Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  John was bare-chested, his wide shoulders and muscular arms squared to an unseen opponent, fists raised, knuckles catching the light. But it was his face that fascinated her. The black eyes and dark brows, the sweep of the broad forehead and the mane of unruly hair that fell almost to his chest, spoke of an exotic strength and determination that belied his wiry build. It was a powerful image – one that defied the past and lived on in the present. Lived on in Jay and his brothers.

  *

  Bruiser Barnes had left John with a cut lip, a black eye and sore ribs, but he had finally won the fight and with the English Champion’s belt still proudly displayed around his waist, Big Billy had taken him out to celebrate.

  The next morning John woke before dawn with a sore head and a tongue the texture of a horse blanket, but all that was forgotten when he looked down at the ornate belt and thought of the amount of money he’d earned. He no longer kept it hidden under the floorboards for he’d been broken into several times already and knew it was only a matter of luck they hadn’t found his hoard. So, on Big Billy’s advice, he’d opened an account with a bank.

  Climbing out of bed, he poured cold water from the cracked pitcher into the murky bowl and washed as best he could. When he had finished shaving and dressing, he tied back his hair and eyed his reflection in the fly-spotted mirror.

  ‘Not bad for a gyppo,’ he murmured. ‘Not bad at all.’ He grinned and jingled the coins in his pocket. Today was going to be a good day, he decided. He didn’t have to defend his title yet and his time was his own. It was still early, he could make it over to Paddington in time to catch the servants as they ran errands.

  Charing Cross and the Bermudas were a smoky warren, the filthy alleyways still rimed with glittering frost as he strode past the crooked, leaning tenements and into the Strand. Newgate Prison’s massive walls loomed over him, black with soot and grime, but he hardly noticed any more. He bought a farthing dip from a hawker who stood in its shadows. John munched the bread fried in pork fat with relish and licked his fingers as he strode along the narrowing highway, admiring his reflection in the bow windows. He had no doubt he would see Rose today – no doubt at all.

  The house gleamed in the early sun, frost still glittering on the window panes as shadows were chased from the narrow country lane. John wiped his greasy fingers on his coat as he leaned against the tavern wall and waited. The curtains were being drawn from the downstairs windows and a butcher’s boy ran along the street and down the steps to where John guessed the kitchen would be. He waited for the boy to emerge again, and stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Know them well, do you?’ he asked, the coin glittering between his fingers.

  The freckled face and sharp features looked up at him. ‘Might,’ the boy replied tersely.

  John held out the sixpence and let it glint in the early-morning light. ‘Is there a maid in the house called Rose?’ His pulse was so rapid he was finding it difficult to breathe.

  The boy snatched the coin and tossed it in the air. ‘Dunno,’ he said cheerfully. ‘This is me first day.’ Then he laughed, dodged John’s cuff round the ear and scampered off.

  Despite his disappointment, he grinned. The boy reminded him of himself at that age – cocky and sly and too sharp for his own good when it came to fleecing idiots of their money.

  He turned his thoughts back to his dilemma. The household was obviously busy, perhaps it would be best to wait until one of the maids was sent on an errand. But that could take hours, he thought impatiently. They might not need anything and the day would be wasted. Without giving himself time to think whether it was wise or not, he brushed his coat down, straightened his wing collar and cravat and strode down the steps. The lion’s head knocker was small and tarnished and seemed to echo right down the lane as he rapped it twice. It was too late to change his mind now.

  The girl’s pinched face was red, her eyes agitated. ‘Yes?’

  John took in her skinny frame, the brown dress and reddened hands. There was something familiar about her but for the moment he couldn’t quite place her. ‘You the maid here?’

  ‘So what if I am? We don’t want no hawkers or gypsies,’ she said firmly as she began to shut the door in his face.

  John put his boot in the way. ‘I ain’t selling nothing, miss. Just enquiring if you got a Rose Fuller here.’

  The door opened a fraction more, the maid suddenly inquisitive. ‘Rose? What you want with her?’

  John’s heart hammered and his palms grew clammy. ‘We come from the same village in Sussex,’ he explained quickly. She was already edging the door shut again. ‘I worked with her da. Good man, Brendon Fuller, shame he was killed like that.’

  The girl’s eyes sharpened, her thin mouth quivering with indecision. ‘I knows who you are, John Tanner,’ she said finally. ‘But Rose ain’t ’ere.’

  He bit down on his impatience. ‘She’s away on a visit? Day off? What?’

  ‘Looks like you’re mighty keen to see our Rose,’ she said as she eyed his expensive coat and the smart cravat. Her smile was roguish as she looked up at him. ‘But I reckon you got a long ways to go afore you see her again – she be in Australia.’

  *

  Big Billy had tried to persuade John not to fight again so soon after his title bout. He was now the English Champion with enough money in the bank to buy a good house and fill it with the finest furniture. His reputation would stand him in good stead should he wish to pursue another career – maybe as a trainer or promoter. The boxing world was changing, becoming more respectable, and there was a great deal of money to be made in accepting challenges from America.

  John refused to listen. He needed an outlet for his rage. Needed to be in the ring again with the stink of the crowd in his nostrils, the raucous noise of them in his ears. The money was secondary, the need for a house, a home, not even part of the equation. He was a Romany, a traveller of roads – and if he lost all his money and spent the rest of his life living in the open, it would suit him just fine.

  The decision to fight this particular night had been a mistake. The dukkerin’s prophecy had taken a further step towards its fulfilment as John’s opponent lay at his feet.

  He stood there, his breathing ragged as his chest rose and fell and blood trickled down his face. Tierney had fought a dirty fight, Billy had warned John he would – there was no denying he was relieved it was over. Billy was right. He didn’t need to live like this any more. This would be his last fight.

  Tierney’s handlers turned him over. The boxer’s eyes rolled back in his head, his chin dropped and his mouth gaped. ‘He’s dead!’ roared Tierney’s manager. ‘The gypsy bastard’s killed our man.’ He leaped to his feet, inciting the crowd. ‘Don’t let him get away. Murder! Murder!’

  John grabbed his precious belt and dived over the ropes with Big Billy at his side. They raced for the cover of darkness, knowing they had only seconds before the baying pack followed. The confusion in the boxing booth was made worse because of the sheer number of people crammed inside, but if they were caught, they’d be torn to pieces.

  The horses were tethered nearby and the two men clambered on, spurring the animals across the great expanse of Hyde Park towards the narrow alleyways and hiding places in the rookeries. John’s head was pounding, blood and fear copper-tasting on his tongue.

  ‘We should be heading for open country,’ shouted Billy. ‘Word soon gets around here and we’ll have every cutthroat and informer looking for us before dawn.’

  John snatched a look over his shoulder. He could already see the flaming torches of their pursuers. ‘The rookeries will give us a chance to lose them,’ he shouted back. ‘They can see us too well out here in the open.’

  They rode in desperate silence, slowing only when the lanes were too narrow or choked with rubbish. Curious eyes followed them from the shadows, their gleam sharpened by the knowledge that here were two men on the run. It was a familiar sight – one that might mean a handsome pay-off to an informer.<
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  The hovels and tenements eventually gave way to open fields and woodland, and after making sure they were no longer being followed, they slowed their exhausted horses to a trot. ‘I’m going back to my family,’ gasped John, his ribs aching, his head still pounding with the pain of his broken nose. He was finding it hard to breathe, hard to keep his balance on the horse. ‘I’ve had it with London.’

  17

  Kate looked at her sister in disbelief. ‘How long did it take you to work this out, Daisy?’

  She put all the papers back into the folder and tidied it away, smiling as she turned off the computer. ‘Not long,’ she replied. ‘It was just a matter of putting two and two together, but at least it solves the riddle of Mum’s journey to the Hunter.’

  ‘Crafty old bat,’ Kate said fondly, breathing out cigarette smoke. ‘Might have known she had a trick or three up her sleeve. No wonder she didn’t tell the others.’

  Daisy poured iced water into a crystal glass. The temperature had been climbing all day and an electric storm was brewing out at sea. ‘It’ll be interesting to see if she pulls it off. The family rift’s been going on ever since her grandmother’s day, and even Mum might find it hard to persuade the other side to toe the line.’

  Kate snorted and stabbed out her cigarette. ‘If anyone can it’s her,’ she said firmly. ‘Once she’s got the bit between her teeth, nothing and no one can side-track her. I just hope all this isn’t wearing her out. She’s already frail, and that long journey, coming so soon after the ructions over Dad’s will, is enough to lay anyone low.’

  Daisy chewed her lip. ‘I managed to get the phone and fax number from Jane, and spoke to someone called Beatty last night. Mum’s tired, but seems to be holding up well – in fact she’s revelling in the attention.’

  ‘I reckon it’s about time she came home,’ said Kate. ‘If it hasn’t worked by now, then it never will, and I don’t fancy having to fly to the Hunter to fetch her.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to shoot through, Daisy. I’m going out to dinner.’

  Daisy noticed the rush of colour to her sister’s cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. ‘You’ve got a date,’ she exclaimed. ‘Come on. Out with it. Who? Where?’

  Kate looked down at her manicured toenails. ‘He’s just someone I met on one of the charity boards,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No one special.’

  Daisy didn’t question her further. If things went well with this mystery man, she would hear all in good time. She laughed and chivvied Kate out of the door. With a roar and splatter of gravel, her sister drove out of the driveway and into the gathering gloom.

  Daisy looked up at the sky. Lightning was already flickering on the horizon, the ocean gleaming pewter in the dwindling light. Settling into a chair on the verandah, she watched as the storm gathered strength. Great bolts forked above the sea as the deep growl of thunder rolled overhead and a hot wind rustled the trees and made them sway.

  The storm was coming and she couldn’t help comparing it to the turmoil about to hit the inheritors of Jacaranda Vines. She usually loved watching storms, but wished there was a way to avoid the eye of this particular one. For not only would it damage all of them – for some, it could mean destruction.

  *

  The winter encampment was deep in the Ashdown Forest, the vardoes in a tight circle around the camp fire, the bender tents sheltered beneath the trees next to the make-shift corral where the horses stood shaggy in their winter coats.

  John had been travelling for days, for he had crisscrossed the countryside on his seemingly endless journey south. He knew that to make the journey in a straight line could lead to trouble. The publicity Billy had used to promote his fighting career had played on his Romany background and it would take only one clever mind to realise he would head for his family. Now, as he entered the encampment, it was almost dark, the light of the flames dancing into the trees, casting deeper shadow into the surrounding forest.

  He grinned at the smiling faces, winced at the hearty slaps on his back and shoulders, grimaced as he drank the raw wine from the skin pouch he was handed. The children danced around him, clutching at his legs, fingering the shiny, ornate buckle on his champion’s belt as the women chattered like sparrows and pressed close. Yet his gaze fell on the one face he’d been seeking since his journey had begun. As he moved silently towards her, the crowd parted to make way for him.

  ‘Puri daj’, he breathed as he knelt before her chair and the aged arms embraced him.

  ‘I have waited for you, boy,’ she said softly. ‘My dreams have been troubled, and I must know the tachiken.’

  He drew away gently from her frail embrace and looked deep into her eyes. ‘The truth is hard, puri daj, I have killed a man.’

  She nodded as if his confession held little surprise for her. ‘It is good you return but there is danger here,’ she said softly. ‘I have seen the trito ursitori – the three spirits – allow me to be the mediator between good and evil, my son, for I see you have trushal odji.’

  John’s shoulders slumped. He did indeed have a hungry soul – how wise his puri daj was to recognise that. ‘I came only to warn you they will come looking for me, and to ask forgiveness for bringing prust to the family. I shall not stay. I have a lungo drom to take.’

  She shrugged fragile shoulders, eyes sharp with intelligence. ‘The fates will not be disobeyed, boy,’ she warned as she read his intentions. ‘The journey you have chosen will bring you only sadness.’

  John wasn’t given the chance to reply. A whirlwind of smothering kisses, of long, scented hair and encircling arms, took his breath away. Tina’s warmth and obvious delight at seeing him made him blush and he hugged her as he might a sister.

  ‘I leave you to decide, John,’ said the old woman as she struggled to her feet. ‘Tina knows as well as I what the fates demand.’ She hobbled away, the frayed hem of her bright skirts trailing in the damp grass.

  ‘I’m coming with you, John,’ the girl breathed in his ear.

  He eased away from her, aware of watching eyes and amused smiles from the others around the camp-fire. Leading her by the hand, he took her beyond the orange glow and into deeper shadows. ‘I travel alone,’ he said quietly. ‘The lungo drom is dangerous – but I must find my destiny.’

  Her dark eyes flashed, the gold coins in her scarf jingled. ‘Our destinies are bound together. Puri daj has seen it, and so have I. I will follow you to the ends of the earth, for one day you will need me. I’m prepared to wait, no matter how long it takes. I love you, John.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Don’t waste your love on me, Tina,’ he said softly. ‘You deserve better.’

  Her dark eyes glittered from unshed tears but her chin was up, her narrow shoulders shrugging off his hands. ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ she retorted.

  John watched as she walked away. The slender hips swayed, sweeping her long skirts through the grass. The jingle of bracelets and the toss of ebony hair were sounds and images that would stay with him always. And yet he couldn’t love her – not the way she wanted or deserved – not as a husband.

  When supper was over the musicians brought out their violins and tambourines along with their penny whistles to accompany the clay pots of raw sloe gin that went around the circle. John’s lips touched the rough pottery, but he sipped sparingly – he needed a clear head for the next long ride.

  He moved away from the heat of the fire and the all-too knowing eyes of his grandmother so he could watch from a distance. This scene must be implanted in his mind so he could carry it with him across the world. He needed to etch the smell of the woodsmoke, the sound of the Romany music and language, and the chill of an English winter on his senses. For this was the last he would ever see of them.

  The old woman gathered her skirts and moved from the fire’s glow into the surrounding darkness. He noticed how thin and frail she was, how her back bent from the hard life she’d lived, and wished he could bow to her s
uperior knowledge of second sight and ignore the deep need to find Rose. To travel so far to an unknown land where fate could decree untold misery was a risk he must take. For his destiny no longer lay with his people – fate had shown her hand and was pointing the way to a new life. The thought he might never find Rose didn’t occur to him, so sure was he of his destiny.

  It was the darkest hour before dawn when John crawled out of the bender tent he’d set up beside his grandmother’s vardo. All was quiet, all was still, and he hitched his bundle of clothes over his shoulder. The low, warning growl of a camp dog was silenced with a soft word. John’s footsteps were soundless in the long wet grass as he crossed the clearing and headed for the horses.

  With gentle nudges he eased his way through the whickering ponies, his tread light and sure, his hands running over necks and rumps to soothe their fears and avert trouble. He didn’t want the whole camp alerted. Cutting out his own horse, he led it through the gate at the far end of the corral. In the deep darkness of the forest, he saddled it up and tied his bundle to the pommel.

  He settled on the broad back and turned for one long last look at the sleeping camp.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he whispered. ‘And may the Martiya be with me.’ The horse responded to the gentle nudge of his boot heels and began to walk through the trees. John looked up into the canopy of branches and thought he could feel the night spirits watching over him. The martiya may only have been part of the Romany legend, but at this moment he wanted to believe in their existence.

  As he emerged from the forest and turned his horse’s head west, his hands stilled on the reins. The forest sounds had been disturbed by another – a sound that came only from the careful, steady tread of a horse.

  John moved into the shadows as the moon appeared from behind the scudding clouds, and with the horse hobbled, he melted into the darkness of a giant tree trunk. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The delicate legs of the pony picked their way through the debris on the forest floor, the girl on its back crouched low, her soft murmur keeping the animal steady. The moonlight glinted on gold in her ears and on the coins decorating her scarf. The soft jangle of her bracelets was barely discernible amongst the night sounds, but John could hear them clearly as he waited.