It was a Romany cob. I recognized it at once from photographs I had seen in Country Life. With its feathered feet and tail, and a long mane that overhung its face (from beneath which it peered coyly out like Veronica Lake), the cob looked like a cross between a Clydesdale and a unicorn.
“Flavia, dear,” said a voice behind me. It was Denwyn Richardson, the vicar of St. Tancred’s. “Dr. Darby would be most obliged if you’d run in and fetch a fresh pitcher of lemonade from the ladies in the kitchen.”
My ruffled glance must have made him feel guilty. Why is it that eleven-year-old girls are always treated as servants?
“I’d go for it myself, you see, but the good doctor feels that the poor lady may well be put off by my clerical collar and so forth and, well …”
“Happy to, Vicar,” I said cheerily, and I meant it. Being the Lemonade Bearer would give me access to the St. John’s Ambulance tent.
Before you could say “snap!” I had loped into the parish hall kitchen (“Excuse me. Medical emergency!”), made off with a frosty jug of iced lemonade, and was now in the dim light of the first-aid tent, pouring the stuff into a cracked tumbler.
“I hope you’re all right,” I said, handing it to the Gypsy. “Sorry about the tent. I’ll pay for it, of course.”
“Mmmm,” Dr. Darby said. “No need. She’s already explained that it was an accident.”
The woman’s awful red-rimmed eyes watched me warily as she drank.
“Dr. Darby,” the vicar said, sticking his head through the flaps of the tent like a turtle, so that his dog collar wouldn’t show, “if you can spare a moment … it’s Mrs. Peasley at the skittles pitch. She’s come all over queer, she says.”
“Mmmm,” the doctor said, snapping shut his black bag. “What you need, my old gal,” he said to the Gypsy, “is a good rest.” And to me: “Stay with her. I shan’t be long.
“Never rains,” he remarked to no one in particular on his way out.
For the longest time I stood awkwardly staring at my feet, trying to think of something to say. I dared not look the Gypsy in the eye.
“I’ll pay for the tent,” I repeated. “Even though it was an accident.”
That set her off coughing again and it was evident, even to me, that the fire had taken its toll on her already shaky lungs. I waited, helpless, for the gasping to subside.
When at last it did, there was another long, unnerving silence.
“The woman,” the Gypsy said at last. “The woman on the mountain. Who was she?”
“She was my mother.” I said. “Her name was Harriet de Luce.”
“The mountain?”
“Somewhere in Tibet, I think. She died there ten years ago. We don’t often speak of it at Buckshaw.”
“Buckshaw means nothing to me.”
“It’s where I live. South of the village,” I said with a vague wave of my hand.
“Ah!” she said, fixing me with a piercing look. “The big house. Two wings folded back.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said. “Not far from where the river loops round.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I’ve stopped there. Never knew what the place was called.”
Stopped there? I could hardly believe it.
“The lady let my rom and me camp in a grove by the river. He needed to rest—”
“I know the spot!” I said. “It’s called the Palings. All elder bushes and—”
“Berries,” she added.
“But wait!” I said. “The lady? There’s been no lady at Buckshaw since Harriet died.”
The Gypsy went on as though I’d said nothing.
“A beautiful lady she was, too. Bit like you,” she added, peering at me closely, “now that I see you in the light.”
But then her face darkened. Was it my imagination, or was her voice growing stronger as she spoke.
“Then we got turned out,” she said angrily. “They said we wasn’t wanted there no more. ’Twas the summer Johnny Faa died.”
“Johnny Faa?”
“My rom. My husband. Died in the middle of a dusty road, clutching at his chest, like, and cursing the Gajo—the Englishman—that had turned us out.”
“And who was that?” I asked, already fearing the answer.
“Never asked his name. Straight as a ramrod on two sticks, the devil!”
Father! I was sure of it! It was Father who, after Harriet’s death, had run the Gypsies off his estate.
“And Johnny Faa, your husband … he died because of it, you say?”
The Gypsy nodded, and I could see by the sadness in her eyes that it was true.
“Because he needed to rest?”
“Needed to rest,” she repeated in a whisper, “and so do I.”
And that was when it came to me. Before I could change my mind I had blurted out the words.
“You can come back to Buckshaw. Stay as long as you like. It will be all right … I promise.”
Even as I said it I knew that there would be a great flaming row with Father, but somehow that didn’t matter. Harriet had once given these people refuge and my blood would hardly allow me to do otherwise.
“We’ll park your caravan at the Palings,” I said, “in the bushes. No one even needs to know you’re there.”
Her black eyes scanned my face, darting quickly from side to side. I held out my hand to her for encouragement.
“Mmmm. Go on, old girl. Take her up on it. Spot of rest would do you a world of good.”
It was Dr. Darby, who had slipped quietly back into the tent. He shot me an eighth of a wink. The doctor was one of Father’s oldest friends, and I knew that he, too, could already foresee the coming battle. He had viewed the field and weighed the risks even before he spoke. I wanted to hug him.
He placed his black bag on the table, rummaged in its depths, and extracted a corked bottle.
“Take as required for cough,” he said, handing it to the Gypsy. She stared at it dubiously.
“Go on,” he urged, “take it. It’s wicked bad luck to refuse a licensed practitioner, you know.
“I’ll help with the horse,” he volunteered. “Used to have one meself.”
Now he was putting on the old country doctor routine and I knew that, medically speaking, we were in the clear.
Knots of people stared as the doctor shepherded us towards the caravan. In no time at all he had the Gypsy’s horse in harness and the two of us settled on the wooden ledge that served as both doorstep and driving seat.
The old woman made a clucking noise and the villagers gave way on both sides as the caravan jerked into motion and began to rumble slowly along the churchyard path. From my high vantage point I looked down into the many upturned faces, but Feely’s and Daffy’s were not among them.
Good, I thought. They were most likely in one of the stalls stuffing their stupid faces with scones and clotted cream.
WE LUMBERED THROUGH THE high street, the sound of the horse’s hooves echoing loudly on the cobbles.
“What’s his name?” I asked, pointing at the ancient animal.
“Gry.”
“Gray?”
“Gry. ‘Horse’ in the Romany tongue.”
I tucked that odd bit of knowledge away for future use, looking forward to the time when I would be able to trot it out in front of my know-it-all sister, Daffy. Of course she would pretend that she knew it all along.
It must have been the loud clatter of our passage that brought Miss Cool, the village postmistress, scurrying to the front of her confectionery shop. When she spotted me seated beside the Gypsy, her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. In spite of the heavy plate-glass windows of the shop and the street between us, I could almost hear her gasp. The sight of Colonel Haviland de Luce’s youngest daughter being carried off in a Gypsy caravan, no matter how gaily it was painted, must have been a terrible shock.