A Place of Secrets

by Rachel Hore

  Esther, daughter of Anthony Wickham. Had necklace when found in 1765.

  Befriends gypsy girl in forest c. 1775?

  Gran meets Tamsin Lovall c. 1933.

  Takes necklace from her (how did Tamsin’s family get necklace and how did necklace get broken?)

  2008—Gran gives me necklace.

  How on earth had the necklace (assuming it was the same one) gone from Esther’s possession to Tamsin’s a century and a half later? Were the two gypsy girls from the same family line? It was difficult to imagine how a valuable necklace could have been transferred safely down the generations when the temptation must have been to sell it. Where would you keep a necklace in a wagon? She started to doodle a picture of a caravan, drawing patterns on the roof like on the one Euan slept in, but she wasn’t much of an artist and the perspective was all wrong.

  She sighed and pushed the paper away. She needed to think what to do next, but she had other things to be getting on with. And she was collecting Summer from school that afternoon.

  She logged on to her laptop and resumed work on the synopsis for her article. Half an hour later she e-mailed it to Bridget McLoughlin, the editor of Beecham’s magazine, saying she knew she had further research to do, but that she thought the story should be the personal one—about the pair of stargazers, father and daughter. What did Bridget think? At the last moment, before she pressed “send,” she added her boss, Klaus, as a recipient. Best to be on the safe side.

  The doodle of Euan’s caravan again caught her eye. Where would he have got a gypsy caravan? He’d told her he’d borrowed it from someone—his cousin, she thought he’d said.

  * * *

  “How did your cousin get to have your caravan in his barn?” she asked Euan that afternoon when she dropped by with Summer. They had found him asleep in the caravan but he insisted he didn’t mind Summer calling him awake.

  “It was there when he bought the farm,” he replied, as they walked across the field to the cottage. “The people who sold it to him had Romany connections, I gather.”

  “I don’t suppose you could find out what their name was, could you? I don’t know where we can track down these Lovall people.”

  “I’ll try, but there are other ways, you know.”

  “Tell me,” she said, immediately interested.

  “All right, why don’t we go and meet the travelers here, on the edge of the forest? They might know something. They’ve probably been coming here for generations. They used to camp up Foxhole Lane, as you know, but that blasted John Farrell moved them on to a site on the other side of the forest, right by the main road.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Of course. I’ve often met them on my wanderings.”

  “Well that would be great. When could we go?”

  “This afternoon, if you like,” said Euan, yawning. “Can you let me have a quick shower and a cup of coffee first?”

  “What about Summer?” They watched the little girl outside talking to the owls.

  “She could come. Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt very protective of the little girl at the moment, that was all. “Oh, why not?” If they were friends of Euan’s they’d be all right.

  * * *

  The encampment on the edge of the forest numbered only three caravans, modern ones, not the painted wagons like Euan’s, and a couple of the cars that pulled them were parked untidily on the nearby verge. An elderly woman hanging up washing on a line stretched between two of the vans watched the gorgios approach, then, recognizing Euan, nodded to him and rapped on the nearest vehicle calling, “Barney!” then something incomprehensible. After a moment a dark, lean man of thirty-five or forty emerged, pulling on a jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. Euan had got to know Barney, he’d explained, the last time the Romanies had passed through. Steve Gunn usually made a point of giving him work, and Euan, seeing him constructing bird coops, had got him to do some cages.

  “Euan,” he cried, with a white flash of a smile, and he came forward to grasp the other man’s hand. “Good to see you. And you have brought your family?” His expression was of amused puzzlement.

  “No,” said Euan, with a delighted laugh. “But I wish they were.”

  “We’re friends of Euan’s. I’m Jude,” Jude said, stepping forward and offering her hand, “and this is my niece, Summer.” But Summer stayed close to Jude, holding her hand, and would only take shy peeks at Barney. She tugged at Jude’s blouse and Jude bent down to listen to the girl whisper.

  “Summer would like to know about the caravans,” Jude said gravely. “I think she was expecting them to be more … well, colorful and horse-drawn.”

  “Like Euan’s,” Summer was brave enough to say.

  “Ah,” said Barney, his face regretful. “Euan’s is beautiful. Liza here—” the woman pegged a bright cotton shirt to the line and came over to listen “—she lived in a vardo as a child, but these are much easier to look after, eh, Liza? And it was a hard life for the horses. The busy roads and often nowhere to graze. The children liked the horses. I’m sorry my two are not home yet for you to play with, Summer.”

  “Are they at school?” Summer asked, forgetting her shyness.

  “They go to school in Starbrough, yes,” Barney said. “Is that your school, too?”

  Summer shook her head.

  “Summer and her mother live a few miles away in Felbarton,” Jude explained, “but it’s interesting that your children are at Starbrough.” She looked at Euan, who nodded encouragement. “Euan says your family have been coming here for many years, and I wondered if you had heard of a girl—well, she’d be a very old lady now if she were still alive—who knew my grandmother when she went to school in Starbrough back in the 1930s. Her name was Tamsin Lovall.”

  Barney looked doubtful and turned to Liza, speaking to her in a mixture of English and that strange, harsh language. Jude wondered if the old lady was his grandmother and how old she might be; her skin was wrinkled like a raisin, but she was still quite agile.

  The old lady nodded slowly and said to Jude, “I know a Lovall but not your Tamsin. My father’s sister. Her man was a Lovall, Ted Lovall.” She said something else Jude didn’t catch.

  “There’s a bench in Starbrough with his name on,” she told Euan.

  “Is there?” Euan said.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that,” Barney said. “Perhaps he was well known hereabouts—was he, Liza?”

  “I believe so,” Liza replied, with a chuckle. “Especially at the Red Lion. He gave up traveling right at the end of his life,” she told Jude, “and he liked to earn a pint or two telling his stories.”

  “There was some bad feeling, further back, I think,” Barney said. “Some of the family—maybe your Tamsin was one—chose to settle during the war. There was work locally and those were difficult times for Romanies; there was such suspicion of anyone foreign-looking moving around.” He spread his hands. “Inevitably there were harsh words said about betrayal of family and the traditional way of life. Me? I like the life, but I have sympathy for those who give up. It’s very hard and there is so much hostility to us.”

  “Is Farrell still trying to move you along?” Euan broke in, his voice low and urgent.

  “Yes. And the police were here last week,” Barney said. “Something about stolen birds. ‘Routine,’ they said, ‘very regretful.’ Yeah, routine that we’re the first people they check. I almost laughed. ‘The only bird you’ll find here,’ I told them, ‘is the chicken Margrit bought at the supermarket. But you can search us if you like.’ And, do you know, they didn’t even look? That constable was all right, wasn’t he, Liza? Said he was sorry and looked really embarrassed. Then he wants to ask us questions—turns out his family were Romany way back. So we have a good long chat about how he could find out about them. You see, people are not always what you expect. But there are some who go round life like they wear blinkers. They only see what they want to see, and that is usually bad.” His eyes bl
azed briefly, then returned to their gentle friendliness.

  “Now, your Tamsin Lovall. It is possible that she or her family still live nearby. Have you tried advertising in the newspaper or on a website?”

  “No,” Jude said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of that before. “I suppose we could.”

  “Otherwise, I will ask about, but I can’t promise,” Barney said. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Thank you, Barney,” Euan said. “I knew you’d try. Liza, thank you.”

  “That is fine, Euan,” Liza said. Then she added something in Romany and gestured to Jude, repeatedly holding out her hand.

  “She wants to read your palm,” Barney said, chuckling.

  “Go on,” said Euan.

  “Should I?” Jude said.

  “Yes. You must give her a coin. Here’s one.”

  Liza clasped each of Jude’s hands in turn, studying the shapes of the fingers and the joints before examining first the right palm and then the left, tracing the patterns of the lines and the fleshy mounts. “You have a strong will, very strong,” she pronounced finally. “But something is holding you. Escape it and you make your own destiny. Very good.”

  “You must ask her about love,” Barney said, looking from her to Euan, which made Jude feel hot in the face.

  “The love line is broken,” Liza said. “Something sad, huh? Then a fork, see here? You must decide.”

  “No tall, dark, handsome strangers?” Jude said lightly, laughing, but Liza didn’t smile.

  “I cannot tell you the future, only what you can make from it,” she said. “And you, little one.” She made a coaxing noise as though to a small animal and Summer, with a mixture of fear and fascination, held out her hands.

  Liza examined them both, stroking the fear away, then held them together palm to palm for a moment as though blessing her. “Look after this special little one,” was all she said to Jude.

  “I will. What about you?” Jude said to Euan.

  “Oh, Liza’s already pronounced over me,” he said. “Some of it seems to involve giving up beer and chocolate, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re having me on,” Jude said, as Liza smiled. “I don’t think she means that kind of heart trouble.”

  He smiled, but Barney said quite seriously, “It is possible to diagnose some conditions from the hands. The length of fingers is—” He broke off.

  A car was approaching, and they watched it slow right down as it passed. The driver, a hulk of a man in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and hair as trim as a mole’s leaned out of the window and swore fruitily at the “gypos.” Liza and Barney ignored him, their faces blank like statues, but Jude, infuriated, took a step toward the car, her fists clenched. Euan grabbed her arm and held her back.

  “That’s not the way to deal with it,” he growled as the car sped off with an anguished roar.

  “I wasn’t going to hit him!” she said, shaking him off, still angry. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

  “It only makes things worse. Believe me, I know.”

  Summer looked stunned, so Euan put his arm around her and said, “He was very rude to our friends, wasn’t he? Not a nice person. But everybody’s all right. Come on, time to go. I bought some mint chocolate ice cream, Summer, to celebrate the new fridge freezer, so let’s go home and make cones.”

  * * *

  While Summer wandered outside in the garden, looking at the animals and dreamily licking a huge ice cream, Euan and Jude lolled in deckchairs with mugs of tea.

  “Thanks for stopping me back then. I really wasn’t going to hit him, just give him a piece of my mind, but perhaps you were right. Poor old Liza and Barney, putting up with that abuse.”

  “I know, but Summer was watching, and anyway, you can’t deal reasonably with people like that. You don’t know what they’ll do. He might not have hurt you, but he might have got out and swung a punch at me.”

  “At you? Why?”

  “A strange logic some blokes have. Despite years of everyone talking about equality, they still think the men should be in charge. He’d blame me for not controlling you properly. Or it might be against his code to clobber someone else’s woman, so he’d hit me by proxy because I was with you. You have to remember, too, Barney would feel humiliated if someone else, especially a gorgio woman, tried to fight his battles. Male pride. It’s ancient. Don’t underestimate it, Jude.”

  “It’s all very silly,” she said, with a moue. “But what’s going to happen to Barney and Liza and the others? I can’t imagine living like that. It’s so … precarious. Aren’t they allowed to stay on that patch of land?”

  “No. Farrell wants them off. They only have an odd right of tradition. Which isn’t a property right, I’m afraid. The Wickhams, when they owned the land, were, by all accounts, most generous to the gypsies. But up on Foxhole Lane they were in the way of Farrell’s plans. He’s letting them stay by the main road at the moment and the council’s now involved and trying to negotiate a permanent site for them, but … Well, you saw that driver’s reaction. I won’t get on my soapbox, but since the 1960s and 1970s, government legislation has made it more and more difficult for Romany communities to live a traditional traveling lifestyle. And people are still so prejudiced.”

  “I suppose the bad habits of other kinds of traveler haven’t helped. Rubbish and crime, I mean.”

  “New age raves on Yarmouth beach? No, that’s not the Romany way. Nor is fighting back like you tried to do just now, Jude. You’re very passionate when roused, aren’t you?”

  Jude thought he was mocking her, but his face was serious.

  “I hate seeing injustice, that’s all,” she said quietly.

  “I’ve noticed that. And you’re very protective of your family. I like that, too. Though perhaps you don’t need to be.”

  He was leaning forward in his chair now, his hands locked together, intent on what he was saying.

  “You’re very defensive about your sister.”

  “I suppose I am. I’ve always felt so … sorry for her, you see. You know, because of her poor leg, but also … life has seemed a huge battle for her. She’s never found her way. Until she had Summer. Summer’s given her a purpose. But we’ve never been at ease with one another, Claire and I. I suppose she’s fond of me, but … there always seems to be that edge. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not something I’ve said to anyone else, even Mum. Well, least of all, Mum. She’s one of the people I’ve had to defend Claire against.” It felt natural and hugely liberating to confess all this to Euan, and yet she didn’t know where it was all leading. He seemed to care about Claire, that much was obvious. She felt wan, her energy leaching away.

  “Perhaps—I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—but perhaps that’s part of the problem. That you pity your sister. People sometimes resent being pitied. And, let’s face it, it sounds as though you’ve needed as much sympathy as she has. She’s very strong, Claire. I admire her enormously.”

  Jude stared at Euan. Admiration. That implied respect, yes. In the old days it also meant romantic love. She felt a miserable sting of jealousy.

  Now she felt she was losing him, she noticed anew the spring of his wavy hair, the clear blue eyes in the tanned face, the deft sculpting of his nose and lips, the pulse at his throat as he studied his big hands, powerful hands that could dig and build, but were also gentle enough to cradle a wounded animal. He glanced up, across the garden, and she followed his gaze.

  Despite her dismal mood she had to smile. Summer was trying to stem a lava flow of melted ice cream, catching it in her mouth as it dripped from the cone, while squeaking that it was cold. At the sound of his deep, relaxed laugh Jude was dashed by a wave of desire.

  Summer finished eating and started to wipe her hands on her trousers.

  “Summer, don’t. Come and wash,” Jude called. She fetched her inside to the sink.

  When they came out again, it was to find Euan had started to tend to the
animals in their cages and she took this as a sign that they should go. It was half past five, she realized.

  “I ought to get Summer home,” she told him. “Thanks so much for taking us to see Barney and Liza.”

  “I’m sorry it was so little use,” he said, collecting up the mugs and rescuing Summer’s cardigan from the ground. “What did you think of his idea of advertising for the Lovall family?”

  “I thought I’d do that. Would the local paper be best?”

  “I think so. If you e-mailed, they’d probably print it very soon,” he said. “Newspapers seem to like that kind of letter. It interacts with the readership, I suppose. Well, Summer, shall I see you again soon?”

  “Yes,” Summer said. “Thank you. And do you remember you said I could sleep in your caravan one night?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Well, can we do it soon?” she ordered. “It’s the holidays at the end of the week.”

  “So it is. We ought to celebrate. I’ll speak to your mum,” he promised. “I take it you’d like Darcey, too?”

  “Yes,” Summer said.

  “Yes, please, little monkey,” Jude muttered.

  After she’d dropped Summer off at Claire’s, she drove back to Starbrough Hall, mentally framing the phrases for the letter to the paper. It was too late to send it tonight. The next day’s letters page would have been put together by now. She’d do it tomorrow morning. Instead, after supper, she transcribed some more of Esther’s journal.

  It was not long after our library was finished that I met the gypsy girl again. It was winter and almost a twelve-month since her people had last been seen in Starbrough Woods. The pedlar woman came to the kitchen door again, and this time she brought with her the girl I thought of as my friend, and her elder sister. Susan called me to come and see their wares, for she knew I should wish to choose the lace for a new gown she was sewing for me. I smiled at the girls, but they were shy, and only the little one would meet my gaze. The elder, who must have been closer to me in age, was swarthy of skin and stocky of build, quite different from her birdlike sister, though handsome in a lusty way, I own. I looked at every piece of lace they carried and chose a matching collar and cuffs. Then, on impulse I bought half a dozen lengths of ribbon, to make presents of to Betsy and Susan. I had never seen Mrs Godstone wear anything so frivolous as a ribbon, so for her I chose some clothes pegs and for the men-servants pots of evil-smelling salve for cuts and grazes. For these I paid out of a purse of money my father had presented to me, and in this way I discovered the pleasures of giving.