The tallyman came around, and as the last count of the day was completed at each bin, the pickers moved off, either toward the hopper huts if they were Londoners or to the village for the locals, while the gypsies wandered toward the hill, the women’s skirts catching in the breeze, a profusion of color moving from side to side with the sway of their hips.
“And-a-one . . . and-a-two . . . and-a-three. . . .” The tallyman continued his count at the Beales’ bin. Maisie smiled, for each member of the Beale family mouthed the number as the tallyman, sleeves rolled up above the elbow, pushed his flat cap on the back of his head and plunged the bushel basket in again and again. “Nice work, clean picking, that’s what I like,” he said, then took his pencil from behind his ear, and noted the afternoon’s accomplishments.
Maisie waved to the Beales as she left, walking toward the hill that led up to the gypsy camp and the clearing they had used as a gathering place since before the hop-picking began. When the jook came down the hill to meet her, she stretched to rest her hand on the dog’s shoulder until she reached the vardos.
She went first to Beulah and greeted her before asking, “Is Webb back from the hop-gardens?”
The old woman was holding an earthenware cup filled with a translucent green broth that she sipped before replying. “Gone for wood. Jook brought us hare again.” Then she rubbed her chest.
“Are you feeling ill?” asked Maisie.
Beulah winced. “Not holding my food well today. It’s sitting on my chest, on account of the bread.”
Maisie sat next to her. “Do you have any other pain?”
“Don’t need none of your doctoring. I’ll see to myself.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Mixture. Helps the food go down. Now then, girl, never you mind about me. There’n be nothing wrong with Beulah.”
At that moment, Webb came back into the clearing, along the path on the opposite side of the ring of stones that marked the perimeter of the fire.
Beulah called to him. “Webb. Come, son, the rawni wants to talk to yern.”
Webb dropped the armful of wood alongside the stones and brushed his hands down the front of his trousers. As he came forward, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through the mane of brown curls that was now almost shoulder-length. “What do you want, miss?”
Maisie stood up, still concerned about Beulah. “I’d like to ask you a question or two, if you don’t mind.”
The man shifted his position, moving his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms and raising his chin just enough to reveal defensiveness. “Depends on the questions.”
Maisie wondered how she might tread lightly, how she might couch her questions in a manner that was not inflammatory. “I have a friend in London, a luthier. His name is Mr. Andersen, and—”
“Don’t know no Andersen.” Webb had taken a step back.
“Of course, but I was telling him about your beautiful violin, and when I described it he thought it might be worth—”
“You reckon I stole that violin, don’t you?” Webb’s shoulders were hunched now, his eyes flashing like those of a fox with the hunt at his tail.
“Of course not, of course I didn’t think to suggest that you stole the violin.”
Webb came closer.
“Webb!” Beulah had come to her feet, still clutching the green liquid with one hand while she rubbed her chest with the other. “No wonder my food’s stuck in my gullet with you a-goin’ on like that. Now then, my son. Listen to her.”
But Webb was not to be cut off. “You’re just like the rest of them—no, you’re worse. You come here, eat our food, dance to our music, and act like you know us, and now you’ve shown your colors as a true diddakoi, not one of us and not gorja but half and half, and they’re the worst—they’ll stab a back before it’s turned.”
“Webb! Now, then. You pull your neck in, my boy!” Beulah nodded toward Boosul, who was swaddled in her mother’s skirts, for Paishey had come to sit beside Beulah.
Maisie looked from Webb to Beulah, then shook her head. She had been wrong in her timing, off in her choice of words, and she knew she should leave. “I know the truth, Mr. Webb. I know. And I can help you.” She squeezed Beulah’s hand and began to walk away.
She had gone but a few paces when she heard Paishey scream, followed by Webb shouting, “Beulah, Beulah!”
By the time Maisie reached the woman’s side, she was wide-eyed, gasping for breath, her words barely audible. The gypsy clan gathered around, as Paishey knelt behind Beulah and rested her head in her lap.
“Move back, she needs air!” Maisie heard her own voice echoing in her ears as she waved her hand to add weight to her words.
“Do as she says,” urged Webb. “Give her room to breathe.”
Maisie felt for Beulah’s pulse, her fingers barely moving against a throb that was neither strong nor rhythmic. “It’s her heart, Webb.”
Paishey had loosened the gypsy matriarch’s silver-gray hair, which lay down across her shoulders. Now, as the lines and wrinkles that marked her age diminished with each second, the woman raised her arm and motioned to her son to come to her. Maisie moved aside, allowing Webb to crouch beside his mother, then looked on as the dying woman wrestled against the weakness in her body to grasp the cloth of her son’s shirt and pull him closer. Webb cradled her in his arms, while Paishey remained at her head, and he leaned forward to hear the words his mother strained even to whisper. He nodded, his eyes reddened, yet his grip remained firm.
“Listen to her, son. She’ll free you,” was all that Maisie heard. Then, calling upon all reserves of energy remaining in her body, she spoke loud enough for the clan to hear. “He is my son. Follow’n him now.”
Webb began to sob. “No, Beulah, please, no. Stay, don’t go.”
But Beulah was smiling, holding up her hands as if to one who was reaching down to her, and saying her final words with a gentleness Maisie had not heard before. “Set yourself free, boy. Set yourself free.”
Maisie stepped forward, kneeling to feel her pulse and then to listen for her breath. There was nothing. She sat back to look at Beulah, then turned to Webb and Paishey. “She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”
Leaning forward, Paishey placed her hands on each side of Beulah’s head and used her thumbs to close her eyelids. Then she kissed each closed eye before reaching into her pocket for two copper coins to lay on the motionless lids. Webb moved away, and the women came forward, Esther helping Maisie to her feet. “We’ll’n look after her now, miss. You go on home. She belongs to us. We’ll’n take care of her.”
Maisie walked once more to the edge of the clearing, where even the horses had gathered, their heads up and intent. She pushed them aside to pass, and as she made her way down the hill, she heard the heartsick wail of a dog howling. It was not an ordinary call, the yelping that might answer a vixen’s midnight screech, but the timeless baying that country folk called a death howl. Maisie stopped to listen, was still so the dog’s cry could move through her, so she could feel the vibrations she had never been able to voice, that had caught in her chest so many times.
SEVENTEEN
As she walked away from the encampment, Maisie knew the keening had started, a sound that would grow ever louder as the gypsies gave vent to their loss. There would be no time to speak to Webb until after Beulah’s funeral, for which she would return in a few days. It would be a narrow opportunity—the gypsies would move on with haste now.
Not wanting to be on her own, Maisie walked to the hopper huts, where Tilley lamps burned outside to beckon her forward, for the sky bore the rose tint of sunset and dusk was but minutes away. The doors of the huts were open, and Londoners had brought chairs outside so they could sit and talk now that the day’s work was done. Billy’s mother was seated outside the family’s hut, shucking peas, the colander on her lap held steady by her knees.