Bruar's Rest

by Jess Smith

  ‘I wondered when that would sink in. I’m a baby-bringer. I know all there is about bringing babies into this big bad world. I’ve delivered at least a hundred. Washing, feeding, healing sick uns and homing little uns whose mothers die of the birth fever, I’ve done it all. Except have my own. Sod’s bloody law, I say!’

  She looked sad, but not for long as she recalled the joy it brings to see a brand new life, so many times. ‘I see them first, and that’s why I’m known as Mother. Also because of that gift God has granted me of knowing what herbs heal and which poison. Yorkshire children don’t suffer the scurvy because I have the cure—boil up the hawthorn flowers, that’s all. Drink it down and no more scurvy. Now, here’s a little advice for you. That rogue I warned you about goes by the name of Bull Buckley, “King of the Gypsies”. He ain’t no king, so get that out of your head, girlie. He’s the best street-fighter ever lived. He can kill and has done, more than once, so keep well clear, not even a glance. He’ll be back around midnight, when some publican has mustered enough courage to ask him to leave his premises. You’ll hear the brute shouting with the drink. Just don’t go near. That’s all I’m saying on the subject. It’s my varda you’ll be sleeping in, so don’t peer through the curtain or else you’ll find a stone come through my window.’

  Megan’s eyes flashed fear, genuine fear, remembering how evil big Rory used to look and sound when fuelled by the demon in the bottle, O’Connor too. She assured the kind old lady there would be no involvement from her with the likes of Buckley. ‘I’d rather eat glass than sit next to a man soaking himself with drink.’

  When she thought back to how much trouble came by way of alcohol it made her all the more serious, and she told the old woman so. ‘Honest, if you’d seen how peaceful and serene our little home of tents was in the Angus Glens before the drink took hold. I had time to notice how willow mixed with ancient oak and yew, and how the trees fought to keep ground space with yellow broom and bluebells. Wild daffodils, forget-me-nots and primroses grew along natural forest paths. Gentle, mild-mannered roe deer skipped among lily-of-the-valley, leaving the merest hoof prints on the mossy earth. Then Jimmy died and we thought Bruar had been killed too. That’s when it all got serious with the drink. The older men started on that hell-filled path. They got lost, and couldn’t find the way back. I never noticed Mother Nature’s joys after that, only wondered what manner of state the men would be in as night came.’ She did not tell Mother Foy how Rory had changed at the end, nor about the vision she’d seen in a setting sun.

  ‘Don’t blame the drink, child. It was the war that changed things. We lost a few good men here too. Take Maggie Gaskins, over there by that palomino pony; she lost her eldest boy and her man. Georgina Boswell over by the stream, her with bright red hair, was washing her clothes in a field outsides Lincoln when her daughter saw a policeman cycling down the lane. They thought he was coming to move them on, so ran and hid. But it was news that her Freddie, one of a twin, had got killed by a sniper. The lad didn’t even know what a sniper was. His brother’s never been the same these whiles back. He thought at first it was a bird that killed him, you know, the snipe, so he never fails to throw stones at any he sees. No, my girl, if you need blame, then blame that blasted war.’

  Ruth came over holding out a red dress, while Anna asked what size of foot she had; two light brown sandals dangled from her hand.

  ‘I think my feet are the same size as those,’ she said, ‘at least I hope they are, they’re right bonny.’

  ‘If they fit,’ said Anna, ‘you keep them. None of us girls have such narrow feet as would fit them; see if you have.’

  Like gloves her feet fitted the pretty shoes.

  Old Mother Foy said, ‘You pop into my varda and try on that dress, and let’s see if you have a figure under those dowdy tugs. But first, why don’t the girls here take you down the pool water for a dip?’ Her friends were eager to wash the late summer’s sweat from their bodies, so decided to join her.

  The pool was a walk away from the gypsy campsite. And in no time, the happy threesome were splashing about in soapy bubbles, swirling within the deep water hole dug out by the gypsies themselves for such a purpose. Megan felt so good that twinges of guilt dimmed her joy, ‘This is heaven, and I never imagined I’d smile again, but I’m having fun and I pray my Bruar will understand when I tell him.’

  An hour later, out, dried and dressed, she was certainly a beauty in the red frock and tan shoes. In a strange and absurd way, she was glad she’d been robbed. Mother Foy, who complimented her on how lovely she looked, all fresh and shiny-skinned, was a blessing, and the girls were as sister-like as she could have wished. In the space of a day she’d found a new family, one that cared for her. Light and carefree thoughts lifted her feet to skip and dance arm in arm with Ruth and Anna. It was then she remembered old Mr Thrower saying something about an Egyptian blessing, so she enquired as to what he meant.

  ‘We are descendants of slaves brought here by Romans. When they left this country to defend a falling Rome they abandoned our ancestors. Left at the mercy of people sickened by tyrannical rulers, the slaves were threatened by the locals, and to avoid harm took to moving from place to place. Our ancestors’ survival depended on many ploys. Telling fortunes and giving blessings was one way. Many gypsies fled north. Another wave of gypsies came to Britain in the fifteenth century. They were from India, it’s believed, and they changed many of the older ways.’

  Megan soaked up the stories of these dark-skinned people. She believed they were separated from her kind only by time and borders.

  Back within the circle of wagons she was introduced to everyone, and while eating the tasty meat stew, chatted and exchanged travellers’ stories of roads and byways. Not many English gypsies go as far up as Scotland these days, she was informed, but there were one or two who had and who had failed to return, having fallen in love with the people and landscape. That night she joined in with songsters and danced for her hosts, astonished that life felt so different. Yes, she and Bruar would find each other, the Seer had told her so, but it seemed as if her journey south would be a joyous, fun-filled road. As she watched and listened to stories and songs she thought on her man. Was he sleeping with a sickness of the mind? Would he remember her or his life as a travelling man? Were caring arms holding him in the night? So many questions swirled in her head, none she had answers to. But deep within she knew they would meet again. Nothing could prevent that, she felt it so strongly.

  ‘What was that?’ A sound from outside the varda had her sit upright in the narrow bed. She whispered again to the old woman, snoring beneath a thick eiderdown in her own bed to the rear of the wagon. ‘Mother Foy, wake up, someone is at your door.’

  ‘Too bad for them it’s not daylight, cause I don’t open me door until it is. Ye best get back to sleep.’

  Megan pulled a faded, green velvet cover under her chin and waited. Raised as she was under canvas, her dog-like senses were flashing warning signs. She could hear heavy breathing inches from her window. A hand was being drawn along the wooden panels beneath it. Silently she slid her feet onto the floor and sat at the edge of the bed. Eyes darted, following every sound. Footsteps padded the ground. Someone was there and wanted the occupants to know it. Mother Foy’s snoring was louder than ever, how could she sleep so soundly when a demon might be planning their end? Would it torch them? Perhaps break down the door, drag her out and murder her? Slit the old lady’s throat? Flashes of Rory’s red blood oozing away his life into the moss brought sweat beads that trickled from brow-line to ears. This new found haven was becoming unsafe by the second. But wait a minute, was there really someone there? Was it not just this springy new bed? She’d slept in a few since leaving Kirriemor. And what of the dogs lying under many of the vardas, some the size of small ponies. Surely if an intruder was hanging around in the dark a hound would howl? Of course it would! She felt silly for submitting her bare feet to a cold floor and losing over an hour of slumber. Co
nvinced all her fears were unfounded, she at last curled up under the velvet bedcover and went back to sleep.

  Next morning the dawn sunlight shone through gossamer webs spun from wagon roof to tree branches; they had been newly abandoned by fat spiders which were off to sleep away the day in some quiet cranny of the quarry wall, bellies bursting with chewed insects. People were up and busying themselves. Some collected firewood while others filled kettles and pans for the first meal of a gypsy day. Megan had risen before anyone else, setting snares around a ruined stone dyke, and came back with a fat rabbit in each hand. Mother Foy beamed proudly through the smoke of her first fill of pipe. ‘Well, me little raven-haired moorhen, I’ve yet to meet as smart-handed a one as yourself.’ She took the still warm, dead animals and held them above her head. ‘See what this maid of Scotland has brought us this fine day, a change from our hedgehogs,’ she said proudly, swinging the rabbits so everyone could glimpse them. Laying them on a flat stone she said, ‘Now, girlie, what kind of noise had the fear of Job in you last night?’

  ‘Oh, I had the jitters right enough, but I think my imagination got the better of me. It was hard to ignore my instincts, though.’

  ‘And these instincts of yours, what did they say in the dead of night?’

  ‘At first I felt a hand on the wagon. Something was outside, breathing, the heavy breath was hot, and I felt it. But had there been an intruder it surely would have awakened you. You were snoring loudly, old woman, and hardly moved, so I thought maybe my senses were overdoing things.’

  ‘Never ignore your God-given instincts, gypsies have them too. It goes with being hounded through the countryside just like your people in Scotland. Some authorities will punish our culture until it be no more. I’ll ask if anyone heard anything in the night, while you boil up a brew.’

  The old woman drew a long-fringed shawl around her body, sucked on her pipe, took a stick and hobbled off, leaving Megan’s peace shaken. She’d convinced herself no one was there in the dark, it had all been her imagination, but now all her fear returned. Her eyes hardly left the old woman as she wandered slowly from wagon to wagon. Soon she returned.

  ‘That tea looks inviting, girlie, pour me a big mug. Nobody heard a dickey-bird last night, apart from owls and bladder-weakened old men. I even asked if Bull had come back, but it seems that he had a fight down Thirsk way. He’s staying there a few nights, thank the gods. No doubt we’ll have his company soon, though, blast him to kingdom come.’

  Lucy, Anna and Ruth scattered her fears when they invited her to come hawking round the tiny villages of the Yorkshire Dales. They had dipped dozens of briar roses in candle wax and hoped to sell some. ‘Come and tell lassies they’ll marry tall, dark and handsome men, watch their ugly faces light up,’ said Ruth.

  Anna laughed and added, ‘A fortune awaits them all.’

  Lucy said she could only go a short part of the way, as she had to meet someone, but would join up with them on their return journey.

  Megan, excited by her invitation, hurriedly skinned the rabbits. Then, while eager hounds fought over the innards, she filled water cans, wolfed down some breakfast and was soon waving goodbye to the old woman, skipping off with the three gypsy girls for a day’s hawking.

  The quarry edge soon faded behind them. As she looked back, Megan felt that if she’d not been part of the gypsy circle it would be hard to believe anyone lived there at all. Only a faint smell of cooking and a spiral of light smoke marked the presence of a bustling encampment, full of families.

  After a short while a fork in the road appeared. ‘This is where I leave you,’ said Lucy.

  Megan asked where she was going.

  ‘Not your business,’ was the only answer she received.

  ‘She’s off to see her man,’ said Anna.

  ‘Ain’t hers to see,’ added Ruth.

  ‘You two better keep it shut, or the eyes will be coming out of your heads, I swear! Now be gone.’

  Up till then Lucy had been friendly and kind to Megan, but something about this man she was meeting changed her. She was edgy, even slightly afraid. However, as a newcomer to this secretive band, Megan thought it best not to interfere, and walked off down the path. Anna and Ruth, who’d parted from Lucy with a few choice words, soon caught up with her.

  ‘Better not mention this to Mother Foy,’ warned Ruth, and then added, ‘Lucy has got entangled in a match not made in heaven. If it’s discovered she’ll be sent out of the camp. We don’t know, having never set an eye on him, but she goes the way of Burnstall Hall, and that be the home of Mr Newton, his honour.’ Ruth went on to disclose the fact that ‘his honour’ owned all the land for miles around, including the quarry they lived in. He allowed the gypsies freedom to roam all over. He employed the men in his fields with harvest work and also used them as beaters during the shooting season. ‘He’s as good a gent as the likes of us will ever come by, but he’s a failing like most men—he can’t resist a pretty gypsy girl. She’s never said, but we think our Lucy has taken more than a fancy for him.’

  Megan listened intently. After a mile or so, she asked if Mr Newton was married.

  ‘Aye, that he is, to a damned nice woman too,’ barked Anna. ‘Two children they have into the bargain. That’s why Lucy would be forced away. Not many give us folks such freedom and work. Every one of us stands to suffer if word of that affair ever gets out. Anyway, it’s not right to be with a married man. We told you that, didn’t we, Megan?’

  ‘Yes, you did, but I’m the wife of the honourable Bruar Stewart, and nothing that breathes could prise me from my vows. I’d chase the Devil back to hell if he so much as spat near my man.’

  The gypsy girls were amazed by her fierce loyalty, which prompted Ruth to comment, ‘he be the luckiest of men, this Bruar of yours, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘I’m the lucky one,’ was her answer, as her thoughts drew her back into the once-familiar world from which she came. ‘But tell me, and I promise not a word will go back in way of gossip, why does she fornicate with a married man? I would have taken Lucy to be more of a decent lassie?’

  ‘Why, indeed? Who can say why we walk a blind path when a clearer, more happy one, lies ahead of us?’ Ruth spoke wisely. This prompted Megan to enquire how old she was and whether she had a man? Anna was asked the same question.

  Anna told her she’d a boyfriend called Tate Boswell. When the horse sales came round they had planned to meet at Appleby, where gypsies gathered annually.

  Ruth wasn’t so forthcoming, though, and refused to comment on her love life, instead saying they had best make tracks for Scropet.

  The village of Scropet stood out like a beacon at the top of Bleak Fell. Sparsely populated, like most villages in the Dales, it offered little but the merest pennies from hardy folks who were eking a living from the soil. Half of the young who weren’t casualties of war had deserted for city life, leaving a few elderly relatives pottering in small gardens, watching the world go by. It was always a treat for them to hear the gypsies come singing and calling on them. Doors opened and a welcome waited. There was not much money, but still food and drink was always offered.

  ‘Hello to you, my dear Mrs Aske,’ said Ruth, who seemed to know everyone by name. ‘Want me to read the tea-leaves for you?’

  Mrs Aske, who walked with a limp and had the use of only one eye, laughed out loud. ‘What good would it do me knowing about tomorrow, lass, when I’m grateful I rise with the day’s sun. I’m as withered as last year’s briar rose.’

  ‘My dear lady, me old gran always says, “Life can change in the flicking of a lamb’s tail”. For all you know, a smuggler’s fortune may be lying under that flowerbed of yours. Just one more dig with the fork and up it comes. You could go on a luxury cruise. Meet some handsome fella and live another twenty years. Now what think ye of that?’

  ‘I think you cheer me no end. Come in and have a meal with me, meagre though it be.’

  The threesome stooped under the low entrance to t
he cottage, went inside and spent a short time with the lonely woman. Later Megan was to discover she had three sons; all lost during yet another horrific battle of the past war.

  The girls did a few chores for Mrs Aske, before setting off to hawk flowers in another village further on in the moor.

  Other villages offered a better return for their wares, paying them with clothes or crockery. Soon the three girls headed off across Bleak Fell to meet Lucy at the fork in the road. She was waiting with a faraway look on her young face; a bunch of misshapen red roses hung loosely between her fingers. Her clothes smelled of honeysuckle, prompting Ruth to give her a look of disgust. ‘Been rolling about in the undergrowth, satisfying the gentry with your body?’

  Lucy shrugged her shoulders and told Ruth to find a man of her own.

  ‘Filth, that’s all you are, my lass, sheer filth!’

  ‘Well, better that than cowing to Bull Buckley.’

  Megan felt a shiver at the mention of that man once more.

  ‘Now, now, Lucy,’ said Anna, ‘you know since he battered her last she’s not even going to look at him.’

  ‘If she don’t hold a torch, why was she angry that time he took back a godger woman from York, when he beat Gripper Smith at his last street fight?’

  Ruth stormed off, with Anna at her heels apologising for Lucy’s looseness of tongue.

  Megan had no idea what they were arguing about, but thought that whoever Mr Newton was, he certainly knew how to bring a rosy bloom to Lucy’s face.

  ‘You had a good day, Lucy?’ she asked, as they walked back to the camp. For a while no answer came, until the smell of cooking and the familiar spiral of smoke told her they were nearing the quarry. Suddenly Lucy drew her to a stop and said, ‘Tomorrow night I’m leaving, my man is coming for me. He came last night, but couldn’t find my wagon. Tonight I’ll meet him at the fork in the road. Promise me you won’t say a word, because when Mam finds me gone, she’ll whip them that know about Mr Newton and me.’