‘I’m not having anything to do with this,’ said Martha firmly but of course, in the end, she was won round and persuaded to produce two old-fashioned and faded sunbonnets with big brims stiffened with canes which were bending with age.
When the girls put them on, the bonnet brims flopped forlornly around their faces and Odilie laughed. ‘This is as good as a mask any day. No one’ll be able to see me, far less recognise me.’ Grace put on the ugli bonnet with a sigh and looked sadly at the lovely feather-trimmed creations lying around Odilie’s bedroom. She’d far rather have worn the pretty hat her friend had trimmed for her.
While they were trying on the bonnets a curious maid came up the stairs carrying a large parcel which was unwrapped to reveal a selection of cheap flower-patterned cotton gowns with round necks and long tight sleeves. ‘These won’t do,’ said Odilie, lifting them up disdainfully. ‘I couldn’t kirtle the skirts up enough to ride a horse. I’ll have to sit astride because no working lassie would own a side saddle. Go back and get me one of those full skirts that farmwomen wear – and a pair of big boots. I want to look the part.’
Grace, who was to ride pillion, was dressed first in a washed-out gown of blue belonging to Martha and the floppy bonnet. Odilie laughed aloud when she saw her. ‘You’re quite the thing, a perfect country lassie. Keep your head down and you’ll be safe.’ Then the maid returned and while her aunt tutted in horrified disapproval, Odilie dressed herself up as a bondager. It was difficult to restrain her for she wanted to stick bits of straw in her hair and dirty her face but they managed to persuade her that even the poorest girl would want to look her best on Fair Day. So in time she stood in the middle of the carpet wearing a voluminous black and yellow striped skirt, a patterned blouse with a pair of heavy black boots on her feet in place of her usual satin slippers, and the ugli bonnet on her head. Even Scamp had trouble recognising her and sniffed suspiciously at her booted feet.
By now Grace was beginning to enjoy herself and joined in the masquerade with enthusiasm. Giggling she tied the strings of Odilie’s large apron at the back and then, arm in arm, they ran downstairs and crossed the garden to the stables. Stevens’ face showed outright astonishment when he realised that the farm servant girl who came tramping over the yard in her enormous boots turned out to be Miss Odilie and he was far from pleased when she said that instead of riding on her lovely new mare, she wanted him to saddle up the heavy-footed old pony that was used by the servants for doing errands around the town. ‘And use the oldest saddlery, nothing fancy. I’m in disguise,’ she ordered.
‘You can’t ride that pony, Miss. I’ve been grooming your chestnut mare all morning so that you can show her off today,’ protested the groom.
Odilie waved a hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the mare later. Keep her ready. This is just a game – I’m pretending to be a girl up from the country for the day. Don’t tell anyone about it, especially don’t tell Father.’
Stevens grumbled. ‘Farm lassies walk, Miss, they don’t have ponies – even message ponies – to ride.’
Nothing would put Odilie off, however. By now she had climbed on to the top of the stone mounting block in the corner of the yard and her face was glowing with mischief as she called over from her perch, ‘Of course they do. At least this one does. She’s a girl with a kind employer, a soft-hearted old man living away in the country some place. He’s lent her his carthorse.’
Laughing she hoisted herself into the saddle with her skirts kirtled up almost to her knees and her legs in the coarse boots boldly showing. ‘Come on Grace, get up behind me,’ she cried, half-turning in the saddle and patting the horse’s broad back with one hand. Grace threw the last of her misgivings away and climbed on to the mounting block too. When she was safely seated with her arms round Odilie’s waist, she started to laugh and they clattered away over the cobbles while Stevens ran a hand through his hair and groaned aloud, ‘Oh my God I hope her feyther doesn’t hear about this.’
* * *
William Playfair was an equable fellow and Professor Thompson’s officiousness did not irritate him as he was ushered into a waiting gig and seated alongside two well-dressed young fellows who were medical students from Edinburgh. At the front door of the hotel a few bruised and battered survivors of the fight were nursing their wounds but the Professor obviously considered them beneath his notice for he literally stepped over them as he told his friends, ‘Pay no attention to them, lads. Off we go!’
Soon they were bowling along in the direction of the Tweed Bridge and Playfair, staring out at the people on the road, noticed ahead on the road two giggling girls, one riding pillion behind the other. They were dressed in cheap clothes and cotton sunbonnets and were mounted on a heavy-legged horse that ambled along at a leisurely pace. The girls did not seem to mind their lack of speed and were clinging together with much laughter as the gig rolled past them. When they were level Playfair started in surprise and gazed at the girl nearest to him… he felt sure he knew her – but I must be mistaken, he thought, it can’t be her, of course not! What would the Duke’s rich fiancée be doing going to the Fair dressed as a working girl on what was little better than a carthorse? Don’t be silly, you’re fantasising, he told himself.
* * *
By the time Grace and Odilie reached the Fair field they were enjoying themselves thoroughly and had entered into their parts with enthusiasm. They were delighted when people walking on the road greeted them as equals and young men ran along beside their horse making remarks which they flirtatiously parried. It was easy to be carefree when you were acting a part, Grace realised.
The pony’s bridle was grabbed by a boy when they rode into the field and he ran alongside them calling up to Odilie, ‘I’ll look after your horse all day for a penny, lass.’
She put on a country voice and answered doubtfully, ‘That’s an awful lot of money. I’m only a poor bondager.’
‘A penny’s not a lot,’ said the boy in a surprised voice.
‘It’s too much for me,’ she said in what sounded like an overdone rural accent to Grace but the boy was taken in and conceded, ‘All right, I’ll take a half-penny.’ He looked at Odilie’s heavy boots as he spoke. Any lassie who couldn’t afford a pair of proper shoes for Fair Day must be in dire straits, he thought. As he held the pony while the girls dismounted he asked in a sympathetic way, ‘Have you come from far?’
‘From Earlston,’ said Odilie at a venture.
The boy grinned and told her, ‘That’s a fair bit. I’ll give your pony a bite of hay from this cart here. They’re shepherding folk down from the hills and they’ve plenty to spare. Their pownie’s fat enough already.’ He was an obliging boy and the Scotts’ pony did indeed have plenty of feeding.
Odilie was delighted at having pulled off her first bit of deception and when they walked off across the field she held on to Grace’s arm and whispered, ‘He believed me, he really believed me!’ They were both beaming with pleasure as the press of people opened up and swallowed them like a sea.
The excited girls held hands to prevent being separated in the crowd which was dense in the middle of the field. Men and women, boys and girls, infants, dogs, pickpockets, young and old, halt and nimble were all packed together, sweating under the brilliant sun, cooling themselves with waved hatbrims, wiping their brows, chattering, eyeing each other, greeting old friends and making new ones.
‘What’ll we do first?’ asked Odilie, gazing around with enthusiasm. The crowd did not intimidate her for she was used to the throng and bustle of West Indian markets. Clinging close together they were carried along like twigs on a stream by the crowd, following a path that led uphill to the place where the gypsies were camped and when Odilie saw a big brightly painted sign before her advertising fortune-telling, she cried, ‘I know, let’s have our fortunes told. Aunt Martha told me that there’s one old woman who comes here every year and has a wonderful gift for reading the future. Her name’s Fatima or something and she told my father that
he’d make a fortune when he was just a boy. If she knew that she must be very clever. Let’s go and find her.’
Where the crowd was thickest, that was where you found the gypsies. The women, children and old men had arrived by foot or on carts at the field well before midday, meekly joining the queue waiting to file through the entrance gate. Like everyone else, they had paid their toll money for the Teviot Bridge but the men watched from the ruins of the castle and when the crowd was at its thickest they came clattering down with their horses from their hideaway and pushed into the jostling crowd without being noticed by officialdom.
Jesse Bailey rode bareback with his booted legs swinging and his capable brown hands lying lightly on the withers of his grey stallion Barbary. He was a master at the art of making a horse look good but his skill was not needed with this mount, which was truly magnificent. He had bought the horse as a colt – then a puny, sickly creature – and reared it with tenderness till it grew into the magnificent Barbary. The horse had a small Arab head and wide dark eyes held erect on a high curving neck. It was short-coupled, well-muscled and with a coat like polished steel. The flowing mane and tail made a fine contrast with the dark grey coat because they were the colour of buttermilk.
Many people came to the Fair with the express purpose of buying a horse and they turned and stared when they saw Jesse’s mount. It was well-known that every horse any gypsy displayed was for sale and even before they were through the entrance gate Jesse received shouted offers for Barbary but he only waved a hand and called out, ‘Come and see us when we settle in. We camp under the big copper beech at the top corner. Ask for Jesse Bailey or Gib Faa… We’ve all the best horses and we’re sure to be able to suit you.’
He had no intention whatever of selling Barbary. The horse and he were so much in tune that they seemed to think and move through the same brain, the same impulses. The young gypsy had never owned a mount of such quality and it would take a mound of golden guineas to tempt him to part with the grey. But the horse was like a lure to greedy fish – once a purchaser was interested, no matter whether they were in search of a spirited steeplechaser or a quiet hack for a nervous lady, Jesse would be able to offer them something suitable from the other horses of the string. Gypsies always had the perfect horse to offer – often the same one for any purchaser. Silver tongues and polished horsemanship made all their geese look and behave like swans.
The place where Gib always set up business during the Fair was in the shade of a circle of beech trees, where there was plenty of cover for the hottest day or when the rain pelted down as it had done on many Fair Days in the past. This site had already been reserved by the Kirk Yetholm women, who looked so fierce that no encroaching parties dared to camp beside them. The gypsies regarded their outing to the Fair as a communal enterprise and hoped that enough money would be made there to keep them all for the rest of the year. They lived communally, pooling anything they earned; even what was stolen by any member of their community – and there would be much stealing during the Fair – was handed over to Gib to be distributed among them all.
‘Sore simensar si men,’ they whispered to each other in Romany, meaning, ‘We are all related. All is one and one is all…’
When the cavalcade headed by Gib could be seen approaching across the field, a big raw-boned woman called Reck stood up and called out, ‘They’re coming, they’re coming!’ She pointed down to the lower ground where the crowd could be seen swaying like an eddy in water because of the passage of riders. ‘There’s Gib, there’s Jesse,’ cried another old crone and the dogs began to bark as other women came rushing forward to watch. The most excited was Thomassin and it was on Jesse Bailey that her glittering eyes rested.
When the horses reached the gypsy encampment, Jesse jumped down from the back of his horse and handed the reins of Barbary and the horse he had been leading to a young lad who came running forward to help.
‘How did it go?’ asked the boy.
‘Kushto – good,’ was the reply. At that moment Thomassin came up behind Jesse and slid a slow hand up his spine so that in spite of himself he shivered as he slowly turned his head to look at her.
‘I’ve kept food for you,’ she said, smiling.
He nodded. ‘Thank you, Thomassin. I’ll come in a minute. I want to speak to Gib first.’
The white-haired man was also surrounded by women and looked like a lion with his lionesses. Babies played around his feet as he stood among his family and a lean greyhound lovingly rubbed its head against his knee. When Jesse went up to him he was speaking rapid Romany to old Rachel who stood close to him, her sharp and piercing black eyes searching his face as they talked. The younger man did not have a chance to join in because their conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by the approach of a party of gentlemanly-looking men. At the sight of the visitors, Gib and Rachel switched from Romany and started talking Border Doric.
Gypsies had the power to unerringly pick out which member of any group was the most important and Gib’s eyes went instantly to a well-dressed gentleman in a high hat and a jacket of good quality with golden buttons – a detail that did not escape his sharp eyes. This fellow was being sorely pestered by a gypsy child who hung on to his coat-tails and whined for money in such a piteous way that he was obviously convinced she was in danger of starving. When he gave her a coin, she took it quickly but did not stop her begging. She wanted more and the man tried to shake her off, saying, ‘Go away. Go away. Don’t be greedy. I’ve already given you threepence.’
Rachel stepped forward and said in the wheedling voice that gypsy women adopted for all dealings with giorgios, ‘Let the gentleman alone, Esther. Be off with you, you little devil, be off…’ then she added in a hectoring tone, ‘Mang, pal, mang!’ The old man and his companions nodded in approval, thinking that the child was being reprimanded in two languages but in actual fact the gypsy words meant ‘Beg on friend!’ so Esther kept up her whining and successfully dodged Rachel’s swinging hand. Eventually, in desperation, the man in the high hat gave her another few coins and only then did she quieten.
While this tableau was going on no one noticed how two country girls drew back as if afraid. The shorter of them was intent on pulling her friend out of the sight of the well-dressed men and they slipped to the back of the crowd but did not go away for they wanted to watch what was going on.
When Esther had been given more money and was satisfied, Gib nodded to the strangers and asked their business. His tone was brusque because he left the demeaning business of buttering up strangers to the women.
The smartly-dressed gentleman asked, ‘Are you Gilbert Faa?’
The answer was a nod. ‘That I am.’
The other man introduced himself. ‘I’m Professor Walter Thompson from Edinburgh. I’ve brought with me a young architect fellow who’s looking for a good horse and someone directed us to you. Have you anything that’d suit my friend?’ With an outstretched hand Thompson indicated a young man in his group who stepped forward smiling.
Gib scratched his head and looked at Jesse. ‘Your bay’s up to this gentleman’s weight, isn’t it?’ he asked. Jesse nodded. Like Gib he did not smile or try to ingratiate himself with the customers. He was too much imbued with dignity. ‘Just throw your leg over its back and let them see it going through its paces then,’ Gib told him before turning to young Playfair and adding, ‘It’s a good horse, sir. It can go at a canter for twenty miles without pausing and it jumps like a cat, though I don’t suppose you’ll have much call for jumping in Edinburgh. Do you hunt, sir?’
Playfair was shaking his head as Jesse vaulted neatly on to the bare back of one of the horses in the string. Then he leaned forward, took the rope lead of its halter from the attendant boy, turned it around and cantered off to a cleared area of field where other gypsies were putting horses for sale through their paces. Everyone made a way for him and he rode his mount on by the power of his thighs and calves, driving it forward, making it bend and twist, canter and
trot to command.
Professor Thompson, Playfair and the two students from Edinburgh watched spellbound until Jesse had finished and reined up the panting horse. Then Thompson turned to Gib and asked, ‘Is that young man a relative of yours?’
‘He’s my nephew,’ said the older gypsy. ‘His mother was my sister but both she and his father are dead so he’s my son now.’
‘Ask him if he’d like to come to Edinburgh with me,’ said the Professor.
Gib cast him a baleful glance out of his watchful hawk’s eyes and said bleakly, ‘It’s the horse I’m selling, sir, not the rider.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me. I’m Professor of Anatomy at Edinburgh University and quite frankly I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a fine specimen of humanity as your nephew in my entire career. The bodies I get to show my students are usually undernourished or diseased and it would be a great chance to show them such a perfectly muscled man. I’ve never seen anyone like him myself. Take a look at that, boys, he’s a wonderful specimen…’ The last remark was addressed to his students who nodded eagerly.
Gib laughed. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that our Jesse should be made into a cadavar before his time, your honour.’
Thompson laughed too. ‘Of course not. I’d just want him to pose for my students, to show off his physique to them. Ask him to take off his shirt, would you?’
Gib, straight-faced, shouted across, ‘This gentleman wants a closer look at you, Jesse.’
The young man slid off the horse’s back and ran a hand down its legs as he called over to Thompson, ‘Come and see then. He’s very quiet and a fine-limbed horse, your honour.’
‘It’s not the horse’s limbs that’s interesting him. It’s yours,’ said Gib who was obviously enjoying himself. ‘He wants you to take your shirt off, he wants a look at your chest.’
St James' Fair Page 23
