The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

  ‘But that’s in Manchester!’

  ‘I know. It’ll be a long haul, but the connexion has been generous. I won’t even have to pay half the fees as most men must. It’ll be tough for Amy – my fiancée – more than it will be for me; I’ll be too busy to think.’

  ‘Grandfer must be pleased.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he is. I think he feels that education and evangelism get in each other’s way, that it’s what a man feels more than what he knows that counts. I wonder sometimes if he really knows the difference between a banner from Mr Arch’s union and one for the Band of Hope. Whatever helps the working man is God’s work.’

  ‘Isn’t it? What about George Edwards? Peter Lee? They preach, and stick up for the poor man’s rights.’

  ‘And well. That is their mission. Mine’s more like Dr Peake’s. We must know our religion to bring its riches to the people. We’re not a sect of ranters anymore. You know things have changed. Don’t tell me you don’t feel a bit uncomfortable when the older people shout out at services?’

  ‘Of course, though I’d never admit it,’ said Ellen. ‘I envy them a bit, if the truth be known. They’re the ones who come all pink and shaky to get their tea after the service. They’ve seen something, felt something, sitting in that chapel. I don’t feel anything. I live a lie, John.’

  ‘But you do so much good work there.’

  ‘Do I?’ She looked at him wildly. ‘Sometimes I think if I were not busy – not just with the children, I mean with tea meetings, soup-kitchens, Sunday school – I should go quite mad. I resent it all – no, not all, not the Sunday school. But I do none of this for the right reasons. I do it for me, not them.’

  ‘I think you are too hard on yourself,’ said John. ‘You always have been. Whoever you have done good for, regardless of what was in your heart when you did it, will have been glad of it.’

  ‘I’m a lost cause. But that’s enough about me. I’m forgetting your news entirely – tell me about Amy, John!’

  ‘You’d love her. We must do everything to make sure you are truly sisters. I can think of no one better suited to be my help-mate in the life I’ve chosen – though of course that’s not the real reason I’m marrying her.’

  ‘I should hope not, John. You ought to be hopelessly, ridiculously in love with her.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘So how did you meet her?’

  ‘Through the connexion, of course. She teaches Sunday school, just like you. But not only that, she’s a schoolteacher.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Ellen, I wish things had gone differently.’

  ‘But they didn’t. Don’t think that I’m jealous of Amy’s fortune, John, for I’m not. I am happy for you – and she’s a lucky girl. Go on, then, show me her photograph.’

  Amy Kernick was a dark, unostentatious girl of about twenty-one, her photograph taken hatless, in three-quarter view. There was nothing remarkable about any of her individual features, but the straight nose, the clear forehead, the kind eyes came together to give an impression of indomitable patience, and reassurance. Her neck was bare; she wore a plain linen blouse, and no jewellery.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ murmured Ellen.

  ‘Oh, she is, you know! But most people wouldn’t see it, though I’d expected you would. They’d see it more in her movements, perhaps, and her voice.’

  ‘She’s right for you, John. You’re lucky too.’ Ellen leaned forward, resting her forehead on her brother’s shirtfront, and started to cry.

  ‘Oh Ellen, I was afraid of this!’

  She sobbed uncontrollably.

  ‘I shall be three years in Manchester,’ he said. ‘And when I marry at last money will be tight, for we won’t have Amy’s salary anymore. But could you and the boys not come to us then?’

  As suddenly as the turning down of a gas lamp, Ellen stopped crying.

  ‘No. Absolutely not. If you and Amy are to be happy you must live your own lives. You’ll have a new ministry, a family, probably, and then a sister with a spotty history turns up with two children that the world can see aren’t properly brothers. Don’t even dream of it.’ But as she said this, in the depths of Ellen’s thoughts a heavy iron door clanged to, and keys clunked in the lock, once, twice over.

  ‘Is Harold good to you, Ellen?’

  ‘Oh, he’s good, certainly. He provides for me and the boys. He’s even-handed with them, which most men wouldn’t be, I’m sure. I wish sometimes he would ill-treat me, like poor Mrs Figg – you remember. Then I’d have some justification for how I feel about him.’

  ‘You can’t mean that.’

  ‘No – of course I don’t. No child should see his mother struck. I’m respected here; I don’t know if I’m liked. I have a name. But, oh, I hate it when he comes near me. I hate the sound of his voice when he’s being solicitous. I hate the way he rolls up his napkin after eating, the way he places his fingers when he’s holding his fork. I hate the way he puts on his cuff-links, and the way he breathes when he’s brushing his hair. I wish – oh, I wish sometimes he was dead, John, God help me! Or that I was – if it weren’t for the boys, and if it weren’t for Judy. She’s a lifesaver.’

  ‘Oh Ellen! Does that man—’

  ‘Tom’s father? Never heard from him again. A pebble thrown in a pond. He broke my heart, John, so I couldn’t love Harold if I tried – and I have tried, believe me. That man could have charmed the birds out of the trees. Couldn’t read or write but what a way with words! He’s probably doing the same, right now, to some other poor girl. I hate him, John, and all his kind. Thieves, parasites, shirkers . . .’

  ‘That’s not you speaking, Ellen. Hate him, then. Hate the cad. Even your Mr Lee is part-Gypsy, they say.’

  ‘One day I’ll have to tell Tom. How can I tell him his father is worthless?’

  CHAPTER 22

  . . . my brother had fallen into the water and the poor Gipsies had got him out and had started to dry him and give him a hot drink. But my cousin had mistaken what they were doing and thought they were taking him away as the Gipsies got the blame for things like that.

  R.Vaughan, hopper, Hilary Heffernan, Voices of Kent

  Hop Pickers

  The King’s Mile

  Canterbury, October 1926

  Ellen had one last errand, to the ironmonger’s at St Dunstans. But passing under Westgate Tower with the children in tow she encountered waiting crowds three deep either side of the road, and two constables walking expectantly up and down between.

  ‘What is everyone waiting for?’ she asked a middle-aged woman with her shopping basket resting on her feet.

  ‘It’s the tinkers,’ said the woman. ‘They have their parade here when they’ve finished in the hop fields. They come down the hill and then go out to the watermeadows, where they’ll build their fires and drink with the circus people. You could get your fortune told, dearie, if you’re so minded. Mind you, looks like you know where your life is going, seeing as you’ve already your family. You’ve no need of tall dark strangers at any rate! Lovely children you have, though you’d never think they were brothers, would you?’

  ‘He is my brother!’ interjected Tom, fiercely.

  ‘Tom! Don’t be so rude to the lady!’

  ‘He’s not rude, dearie, bless him!’

  ‘You’re right in a way, though,’ said Ellen. ‘I was a widow and then I remarried. So I have one boy from each husband.’ She now barely felt a twinge of conscience, for she had repeated this lie so many times. She thought if she said it any more she would start to believe it, and think of the light through the trees dappling Sam’s skin not as a memory but as a dream. Nevertheless, she felt her heart beat faster as the wagons came into sight, rolling down from the junction. She stared at the couple on the first vardo to pass her. The man held the reins limply, letting the big shire find his way forward, unfazed by the closeness of the people gathered on both pavements to watch their progress. Ellen stared at him, trying to see Sam, but the Gy
psy was a stranger.

  ‘Just a word of warning, dearie,’ murmured the woman, nudging her arm, ‘they are fine to look at but as thieving as the day is long. And they’d go for you, they always do like the innocent-looking ones, and that’s what you are, for sure. So make sure your purse is well out of reach of their prying fingers! ’Tis the children are the worst, I believe, for they train ’em up to it early.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Ellen, absently, then looked at her own children, one either side of her, in their lovingly mended and pressed cotton shirts, short trousers, lisle socks and carefully polished lace-up shoes. Both were transfixed by the noise and the spectacle, Tom trembling with excitement, his little brother open-mouthed with awe. A second caravan was rolling past, this one with a gaggle of children peeping past the couple who held the reins. Then a third – no, surely not – it’s only that hat. She felt herself swaying, as though the ground beneath her was shifting, and then the man’s face turned towards her. She saw his eyes widen, his mouth open, and she cried out, grasping the woman’s arm to stop herself falling.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re as pale as a sheet!’ The commotion sent a shudder through the crowd.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ babbled Ellen. ‘The heat, you know, odd for this time of year . . . We really must go!’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Boys, come along!’

  ‘But Mother!’

  Head down as though against a strong wind, Ellen pulled the protesting children along. Tom dragged against her hand, demanding to know why, grizzling that it ‘wasn’t fair’. Poor toddling David stumbled, and she pulled him up sharply, too sharply. He started to cry.

  ‘Quiet! ’ Ellen caught the note of hysteria in her voice. People were staring, but then their attention was drawn away to something going on behind her – a horse’s protesting neigh, a woman’s shrill curse, shouts.

  ‘Down here,’ she commanded the children, and pulled them into a sidestreet.

  ‘Mother! That man is calling you!’ Tom tugged at her hand.

  ‘Take no notice!’ she cried.

  ‘Ellen! ’

  She let go of the children’s hands, so abruptly that little David staggered. The man ran towards her.

  ‘Ellen, at least look at me!’ said Sam.

  ‘Not here.’ She didn’t raise her eyes, speaking instead to the gleam of sweat on his collar-bone. Her heart felt as though it crouched at the base of her throat, making it harder to breathe.

  ‘Boys! See that shop on the corner? Here.’ She fumbled in her bag. ‘Go in there and buy yourselves some sweets, as many as you want and can pay for. I’ll be with you directly. Go on!’

  Tom stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘Ellen, wait . . .’ Sam’s hand hovered uncertainly over Tom’s head.

  ‘Go, boys! Please!’ She was frantic.

  Finally it was David who pulled his brother away. ‘Thweets, Tom!’ They went.

  She looked up at him at last. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What I’ve been looking for, all this time. You.’

  ‘You looking for me? What a nerve!’

  How beautiful he was, and how sad! The face was leaner than she had remembered it, the eyes darker, etched round with tiny wrinkles, faint creases of disappointment running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. To her horror she realised that she was crying. He pulled out a clean white handkerchief and gently, gently dried her tears, but at his touch she lost all command of herself and struck him in the chest with both fists.

  ‘You ask me that?’ he said, grasping her wrists. ‘If you hadn’t shifted in that crowd I might never have seen you today. The horse noticed something – they do, you know, – and turned his head, so of course I looked too. I might have passed by and never known you was there, looking at me.’

  ‘Sam, let go of me! I can’t be seen talking to you!’ She made as though to follow the children, but though he let go of her wrists he put a restraining hand on her arm.

  ‘I have been looking for you someways all this time! I wrote to you – the second time all by myself!’

  Brisk nailed boots rang out their approach on the cobbles.

  ‘Hey, you, Gypsy fellow! What are you doing bothering this young lady? Your fairground tent is that way, so shift and get down there now before I think of something better to do with you!’

  ‘Oh, Constable, what excellent timing. Yes, these people are a bit of a nuisance.’

  ‘Ellen! ’

  ‘Go on, I said hoppit, you!’ said the policeman. ‘Unless you want to be taken in charge. And take that hat off when I’m talking to you.’

  Humbly, Sam did so, revealing hair shorter than Ellen remembered, its gloss dulled, touched with grey at the temples. She felt a tiny stab of pity, and of shame, aware suddenly of her own dowdiness, the limp cotton blouse, the sensible shoes and stockings too heavy for this weather.

  The policeman turned to Ellen. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had this trouble, and if you want to make a complaint – oh, it’s Mrs Chown, isn’t it? I recognise you from the chapel . . . Now push off, will you, or I’ll put you in chokey, and that’s my last word on the matter!’

  ‘I’ll find you, Ellen, I promise!’ Sam walked off slowly in the direction the boys had taken.

  ‘Gor, that one’s persistent, ain’t he?’ said the policeman. ‘’Ow does he know your name, then?’

  ‘Oh . . . he came to my village – where I lived before, I mean. I suppose there’s no harm in him, really – he just presumed on a childhood friendship, that’s all.’

  ‘Presumed a bit much then, for you to have to take your fists to ’im. Are you sure you don’t want me to take ’im in?’ The policeman looked back up the lane to where Sam now appeared to be looking in the window of the sweet shop. The boys erupted out of the door, waving their purchases in small paper bags. Sam made a move as though to speak to them but saw the policeman eyeing him.

  Tom took David’s hand and half-dragged him back to Ellen. The Gypsy was already forgotten; they had a policeman’s uniform to investigate now. As its owner was explaining his whistle and notebook to them, Ellen saw Sam wave at her once and turn the corner out of sight. She had to fight down the urge to run after him.

  ‘Well, I’d best be off, Mrs Chown . . . boys. I’ll see you on Sunday probably.’

  The policeman touched his fingers to his helmet respectfully, and walked off. Ellen stood there breathless, as though she had been running.

  ‘Come on, boys, let’s go home. Best not tell Pa about the sweets.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘He won’t ask,’ he said, as though he were a much older child.

  Best not tell them not to mention Sam – makes too much of it. And if they do, I’ll just say it was someone else, not him. But what if he has been looking for me all this time?

  *

  Judith practically skipped home from the tannery, bursting with news for Ellen. But outside their front door, she paused, listening. Ellen was pounding the keys of Millie’s piano. As Judy’s key turned in the lock, the music stopped dead.

  ‘Lor, Ellen, it’s a pianner, not a runaway horse! You don’t have to murder the poor hymns!’

  Ellen turned round on the piano stool.

  ‘Oh God, whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Oh Judy!’ Ellen held out her arms.

  ‘Ssh!’ said Judy, holding her. ‘It’s all right – whatever it is. Judy’s here now. Where are the boys?’

  ‘Playing upstairs. I’ve not even started tea, and your father’ll be here any minute!’

  ‘Never mind that. Come upstairs and lie down. I’ll tell him you’re poorly and afterwards you’ll tell me everything.’

  *

  Later, Ellen asked: ‘What did you tell Harold?’

  ‘Women’s problems. That shut him up. But you can’t stop Tom talking, though. Sweets and Gypsies and policemen.’

  ‘Oh, Judy, he says he’s been looking for
me! He sent letters . . .’

  ‘What letters? Thought you said he couldn’t write.’

  ‘Could I have got him wrong, all of this time? Oh, I didn’t need this . . . I thought I’d buried it all as deep as poor Charlie.’

  ‘Instead you want him with every nerve in your body, don’t you, Ellen? You remember every word, every look, can’t get enough of the smell of his skin. And there’s no one else in the whole world who can make you feel the way he does.’

  Ellen sat up. ‘You’re in love yourself!’

  ‘I am! Mind you, he smells better after a good scrub. He’s a tanner, my Walter.’

  ‘Oh Judy!’ They clung to each other, weeping and laughing.

  Hearing the noise, Harold called up the stairs: ‘Everything all right up there?’

  ‘When can I meet him?’ whispered Ellen.

  ‘Soon. We shall want your help, maybe. But I’m not going to let you meet him until you’ve written to Flora about those letters . . . Stop shaking, Ellen, and let’s go down now, or Pa will think we’re plotting.’

  ‘We are.’

  *

  Dear Cecil,

  Mother was rite I would find her agin for I have seed her today at Canterbury and my son to he is a fine looking lad and another littel boy she have of her husband only a policeman came and sent me packing. You were rite she did not get my letters. I made her cry which I dunt want to but maybe this is a good thing as she at least thinks something of me which even if not good is better than nothing at all. She is bewtiful but mortal sad my pore girl. I am sorry my riting is not good.

  Your friend Sampson Loveridge

  *

  Dear Mother,

  I hope you and Grandfer are both in good health, as all of us are here. Tom looks as though he will be tall . . .

  Ellen nearly wrote ‘like his father’ . . .

  He is up past my waist. David talks a lot now, though he still has a lisp, but everyone tells me he will grow out of it. He has had the whooping cough, which was an anxious time, but is now out of danger and is not a risk to anyone else, though he still coughs occasionally, but the doctor says that is the illness working its way out. He gave me medicine for him but I also gave him coltsfoot and thyme tea as you’ll remember it did so much good to Mrs Hempton’s Joan. Forgive me for not telling you but I did not want you to be alarmed and would have sent a telegram had the danger been greater but praise the Lord it was not.