Return of the Gypsy

by Philippa Carr

  We made our way past shelves upon which stood jars and bottles, and we came through a narrow passage to the dungeon with its iron gate.

  “You can look in,” I said.

  “There’s nobody in there,” said Digory as though disappointed.

  “Of course not. People don’t put their enemies in dungeons nowadays.”

  “Some might,” he retorted grimly; and again I saw the memory of that night in his eyes.

  “Not now,” I insisted firmly and I thought: I was wrong to bring him down here.

  “Let’s go up,” I said. “It’s cold down here.”

  So we went through the kitchens, past the ovens which had done service for hundreds of years, past the roasting spits and the great coppers, through the buttery to the laundry rooms. Then up to the great hall.

  I talked to him about the wars which had beset the country and told him what part my family had played in them. I took him to the dining room and explained what the tapestries on the walls were depicting. He listened in rapt attention, which surprised me. I talked of the Wars of the Roses and the Great Rebellion, that conflict between Cavalier and Roundhead which had rent the country. I felt like Miss Caster giving a history lesson, but he was interested; he wanted to know.

  I showed him the solarium and peeps, which fascinated him; he stood, for a long time, looking down into the hall and then the chapel. I took him to the turrets and we went out and walked along the battlements. I would not have believed that a house could have made such an impression on him. But then it was a wonderful house; it had been kept in good order over the centuries; it had been loved and cherished; and although it had been restored from time to time, there had been great care not to destroy the antiquity. That now seemed all around us. Perhaps it was due to the fact that we were alone in it, but as I talked to him I had the feeling that we were two young people walking back through the centuries.

  He had had no schooling; I suppose he had never heard of the events to which I referred before, but he was fascinated by them; and now and then would ask a pertinent question.

  We stood for a while looking out to sea.

  “Just imagine, Digory,” I said, “from out there Cador would have looked just the same five hundred years ago. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “How do you know?” he demanded. “You wasn’t here.”

  “No. But it hasn’t changed so it must have been the same.”

  He looked steadily at me and said: “You’ve got the Devil’s kiss on your forrid.”

  I put up my hand. His was there before mine. He touched the side of my temple just beside my left eye. I knew what he meant; it was a little mole. My father called it my beauty spot.

  I had never thought very much about it.

  “What do you mean—the Devil’s kiss?” I asked.

  “They do say that’s how it be when the Devil kisses ’ee.”

  “What nonsense. I have never even met the gentleman—let alone been kissed by him.”

  “He do come in the night when you be sleeping.”

  “What a horrible thought! It’s a mole. My father likes it. He says it’s attractive. Who says it is anything to do with the Devil?”

  “Them,” he said; and again there was that look of hideous memory in his eyes. “Them says as how it’s the Devil as does it.”

  “I’m not afraid of them.”

  Again I had spoken rashly. He had been afraid of them; and so should I have been in his place on that terrible night.

  I felt very sorry for him. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Digory,” I said. “We’ve got to forget all about that. It’s over. It was cruel. It was horrible. But it’s done and nothing can be done to change it.”

  He was silent, staring ahead, seeing it all, I knew; and I was seeing it with him. I could almost smell the burning thatch.

  “We’ve got to go on from there, Digory,” I said. “You’ve got to get used to the stables. You’re fond of the horses and it’s good to work with what you love. Ferry is kind to you, isn’t he? My father insists that he should be. It’s a better way of life … to be part of a household like this … better than running round stealing fish. You could get caught.”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes, you might, Digory. If there’s anything that bothers you, you only have to tell us … tell me or Jacco. We’ll always help if we can.”

  He looked blankly at me and there was still in him that which reminded me of the caged bird.

  He said: “Tell you what. I’ll get rid of your Devil’s kiss.”

  I put my hand to my temple.

  “Oh, it’s all right, Digory. It doesn’t bother me. My father says that when I grow older I’ll call attention to it. Blacken it to make it stand out and make people notice my eyes.”

  “There’s them,” he said.

  And he meant that frenzied mob.

  I could see that he wanted to attempt to charm away my mole and that this was his way of showing appreciation for what I had done for him. “Never brush aside people’s attempts to repay you,” my mother had said. “You may not want repayment but their pride demands that they should give it. Do take it graciously.”

  I saw what she meant now.

  “All right, Digory,” I said. “You shall charm away my mole.”

  We came into the turret and went down through the house. Every now and then he would pause and gaze wonderingly about him. I was pleased and felt I had seen a new side to his nature; he might be uneducated but he had an eye for beauty. He seemed to find it difficult to tear himself away from the tapestries and I had to tell him again about the wars which had inspired them.

  I did not know how long this tour of the house had taken but I did realize that time was passing. Isaacs might return; and Mrs. Penlock was only interested in having her fortune told and would not stay after that had been done.

  I said: “They’ll be back soon.”

  A look of fear came into his face. He was then all eagerness to get away. I was leading him to the front door but he was anxious to leave by the way he had come, which was through an open window in one of the kitchens.

  I felt then that I was a little nearer to understanding him and as soon as Jacco came in I would tell him what had happened and suggest that we try to see him now and then and make him realize how secure he was and that while he was under my father’s protection, he was safe from the savagery of a superstitious mob.

  I was unprepared for the sequel. It happened two days after our tour of the house.

  Jacco and I had been out with our father. Jacco had to learn a good deal about estate management and he was often with my father on his round. I was free to accompany them whenever I wished and that was often because I was very interested in the people who were Cador tenants.

  As we came into the stables John Ferry came hurrying out.

  “Oh, Sir Jake,” he said, “there be trouble. ’Tis about that boy …”

  There was a faint tightening of the lips which betrayed the unspoken comment: “I could have told you so.” This indicated that Digory was in some sort of trouble.

  “What’s happened?” asked my father.

  “Slattery have caught him red-handed, Sir Jake,” Ferry explained. “A tidy-sized piece of beefsteak he had … was stowing it away in a bag when he was caught. No doubt about it, sir. There was the steak in his bag.”

  “What was the point of stealing steak?” demanded my father. “He’s well fed here, isn’t he?”

  “There’s them that’s thieves by nature, sir. They do it natural. It’s a habit of a lifetime.”

  “Where’s the boy now?”

  “Down at Slattery’s. Slattery’s going to charge him. But he said he’d tell me first and I could tell you like … seeing as how you’ve taken the boy in.”

  Jacco and I were looking at our father anxiously. He said: “Come on. We’ll go to Slattery’s and sort this out.”

  Tom Slattery, the butcher, was a fat red-faced man with a slight resemb
lance to the pigs which hung up in his shop, except that they had oranges in their mouths and he had broken teeth. He always wore a blue-and-white striped apron, faintly bloodstained, over his grey trousers and my memory of him is standing over a slightly concave board with a chopper in his hands.

  We left our horses tethered to the rail and a few steps from the shop and went in.

  In the parlour behind the shop cowered Digory, trying hard to hide his terror. We were surprised to see Luke Tregern, the Hansons’ gamekeeper, with Slattery.

  “Good day, Slattery … Tregern …” said my father. “What’s all this about a pound of beefsteak and the boy?”

  “Well, Sir Jake,” said Slattery, “he be nothing but a thief. Not that we ain’t known that. ’Tis no surprise, as you might say. I had me back turned for a minute and I hears a shout. ’Twas a mercy Mr. Tregern here just come into the shop. See him take it up, he did, and when I spins round there he is stuffing it into his bag all ready to dart out of my shop.”

  “That’s the case, Sir Jake,” said Luke Tregern. “I caught the boy in the act.”

  He looked rather pleased with himself.

  “He’s been thieving all his life,” said Slattery. “Slippery as an eel, that one is. I’d never have known he’d been in and out of my shop if it hadn’t been for Mr. Tregern here.”

  “I’m glad I came in when I did,” said Luke Tregern.

  Digory turned defiant eyes up to my father.

  “Is this true?” asked my father. “Did you steal the steak?”

  Digory didn’t answer.

  I could not restrain myself. I said: “Why did you do it, you foolish boy? You get enough to eat, don’t you?”

  Still he did not answer.

  “There must be a reason,” said Jacco.

  “Tell us why you stole the steak,” said my father. “Were you hungry? If you don’t tell us, how shall we know what to do about you? If there is a reason, you must tell us.”

  There was another silence. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at me.

  “My daughter!” said my father. “What has she to do with it?”

  “’Twas for her,” said Digory.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Had to be secret meat. No one to know where it come from … or it don’t work.”

  “What is he talking about?” asked my father.

  “Devil’s kiss,” said Digory.

  Then I understood. I touched my temple. “Was it this?” I asked.

  “You know,” he said. “You wanted it done.”

  I said: “I think I understand. Digory wanted to do something for me. He noticed this.” I pointed to my mole. “He was going to get rid of it for me. Was that what the beefsteak was for, Digory?”

  He nodded. “It has to go on. Then I put on the brew. After that … ’tis gone in two days.”

  “But why did you steal it? I could have got some steak in the kitchen for you.”

  “’Tas to be secret. You can’t know where it do come from.”

  I said: “It is all clear to me. Digory was trying to do me a good turn. He was going to remove this mole because he thought it was not good for me to have it.” I looked appealingly at my father. “You can understand it after … after …”

  My father nodded.

  “He wanted to repay us … Jacco and me.”

  Jacco said: “It’s quite simple. He was going to take away Annora’s mole and she wasn’t to know where the steak came from or it wouldn’t work.”

  “I have never heard such nonsense,” said my father. “You see, Slattery, this is a children’s game. Leave the boy to me. I’ll deal with him.” He put a sovereign on the table. “That’ll take care of the steak and you can keep it as well as the money. I don’t suppose it came to much harm in the boy’s bag. Now I’ll leave you to your business. Thank you for sending to Ferry. Shouldn’t attach too much importance to childish games. I’ll give the boy a talking-to … and my daughter, too.”

  We came out of the shop, Digory with us. I noticed that Luke Tregern was looking after us with a rather quizzical expression, and I had the feeling that he was disappointed in the way in which the situation had turned out. I supposed he thought he had been rather clever in spotting Digory’s action and should have been commended for it.

  My father said sternly to Digory: “Never take anything that doesn’t belong to you, boy, or you’ll be in trouble. Now go back to your work.”

  Digory ran off at great speed and my father turned to me: “As for you,” he said, “I don’t know how you could be so stupid. He might have disfigured you with his witches’ potions.”

  “I only thought that he wanted to do something to repay us, and Mama says we should remember people’s pride and respect it.”

  “I suppose she is right. But that young idiot will have to take care. There’s enough feeling against him already. There’s a great sense of guilt throughout this place for what happened that night. Nobody wants to take responsibility. I daresay your mother will tell you that people hate to feel guilt and try to justify themselves. If they could prove Mother Ginny’s grandson to be a thief, they’d feel a little justification. So if you have any influence with that boy, tell him to take care.”

  “We will, won’t we, Annora?” said Jacco.

  I nodded in agreement.

  When one is young and innocent of nature, one believes in easy solutions. The fairy tales always told us that they lived “happy ever after.” I accepted that. It was comforting and pleasant. I had thought that when Digory had a good bed to sleep in and was assured of three meals a day, and worked with horses which he loved and had my father’s protection, he would live “happy ever after.”

  Comfort could not change Digory. He was wild; his freedom was what he most desired. In the days before the fire he might have lived frugally; he might have gone hungry now and then; he had lived dangerously, outside the community; and people were suspicious of him because his grandmother was a witch. But he had been proud, subservient to nobody—and he had been happy.

  What happened I supposed was inevitable. He might have avoided it for a time, if he had had better luck; but the outcome would have been the same.

  And this time there was no way of saving him.

  He had made the Dogs’ Home his. He slept there, though it must have been less comfortable than the room over the stables which had been allotted to him. There was a clearing behind the Dogs’ Home and here he made fires and cooked for himself.

  He did not like the company of the other stable lads; Ferry tolerated him but I guessed he was hoping he would be caught in some misdemeanor so that he could have the pleasure of seeing him removed and proving my father in the wrong. He did not understand that my father would not feel that at all. But Ferry was hoping for the boy’s downfall—as I guessed most of the servants were. Mrs. Penlock never said a word against Digory but she had a very significant sniff when his name was mentioned.

  It was about two weeks after the beefsteak incident.

  Ferry came to the house, triumphant. He wished to speak to Sir Jake. I had seen him coming and, guessing from his attitude that this meant trouble for Digory, I contrived to be there.

  Ferry stood, cap in hand, turning it round and round as he spoke. “’Tis that boy again, Sir Jake.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He be in jail, Sir Jake.”

  “What?”

  “Caught. In the Hanson woods, sir. Pheasant in his bag. No mistake about what he was up to this time.”

  My father looked at him blankly. “The idiot,” he said. “What was he doing stealing a pheasant? He’s fed …”

  “There’s some as is natural thieves, sir, and that boy’s one of them. When you think where he comes from … It was Mr. Hanson’s gamekeeper who caught him. Mr. Tregern, sir. He got him charged right away. Serious offence, this, sir.”

  “Very serious,” agreed my father. “All right, Ferry.”

  Ferry touched his forehead and retire
d.

  I stared in dismay at my father.

  “It appears,” he said, looking at me ruefully, “that this time the young fool has got himself into serious trouble.”

  How right he was!

  Jacco and I were very distressed, looking upon Digory as our protégé as we did. How could he have been so foolish! With our father’s help we had been able to extricate him from the beefsteak incident but this was another matter.

  “Can you get him freed?” asked Jacco of my father.

  “He’s already in the hands of the law. Hanson’s gamekeeper took quick action. I’ve no doubt they’ll get Slattery to speak against him.”

  “Couldn’t you forbid him to?”

  “No, my son. I can’t interfere with the course of justice. It’s true what Slattery says. The boy’s a natural thief. If he escaped the consequences of this there would be another incident before long. We’ve seen that of the beefsteak. You would have thought that would have been warning enough.”

  “It’s just bravado,” I said.

  “It is a luxury which, in his position, he cannot afford.”

  It soon became clear that there was nothing to be done. My father asked Mr. Hanson if he would talk to his gamekeeper and this he did. He came back and told us that Luke Tregern was adamant. There was not doubt of the boy’s guilt and he could not have people walking off with the pheasants. If this sort of thing was allowed to go on he could not be responsible. It would be an impossible situation for him. The last thing Mr. Hanson wanted was to lose such an excellent man. Moreover, as he hinted to my father, they both knew enough about the law to understand that it could not be trifled with to gain special favours for certain people.

  My father said to us: “Of course I see his point. It is a pity about that beefsteak—and Tregern was the one who caught him at that. I warned the young fool and he has flouted me. No, there is nothing to be done. The boy has got to learn his lesson—a hard one it will no doubt be, but it is his own fault and perhaps the only way to instill some sense into him.”

  I wanted to go and see him, to talk to him; but that was not possible.

  Jacco and I rode out to the moors and lay on the grass making wild plans to save him. But there was nothing that could be done. Even we had to realize that.