David had already downed half a bottle of wine, and was growing impatient. The room was stuffy and smelt of stale beer and cigarettes. He was about to leave when the door opened and there stood Ridgely, with a wicked smile and a blonde on either arm. ‘Now, gels, I want you to meet a very dear friend, and more than that, I want you to make him feel very special — after all, he is on leave, so let’s not waste any time, eh?’
David had to turn away to conceal his astonishment. The blondes wore nothing but lacy panties and stockings beneath their coats. Ridgely came to his side and nudged him in the ribs.
‘Get what you pay for? Nothing like these two in France, I assure you … this one’s on me, old chap.’
David took another covert look at the two girls who had sat down and were casually sipping wine, waiting.
‘Which one is mine?’
‘Both, I’ll be back in an hour.’
Flamboyantly, Ridgely kissed each girl, then with elaborate winks and gestures he left them. David gulped his wine and before he had put his glass down one of the girls was unbuttoning his uniform.
Ridgely tiptoed into the adjoining room, locked the door behind him, and crept to the dividing wall. Moving a picture aside he peeked through the spyhole. He would have a jolly story to tell the lads at the barracks tonight.
Evelyne had spread her skirt out flat in the sun, her blouse on a thorn bush. Her left shoe was all right, but the right one was very squashy and still smelt dreadful. She crept to the hedge and peeked over, looking for David, and sighed with relief that he was not there. Dear God, please don’t let him find me this way, not in my mother’s old shift and a cut-down vest of my father’s. Please, dear Lord, I’d do anything, but don’t let him find me this way. Make the sun hot to dry out my skirt and Doris’ hand-me-down blouse or I will kill myself. The square silk headscarf David had given her was drying on the grass, but it was full of wrinkles. Evelyne’s hair had tumbled down, all the pins flung everywhere in her panic to wash her clothes free of the cow dung. She wished she’d at least brought a comb with her. The water had made her hair curl and frizz, it was sticking out like a bush and she knew it. Her nails were full of dirt and her knees were scratched.
Freedom Beshaley Stubbs approached the field where his stallion was. It was his own gry. The farmer had allowed Freedom to field him separately from the ponies. The gry was a wild one, with a temper, but Freedom believed he was a racer and intended to keep him, not sell him with the rest of the pack. The camp was six miles from the farm, and they were moving on. Freedom didn’t want his stallion broken in yet. Any travellers seeing him might try for him, the horse was a rare one. This way, keeping him wild, only Freedom could handle him and would break him when he was ready.
Apples and crusts bulged in Freedom’s jacket pocket, and as he came close to the gate he saw the great beast toss his head, his black eyes flashing. In one movement Freedom legged it on to the gate, and sat on the top bar. He called the stallion ‘Kaulo’, the Romany word for black, and black he was. The horse pawed the ground, snorting.
‘Choom, choom!’ Freedom whispered, meaning ‘kiss, kiss’, and the stallion moved slowly towards his master, tossing his powerful head. He nuzzled Freedom’s open palm, got his apple and crust of bread, and then as if playing a game he backed away. Freedom was too fast for him, he grabbed the flowing mane and jumped, heeled his beauty forwards and they galloped around the wide, open field.
Evelyne lay back, the brook bubbled and gurgled, and she looked up into the bright clear sky. The sound of horse’s hooves seemed to come from beneath her, underground. She sat up, waded across the brook and stood on tiptoe to look into the distant field.
The black-haired boy and the stallion galloped round and round and, bareback, the boy seemed to be part of the horse, his hair as black as the stallion’s gleaming coat. The boy wore a red neckerchief and an old striped flannel shirt. Evelyne knew at first glance that he was a gypsy — she had seen them come to the village often enough with their ponies to sell to the pits. She and her brothers had never been allowed near the camp, their Da decreeing that his children would not mix with the gypsies ever. No matter how they had pleaded with him they were not allowed even to go to the fairs. They had cried bitter tears because all the other village children had been allowed to go, but on this one subject Hugh Jones was adamant.
Evelyne shaded her eyes, watching the boy riding, and tutted like a little old maid. Those wild gypsy boys would never come to anything. Maybe her Da was right, they were a bad lot and always thieving, so everyone said. She closed her eyes — oh, how very different her David was, now there was a gentleman.
She waded back across the brook and felt her clothes, they were almost dry. She began to think about David, he had certainly been inside the inn a long time. She stared over the hedge, saw the black car drive away. Funny, there in the field was that gleaming black horse, and down below in the yard by the inn the gleaming black motor. Evelyne mused, she’d prefer the motor if ever given the choice.
Her sodden shoe had shrunk, it fitted her now, but still smelt quite terrible. She stood up and stamped her foot, then bent down to pick up her skirt. She turned, looked back again — it had disappeared. She scratched her head, then walked round the bush to see if it had slipped down the other side.
Freedom was stunned. It was her hair, he had never seen a colour like it. She was the palest manushi he had ever seen, with hair of sonnikey. He gaped, then swallowed hard. She was looking at him, staring, and she had the eyes of a sea witch. They stood for a moment, frozen, his dark eyes brooding, his olive skin clear, not swarthy, his high cheekbones giving him a look of arrogance. His mouth was wide, and just as Evelyne was about to scream he smiled, showing the most perfect strong, white teeth. She was no longer afraid when he smiled, but she was still in her drawers, so she covered herself with her hands.
‘Are you not chilled swimmin’, gel?’ Evelyne put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips with anger. This common gyppo was standing on her skirt. All thought of behaving in a ladylike fashion left her.
‘I am not swimming. I was … excuse me, would you mind leaving? I am not dressed.’
Freedom chuckled, but made no move to leave. He cocked his head to one side, looking her up and down which made her blush and grow so hot she didn’t know what to do. But she couldn’t just leave because he was still standing on her skirt.
‘That’s my gry, yonder, the stallion.’ ‘What?’
‘I said that’s my stallion yonder. I’ve a right to be in the field, are thee from this part?’
‘No, I’m not, would you please go away?’ Freedom gave her a twinkling smile. ‘I shall scream, please go away.’ But still he stood on her skirt.
‘Get off my skirt, please, you are standing on my skirt.’
He hopped away, then with deliberate movements he picked up the skirt and shook it, held it out by the waistband as though for her to step into it.
‘It’s best thee dress yerself, gel, there’s many a-wandering around these parts … here, give me your hand.’
Angrily, she took his hand and stepped into the skirt, then moved back sharply and began to do up the small buttons.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
David’s voice echoed up from the inn’s courtyard, calling her name. She backed away from Freedom but still he made no effort to leave. He lolled against the trunk of a tree, his eyes never straying from her face for an instant.
‘Evelyne …? Evelyne …? Evelyne?’
She turned and ran a few yards, stopped to look back. He was still there. He cocked his head to one side and kissed the tips of his fingers. He repeated her name, and she tossed her head, glaring, her golden-red hair swirled around her, and then she was gone. Like a monkey, Freedom climbed the tree until he was perched high up in the branches. He watched her running down the courtyard and could see the uniformed figure pacing up and down impatiently.
By the time Evelyne, out of
breath, reached David, he was irate. He could not believe the state she had managed to get herself into. Her hair was loose, her clothes, dreadful to start with, were creased and damp. As he inhaled angrily he caught the stench of cow dung. He gestured for her to climb into the passenger seat, not even bothering to open the door for her, then slammed the car into gear with a crashing, grinding noise. The car jolted forward so fast that Evelyne was pressed back against the seat.
Hearing a peal of laughter, Evelyne turned, looked back at the inn to see a blonde girl standing at one of the top windows. She was in her underwear, and even from this distance Evelyne could see her thickly painted red lips.
‘Coooeeee, David … coooeee, lovey … David …’ David looked up at the window, and to Evelyne’s horror the girl blatantly bared her breast, flicked her tongue out at David and shrieked with raucous laughter. Evelyne couldn’t believe her eyes — she looked at David, then back at the inn. An officer in uniform was now standing behind the blonde woman, and he too was roaring with laughter.
‘Who’s that, David? Who is that terrible woman?’
David snapped, his face furious, ‘That is a cheap whore, a paid woman, a prostitute, a tart, a common slag …’
‘But why was she calling you?’
‘How the hell do I know? Shut up, I don’t want to talk about it.’
He ground his teeth, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. He felt dirty, the women had wanted more money, although he knew Ridgely had paid them already, and it annoyed him. They were just like the whores in France, out for every cent they could get. He felt unclean, used, and wanted to get home for a bath as fast as he could. He hadn’t really enjoyed himself, it was all bravado — the Ridgelys of this world, rich as Croesus, loved the tarts, the whores, but David didn’t. He made up his mind he wouldn’t go with another. They were all the same. Worse was the humiliation, because Ridgely had told him he’d been watching his performance, and it would be all round the barracks in no time.
‘I saw a gypsy boy …’
David looked at her, through her, and muttered something inaudible as he swerved the car round the gatepost of the inn.
Freedom remained high up in the tree. He whistled softly, then watched the sports car bouncing across the cobbled courtyard. He screeched like a bird, high-pitched … Evelyne saw him just as he swung down from the tree and raised his arm, waving to her. She turned away quickly, annoyed at herself for wanting to take another look. David swung the car along a track running beside a field, then out into a narrow lane. ‘Do we have to go so fast?’
David said nothing, but he slowed down. The weeds and brambles on either side of the lane scratched against the sides of the open car, and Evelyne held her hands up to protect her face. When she took them down again she saw Freedom on his stallion, galloping through the fields alongside them. He rode bareback, clinging to the horse’s mane, urging it forward and jumping the hedgerows, keeping up with the car, he was going so fast … Evelyne stared, it frightened her, the black horse, the boy so dark, his shoulder-length hair streaming out behind him. She gasped, clung to the windscreen — ahead of the horse and rider was a high, fenced hedge. He would never make it, he couldn’t, it was too high. She screamed.
Freedom urged the gry on, felt the muscles straining beneath him, and then they were flying through the air. He let rip with a shout of sheer exhilaration, pure joy …
‘Stop! David, stop … stop!’
The car screeched to a halt, almost in a ditch.
‘What is it, what?’
But horse and rider had disappeared, there wasn’t even the sound of hooves.
‘Evelyne, for God’s sake what’s the matter? Did we hit something?’
‘No, no, it was nothing, it was no one.’
Freedom stood with his arms wrapped around his stallion’s neck, their lungs heaving as though they were one. The horse tossed his magnificent head, snorting, and Freedom laughed.
‘Did thee see her, Kaulo?’ Isn’t she rinkeney, eh boy?’
Minnie the housemaid had run a steaming bath and was hovering at the bathroom door. She had been given instructions by the doctor himself to clean the girl up because she smelt so much. Minnie felt sorry for her, and even more so when Evelyne had stripped off — she was like a skeleton, and her ribs could be seen clearly. As for her undergarments, they were not even fit to clean the brass with.
Doris still lay in the darkened room with an icepack on her forehead. She had not touched her food, even the slightest noise seemed to pain her. Dr Collins sat with her for a while, taking her temperature. He was not too worried, saying it was just a migraine.
‘But I feel so ill, and sometimes I just go dizzy, like a fainting fit, and the pain moves from one side of my head to the other.’
The Doctor pursed his lips, hissed softly and looked, as always, at his fob watch. ‘Well, you rest up, don’t worry about the young gel, perhaps if you could eat a small meal … I’ll get Minnie to bring you something on a tray.’
Doris murmured that she didn’t feel well enough to eat, and the strain of talking made her head worse as if thousands of tiny hammers were beating against her eyes. Evelyne slipped into the hot, soapy water, her face pink with embarrassment at seeing Minnie pick up her clothes as if she had fleas, and holding them from her at arm’s length.
‘I fell in a cow pat, but I washed them.’ Minnie murmured that judging by the smell, she’d brought the cows home with her. The problem was that Evelyne had no change of clothes and even if Minnie washed them, they’d never be dry before dinner. Minnie soaped Evelyne’s back and bony shoulders, then went to the door, locked it tight, and leant over the bathtub, speaking in a whisper.
‘I’ll bring you some things, but don’t say nothin’ about where I got ‘em from, all right lovey?’
She nipped out of the bathroom and was back within minutes with a neat pile of fresh white underwear. There was a camisole with a small frill round the neck, a pair of satin bloomers with elastic at the knees, and a petticoat.
‘They was the Mistress’s, but he don’t know what’s in the wardrobe. Me an’ cook have delved in there a few times, see, everything’s just left in the drawers, terrible waste.’
Evelyne blushed with shame at Minnie stealing from the Doctor’s dead wife.
Unlike the rest of the house, there was warmth and friendliness in the big basement kitchen. Mrs Darwin, the cook, was a round, fat woman who bellowed with laughter when she saw Evelyne in the huge bloomers, and gave her a wet, motherly kiss. Evelyne’s hand-me-downs were steaming on the fireguard and an iron sat on the burner ready to press them.
The front doorbell chimed and Minnie rushed out. They had visitors and the Doctor asked for tea to be served right away. Evelyne watched the fat Mrs Darwin move like lightning, setting the tea tray, wrapping a gold frill around the cake, cutting tiny cucumber sandwiches, everything done fast and efficiently.
Evelyne, not wanting to get in the way, sat quietly by the fireside, taking it all in.
‘He wants you in for tea, lovely, he’s asking where you are.’
Mrs Darwin threw up her hands in despair. How could the girl go up in her bloomers, her skirt wasn’t ironed yet. Minnie fetched the ironing cloths, laid them on the edge of the kitchen table and began to press the skirt. Mrs Darwin tried to tidy Evelyne’s hair, but she’d never before had to cope with such length and such thickness, and in the end decided to put it in a long braid down her back, whipping out the ribbon from the frilled camisole and tying it in a bow. At the same time Minnie helped Evelyne into the freshly-pressed skirt, and banged the iron over the blouse.
‘Shoes, where’s the girl’s shoes, for heaven’s sake, Minnie?’
Evelyne was painfully self-conscious, Minnie’s shoes were too tight and made high-pitched squeaking noises as she entered the drawing-room. Dr Collins rose to his feet and introduced Evelyne to the two guests who were sitting, straightbacked, on the velvet sofa.
‘This is the young girl I was
telling you about, this is Evelyne … Lady Sybil Warner, and her daughter, Heather.’
The pair looked so regal, Evelyne wondered if she should curtsey. Lady Warner shimmered with rows and rows of multi-coloured beads, amber and ivory, draped across her ample bosom. Her daughter, dressed in oyster silk with a matching hat, had unfortunate buck teeth, which made her appear to smirk. Evelyne shook the outstretched, beringed hand, then squeaked her way to a chair.
‘Lady Sybil has very kindly invited you to a soiree this evening, Evelyne, and as Doris is no better, I er … well, I…’
Evelyne had not the slightest notion what a soiree was. She gave the Doctor a perplexed look as Lady Sybil spoke in a very high-pitched warbling tone, as if savouring each trill and tremor.
‘We all have to do our part for the war effort, and I am sure you will enjoy yourself. Some of the boys are from the hospital, some are on leave, always good to have a new dancing partner … Heather?’
Heather blinked, startled.
‘Come along, dear, we must be on our way.’ Lady Sybil rose majestically to her feet, ‘Thank you so much for your advice, I will make sure Heather remains on your diet… so nice to meet you, Eevaleen.’
Heather gave Evelyne a doleful look as she followed her mother. Just as Lady Sybil and Dr Collins reached the hall, David arrived home. He removed his hat with a sweeping gesture.
‘Lady Sybil, I must apologize for my lateness, but I was held up at the barracks.’
The Legacy l-1 Page 7
