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?’