Gypsy Read online

  GYPSY

  Copyright © 2012 by J.E. George

  ISBN: 978-0-9873920-2-2

  Cover design by Jacqueline George

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by J.E. George

  Formatted and distributed in Australia and worldwide.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Q~Press Publishing

  Gypsy

  by

  Jacqueline George

  She could not believe it. This is the 21 st century, she said to herself. I'm on my way to Exeter, in my car. This is not right.

  She had swept around one of the many corners of the Devon lane from Kingsbury St Jude, and found the road blocked by a caravan. Not another infuriating tourist towing his temporary home into places it did not belong, but a real caravan. A canary yellow, gypsy caravan, with a horse.

  Virginia stopped her car and stared. The caravan stood across the road, trying to pull into the fields. She had never seen anything so pretty outside a picture book. The caravan had an arched black roof with a miniature chimney. A quaint window, with open shutters pinned back, nestled under the roof. The red shutters and the caravan's corner posts bore a tracery of hand painted leaves and flowers, the whole making a comet of glorious colour against the dark trees and hedgerows beyond.

  Drawing the caravan, a stocky horse of brown, white and black patches. A miniature carthorse, with a long white mane and white feathers hiding his hooves. He had mounted the verge and was on the point of pulling his load off the road and into a hidden gateway. Virginia could just make out a man sitting in the caravan's doorway, flicking the reins to urge his horse on. The horse lowered his croup and with a powerful heave, pulled the front wheels of the van up over the curb. The back wheels bumped up in turn, and the caravan disappeared into the Devon hedge.

  Virginia had just seen something that belonged to Victorian times, when no cars disturbed the peace and horses ruled the road. She eased forward and looked for the caravan. It had dived into an overgrown lane. She could see its back wall completely filling the narrow slot between the hedges. As she watched, it dipped out of sight, leaving only wheel marks and hoof prints.

  She found herself smiling as she drove on to Exeter. The sight she had just seen was so startling, so incongruous, so out of place in a modern world. The brightness of the horse and its van would bring a smile to anyone's Saturday. All morning, she found the image of it springing back into her mind whenever she had a quiet moment.

  She finished work early that day and it was still mid-afternoon when she turned into the narrow lane leading back to Kingsbury St Jude. If she looked carefully, she could pick out white scrapes the horse's metal shoes had left on the tarmac that morning and she followed them to the overgrown lane. When she reached it, she wanted to stop and investigate, but that was silly. She drove reluctantly past but, at the next farm driveway, she stopped. I'm stupid, she thought. It's Saturday, I’m early, and what's so important at home that it can't wait a little? What is there to be afraid of? She turned and drove back, searching for a place she could safely pull off the road and park.

  She put her hand bag under her arm, for no sensible reason beyond the feel of it, locked up and set off down the lane. She quickly wished she was wearing proper shoes, and not slip-on leather sandals. The grass in the centre of the track was long, but walking in the wheel ruts meant offering herself to the nettles and brambles leaning out from the hedges. She pushed on down the lane, pausing only once to look back and find the tarmac road had disappeared.

  Abruptly, the lane turned and passed between two rough-hewn, granite gate posts. Beyond them, the track continued through a wood of oak, ash and hazel. The wood was dark, and filled with a heavy afternoon silence. Oh well, too late to turn back now and besides, the caravan wheels had left clear prints here. The track continued gently downhill.

  Now she could hear something, a rhythmic noise, close at hand. Again the track turned sharply, and this time she stepped out into sunlight. She was in a quarry. An old quarry cut into the hillside, unused and returning to nature. The caravan stood in front of her, its shafts resting on the ground, with black harness draped over them. The man was grooming his horse, brushing in long, rhythmic strokes, and pausing to dip his brush into a bucket of water that stood beside him.

  The horse looked around at her, and the man stopped his work to look at her over his horse's back. Suddenly, a black and white collie rushed out at her and stood barking.

  “Get back, Shep,” ordered the man, “Stupid dog. You were asleep. She’s here already.” The dog came close enough to sniff the hand Virginia offered, lost interest in her and walked away. The man dismissed his horse with a pat and a quiet “Get on, Jack”, and turned his attention to Virginia.

  “Well, well, well, and what brings you here, milady?”

  His voice sounded gentle, his accent part Devon and part something she did not recognise. His eyes are almost black, she found herself thinking. Wavy black hair and dark eyes. He's handsome. Then she managed to stammer “I saw you this morning. Coming in. Your caravan looked so pretty. And your horse...”

  “Well, now. I wouldn't know about that, but would you be ready for a cup of tea?”

  Without waiting for her answer, he emptied the bucket of dirty water and upended it for her to sit on. “Here you are. You bide there, and I shall just start the fire going.”

  Virginia sat hunched over her handbag on her lap, and watched him work. He had a small pile of kindling ready, and he hitched up the knees of his trousers to kneel beside it. He produced two pieces of metal from his pocket, and started to strike a fire. How strangely he dresses, she thought. Collarless shirt like Granddad, and an outrageous red kerchief tied around his neck above it. Heavy navy trousers with a brown belt and boots unlike anything she had seen before. He bent to blow on the fire and the soles of his boots turned towards her. They were clogs! Stiff leather uppers, but the soles were thick wooden clogs, with heavy metal strips and triple hobs nailed to them. He must make as much noise as his horse when he's on the road.

  Smoke blew up around his head. He sat back and smiled at her. “There, milady. We'll just let that take, and we shall have tea in no time.” He added twigs to the fire, and went to fetch a large black kettle and a metal tripod to hang it from. He climbed into the caravan and came back with a stool, and a plastic washing up bowl with cups and jars. He settled on the other side of the fire, and Shep came to lie beside him.

  Virginia felt uncomfortable. The man was not talking. He and the dog simply sat in silence, sometimes looking at her, and sometimes at the fire. She had to speak. “What’s your name? I’m Virginia.”

  “Virginia. Well now, I’m John. This here’s Shep.” The dog looked at his master’s face when he heard his name. “And that’s Jack over there.” The horse was standing quietly in the shade of a tree.

  “He’s a beautiful horse.”

  “So he is. He could pull a van twice as big as this one, if he had a mind to.” He poked the fire with his foot and looked ready to return to his silence.

  “Are you going to be here long?”

  “Could be. It’s a fine spot. Private like, and the farmer’s kind enough.”

  Steam was rushing from the kettle’s spout. He spooned tea leaves and sugar into a small can with a bent wire handle, and topped it up with boiling water. When he passed her tea over in a plastic cup, she sipped cautiously. It was sweet, and good.

  “Are you always by
yourself?” she asked.

  “More or less. Yes, more or less. ‘Cept for Shep and Jack, of course.”

  She sipped her tea again and looked around at the shaggy walls of the old quarry. “Must be a lonely sort of a life.”

  Her question did not bother him. “Perhaps it is, but I meet people. Folk come a-visiting sometimes, like yourself.” He finished his tea without saying more.

  Virginia knew it was time to go. “Well, thank you for the tea. It was very nice.” She stood up, her stupid handbag in her hand. “I’d better go. Can I talk to Jack first?”

  “Surely, though he’s not a great talker.” He walked over to the horse with her. “Come on, old fella. The lady wants to make your acquaintance.”

  Jack ignored her, so Virginia stretched a hand for him to sniff.

  He touched it with his nose, warm and soft.

  “He’s a good horse, but not what you’d called expressive. Keeps his opinions to himself.”

  She was conscious of John close behind, and a shiver ran through her.

  “What about you, milady? Do you have a husband waiting at home?” He brushed at something on her shoulder, and she shivered again. She could smell him. Strong and masculine, compounded of wood smoke, horse, and saddle soap.

  He had left his hand on her shoulder. “Will you come down here again, milady?”

  She turned to shake his hand free, and found she was looking straight into his dark eyes. He’s short, she thought, no taller than

  me. “Er - yes. If you don’t mind.”

  “You’ll be welcome, milady. Always welcome.”

  They were moving towards the track out of the quarry, and Jack was following. “When - when shall I come?”

  “Anywhen, milady. Anywhen, and I shall be here, like as not. I’ve no promises to keep.”

  As she passed the caravan, she looked into the open doorway. A stumpy black stove stood just inside, its flue leading up to the ceiling. In the darkness, she could make out cupboards and a low seat opposite the stove. Across the back of the compact space and stretched on top of another cupboard with decorated doors, she could make out the blankets on the man’s bed.

  On the bed, open ready for use, lay a laptop computer.

  ****

  Virginia came back next afternoon. She felt ridiculous, but it was Sunday and she was free. She told herself visiting during the week would not be easy and, just to put a stamp on it, she had

  spent the morning on the moor, picking whortleberries. Nothing made such good eating as a fresh whortleberry pie, and she was carrying one awkwardly in front of her as she walked down the overgrown lane.

  Frustration and disappointment hit her when she reached the quarry. John’s caravan was there, but its little door was shut. He said he would be here, the little girl inside her complained. Now what will I do? She could not take the pie home but if she left it at the door, who knows what might try to eat it? Perhaps the door would be unlocked.

  As she stepped into the quarry, she saw another caravan, off to the side beyond some gorse. This one was different, shorter, with only two large spoked wheels. It had no walls to speak of and instead the roof of green canvas hooped right over from one side to the other. Its shafts were part of the structure, and rested on a trestle to allow the little caravan to sit level. Its tiny prettiness drew her and, still carrying John’s pie, she went to investigate.

  Beyond the caravan, a woman was kneeling on the grass, washing her laundry in a large plastic basin. She wore only a loose skirt. Her dark hair was bunched into an untidy plait running down her tanned back. There were large golden rings at her ears, swinging as she scrubbed her washing vigorously up and down an old-fashioned washboard. She sensed Virginia, and turned in surprise.

  “My dear, you gave me a start!” She had an open, questioning face, with deep, dark eyes, and she examined Virginia carefully.

  Her semi-nakedness did not seem to worry her at all. “And who might you be, my dear? If you’re looking for John, he’s away fetching some withies. You’re one of John’s friends?”

  “Er - yes. No. Not really a friend. I met him yesterday.”

  “Ah, now I have you. He said he’d had a visitor, but he didn’t say how pretty she was. Or that she could bake.”

  The woman’s cheeky grin was irresistible. “Um - it’s whortleberry. Would you like a piece?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Come and sit down, while I go and find my shirt.” She led Virginia to the fire near John’s caravan and sat her on the same bucket she had used yesterday. “Now, you’ll have a cup of tea with me, I’m sure. Just you sit there for a minute, and I shall poke up the fire.”

  Virginia watched the woman clamber up into her caravan. She looked tough and practical, and moved like a man. Even half naked, she did not look completely feminine. She returned wearing a loose muslin peasant blouse, and carrying metal cups and plates.

  “I’m Virginia, by the way. What’s your name?”

  “Sally,” she said, and smiled. She pulled some kindling from the heap under John’s caravan, and buried the twigs in the ashes of the fire. “There now, if we are lucky, we shall have a fire without me puffing and blowing at it. Here it comes...” A small wisp of smoke filtered out of the twigs, and she fanned it with a plate. Sally had obviously done this many times before.

  Virginia watched her build up the fire and hang the kettle over it. She had a handsome, tanned face, and gold rings shone at her ears. She only needed a kerchief tied around her head to look like a

  story-book gypsy. As she sat back, Virginia asked “Sally, would you mind if I asked - are you a gypsy?”

  “Surely you can ask. Well now, gypsy is a big word. It’s not like you get a passport or anything. There’ s lots of families out there would call themselves gypsy, and I’d call them showmen or circus folk. Then you’ve got them New Age people, but no -one takes them seriously. No-one’s what you’d call pure Romany any more. The only folk that really know the language are University professors and the like.

  “There’s some of us, though, would call ourselves gypsy and proud of it. My Great-Gran was a daughter of Isopel Berners by George Borrow, if you’ve heard about them. I don’t hold with all the flash Harrys claiming to be Gypsy Kings and so on - what need have gypsies ever had of a king? No, that’s rubbish. Just for the newspapers and such like, but some of us still know who we are.

  “Oh, it’s all just smoke in the end. Gypsy is as gypsy does, I say. You can live in a house, or in one them swish palaces on wheels pulled by a Mercedes, but it don’t make you a gypsy or not. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  “And John?”

  “Well, there you are now. There’s some’d say he ain’t gypsy, just

  because he was born in town and has a University degree and all, but I tell you what - he’s got more gypsy in his toenails than some of them Gypsy Kings. He knows what it’s about.”

  “He’s got a computer...”

  “Oh, he told you about that, did he? He’s a smart man, our John. He speaks the Romany as sweet as could be. I’ve heard him talking to the folk from Romania and Slovakia, and that made them think twice. And he writes books too. Says they’re all about the travelling life and Old England, but he’s never showed one to me. I think they’re computer books - but you’d know all about them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ebooks? Yes, well, that’s all the fashion now, I suppose. I read them.”

  “Well there you are, then. You just ask him to give you one. It’d be a fair return for that pie there.”

  Sally was not ashamed to ask, and Virginia passed the pie over. “Just a bit, please. We have to leave some for John.”

  “Surely, surely, though from the look of this I’d say he’d better come home quickly. You didn’t bring no cream, I suppose? There’s nothing like proper Devon cream with a pie like this.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think John would be able to keep it.”

  Sally chuckled. “I don’t believe keeping would enter into it.
” She cut the pie with a spoon and deftly steered a generous slice onto a plate. “Here you are, now. You first, because you’re the cook.”

  The pie was good, as she had expected. Nothing grown in her garden or bought in the supermarket had the flavour of wild berries like these.

  “Oh, yes,” said Sally, with her mouth full. “You’ve done well there, Miss - what do folk call you?”

  “Just Ginny.”

  “You’ve done well, Ginny. I don’t believe I’ve eaten finer.” She returned to her plate.

  It is a good pie, Virginia told herself. I hope John gets here soon enough to have some. Then a thought struck her. “Are you and John - are you together?”

  Sally smiled widely at her. “Oh no. You can have him all to yourself.”

  Virginia felt herself blushing. “I didn’t mean that...”

  “Never you mind. I was just pulling your leg. I tried to catch him once. He’s a fine man, and you couldn’t ask for a better friend. Still, he only wanted a little company and sex. Nothing more, and that won’t do for us women, will it? Truly, it was a lot of sex, in his case. He’s a randy man, once you get him started, or do you know that already?”

  Virginia knew she was red-faced, but she shook her head and said nothing. “Ah, well. You’ve got that to come, then. But you won’t tie him down, you know. I don’t believe I really touched him at all, damn him. He touched me well enough. Fairly made my head spin, but that’s the way of it.

  “We always want everything, don’t we? Not like the men. At least John’s smart enough to know what he doesn’t want.” She shrugged and bent to close up the fire. “Ah - that was all years ago. We’re just friends, and we hardly do it at all now.”

  That sounded strange to Virginia, and she set it to one side for later. “How did you meet him?”

  “Meet him? Oh, that’s was Priddy Fair. You’ll have been there, won’t you? All sheep and horses, and gypsy horse dealers trying to rob everyone blind. I was there with some friends. They had one of them Volkswagen vans, but I was sleeping on the ground. John turned up with his horse. He didn’t have a van then. Just a packhorse and a tent, and he walked everywhere. He took out his fiddle in the evening, and he played. He plays like an angel. Just like an angel. You should get him to play for you, if you can.