The Gypsy Bride

by Katie Hutton

‘Remember, brethren, how we met as multitudes in the fields, and listened to the Word of the Lord spoken from the back of a farm cart, and how His plan was revealed by the rudest of vessels fired with the Spirit?’

  Sam felt hemmed in by the congregation in their dark, damp clothes, a study in grey, brown and black, lightened only by the whiteness of shirts starched and pressed into respectability by the heat of many spat-on flat-irons. Perhaps a sermon in a field was kinder; no need to dress up for it, and the opportunity to slope off without being noticed. Young Piper sat close by him on his right. To his left were two old women blocking his path to the narrow aisle and the door. Chown was grey-pale from a life spent indoors, slightly, almost apologetically, stooped, as one who passed long hours bent over a desk, but without the bright eye and energy of a scholar. His voice was firm and modulated, and just strong enough for this small space and its docile audience. Sam tried to imagine this man seated opposite Ellen at the tea-table; he couldn’t bring himself to try to imagine him with her in bed. That rai is bringing up your own biti chavvi! he reminded himself. This felt even more unreal than the idea of Chown crying out against Ellen’s skin.

  *

  ‘I can take the reins if you wish, sir,’ said Sam. He wanted to do something with his hands.

  ‘Oh, would you, Mr Boswell? That would be most kind. I can manage to guide a horse, for I’m a countryman born and bred, though I labour now in a town, but I don’t have a gift for the handling of our dumb friends. I had thought to come with the owner, but he is in bed with the pleurisy, poor man, so I had to trust to my own feeble skill to get myself here. And I am rather tired, though the people do their best to welcome one. Fortunately the pony is a docile one – and your dog seems to be most biddable.’

  ‘Old Fred? Yes, he’s all right.’

  ‘You’ve been staying with Brother Piper, I hear?’

  ‘That’s right, but I’ve work to go to in Patrixbourne.’

  ‘He’d’ve kept you, probably. He lost his two eldest.’

  ‘He offered me, but I had already given my word to the other man.’

  ‘I see. You’re not from these parts, are you, Mr Boswell?’

  ‘I’m not from anywhere in particular, sir. And I goes everywhere.’

  ‘Ah yes – the tribe of Egypt. I’m an Oxfordshire man, myself. Ever been that direction?’ asked Harold.

  Something of Sam’s tension communicated itself to the pony. He soothed her with a few muttered words and the sound of the Romani in his own ears had the effect of calming him too.

  ‘I bin all over, but I don’t remember the names of all the places,’ he said warily. ‘We was reg’lar at St Giles’s fair up in Oxford.’

  ‘We? You’re on your own now, Mr Boswell?’

  ‘My mother died, sir, not a fortnight ago. She told me I should settle.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss. No one can replace a mother.’

  ‘Nor a father . . .’

  ‘No, indeed. But why Patrixbourne?’

  ‘It’s a good farm and the farmer a decent man. Mother knew she was going, and wanted to see all the places she’d been before she went. So I took ’er round first, and now she’s gone, I’m going back, since I’ve promised the farmer.’ Sam found he disliked lying to Chown, especially about his mother. Whilst it was true that Harmony had urged him to leave the road, there had been no customary tour for her round the old stopping-places; there had not been enough warning of her end. And he’d left the Bucklands out of his account altogether. Ellen’s husband was no doubt sitting beside him imagining a devoted son and an old lady travelling in their lone wagon to visit the places she had loved one last time.

  ‘Canterbury looked a neat enough town to me when I was there,’ Sam added carefully, ‘and I like how the name sounds on the ear – like the ringing of bells.’

  Chown looked at him in pleased astonishment. ‘You know, it does. I’d never thought of it in that way.’

  ‘We’ve a name for Canterbury, in our way of speaking,’ said Sam. ‘We call it: mi develeskey gav.’

  ‘Sounds nothing like it!’

  ‘But it means “my God’s town”.’

  Chown laughed; he did so, however, as if the muscles of his face were not accustomed to it. ‘Let us hope that it is!’ he exclaimed.

  Oh dordi, I like the poor fellow. He’s different entirely when he laughs like that.

  ‘What did you say your Christian name was, Mr Boswell?’

  ‘I didn’t – ’tis Tom.’

  ‘A fine name, for an apostle and for an archbishop, and for my stepson, as it happens . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My wife was a widow, Mr Boswell. The boy never knew his father – so he thinks of me as one.’

  ‘No doubt you’re right, sir,’ said Sam, staring fixedly at the pony’s ears. You can lie as well as I when it suits you, Mr Preacher!

  *

  Harold walked round the back of the terrace and in at the scullery door.

  ‘Hello, Harold,’ said Ellen. ‘You look pleased. It went well at Lenham Heath, then?’

  ‘Um, I believe it did, rather.’ Harold handed her his hat and started unbuttoning his coat. ‘No, don’t worry, I shall hang them up myself.’ He walked through to the back room. ‘I’d be grateful for some tea.’

  Ellen went to prepare it, saying over her shoulder: ‘How did you manage with the pony?’

  ‘She was very biddable. Barton said she would be. No doubt your grandfather would have had something to say about how I drove her, but she got there. I had a stroke of luck on the way back, though.’

  ‘Oh?’ She came in with the cups and saucers on a tray.

  ‘Yes. There was a young fellow who had work to go to at Patrixbourne. He took the reins for me. Likeable chap . . . I hope you don’t mind, Ellen, but I encouraged him to call here – I gave him our address. It was the first time he’d been to the chapel, you see.’

  ‘Why would I mind, Harold?’

  ‘Um . . . he’s a Gypsy.’

  A teaspoon clattered in a saucer.

  ‘Name of Boswell,’ said Harold, watching her.

  Ellen swallowed, then said shakily: ‘Forgive me, Harold, you startled me.’

  ‘You don’t know him, do you?’

  ‘I know no one of that name. But if he should call, I shall of course make him welcome.’

  *

  That night, lying as still as he was able, the mattress heaving as for the umpteenth time Ellen turned over and sighed, Harold wished he had never mentioned Tom Boswell. If just naming one of that tribe makes her react like this, I have no right to feel content.

  *

  Yet by breakfast time he noted that Ellen seemed to have recovered her equanimity, though she was pale, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. At the door, she handed him his umbrella and hat, as she always did, and asked, casually enough: ‘That Gypsy, Harold, the one you said might call here. What did you say he was called?’

  ‘Boswell – Tom Boswell. If he should call, do make him welcome.’

  ‘I will. Tom’s an easy name to remember, anyhow. Have a good day at work, Harold.’

  She closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, closing her eyes. He’s come back for me! Will it be days – or hours?

  *

  Harold knew his way to work so well now that he was left free to think as he walked. That wasn’t the name. Sam – Samson, she said it was. And the wretch had a wife – and there was a whole tribe of them in those woods. It must’ve been only a trick of the light made me think her pupils got bigger.

  26 ‘What must I do, mother, to make you well?’

  27 ‘It is my God’s doing, and we can’t help that.’

  28 Dead

  29 Burn

  30 Shamed, humiliated

  31 A poor non-Gypsy

  CHAPTER 25

  An ignorant man . . . lately led his wife, a decently dressed well-looking woman, about 30 years of age, into the public cattle-marke
t, Canterbury, to sell her! . . . the “untaught knave”, insensible to every sense of shame, engaged a pen . . . to which the poor creature was led by a halter. She was soon, however, disengaged from this vile station, by a young man named T. Fuller . . . who purchased her for 5s.!

  Annual Register, 1820

  Cattle Market

  Canterbury

  Holding onto the railings of St George’s Terrace and swinging back and forth like pistons, Tom and David looked down on a maze of pens and gates in which cattle seethed and bellowed as corduroy and moleskin-clad men moved swiftly back and forth, directing the livestock from one enclosure to another with a logic that made as much sense to Ellen and Judith as it did to the cows themselves. Finn, the auctioneer’s man, presided over the whole proceeding from atop a cart turned backwards, just as though he was a preacher at a camp meeting, though what came out of his mouth was a demented monotone, punctuated by gestures that miraculously made sense to the cattle-hands and the little knots of brown-suited farmers. He never missed the almost imperceptible signs these bidders made. Up on the terrace behind the railings, Ellen was afraid to make any gesture in case she found herself the unwilling owner of a herd of these shifting, fractious animals. Poor things, she thought. They were beef cattle.

  ‘Horses, Ma!’ Tom had at last let go of the railings and was pulling at Ellen’s sleeve.

  ‘Don’t tug so, Tom. Take my hand instead.’

  The little group moved slowly along the terrace. Here below the walls horses were being put through their paces. This, for the small Chowns looking down, was as good as watching a race – something Ellen had never done, for the Prims racecourses were the haunt of gamblers, men – Gypsies amongst them – fortifying themselves from hip flasks. Here they saw buyers pushing the velvet, whiskered lips back to inspect teeth of horses wide-eyed with indignation. Others ran their hands over legs in search of spavins. A boy led a young roan pony in a canter along a channel roped out for the purpose. A tall cloth-capped man in a shapeless old jacket stepped forward and nodded approvingly. Some words were exchanged and the animal was quickly saddled. Ellen watched as the boy joined his hands as a step for the man to swing himself into the saddle, and saw him reject the offer with a gentle motion of his hand. He was up with the effortless swing of the practised horseman, and the little horse trotted obediently and elegantly down the track, his rider loosely holding the reins. As he turned back again Ellen saw the rider’s face and clutched at the railing to prevent herself from crying out.

  Judith was at her elbow.

  ‘Him, ain’t it? I told you he’d come back.’

  ‘Yes!’ whispered Ellen.

  ‘Now stay here, Ellen Chown. I’m taking the boys up the other end to see the pigs.’

  ‘Don’t go!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Judith, as though talking to a child.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’ Ellen turned her back on the railings. ‘You see? He’s here, Judith, but he’s not been to see me. I cannot be made a fool of again – I don’t think I can bear it!’

  ‘Ellen, you haven’t the wit you were born with! The hopping is long over – what would he be doing here if it weren’t for you? You’ve read his letter – he’s been true to you all along. You can at least speak to him!’

  ‘But it’s so public here!’

  ‘Exactly. If you try and run off hundreds’ll see you. It’s too late, he’s seen you and he’s coming anyway. I just saw him pay that boy to hold the pony.’

  Judy waved her arms at Sam, pointing. In a panic Ellen saw him nod and start to weave his way through the crowd of buyers.

  ‘What have you done, Judy?’

  ‘He can’t climb this wall, can he? We’ll walk down to Burgate and you can talk to him there. Come along, boys! Oink oink!’

  *

  Ellen left Judy and the boys further on, leaning over the railings to look at the pigs. She’d panicked at the thought of seeing Sam and now panicked at the thought of missing him, and almost ran the last part of the terrace. He was waiting for her. She stopped a foot in front of him.

  ‘My Ellen.’

  ‘Sam!’ Her body prickled with desire, and she fought the urge to put her hands out to him. She took a deep breath. ‘We can’t talk here.’

  ‘Nine o’clock by them big towers, then.’

  ‘The Westgate?’

  ‘If that’s what it’s called. I’ll be there. I’ll wait all night for you if I have to.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything. But Sam, I got your letter finally – one of them. They’d kept it from me.’

  He took a step forward and grasped her shoulders. He was smiling.

  ‘Don’t, Sam. Someone might see,’ and she extricated herself.

  ‘So you do believe me, Ellen?’

  ‘Oh yes. I believe you.’

  ‘You’re mine then. If you still love me.’

  A pause.

  ‘Yes . . . I never stopped.’

  He smiled again, delighted as a boy. ‘Go and look at them pigs then. I’ll take the pony home and I’ll be back after supper. You’ll be kissed this night, Ellen.’

  *

  The tea things tidied away and the children in bed, Ellen was trying hard to concentrate on the tablecloth she held in her lap.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘What is it, Ellen?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Harold, I pricked my thumb again. I just can’t get this mending to come right.’

  Harold lowered his newspaper and stared at her over his spectacles.

  ‘You’ve been distracted for weeks now. Ever since you had woman’s trouble that time Judy put you to bed. But I’ve seen no doctor’s bill. When are you going to tell me what’s the matter?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re not, um . . . ?’

  ‘Oh my, oh goodness me, no . . . no . . . I mean, not this time.’ Aware that she sounded too relieved, she added, ‘I’d like to go out for a minute, Harold. My head hurts a bit; maybe the air will clear it.’ Her heart thumped so loudly that she thought he must hear it.

  ‘Why are you asking me? We’ve a back yard, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes . . . well, the children are sleeping, and Judith is already gone up, so . . .’

  ‘Go on, then. Just don’t catch cold. We’ve that temperance meeting coming up and much to do for it.’

  ‘I’ll wrap up, then.’

  Harold grunted, and went back to his reading.

  She closed the door as quietly as she could, and looked through the window at Harold’s jowly face and neatly brushed hair illuminated by the oil lamp. I’ll let Sam kiss me tonight and you won’t know!

  Harold stared fixedly at the page and didn’t see a word.

  *

  The back entrance to their terraced house was reached via a narrow passage cutting through between neighbouring homes. To reach that tunnel she passed by other kitchens, other back parlours. She scuttled by Mrs Clerk’s window with head bowed, not wanting to be waylaid. At the back of the next house she glimpsed a homely gaslit tableau, a young husband reading in his shirt sleeves whilst his wife prepared a child for bed, and thought, I shall be a different person by the time I see my children again.

  As she passed the Black Griffin, the door of the public bar opened and shouts and laughter reached her, some of it raucous and female. She didn’t look round, but heard a drunken argument continuing on the cobbles, too involved for the participants to take any notice of a plainly dressed woman walking swiftly by in the near dark, face eclipsed by a soft hat. Ellen was convinced others would smell fear on her. This nocturnal Canterbury was one she didn’t know, for darkness for her meant turning up the gaslight, sitting opposite Harold over the dying fire, mending or reading, or listening to him telling her what he would speak about the following Sunday, so that by the time she heard his sermon all the brightness had gone out of it.

  The Westgate bulked massive against the clear night sky. Even in daylight Ellen didn
’t like the little passage that ran alongside it, much less going through it in darkness, in spite of there being a police station close by.

  I’ll go under the main arch instead as there are no carts passing through at this hour, and I’ll come back through the passage; the light’s better this side than that. And if he’s not there . . . I should count myself lucky, she told herself, thinking again of that moment when she had walked into the deserted clearing, and found only the empty beer bottle. Head down she walked swiftly through the arched darkness, when behind her, silent as a cat, a shape detached itself from the black wall, an arm slipped round her waist from behind, and a hand muffled the shriek that rose in her throat.

  ‘Quiet, Ellen! You’ll have me lelled!’

  She twisted round in his grip.

  ‘What, Sam?’

  ‘I’m sorry – you’ll have me taken up, I meant. I couldn’t resist coming up to you like that. You were walking so purposeful I thought you’d walk right away and up the hill.’

  ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘All right, but give me your hand at least. There’s that little park by the river – let me talk to you in there.’

  ‘It’ll be locked.’ But her hand in his, she allowed herself to be led.

  ‘So we’ll go over the railings,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t climb over that.’

  ‘But I bet you don’t want to be seen talking to me out here. What if your policeman friend comes by again? Come on, it’s not high. I’ll lift you over.’

  Ellen put her foot into his linked hands, and as he eased her up and over, leaned into the old suit jacket and collarless shirt of the labourer. Oh, how she had missed the smell of him! All evening, through tea, through Harold’s little account of his day, through preparing the boys for bed, she had thought only of Sam’s promised kisses. And now he was hooking himself over the railing after her, and failing to stifle a groan.

  ‘Sam, what is it?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t go at these things so fast. They broke two of my ribs in that beating . . . Here, come under this little arch.’

  ‘What beating? Where are you taking me? I can barely see a thing!’

  ‘You’re not so used to the dark as me . . . You bin too long out of the country. Keep hold of my hand.’