The Snow Gypsy

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  “I do understand.” He picked out a cherry and studied it for a moment before popping it in his mouth. “But it’s not normal for a woman to be without a man.”

  “Says you!” Lola huffed. “I’ve never met a man I liked well enough to want to get married. Not here in Granada or back home.”

  “Well, Antonio asked me to ask you again. I think he’s worried you’re going to come back from Provence with some French troubadour for a husband.”

  Lola threw a cherry stone at him. It bounced off his nose and landed in the jug of lemonade. It was eight days until they were due to set off for France, and she couldn’t wait. Quite apart from the excitement of performing at the biggest Gypsy fiesta in Europe, it would be pure bliss to escape from all the people who—like Antonio Lopez—kept telling her that a girl of her age had better get married before it was too late.

  Sometimes she felt as if she’d crammed a whole lifetime into her twenty-two years. At fourteen she had witnessed something no child should ever see. And she had brought up Nieve on her own, with only a little help from her cousin and his wife. She had been looking out for herself for the past eight years, and she was finally earning good money. If Cristóbal thought she was about to give that up for some dough-faced muleteer, he must be tonto. Stupid.

  “Come on,” she said, arching her back and yawning as she stood up. “We’d better get these children to their beds.”

  “I might stay for a while,” Cristóbal replied. “Juanita won’t be waiting up—she’s been falling asleep at the dinner table these past few nights.”

  Lola gave him a hard look. She knew exactly what he had in mind. He would go on drinking into the small hours, pick up a woman, then stagger home to find his pregnant wife on her knees, building a fire to make breakfast.

  She lifted the still-sleeping Nieve into her arms and shooed the other two ahead of her. If they hadn’t been within earshot, she would have warned their father that he’d better be on his best behavior in Provence. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to lie to Juanita about what he might get up to at the fiesta.

  Why was it, she wondered, that men were allowed to get away with that kind of thing while she was mocked for not wanting a husband? No one would dream of teasing a nun for choosing not to marry, so why did they curl their lips at her? Was dancing so very different from praying? Flamenco was about surrendering to the duende. It was about allowing your body to be taken over by something you couldn’t see, only feel. And when you were doing it well, it felt like a religious experience. Sacred and precious.

  “Perhaps we will find you a husband at the fiesta,” Cristóbal called after her. “A big, strong Húngaro who’ll drag you off and make love to you on a wolf-skin rug!”

  “Over my dead body!” Lola whispered the words into the lavender-scented hair of the child in her arms.

  Chapter 4

  Sussex marshes, England: May 2, 1946

  The sun was dipping below the horizon when Rose found Bill Lee. She had first met him the same year that Nathan had set off for Spain—and in the decade since, she had made an annual visit to the place where he could always be found in the months of summer.

  His vardo was in a different place from the one he usually chose. Its carved front, painted with red and yellow roses, was hidden by a thicket of willow trees. Rose found it only when she spotted one of Bill’s dogs—a black-and-white mutt called Bess—roaming along the riverbank. Bess came running up, recognizing the smell of two old friends, and after frolicking in the long marsh grass for a while with Rose’s Afghan, she led them straight to her master.

  Bill was sitting on the steps of the Gypsy caravan, whittling wood for pegs. A pipe stuck out from his mouth, the smoke curling up from beneath the brim of an ancient felt hat with a peacock feather poked through a tear in the side of it. His long hair, as black as a Gypsy kettle, was tied back with a thin strip of leather. Rose watched him reach down to the pile of wood shavings at his feet and toss a handful onto a smoldering fire. The crackle of the flames stifled the sound of the dog coming through the trees. It was only when Bess leapt up against his legs that he glanced up with wild, dark pony eyes.

  The expression in those eyes transported Rose back in time to the day she had first encountered him out on the marshes. It was a look of suspicion mingled with fear. Bill had been out with his three younger sisters, Constance, Patience, and Mercy, collecting watercress to sell at Chichester market. Rose’s dog had gone running up to them before she could stop him and overturned one of their baskets. She had apologized for his bad behavior, explaining that he was still just a puppy. And she had caught puzzled looks passing between them as they took in her bare feet, the mud-stained hem of her skirt, and the hazelnut hue of her face and arms.

  She looks like us.

  Rose had sensed what they were thinking. And it was true. Walking through Chichester, she had often heard people whisper “Gypsy!” as she passed by. The black hair and dark complexion came from her Turkish father. Her French mother had bequeathed the high cheekbones and deep-set gray eyes.

  But suspicion had lingered on the faces of Bill and his sisters as they asked what breed of dog Gunesh was and reached out to pat him. Their faces had tightened when she told them she was interested in finding out about the natural remedies Gypsies used for their animals. They had gathered up their baskets and moved on, away down a bend in the river.

  A few days later she had spotted Bill on his own, collecting moorhen eggs. She’d had her two goats with her this time as well as Gunesh. Bill had tipped his hat and wished her good morning, but pulled a cloth over his basket, as if he were afraid she would challenge him for taking eggs from the nests of wild birds. Realizing how tactless she had been at that first meeting, she had tried a different way into conversation. She’d asked him if he liked goat cheese—and when he said he’d never tasted it, she’d offered him some as a present.

  Before long she had been invited to spend an evening with Bill and his sisters. They had picnicked by the river around a fire of willow branches and eaten soup made of seaweed and snails, followed by elderflower blossoms fried in batter.

  Later they’d walked her back to her tent. When they disappeared into the night, she’d had no idea where they were going or how far they would have to walk to wherever they were living. She hadn’t asked, because it had dawned on her that the treatment meted out to them by non-Gypsies had made them wary of giving themselves away.

  There had been many times, at school and in college, when spiteful words had made her long to deny her Jewish blood. And sometimes she had denied it. She sensed that, to get closer to the Lee family, she needed to convey empathy for their way of life. So when she ran into Bill again while picking mushrooms one morning, she started dropping one or two Romany words into the conversation.

  “Where did you learn that?” Bill had stared at her, wide eyed, when she’d asked him if she could borrow a kipsi to transport the dinas she had for him and his sisters. Instead of replying, she’d named the gifts she would put in the basket: meski (tea), foggus (tobacco), pobbles (apples), pishom (honey), and men-werigas (necklaces).

  She had learned these words as a child—from a bewitching Gypsy woman with the fabulous name of Bessarabia, who used to go from house to house, selling wild daffodils. Rose’s father, true to his Middle Eastern roots, had strict rules about offering hospitality to people he regarded as being poor, and so the flower seller had been invited in for tea and cake.

  Rose had been unable to conceal her fascination. Bessarabia wore a bright-orange skirt and a cloak of purple velvet, peppered gold from the daffodil pollen. Copper rings the size of saucers dangled from her ears, and on her wrist she wore a silver bell tied with a green ribbon.

  Keeping her company while she ate, Rose had learned the Romany for objects lying around the kitchen—the words for potatoes, broomstick, kettle, and cake. She wrote them down the way they sounded and added new ones each time the Gypsy called.

  Bessarabia had
disappeared from her life a few months later when Rose was sent away to school. But the words had lodged themselves in her head. Like a golden key, they had the power to take her into a hidden world. She had watched Bill’s face light up when she dredged them from her memory.

  “I told my sisters you must have Gypsy blood!” He had taken her hand and run to find Constance, Patience, and Mercy. The sisters had hugged her, pulling out strands of her hair to wrap around their fingers, their eyes shining with relief at no longer having to hide what they called their kawlo rat. Their dark blood.

  During that summer of 1936, Rose had grown very close to the Lee family. At Chichester market they had introduced her to other Sussex Gypsies. For a packet of tea and a pouch of tobacco, they would tell her how they’d cured a horse or a dog of this or that ailment, where to find the herbs they used for the treatment, and the right way to administer them to the animal.

  Bill himself had taught her how to treat a horse with colic by mixing grated gentian root and mint leaves with warm milk and honey. When she went with him searching for herbs, he would take her to hidden places and show her things she’d never seen before, like a beaver’s dam and a squirrel’s nest. And in return for all that he did for her, Rose had taught Bill how to read.

  Now as she waved and ran toward the vardo, she thought how little he had changed in the years since that first summer. He was as lithe as the dog that bounded around his feet, and his face, though constantly exposed to the weather, bore no trace of any lines or wrinkles.

  “Rosie! Tatchoavel mi kushti pen!” Welcome, sweet sister. He bundled her in his arms, lifting her off the grass and waltzing her around the fire.

  She kissed his cheek. “Where’s Martha? And the chauvis?” She reached into her bag. “I’ve bought them a book of fairy tales—and a shawl for Martha.”

  “They’ve gone to visit her mother.” Bill smiled at the gifts. “They’ll be grieved they missed you!”

  Rose held his gaze. Words hung in the air, unspoken. There had always been a slight awkwardness with Martha, the woman Bill had chosen when Rose had turned him down. And seeing their children was always bittersweet, knowing that this was what she could have had.

  Bill’s sisters had revealed his feelings the week before she was due to leave Sussex to resume her veterinary course. Constance, Patience, and Mercy had pulled her inside the vardo, giggling, when Bill had set off on a fishing trip.

  “He’s terrible in love with you,” Patience had whispered. “If you marry him, you can live with us—won’t that be kushti!”

  Rose had tried to explain. She’d already told them she was in love with a boy in college.

  “But you’re not promised to him, are you?” Mercy had given her a sly look.

  They hadn’t understood when she’d told them she was too young to settle down, that there was so much she wanted to do before getting married and having children. All three Lee sisters had found husbands since that summer. They had eleven children between them.

  Now as she looked into Bill’s eyes, Rose saw nothing but friendly concern. Whatever romantic feelings he had once harbored toward her were long gone.

  A loud bark broke the silence. Gunesh was chasing Bess in and out of the trees, and they had flushed a rabbit from the undergrowth.

  “I’ll make us a brew, shall I?” Bill hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, then patted the step of the caravan. She settled down beside him, and for a few moments they sat watching the flames rise and fall. He sucked on his pipe and she breathed in the drifting smoke. It smelled of spiced cherries and roasted chestnuts. There was something very soothing about it.

  “I’ve got something to show you.” She fished a small package wrapped in brown paper from her bag. “My book.”

  He unwrapped it, angling the cover to catch the dying rays of the sun. “Herbal Healing for Animals.” He traced the letters with his fingers. “By Rose Daniel!”

  “Look inside.”

  He flicked through one page, then another. “‘For my friend and . . .’ What’s this word?”

  “Mentor. It means a special teacher. Someone who guides you.”

  “‘For my friend and mentor, Bill Lee.’” His face split into a grin. “Can I keep it?”

  “Of course you can!” She grinned back. “It’s a dino.” A gift.

  She slipped her arm through his and squeezed it. “The book isn’t the only reason I’ve come.”

  It was not the first time she had sought him out in a crisis. It was Bill she had run to during the war when her father had suffered a fatal heart attack in France. She thought she would have died of her sadness if she’d not had her Gypsy friend to talk to. Bill had a deep, heartfelt wisdom that went far beyond the well-meaning platitudes she had encountered in London. It was comfort he had given her then. Now she needed his counsel.

  He nodded. Patting her hand, he rose to his feet. “Let me make the tea first.” He lifted the kettle off the fire with a forked stick.

  When the tea was brewed and he was back beside her, she drew in a long breath. “My mother passed away last autumn.”

  She felt his hand on hers, warm and rough with calluses.

  “She never really got over losing Dad. And Nathan.” She paused, unable to look at Bill, afraid that if she did, the dam of grief would burst. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about: Nathan. You see, when she was alive, Mum wouldn’t hear of me going to look for him. Even when the war ended, she begged me not to go. But now she’s . . .” Rose lifted the teacup to her mouth in a vain attempt to swallow down the lump in her throat.

  “You believe he’s still living?” Bill’s voice was matter of fact. There was no hint of incredulity. Neither was there any trace of false optimism.

  “I know it’s not likely—but I keep hoping. Today is his birthday. He’s—I mean he would be—thirty-three.”

  Bill nodded. “A day like that is bound to be hard. You’ve grieved for your parents, but you haven’t allowed yourself to grieve for him.”

  “How can I when I don’t know for certain that he’s . . .” She couldn’t say the word.

  “A body doesn’t have to leave this world to stir up those feelings.” He bent to gather a handful of wood shavings. The fire hissed and spat as they landed in the flames. “Grief is living with someone who’s not there, who’s gone out of your life for one reason or another.”

  She nodded slowly, slipping her hand inside her pocket. “This is the last letter he sent. It’s dated March 1938. He says the war is going badly and he and some of his friends are planning to escape to France. But he’d met a girl in Spain—he doesn’t say her name—and she was expecting his baby. Listen to this bit . . .” She screwed up her eyes, struggling to make out the words in the dying light.

  I know it’s not what Mum and Dad would have wanted, but the war makes you live every day as if it’s your last. I’d like to marry her—but they murdered the priest last summer. Even if they hadn’t, he would never have sanctioned a Jew marrying a Catholic.

  I wish I could tell you her name, but that could put her in danger. All I can say is that I love her very much. We might not have a lifetime to live together, might not have what people are always supposed to have. Living as I do now, I must concentrate it all into the short time that I can have it.

  There are Gypsy men fighting alongside us, and they have a different view of death than the rest of us. Their attitude is a calm acceptance. They say simply, “We all must die—no one knows the hour or the trouble and pains we may have to bear before our days are ended. Give thanks to God that we are alive this day and free to breathe the sweet air and hear the brown bird in the tree.”

  “Gypsy men?” Bill peered over her shoulder at the letter. “Things must have been terrible bad for our folk to fight along gawjes.”

  Rose nodded. War was an alien concept to people like Bill. Gypsies couldn’t understand why anyone would sacrifice themselves over the possession of a piece of land or a dispute over who ruled over it.
/>
  “Where was he living when he wrote this letter? Could you go there? Is it safe now?”

  “That’s the trouble,” Rose replied. “I don’t have much idea of the location. He said it was south of a city called Granada, in the mountains. The only clue I have is something he said about a village nearby. He was explaining how he met the girl he fell in love with.” She scanned the letter until she found the paragraph she was looking for.

  We went to buy tobacco one night at a village farther down the mountain. The weather was hot and we were thirsty, so we stopped at a fountain set in the wall of the main street. There’s a legend attached to the place: the local people say anyone who drinks the water will find a sweetheart before the next sunrise. We laughed about it while we drank. But the strange thing was, I met my girl that same evening.

  “It’s not much to go on, is it?” Rose folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. Bill was staring into the fire, a look of concentration on his face, as if the answer might be found in the poppy glow of the embers.

  “Is it a big place, Spain?”

  “Very big. Much bigger than England. At least three times the size, I’d say. I found Granada on a map. There are hundreds of miles of mountains to the south. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You need to find someone who knows it, then, don’t you?”

  “Yes—but how?”

  Bill drew on his pipe and breathed out a twisting wreath of smoke. “There’s a place you could find Romany folk from Spain without going all the way there. They’d be the ones to ask.”

  “Is there? Where?”

  “A big party in France. The biggest in the whole world. They hold it in Maytime every year in the horse country by the sea.”

  “Where? Have you been there?”

  Bill shook his head. “Can’t take the vardo over the water. But I’ve met folk as have been. It’s coming soon; you’d have to be quick.”