Poised lightly on the balls of his feet, he moved like a dancer this way and that, touching the whip in a gentle caress against the animal’s flank to guide it in his footsteps. The rope was shortened measure by measure until man and horse were almost touching. Max was still talking, still crooning as the stallion trembled and fretted. Then he breathed into the velvet nostrils and ran his hand over the quivering neck.
The stallion flinched, jerking his head up, ears flat. But there was nowhere to go. Nothing to sense but the calm of the man before him whose smell had become familiar – whose voice and touch seemed to soothe his fears.
John crouched behind the log, spell-bound. One day he would have the courage to face such an animal. His father would teach him the skills he’d learned from his father and his father before him. It was the Romany way – his future. But for now he was content to watch and admire.
Afternoon shadows had fallen across the arena as the bit and bridle were eased over the stallion’s head. He tried to toss them off, backing away, skittering and weaving to escape. But the man held fast, still talking, still exchanging breath for breath as he eased the bit between the snapping teeth. After a long while Max led the horse into the corner of the corral. The stallion was still, but the quiver in his sweat-sheened flanks warned he was poised for flight.
Max stroked his neck, running his hand over the strong back as he lulled the animal. Then, inch by inch, he climbed the makeshift barricade, talking all the while, his hand always in touch with the chestnut coat.
The stallion shifted uneasily as the man lay softly across his back, but the hands still caressed, the voice still crooned as the weight was shifted and the slack was taken up in the halter. The reins tightened, pulled at the hated thing in the stallion’s mouth. The man was astride him now, heels pressed to ribs, knees pressed tight as hands gripped his mane.
The other men leaped clear as the stallion reared. Max clung on, his chest tight to the animal’s neck, his feet and knees gripping the heaving ribs as his face was whipped by the flying mane.
John forgot about hiding in the sheer exhilaration of the moment. He stood up as the stallion took off in a whirlwind of fury. Grass flew in muddy clods from the flying hoofs, the wind carrying the sound of the animal’s whicker and the man’s shout of triumph. The horse skidded, whipped round in a vicious circle, dropped his head and bucked.
Max was unseated, his hands torn from the reins, his body tossed in an arc over the beast’s head. He fell against the railings with a crack that echoed in the surrounding trees.
Now John stopped walking and sat down on the remains of the old castle wall. It was as if he could still hear that terrible sound. Still feel the shock of what had happened. As Brendon Fuller had died instantly, so had Max Tanner.
He stared out over the hills, yet it wasn’t the distant roofs of Lewes he saw but the black funeral pyre of his father’s vardo wheel. Not the scent of damp grass and earth but the stench of burning wood. They had buried Max beneath an elm tree deep in West Dean forest, his gold earrings and chain clasped in his lifeless fingers. They were his talismans, the sign of his earthly achievement. They would remain with him as was the Romany way, so his spirit would be at peace.
John shivered as he thought of that vital man lying beneath the earth. Death followed them all but fate determined its time and place. It could come secretly and silently or with obscene swiftness – but always inflicted a scar on those left behind.
He’d been fortunate, he admitted silently. His grandmother, the dukkerin, had taken him in, and there was always someone around to offer comfort and advice as he was growing up. But Rose? What would happen to her? He chewed his lip as he remembered how distant Kathleen Fuller was – how uncaring of her daughter. There was no large family to surround Rose with love and support – no constancy in her life now her da was gone.
He smiled as he thought about their early years. Even as a boy he’d felt something special for her, and as the years had passed the bond between them had strengthened. He found himself watching for her, waiting to catch a glimpse of her in the lane of an early morning as she made her way to the Manor. Sneaking her gifts of freshly caught trout or snared rabbit. The events of the past few days had brought all those feelings to the surface and he’d become impatient for the time when he could declare his feelings and make her his wife. He knew there was a man staying with the Ades who’d bothered Rose and couldn’t wait to get her out of harm’s way.
Thoughts of failure, of her rejecting him, never figured. Although she was still very young, he knew the day would come – for he’d had the dreams, seen her face in the campfire flames and knew fate’s hand had touched them.
The rusty caw of the rooks brought him to his feet. His thoughts had occupied him for too long; the sun was already rising, the shadows chased from beneath the trees. He hurried through the woods until he reached the clearing then stood for a moment, watching the morning ritual.
The vardoes were drawn in a wide circle around the camp fire, and he could smell the rook stew simmering in the black metal pot. Children played around the wagons and tents, their shrill voices echoing through the trees as they called to one another. The men were grooming the horses which were tethered off to one side of the camp, or sat smoking clay pipes as they waited for breakfast. The women chattered like starlings as they divided bread into chunks and threw vegetables into the pot.
John stepped into the clearing. His grandmother Sarah Tanner was waiting for him on the steps of her vardo. Despite her great age she still wore the traditional bright red skirts and petticoats and ornately embroidered waistcoat and blouse she’d favoured in her youth. Her long grey hair was tied back with green ribbon and gold glinted at her ears and in her mouth. She had propped one foot up on the shafts, leaning her elbow on her knee as she smoked her clay pipe.
John was all too aware of her keen scrutiny. Those eyes missed nothing.
The pipe was clamped between her remaining teeth. ‘So, you are planning to see her again?’
With hands deep in his pockets, John returned her direct gaze. ‘I must. She has no one else and it’s Brendon’s funeral today.’
Sarah took her pipe out of her mouth and grimaced. ‘She’s kairango, boy. None of your business.’ When John remained silent, she spat at his feet. ‘Rose Fuller’s trouble. Stay away from her.’
He decided it would be useless to argue. The dukkerin wouldn’t listen anyway. He ran his hands through his hair and eased his shoulders. They were still aching from a boxing match the previous night.
‘Look at me, boy.’
The soft demand was impossible to ignore and John reluctantly obeyed. His grandmother’s dark eyes were fathomless and he knew she was seeing things from another dimension. A shiver of apprehension raised the hairs on his neck. The dukkerin’s power was rarely flawed – and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he was about to hear.
‘Your destiny lies along a different road, John. And it is a long journey. When Orion rules the heavens and Gemini splits asunder – then you will know the terrible price you pay for defying fate.’
John didn’t want to believe her but as her eyes cleared and her gaze remained steady on him the dread returned. ‘Rose is in me, Grandmother,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve seen …’
‘Don’t vex me, boy,’ she snapped. ‘You see what you want to see. Listen to me. Her path is troubled, but she will not travel alone.’ She paused for a moment, then wiped the spittle from the corners of her mouth. ‘She travels with another,’ she said softly. ‘Your destiny is here, amongst your own.’
He shook his head but love and respect for the old woman kept him silent. She could believe what she wanted. He would never abandon his Rose.
*
Rose heard the earth fall with a thud on the coffin lid, saw the Parson brush dirt from his hands and turn to pay his respects to the Squire and Miss Isobel. It was over.
She stood beside Kathleen as the cottagers and farm labourers offered their
condolences before hurrying to the table tombs for their share of ale and cake. Death was no stranger to any of them for accidents happened on farms; typhus, cholera and dysentery attacked the very young and very old in their humble cottages. It was the price they all paid – and as no one could do anything about it, it was accepted.
The cold had found its way into her bones. Her fingers and toes were numb with it, and when the Squire and Miss Isobel approached, Rose could barely find the energy to bob a curtsy.
‘Thank you for providing all this, sir,’ Kathleen’s voice was clear and steady as she indicated the grave-digger, the horse and cart and food for the mourners. ‘Brendon would have been pleased at such a grand wake.’
Rose dug her hands under the shawl. Da would have preferred to be alive – not six foot under in the cold earth, she thought bitterly.
‘My wife sends her condolences, madam. And I have arranged for the carter to call the day after tomorrow to help with your move. You can be assured young Rose will be well looked after at the Manor and the confidences you have entrusted me with will remain private.’ The Squire doffed his top hat, sketched a bow and walked away with his eldest daughter.
His words took some moments to sink in, but when the full import of what he’d said finally made sense, Rose grabbed Kathleen’s arm. ‘What move?’ she demanded. ‘Where are you going? And what did Squire mean about me at the Manor?’
Her mother hitched Joe higher on her shoulder, her gaze drifting over the gathering by the church door. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get home,’ she said firmly.
‘No.’ Rose pulled her mother to face her. ‘I want to know now, Mam.’
‘This is not the place,’ said Kathleen coldly. She wrested her arm from Rose’s grip, but it seemed to expend the last of her energy and she didn’t move away. ‘Leave it, child,’ she said wearily. ‘Better not to discuss our business with so many listening.’
Rose eyed the mourners. Their mouths were full, their cheeks bulging as they lifted their pots of ale and watched the scene before them. She didn’t care if they were listening, for the hurt Mam had inflicted was so deep, she was numb.
‘Rose?’
She turned at the sound of a wonderfully familiar voice. ‘John,’ she sighed. Then his arms were around her, holding her close, giving her the warmth and comfort she’d so desperately needed. She clung to him, burying her face in the folds of his greatcoat, breathing in the manly scent of tobacco and hair oil.
‘What are you doing here?’ Kathleen’s icy demand broke the spell.
John kept his arms around Rose, but she could feel the tension in him as he faced Mam. ‘I’ve come to pay my respects to a man I liked,’ he said simply. ‘And to make sure Rose was well.’
A rough hand tore her from his embrace and Rose stumbled on the grassy mound of an old grave. Having regained her footing, she stared from Mam to John in puzzlement. Mam’s face was white, her dark eyes hostile, her mouth a hard line of disapproval. John was flushed, the tic in his jaw evidence of suppressed rage.
‘Your respect for my husband would be better served if you left my daughter’s well-being to those who have the right to guide her.’
‘He was only being kind, Mam,’ Rose protested.
‘It’s all right, Rose,’ he said softly, his eyes so dark and fathomless she could see her reflection in them. ‘Yer mum’s only looking out for you.’
‘Indeed I am, John Tanner,’ said Kathleen stiffly. ‘And I’ll thank you not to bother Rose again.’
‘Mam, she protested. ‘Me and John almost grew up together. You can’t do this.’
Kathleen looked down, her eyes cold, her expression inscrutable. ‘Yes, I can.’ She turned back to him. ‘If I find you’ve been bothering my girl, then I’ll have the Squire do something about it.’
John’s fists were tight at his sides, a muscle in his jaw working hard to keep back the angry words. ‘And just how are you doing to do that, Mrs Fuller?’ he asked with the deceptive calm Rose recognised as a danger signal.
‘She will be living under Squire’s roof from Friday. As her employer and guardian, he will have the right to protect her from vagrants,’ Kathleen said spitefully.
Rose was hauled down the path, the hand on her wrist so tight and determined there was nothing she could do but follow. But as they skirted the church wall, she looked back.
John was standing where they had left him. She could see by his expression that despite her Mam’s warning, he would not give up on her.
She just had time to sketch a small wave before Kathleen dragged her out of sight and down the slope to the gate. Kathleen set a furious pace as she strode down the lane. Rose wondered where she’d managed to dredge up the energy.
‘Slow down, Mam,’ she panted. ‘I can’t keep up.’
‘The quicker I get you home the better,’ replied Kathleen. ‘We’ve talking to do.’
The row of cottages was silent, their occupants either at the churchyard or in the fields. The rap of their boot heels on the cobbles echoed in the silence like hammers on nails, and Rose remembered the undertaker and the terrible noise that had come from the bedroom as Da was put in his box.
‘Get inside,’ said Kathleen, shoving her and slamming the door behind her.
Rose had had enough. She stood in the centre of the dim little room with her hands on her hips, hair tumbling over her shoulders. ‘All right, Mam,’ she said firmly. ‘What was that all about?’
Kathleen laid Joe in his drawer and took off her shawl. ‘I have work at the Dame School in Jevington. There isn’t room for you there so I’ve asked the Squire to let you live in at the Manor. We leave here Friday morning.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me what I wanted to do?’ the girl stormed.
Kathleen eyed her dispassionately. ‘You might think you’re almost a woman, Rose, but you have a lot to learn before you can be allowed to make decisions like that.’
‘When have you ever asked my opinion about anything?’ she said bitterly. ‘Or cared if I was happy working for the Squire?’
Kathleen shrugged as she put the kettle on the hob. ‘Life isn’t about being happy, Rose. It’s about surviving. I did what I thought best.’
‘I’d be safer with John,’ she stormed. ‘Captain Gilbert Fairbrother might be a gentleman, but he’s dangerous.’
‘What’s Miss Isobel’s fiancé got to do with anything?’ Kathleen said coldly. ‘You been disgracing yourself?’
Rose bit down on the anger. Mam was in no mood to hear about the Captain’s fumbling attempts to get her alone, or the lies she’d had to tell to keep it from Miss Isobel. ‘No, Mam,’ she said finally. ‘But it’s awful hard to keep out of his way.’
Kathleen slumped down on the bench, her head in her hands. Joe was yelling again, filling the little cottage with his angry demands. ‘You’ll just have to take care then. This is where you belong, Rose. You were born here in this cottage, and have seen nothing of the rest of the world.’ She looked up then, her dark eyes shadowed with weariness. ‘Trust me, Rose. It’s for the best you stay.’
She eyed her mam, and despite the dragging weariness in her face could feel no pity. For Kathleen had rarely shown her affection, and when she had it was grudging. ‘Why don’t you like me, Mam?’ Rose asked finally.
‘What a thing for a girl to ask her mam,’ Kathleen snorted. She thrust herself away from the table and picked up the baby. ‘Of course I like you. You’re my daughter.’
‘That’s not reason enough,’ Rose said thoughtfully. ‘Did I do something bad, Mam?’
‘Lord have mercy, will you listen to the child,’ Kathleen muttered as she changed the baby’s sodden clothes.
‘And what of John Tanner,’ the girl asked quietly. ‘Why were you so nasty to him? He was only there to pay his respects, and you know how we feel about each other.’
Kathleen’s gaze slid away and came to rest on her lap. ‘If you learn nothing else today, Rose, I want you to remember this. Things are differ
ent now. You’re almost grown up and I have watched the way it is between you two. Your father would not have approved, Rose, and neither would the dukkerin. I want you to promise not to see the boy again.’
‘I can’t do that, Mam,’ she gasped. ‘John and I have been friends since I was not much older than Joe. He and I look out for each other – and now Da’s gone …’ She trailed off, not wanting to invite another blast of her mam’s anger.
Kathleen stared at her for a long moment, tears dry, determination in the set of her mouth. ‘If you don’t promise never to see him again,’ she said calmly, ‘I’ll not forgive you. The earth on your da’s grave is still unsettled and his soul is in Purgatory. It was his wish you and John should go your separate ways. Do you defy your da’s last wish, Rose?’
Rose shuffled from one foot to the other. Fear of hell and damnation, of her da’s soul forever trapped in Purgatory, was too well entrenched. And yet she still couldn’t understand why her father should be so against John. Had there been some kind of falling out between them? Her thoughts whirled until she became giddy and had to sit down. If she promised not to see John again, she would be bound by it – for if she broke the promise made on her da’s funeral day, she would burn in hell for all eternity.
‘I promise not to seek him out,’ she said finally. There was a lump in her throat and a heaviness around her heart, and she wondered if she would ever be at peace again.
*
Sophie was so deep in the past with Rose and John that it took some moments to realise her grandmother had stopped talking. She blinked and reluctantly dragged herself back to the present. The sun still beat on the awning. The kookaburras still chortled, and the surrounding bush still wilted in the heat. It didn’t seem real any more and she half-expected to see Squire Ade come riding past – for she had seen those green hills so clearly, felt the frost nipping her fingers and watched as John waved farewell to his Rose.
‘Did he come back for her?’
Cordelia cleaned her glasses with a corner of her cotton dress and stared myopically into the distance. ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she murmured. ‘There’s no point in telling a story all at once. Anticipation is half the fun.’
Jacaranda Vines Page 6