She brushed off the back of her skirt again, before she took her seat in the MG, and drove out of the brickworks and across to the farm where Billy and his family were working. Taking her knapsack, in which she’d placed a flask of hot tea, she locked the motor car and began walking toward the hop-gardens, following the sound of voices in the distance, like a dog nosing a scent. The hop-gardens already picked seemed desolate. Where there had been a full, rich, green crop, a hundred or so pickers hard at work, and the noise of talk, laughter and singing filling the air, the land now seemed bereft, with only the ghostly remains of a verdant harvest. There was a shallow incline on the path ahead, on the other side of which, set to one side, was a tap where people came throughout the day to fill a bottle or a kettle or to wash the knee of a child who had fallen while playing. She was surprised to come across Sandermere’s horse, grazing on the verge, and thought that perhaps the landowner had stopped to quench his thirst. But as she came over the hill, she heard a scream and was just in time to see Sandermere take Paishey Webb by the arm and pull her to him. At first, Maisie could hardly believe the scene before her or what the man was thinking to do such a thing. Each movement seemed to be in slow motion, but barely a second passed before the gypsy shrieked again and again, trying to escape Sandermere’s grasp. She kicked out at him, her scarf pulling back as he took hold of her hair, then put his finger to her hooped earring, and dragged it through the skin of her lobe. She cried out in pain and kicked again, desperate to save herself.
Maisie lost no time in running toward the pair, shouting, “Leave her alone! Stop!” And then, louder, “Help! Help!”
But Sandermere did not stop, pulling Paishey to him as if to press his lips to her neck, even as blood ran from her torn ear to his mouth. Another voice, stronger and louder, joined Maisie’s. Billy Beale had just walked up the hill from the hop-garden toward the tap. Dropping the kettle he had brought to fill, he launched himself at Sandermere and dragged him away. Though he was not the stronger man, Billy was faster and drew back his fist before Sandermere could even curl his fingers. The punch struck home, smashing Sandermere’s nose so that blood sprayed across his shirt and down his face.
“You nasty git, you bleedin’ nasty piece of work. I don’t care who you are, you bugger off out of ’ere before I kill you! So ’elp me, I’ll kill you, you bastard!”
As Sandermere staggered away, pulled himself onto his horse, and galloped off along the farm road, Maisie took Paishey in her arms. More people, locals and gypsies alike, came running from the hop-garden, drawn by the screams and shouting. Webb was in the crowd, pushing others aside when he saw Maisie and Billy with his wife.
“You, gorja! What—”
“He saved my honor, Webb,” said Paishey. “Leave’n him and her alone.” She wiped her hand across her face, smearing the profusion of blood.
Maisie pulled a handkerchief from her knapsack, ran cold water onto it from the tap, and held the cloth to Paishey’s ear. “Come sit on the verge, and let me have a look.”
Paishey allowed Maisie to lead her, while Billy explained to Webb what had happened. Maisie saw Webb turn as if to go after Sandermere, but Billy braced himself against the gypsy. “I know how you feel, mate, but calm down. He’ll have the law on you like a ton of bricks if you go after him now. You can’t win—you’ll end up inside for the rest of your life. Then where will your little nipper be, or your missus?”
Webb raised his hands to either side of the crown of his hat and then let them slump at his sides. He turned away from the crowd and screamed as if to a god who could not hear. It was a loud, impassioned cry that came not from the throat but from deep inside his body, and it was enough to begin to disperse the onlookers. Paishey ran to her husband and Webb held her to him, his fingernails white with the pressure of his grip. Then she pulled away, taking his hand, below which a scar crossed the inside of his wrist, and she held her own wrist, her own scar, to it, so that the place where their blood had run together on the day of their marriage was joined once more.
Billy shook his head. “I’d scream too, if I was ’im. Fine ’ow-do-you-do, this, ain’t it? Probably won’t ’ave a job come morning, me or ’im.”
As she rinsed blood from her handkerchief, ready to hand it to Paishey once again, Maisie realized she was shaking. “I can’t believe what I just saw. That a man would act in such a way is unconscionable—and in broad daylight!”
“I better not see that bloke again, that’s all I can say.”
“I’m so glad you were here, Billy. Are you alright?”
Billy nodded. “I knew ’e could punch me into the ground with one good one, drunk as ’e was, so I ’ad to get in quick with the old one-two. I ’aven’t got enough go in the old legs to get into a bout with someone like that.” He rubbed his knuckles where they had connected with Sandermere’s nose. “Lucky I came along when I did. Doreen ’ad seen the gypsy walking to the tap and picked up the kettle to go over there. I knew what she was thinking, that she’d ’ave a word, explain why she ’adn’t been passin’ the time of day or makin’ a fuss of the baby, and thought I’d better go myself. Not as if you can explain a thing like that, but I didn’t want any trouble.” Billy shook his head. “Found trouble alright, though, didn’t I?”
Webb and Paishey walked across to them and Webb held out his hand to Billy. “You saved my wife’s honor. I am in your debt.”
“No, you’re not, mate. You would’ve done the same, anybody would.”
Webb shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t.” He looked at his wife, then back at Billy. “Sometimes it’s like the morning hate when we come out to work.”
Billy frowned, pausing before saying more and with his head to one side, as if considering the man’s words. Then he changed his expression and reached out to grip Webb’s shoulder. “Just promise me you won’t go after ’im.” His smile was one of irony. “Not unless you take me with you, anyway.”
Webb nodded, and Maisie reached out to help Paishey clean more blood from her face and neck.
“Aunt Beulah will doctor me now. She’ll mend my ear.”
Maisie drew back, respectful of the gypsy ways, but she was curious to know what events had unfolded just before she came upon Sandermere attacking Paishey. She rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder so that she might not pull back, fearful, when asked about the attack. “What happened, Paishey? What did Sandermere say before he went for you?’
The woman looked at the ground as she spoke. “I’n came for water, and the rye-moosh—the boss man—came up to the tap while I was filling the kettle. He’n told me to move, to let him in, and I told him my kettle was nearly filled and I’d soon be done. I said sir out of respect.” Maisie saw a flash of the gypsy’s independence as she spoke. “Then he’n lifted his stick and went to thrash me, and he’n was saying I was nothing, that he would have us all sacked for our trouble, and the whole farm was his, all the hop-gardens and the tap and all the water what comes from it. Then he’n went for me, just as you come along. Said everything was his, me an’ all, and he’n be takin’ what he wanted.”