The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  ‘Gypsies. I’m not exactly respectable, am I?’

  ‘Oh Ellen, that’s different! I think he thinks he can save you – bring you back to the path of righteousness. And though he won’t admit it in a hundred years, I’d bet my last tanner that he thinks by marrying you people will look up to him as a good Christian.’

  ‘So I’m to be his cause,’ said Ellen, bleakly, ‘him taking another man’s leavings.’

  ‘If you put it like that, yes. But I’ve seen how he looks at you – how he always looked at you. I joshed him for it. Of course, he never got up the courage to ask you before, when he could have.’

  ‘I gave him no encouragement. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘You don’t really like him at all, do you?’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t say “um” all the time. I don’t like that hat of his, or that he always wears a tie – at any rate, I’ve never seen him without one. I hated him for saying Charlie’s death was meant. He’s a good man, though, isn’t he? Everyone says so. And he’s my only port in this storm. God help me, Judy!’

  *

  When Harold called that evening at the Quaintons’ cottage, it was in the company of an elderly woman. Flora answered his knock, called Ellen to come, then disappeared back inside.

  ‘I thought, um, it would be helpful, Ellen, if we clarified arrangements in advance. You know Sister Britnell, of course?’ Harold said.

  ‘Don’t leave people standing on the doorstep, Ellen!’ called out Flora.

  ‘Do forgive me – please come in. We could sit in the parlour. Of course I know Sister Britnell very well – a mainstay of our sewing meeting. You taught me tatting.’ Ellen put out her hand politely.

  ‘Perhaps you could bring us some tea?’ prompted Harold.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Mother, could you sit with our visitors whilst I make it?’

  *

  ‘I’ve done for Brother Chown, as you know, ever since our poor Millie went to her eternal rest,’ said Mrs Britnell, holding her cup an awkward inch above its saucer. ‘I did try getting Miss Judy to take over, but I’m afraid without success,’ she went on, with a nod and an indulgent smile in Harold’s direction. ‘Brother Chown does have some lovely things – all lacquered, you know, not like our plain country beech, but they do show the dust. If it’s agreeable to you, Miss Quainton, I should like to retire and give more time to the connexion. Perhaps if I stayed on just until you feel able yourself—’

  ‘I should be most grateful, Sister Britnell,’ said Ellen, clasping the hands that lay in her lap more tightly, urging a polite smile onto her pale face. She saw herself ten years from now, holding a duster, hemmed in by Harold’s pretentious furniture. ‘Will you have some more tea, Mrs Britnell?’ she asked. ‘I should like you to tell me more about Mr Chown’s likes and dislikes – so I will know what to do.’

  Mrs Britnell’s old-fashioned stays creaked as she leaned forward and held out her cup. Harold smiled. This visit had proved most satisfactory.

  CHAPTER 12

  The general subjects of talk were the Revival, now over, with a superb record of seventy saved souls, the school-treat shortly to occur, the summer holidays, the fashions, and the change of ministers which would take place in August.

  Arnold Bennett, ‘The Sewing Meeting’,

  Anna of the Five Towns

  The Sewing Meeting

  Ellen recognised Grace Lambourne’s gentle knock and answered the door herself. Charlie’s mother kissed her cheek. ‘How are you, child?’

  ‘Oh, you know, people have been very kind.’

  ‘Let’s have some tea. I want to ask you something.’

  Flora came forward to greet her neighbour, mumbled something about carrots, and disappeared out the back.

  ‘You can’t stay shut up in here until it’s all over,’ said Grace, settling herself in a chair by the kitchen hearth.

  ‘It won’t ever be over, Grace.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, really. You’ll have to face the chapel sometime. You’ll not see them again until you go in as a bride if you don’t.’

  Ellen cried out, as though pricked with a pin, and put her hand on her stomach.

  ‘Ellen! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, it’s just the thought of the ceremony. It’s so soon.’

  ‘You are sure you want to marry, child?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure,’ and the hand patted.

  ‘Well, I was wondering, as an easier place to start, if you’d come to the next sewing meeting. I’m hosting it, remember.’

  Ellen did remember. The calendar had all been arranged in happier times. Before the summer. Before Sam.

  ‘I don’t know that I can face them, Grace, not yet! Just think how Hilda Lindow is going to look at me!’

  ‘Hilda can be a little sharp, I know. It’s hard for her, that a baby never came. But you have to get the support of the ladies, Ellen, if you’re going to have any sort of life in this village – you and baby. They’re your best defence against the church people. I’ll admit, you might find the men more forgiving to start with—’

  ‘Not Grandfer.’

  ‘Perhaps not him. But Harold . . .’

  ‘Yes, poor Harold.’

  ‘I don’t believe he thinks he’s poor Harold. How’s your dress coming on?’

  ‘Mrs Colton came and measured me. I’m to have a dove-grey costume – very suitable, she said, for a circuit preacher’s wife. I’ll get a lot of wear from it. And the straight style favours my . . . my situation.’

  ‘That’s something to be grateful for, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not at all what I dreamed of – I mean, when I was little,’ said Ellen, seeing a white dress trampled into the Picardy mud.

  ‘None of us did, Ellen.’

  ‘I still don’t think I can come to the meeting, Grace. I’m terrified. Can’t you tell them I’m poorly? I am still sick some mornings.’

  ‘If you don’t come to the meeting, you’ll still have to go back to chapel before you marry. I could call for you. So there’d be me, and Oliver, and Flora to support you.’

  ‘I shall try. I promise.’

  *

  Three weeks later, heart pounding and legs weak, Ellen took Oliver’s arm, whilst Grace walked on her other side, Flora following timidly behind, glancing over her shoulder as though she expected an attack from the rear. As they entered the chapel, heads turned, then quickly turned back again. Oliver led the little party to their pew next to the rostrum, where Harold and Judy waited, he with an expression of righteousness that curdled Ellen’s already churning insides, whilst Judy held her head high, her eyes flashing proud defiance. She and Grace sat flanking Ellen like benign wardresses throughout the service, each with a hand tucked reassuringly under her elbow. Ellen dipped her head and her face flamed, as from the rostrum Oliver hurled Matthew’s challenge at the heads of the congregation: ‘And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? . . . Thou hypocrite . . .’

  *

  Afterwards, as the chapel emptied, Grace whispered in Ellen’s ear: ‘The ladies are waiting for you in the school room.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’

  ‘You’ve got to, gel,’ said Judy, squeezing her hand. ‘Trust us.’

  Ellen allowed herself to be led into the room, Judy and Grace either side. As if I was going to the gallows! Flora cut off escape from behind.

  The teacher’s desk was invisible beneath a blizzard of tiny white articles. Mrs Lightfoot, wife of Harold’s employer, stepped forward and began the inventory. ‘There are four of these,’ she said, holding up a tiny vest with a lace-edged neckline and back ties, ‘same again of petticoats and bootees – Mrs Potter knitted them – and four of these to keep baby’s little legs warm. Four is all you’ll need of anything apart from these, of course—’

  ‘One on, one dirty, one drying and one clean,’ interrupted Mrs Stopps, bursting with excitement.


  ‘You’ll need these most of all,’ resumed Mrs Lightfoot, holding up a corner of a towelling square. ‘That’s why there are so many of them. I daresay Sister Flora will show you how to use them!’

  ‘I’ve never forgotten,’ piped up Ellen’s mother behind her, prompting a polite titter from the group.

  ‘These are pilch wrappers to keep them in place.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Ellen faintly. ‘My little sister . . .’

  ‘This was my contribution,’ said Hilda Lindow, holding out a cobweb of a shawl. ‘I’d made it some time ago, truth be known. I should like your baby to have it.’

  Ellen started to cry. ‘I don’t deserve . . . you are all so kind . . .’ She held out her hands as, clucking like hens in sympathy, the chapel women flurried round her.

  CHAPTER 13

  All our unmarried members are advised to refrain from marriage with persons whose life and conversation are not according to the Gospel.

  ‘Rule 318’, The General Rules of the Primitive

  Methodist Church

  Vow and Covenant

  Tomorrow I’ll be safe. No one will be able take my baby away then.

  Ellen sat on the bed and faced the wardrobe. Inside, her new suit hung in a miasma of camphor balls. Her best underthings, the ones Sam had been so dismissive of, were folded demurely away in the chest. I shan’t wear them again. Her small act of rebellion would be to put on the plain drawers and chemise she wore every day to work. Harold was taking her as used goods after all. Freshly polished but not new shoes sat primly paired under the bed. Before going to sleep she would shake the suit out and hang it near the window, even though she knew that everyone else’s Sunday best would be stored the same way and the chapel would be redolent of that same scratch-nose smell. The chapel women did not habitually wear scent, but for this occasion Ellen’s mother had given her a small bottle of lavender water, on the grounds that it ‘calmed the nerves’.

  She got up and went down to help her mother with the tea for the last time.

  ‘Where’s Grandfer?’

  ‘Gone to Risborough on the trap to meet your brother’s train.’

  Her heart leaped. ‘John’s coming!’ She darted forward and kissed her mother’s cheek.

  Flora Quainton fluttered and said, ‘Careful, I’ll have this tray over!’ Poor child, thought Flora, that her brother coming gives her more joy than her wedding!

  *

  ‘Ellen!’ John Quainton held his sister at arm’s length, his hands on her shoulders. ‘So you are to be married, and I am to be made an uncle!’

  He smiled, and Ellen burst into tears.

  ‘Oh sis,’ he murmured, holding her against his shoulder, whilst their mother hovered ineffectually round them trying to dab Ellen’s tears. Oliver had yet to come in; he was stabling the horse.

  ‘I’m taking Ellen out for a walk,’ John said. ‘Tea can wait ten minutes, can’t it?’

  Flora Quainton acquiesced, used already to bending to male prerogative, and oddly proud that her son, though only twenty-two, now naturally followed where father and grandfather had led.

  *

  ‘Are you sure about this, Ellen?’

  ‘If you’d asked me instead did I want to, I’d’ve said no, John. But sure that it’s the right thing to do – yes.’

  ‘There’s no hope from the father, then?’

  ‘None. Better not to mention him.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Gone before I could tell him,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Scoundrel.’

  ‘Don’t, John!’ Ellen started to cry again.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t like to see you tie yourself to a man I can’t believe you love.’

  ‘I don’t love him. But I love the baby.’

  ‘But you’ll stand up there in front of everyone tomorrow and say that you do.’

  ‘That would have frightened me once, John. Standing up in God’s presence and speaking a falsehood, I mean. But I’ll do my best to . . . to love Harold.’

  ‘I can see from your face you ask too much of yourself, Ellen. Oh dear . . . I wish I could help you, sister. Something for all the times you were there for your little brother. And you were always the one with common sense . . .’

  ‘Not now, obviously.’

  ‘Will they not bend?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mother . . . Oliver – the lot of them.’

  ‘You know Mother’s opinion doesn’t count. I think she’s afraid to have one, let alone speak it out loud. And you know Grandfer and his principles. He wanted me to have the baby away from here and then come back and wed Harold. Even Harold himself knew I’d never wear that.’

  ‘Does it have to be old Chown, Ellen? Couldn’t you and the babe stay here and in time you find a man you like and who likes you – who sees what you’re really worth?’

  ‘There are few men as it is, so why would one of them settle for shop-soiled?’

  ‘Could you come back to London with me?’ But Ellen heard the doubt in his voice.

  ‘Oh John, I’ll be grateful all my life you made that offer. But I can’t accept. You’ve your own life to lead – and besides, it’s all organised: dress, minister, party,’ and she flung her arm out as though indicating the trestle and the tea urn that would be waiting for them after the service. ‘I’ll get to live with Judy. With her there, I’ll survive somehow. But most of all, nobody will take my baby away.’

  *

  ‘You look beautiful, daughter!’

  ‘I don’t! I wish I looked plain. I must do from now on!’

  Her mother’s eyes filled.

  ‘I know this isn’t what anyone wanted . . . If Charlie—’

  ‘Oh Mother, leave poor Charlie in peace, today of all days!’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘No, I am! My feet are swollen and everyone will know why . . . I was sick again this morning and I am tired to death.’

  ‘Being sick will pass off soon,’ said her mother.

  ‘Well, as long as I can get through the service without disgracing myself any further . . . I couldn’t be sick any more than I’ve been already.’

  She pulled down the little veil on her hat and made final adjustments to the plain suit in the mirror, wishing the skirt longer to hide her puffy ankles. Measuring her, Mrs Colton had reassured Ellen that the suit could be altered if necessary. Taking the last pins out of her mouth she’d added: ‘And nobody will be able to see what you’re hiding in there. I must say you’re the last girl I thought would find herself in trouble, Ellen. But I can only wish you well. You’re lucky Harold Chown is taking you on, though I don’t believe either of you will be happy.’

  ‘Here are your flowers, dear,’ said her mother, handing her the spray of hot-housed ivory roses. Ellen bent her face towards them, drinking in through the veil their moist, fresh, innocent scent. She could already see them curled and brown, thrown on the compost heap – what a useless sacrifice, to cut the poor flowers!

  Oliver waited by the cottage door, pale and quiet, stiff in his Sunday clothes, the old-fashioned whiskers of which he was so proud carefully trimmed and combed.

  ‘You go on first, and take your usual place,’ he said to his daughter-in-law.

  Obediently, Ellen’s mother took her hat and hymnal and left without a word to either of them. Oliver pushed the door closed behind her and took Ellen in his arms.

  ‘God bless you child, on your wedding morn.’

  Ellen started to weep again.

  ‘Hush, Granddaughter. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” ’

  *

  Ellen had made that short walk from the cottage to the chapel more times than she could count, but saw her familiar surroundings now in heightened colour and richness. The sycamore tree a
t the corner would never again have quite that pattern of dying leaves, nor would its shadow fall on the road in quite that way. The lichen on the low wall by the forge would grow and spread, and come the spring, the daffodils would push through the tufts of grass in a pattern known only to themselves. Nothing would ever be the same.

  *

  When Oliver relinquished her arm below the rostrum, Ellen instinctively reached out to keep him close. She felt utterly alone, standing there with all those eyes upon her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the dark figure next to her, and she caught only murmurs of the words being intoned by the visiting minister – something about ‘mutual society, help and comfort’. Panic washed over her. She would be alone with this man for the rest of their lives. What comfort would that be? What comfort could she ever be to him? The minister went on and she stared at him through the veil she had forgotten to lift.

  ‘. . . that children might enjoy the blessings and privileges of family life . . .’

  There was the ring, now, lying on the service book. And then Harold was fumbling with it and pushing it onto her unresisting finger, and declaring shakily: ‘With this ring, a token and pledge of the vow and covenant now made between me and thee, I thee wed.’

  A memory as sharp and clear as pain – Sam’s mouth on her palm. Ellen looked round wildly, as though expecting him to burst through the tiny chapel door and bear her away. But she knew that she could only pass through that door now as a married woman. She saw the kind faces, the nodding, the satisfaction. Grace sat slightly apart from the others, towards the back, with the expression of someone witnessing an unpreventable tragedy. Ellen’s brother was looking down at his hands, his shoulders slumped.

  Then the minister was talking to Ellen with some urgency in his voice. Ellen turned back to him and ans–wered automatically the words she had been taught. She gripped Harold’s hand so tightly that she felt him wince, and tried to relax her hold. The minister spoke again, urging them to ‘a thankful, sober and holy use of all conjugal comforts; praying much with, and for, one another; watching over and provoking each other to love and good works, and to live together as the heirs of the grace of life.’