling of the history of Jacaranda Vines was draining, and coming so soon after the crisis Jock had left behind, she wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake in coming on this journey.

  You’re an old fool, she berated herself as silence descended and Sophie’s soft, even breathing accompanied the sighing of the wind in the gum trees. The story could have been retold back in Melbourne. Yet, as she lay there, her mind too active for the sleep she so desperately longed for, she knew this was the only way. There were people in the Hunter who were the final link to the past. People who might be willing, after so many years of silence, to heal the breach and bring life back into the broken, dying vines. It was a gamble she had to take. The last gamble in her bid to save her granddaughter’s inheritance. And she knew that if she failed this time, Jock would finally have won.