by Jess Smith
‘Then I was right, there was someone outside the wagon last night,’ Megan thought.
‘Of course I won’t say anything, but does your man not love his wife and children enough that he has to leave them for a gypsy girl?’ She felt like biting on her tongue, that she had pushed too far. After all, she was a mere guest, someone hitching a ride, so to speak. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to poke my nose in. It’s your business, and I’d no right.’
Lucy smiled, and whispered, ‘He makes me feel like a queen. We laugh at the same things and he makes the gentlest love to me.’ She opened her palm to Megan and said, ‘This is not the hand of a well-bred person. I am no lady, but he has a way with him that takes the difference out of our lives. When together I am neither low-bred, nor he high—we are entwined by one thing, and that is the heaven-sent gift of love. Surely ye can see that?’
‘Lucy, far be it from me to hurt you, but heaven sent him another, and what you are doing is to steal. It’s not for you. My man and I, we were joined. No third party. I wish you all success, but that’s all I can say. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. If your Mam finds out, I’ll take a whipping. Still, it’s a high price you set; everybody living in harmony here will have to move on, because you let a heart rule a head. In the glens I had to be strong, thankfully while my man fought in the war no other tempted me, but if there had been anybody, I’d not have yielded—no way!’
All the joy of a good healthy day’s hawking was lost to Lucy’s ill-gotten love. Anna drifted off to her wagon, Lucy to hers, and Ruth to hers, while Megan tiptoed gently over to a snoozing Mother Foy. Not wanting to waken the old lady, she added more sticks to an almost extinguished fire. Sparks shot upwards, then fell back into the boiled kettle suspended from iron chitties. Steam hissed forth and caused her friend to stir. Slowly she sat upright, and adjusted a crumpled cushion behind her back. ‘Hello, girlie. Good day?’ she enquired, then added, ‘I have done a grand pot of my best vegetable soup; it’s over by the varda wheel cooling. Get washed up and we’ll eat. How was your day?’ she asked once more.
‘My day was just the best,’ she lied, and said all four of them had wandered the moor road, stopping at each village. ‘What nice folks live in these parts,’ she told her host, ‘they remind me of the Glen Coe people, but that was a long time ago. They gave to Mammy if they could, and sometimes gave what they couldn’t afford.’
‘Yes, they’re a damn worthy lot, I’ll agree with you. Now get your hands washed and we’ll eat.’
Megan worried what problems Lucy’s affair would cause if discovered; where would the circle of gypsies go? Winter was not so far round the corner, and with autumn approaching by now they should be finding a winter ground. At least that was what happened in Scotland. She asked the old woman, who told her they were already on their wintering ground, and that she prayed nothing would happen to change things, because there was no other place for many a rough mile. This made matters worse. Megan felt she was betraying everyone by keeping the knowledge of Lucy’s coming elopement to herself. A word once given can’t be broken, though, but she still had next day to try to persuade Lucy to change her mind. If not, she would threaten to tell Mother Foy, who was held in great respect in the band. If anyone should know, then it had to be her.
A cold breeze sent most folks indoors to spend the evening. Megan sat alone by the dying embers of the fire. In time a lonely Ruth joined her. For a while both sat, staring into the red glowing ashes. Ruth spoke first. ‘You wondering about me and the Bull?’
‘Mother Foy warned me about him, but it’s not my business what you do with your life. After all, who am I but a stranger?’
‘A stranger is someone who comes among us without a voice—I wouldn’t say you were like that. I don’t usually talk about my love life, but two years back when I knew nothing of men I foolishly gave my womanhood to Buckley. He’s a handsome brute. Made me laugh, he did. Head over heels as they say, that’s what I was, hook, line and sinker, his to do with as he pleased, and by God, that he did.’
Aware that Ruth had begun to cry, she listened yet kept her eyes off her face. She knew enough about this girl to see that her sense of pride had long since suffered a blow. Should she interfere and ask why the name of Buckley was forced through clenched teeth? In whispered tones and as tactfully as she could, she asked what had happened.
While old Mother Foy snored contented in her wagon bed and the dogs sniffed round the quarry floor, Ruth shared her pain.
‘Anna thinks I was angry because Bull brought a godger woman back after his fight with Gripper Smith, but what she didn’t know was that the night before the fight, he held two hands round my throat and warned he’d kill me. You see, I asked him to marry me. Oh, of course, the temper was in him, but I thought like a fool that if we shared a bed, then I could stop his mad dog fighting. I was worried his head was taking too many kickings. God, if you’d seen the look on his face, you’d have thought the Devil was in his soul. He screamed at me, ‘I’m the King of the Gypsies—no one has, or ever will, beat me!’ There was no stopping the anger in him. I thought my end had come. I don’t know to this day what stopped him from strangling me, honest, I felt the blood boil in my head. If it hadn’t been for his mate Hawen Collins calling his name, I’m positive you wouldn’t be speaking with me this night. And what makes it ten times worse, he broke Gripper Smith’s back that night, snapped him in two. Did it bother him that he’d taken a life? Was he remorseful? Not a bit! When she came back linking arms with him and covering his bruised face with red kisses, that godger woman’s presence was his message to me, saying “Back off”.’
‘Don’t tell me you would have taken him in after trying to throttle you, then breaking another man’s back?’
‘No, we were finished. But I was his woman for a whole year, and that hurt.’
‘I’m a stranger to you, Ruth, and I’m humbled by the confidence you put in me, but it’s well rid of him you are. I say that without ever seeing Bull Buckley.’
‘Oh, the pleasure isn’t far off; he’s due back any day now. I feel him in my bones—the pig!’
Next morning, the breeze from the night before had whipped up into a good-going gale, just ideal to dry heavy covers and blankets. Mother Foy hadn’t needed to instruct Megan to fill the enamel bath with water and start scrubbing bed-covers. Years of never ignoring a strong drying wind had her well taught. Anyway, it gave her plenty of time to think about how she’d try to convince Lucy to change her mind. The rest of the womenfolk in the circle had similar ideas about harnessing the gale. By mid-morning, ropes tied from wagon-tops to trees danced and swung with bedclothes, heavy skirts, babies’ woollies, old men’s shirts and young men’s trousers. Young women, covered in soapy suds and smelling of strong carbolic, sang and laughed their way through the wind, thanking an unseen God for his gift of clothes-drying weather.
After a light lunch of bread, cheese and apples, the four girls, satisfied with a successful washday, set off to frolic on the moor. The wind would blow a while yet. Lots of folding clothes and bed-making awaited their return, but every day has a time for relaxation and ‘What better time,’ thought Megan, ‘to work on Lucy.’
Anna and Ruth found an area where no heather grew. As they stretched tired muscles on the warmed earth, Megan asked Lucy to walk with her, making the excuse that she wasn’t tired. ‘We Scots prefer to walk off our stiffness.’
Lucy knew that she’d have to talk, to explain, and so took the hint. With the others hidden from view, they sat down on some rocks further along the moor road. ‘Don’t try to change my mind, because last night I could think of nothing else. Even today, while scrubbing piles of dirty clothes, Mr Newton’s face was uppermost in my thoughts. You must see, I’ll love no other. If I don’t go now, tonight, I’ll never look at anyone as long as I live.’ Laughing nervously, she went on, ‘Take your love, for instance, this Bruar of yours, here you are with complete strangers, you take your life in your hands for sure. Not kno
wing if he’s alive or dead, you have left familiar ground to search for him. If that’s not blind faith, then I don’t know what is.’
She wanted to tell her about the photograph, but the story was too long. ‘I am a married woman, Lucy. I search for my husband, who I believe is a casualty of war. Somewhere in the south of this land he waits. By the word of a Highland seer’s spirit, I fear he has a sort of sleeping sickness. I feel his heart beating at night when I sleep. Please try to understand, we walked our paths as children side by side, we were meant for each other. Your man is married, he and his wife share children. To top it all, he’s gentry, not your kind. A match like that will haunt you both. Is it worth causing all the suffering to the quarry families, to your Mam?’
‘What if Bruar is dead, eh? Say one day you find him. What if he has already passed on? Never woke up from this so-called sleeping sickness? What will you do then?’ Lucy by now was showing signs of fear and anger; she rose from her stone seat and gripped Megan tightly by the shoulders as she repeated her questions.
‘I shall find the money to take his remains home, and bury him beside his proud family at the Parbh Lighthouse. Then I shall spend what’s left of my life tending his grave.’
The severity of Lucy’s questioning settled a doubt she’d long put into the farthest corner of her mind. Never would she have continued with her quest, if her instincts had not told her that Bruar was alive and waiting. No, she’d not fill her head with such negativity, never.
Lucy sat down, apologised and went on, now in a quieter tone of voice. ‘There is something I failed to tell you. We have no choice and must go away together.’ For a moment she hesitated, then continued, ‘Mr Newton is being blackmailed.’ She shuffled her feet, closed her eyes and waited for a response.
‘Somebody will tell his wife about you both. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes. It happened not long after we began meeting in secret. One night we were followed into a byre. Whoever he was, the blackmailer certainly heard enough to finish Mr Newton’s reputation. I told him not to pay and tell his wife, but he said that he doesn’t want me to suffer. We’ve spoken of nothing else for ages. Then last month he saw his solicitor to sign over the estate into his eldest son’s hands. He’s only seven now, but when of age all will be his. In the meantime Mrs Newton will be in charge.’
‘What about the gypsies living in the quarry, surely she will want rid of them, given that one has stolen her husband? Sorry, lass, I have to be plain with you.’
‘He’s put in place instructions that they are to be left at peace. Everything will work out, believe me. And that evil blackmailer, whoever he is, will get not another penny more.’ Lucy searched Megan’s face for her response.
It was clear to see they were indeed lovers. Megan was not in favour of the union, but maybe people could fall out of love, and maybe that is what had happened to the honourable Mr Newton.
The day, the wind and the conversation were coming to a calm close. Lucy slipped an arm through hers, giving her a sisterly peck on the cheek.
‘Rachel, my dear sister, probably living in luxury by now in America, never ever kissed like me that,’ she thought. She felt drawn to Lucy, and sad that of all the gypsy girls she was the one soon to leave.
‘Come on, Lucy. I’m thinking this last hour will have dried most of the washing, let’s make tracks. Anyway do you not have plans to go somewhere with a certain person this coming night?’
‘Thank you so very much, my Scottish friend, for understanding. I know you don’t approve, but not many will. I thank you just the same. Once again, I trust you’ll keep my secret?’
‘I won’t say a word. Now, will you look at Ruth and Anna, they are still sleeping soundly just where we left them.’
Anna awakened from her siesta feeling peckish. ‘I have a pocketful of peppermints old Mr Thrower gave me, do you want one?’ asked Ruth. She offered them in cupped hands. But before they could help themselves, she scattered the sweets over the purple heather, laughing as they cursed her for the mischievous act.
Mother Foy, sitting comfortably in her old chair, smiled as the youthful foursome scrambled down the quarry embankment, throwing peppermint sweets at each other. ‘Ah,’ she thought, ‘how well I remember making my own nimble steps. Oh, that I were their age again.’ She’d managed to gather in half the washing load which was folded on the varda steps. ‘I couldn’t reach the high sheets,’ she said, pointing at a rope Megan had suspended from two trees, then added, ‘You can get that lot down, and it’s a mystery how you managed to tie the rope so high.’
‘I’ve what you call a good stretch o’ arm.’ She clambered the steep wall and removed, from a narrow ledge, a line of net curtains.
‘You seem in fine fettle. Had a good day, girlie?’
‘Yes, I suppose I have at that.’ She felt a lot better having talked to Lucy.
From a bend on the road leading into the quarry a small boy appeared. He was shouting and panting. All eyes turned to see what the commotion was. ‘Bull’s coming, and he’s doing a fight, right here, here in the quarry. Big bare-knuckler, twenty-rounder with Moses Durin. They’ll be here anytime now. Move aside! Move aside!’
Megan, surprised and confused, turned to the old woman, who bade her to get a quick bite and then to go to safe quarters with the womenfolk. Already some were hastily throwing cardigans on, shawling babies and herding youngsters up the narrow path leading from the quarry. Anna called over, ‘Come on, Megan, best you don’t see this bloodbath. Back to the moor until it be over.’
Megan had heard so much about Bull Buckley that a form of morbid curiosity was half-telling her to stay and see if all the build-up was true. ‘I think I’ll stay here and look on,’ she answered.
‘You’ll do no such thing, my lady. Now, here’s a bit bread and ham, take yourself off. That’s an order. I’ll fetch me old pals and we’ll play cards in the varda, while the mad maulers batter what little sense they have into the dry earth.’ Mother Foy flashed her a serious look, and without argument Megan nodded.
She’d never heard her host speak so forcefully, and thought it better to smother her cat inquisitiveness and go with the others. Still, a wee peek might be possible if she hid up on the quarry lip. She followed as far as the vantage point, then found a big rock. From here she’d witness what was sending people scurrying like mice in a dark cowshed from a torch held by the farmer.
Way down below, men were scattering their campfires and dousing flames, loudly exchanging opinions on which fighter they thought would win. ‘Bull will mush him,’ said one, while another swore Moses had the height to beat Buckley.
She could just make out Mother Foy’s wagon, and already the old woman had it shuttered and locked. ‘No doubt she’ll have several old folks crowded inside playing cards, having seen it all before,’ she thought.
Butterflies fluttered under her ribs. Adrenaline forced her eyes wide, ears strained to hear the fighting talk down below. Then a giant of a man walked briskly into the quarry. Circles of excited men chanted ‘Moses—Moses—Moses!’ Fists punched the evening air. He stopped, darting eyes from wagons to trees, as if checking his fighting ground. He grabbed a boy, a small elf-like youngster, and ordered him to make certain there were none of Bull’s men hiding to knife him when he got the better of his opponent. Like a rat the tiny lad shot in and out of every available corner, calling out repeatedly, ‘Nothing in here, Mo.’
Then, little by little, the baying of the crowd for blood fell silent. All eyes turned toward the man who would fight Moses—Bull Buckley himself.
‘So this is the beast, then,’ she thought, ‘let’s see if he’s as bad a bear as I’m told.’
He wasn’t as tall as she’d imagined, but by God he was broad all right, like a small bullock. ‘He’s well named there,’ she thought. He’d thick, wavy, red hair that fell over one eye. His shirtsleeves rolled above the elbows exposed hamshanks for forearms.
She couldn’t make out either man’s faci
al expression, being so far up, but she was glad in a way she couldn’t.
Ruth, who had wondered why she wasn’t with them on the moor, came back to find her. She huddled down. ‘God, look what the night’s dragged in,’ she snarled, eyeing up Buckley. ‘He’ll rip Moses to shreds. I’m glad we brought in the washing, it’ll stop it getting blood-splattered. Durin will feel a pained man by this night’s end.’
‘Do you mind if I stay here, Ruth? Being from a mild-natured tribe we never did that—the bare knuckling, that is. I’m curious to see how they perform.’
‘You stay, fill your mind. I promise you, though, that by the end of it your bread and ham will be yellow vomit on the grass.’ Ruth crawled away, leaving Megan to watch. She didn’t scare that easy, though. After finding big Rory with his throat cut and O’Connor’s face split open, it would take a lot to sicken her. ‘It’s only a fight,’ she told herself, ‘There’s nothing scary about two brainless mongrels bleeding each other, just something to tell my Bruar about when we meet.’ As she hid in relative safety behind her natural hiding place of slate rock, down below more and more spectators poured into the circle. Torches were lit and held high, so no one would miss a punch or a spit. Voices screamed odds on Moses, while as many did the same for Bull. Four men came running up the road. Daylight was fading fast, but she could just make out that each held a chunky pole; a bit like a small caber. For a minute she wondered what they were for, watching as each of the men dug holes an equal distance apart, then dropped their wooden posts in. A young lad ran around with a rope, and in no time the pair of fighters stood facing each other like gladiators in a square booth.
Moses had a large cigar clamped between his teeth. Every so often he’d remove it, spit at Bull’s feet, toss back his head, laugh, and shout at the sky, causing every man there to fall silent as the grave. ‘Look what thinks can beat me—a shit-stump pikey, and me the best street fighter ever drew breath, born with raging knuckles.’ He seemed to bite the air like a coiled snake, lowered his eyelids, and then popped his eyeballs to roll them around in his head. Each movement was to his followers a message of aggression. Another jerk of his jaw almost shoved his eyes out of their sockets, and his head, which was shaped like a rugby ball, turned a deep purple. ‘Moses,’ he roared, ‘I’m the only one.’ Then, as if an invisible demon had leapt out and begun playing fiddle music from hell, he performed a form of war dance, clicking red leather heeled boots and swirling his coat tails back and forth like a dancer.
