Bruar's Rest

by Jess Smith

  Nuala bounced around. ‘Can we go visit Mamma Foy?’ She was all over Megan, pulling her excitedly into the house. Bridget opened the door further, smiling a welcome. ‘Come in. What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Mother Foy invites you to her wagon for the day,’ she said, her tone formal but anxious.

  Stephen, who’d been grooming his horse, sauntered in through the back door. Bridget and Nuala told him they were going out to see the old woman.

  ‘Well, I’d best change my breeches, these are filthy.’

  ‘No need, come as you are, we don’t mind, come now quickly.’

  Bridget, taken aback by Megan’s insistent manner, asked, ‘Are you all right? You have the eyes in your head of a hunted fox. Sit for a moment and give us time to gather our boots and coats. And as I never visit without a basket, I’ll be filling one. Stephen, find out what’s the matter with her while I pack some food.’

  The house was a hive of activity, Bridget singing from the kitchen, Nuala rummaging in cupboards for her outdoor wear.

  Stephen also noticed how anxious Megan was and said, ‘You’ve not been followed again by that shadow figure?’ When no answer came, he tried another approach, ‘How’s the hand?’

  Megan wasn’t listening; the bright blue sky was once more filling with that dreaded mist. Buckley may have already crept back and be hidden in the gorse; lying in wait until night came. He’d see the Irish folks come and he’d hear them go, leaving her and Mother Foy at his mercy. ‘Let him try,’ she told herself. ‘Just let the beast try. I’ll give him the bloody poker!’ Her fist came hard down upon a cushion.

  Stephen turned her to face him, ‘There is something the matter?’

  ‘Och, not at all, I was away in another world. What do want?’

  ‘Well, I’d not fancy being the person in that world. Look—’ He pointed to the crushed cushion lying on the floor, before slipping on his coat and going outside to harness the buggy. But Bridget told him not to bother, she was in a mood to walk.

  Megan was horrified by this decision and said, ‘Mother Foy wants you to spend all day with her.’

  A good brisk walk to disperse the aftermath of Christmas indulgence was sorely needed, so Bridget insisted. Stephen ran on ahead, making little snowballs, which he gently threw at his excited daughter. She squealed and laughed, and did the same.

  Megan was rushing through the snow ahead of the others, when Bridget caught up and threaded an arm through hers. ‘Want to share it with me?’

  Should she tell her that Bull Buckley, wild man and beast, was stalking and terrifying them, or like all gypsies, should she say nothing outside their own circle?

  ‘Mother Foy...’ she began softly, ‘That horrible pain she suffered at your place has returned. I’m worried for her health. She thinks her knowledge is better at healing than a proper doctor, and so she refuses to get help.’

  Thinking it was the old woman’s welfare that caused her anxiety, Bridget reassured her, ‘Well, I for one felt the power of her healing hands. Don’t underestimate her wisdom—there’s many folk walking and talking today been sorted out by her.’

  She ran off to return another snowball to Stephen, who’d playfully thrown one, only to be pelted by little Nuala.

  For a moment their laughter and shared joy made her think of home, when she and Rachel would chase their men in the newly fallen snow.

  Bridget, with her green velvet coat trimmed with fur, her soft red hair bursting from a thick-brimmed woollen hat, was so alive. Stephen smothered her in a light covering of powdered snow, then stole a kiss.

  ‘Why can’t I have a share of that?’ Megan asked inwardly. ‘Instead I am far away from home, taking care of some stranger unrelated to me. Curses on the thief from Newcastle!’ This thought was dismissed from her mind as the wagon, vulnerable like its owner, came into view snuggled in the far end of the gorse field.

  They arrived at the wagon with its welcome spiral of blue smoke rising into the mist. Nuala sighed deeply. ‘Daddy has pelted me sore,’ she told her mother, annoyed because her efforts to hit him had failed.

  ‘Next year, when the snow returns, you’ll be taller and won’t miss. Now remember your manners, and be gentle with Mother because she’s not very well.’

  Stephen dusted most of the powdered snow from his daughter’s coat, and soon they were walking up the steps into the wagon.

  Mother Foy was spruced up and sitting at her fire, warmed by a rug draped over her lap. She greeted her guests like royalty. ‘Hello, hello, and a special big cuddly hello to the world’s most beautiful girl.’

  She lowered her eyelids in a sign to Megan that their unwanted guest had failed to appear.

  ‘Sit here by me, Nuala, and after Megan fills us a warm cup of tea, I’ll tell a few tales, you’d like that.’

  So, as the old woman told mystic stories from days of old, her visitors munched on biscuits and drank tea. Having the wagon full of bodies created a sense of security, but when Stephen reminded his family they’d not got the horse to get them home quickly, Megan and Mother Foy felt the uncanny fear of the previous night crawl back over them.

  ‘I shall pelt you to bits, Daddy, and then I’ll feed you to the monsters from the green valley in Mother’s tale.’

  Megan had not intended to ignore her friend’s stories, but her fear of Buckley kept the back of her mind filled with terror. Soon the Irish folks would be gone, and once more they’d be at his mercy. While Nuala and her father had slipped outside to play once more among the soft snow, Megan asked if they might come up for New Year.

  With Stephen and his hound at the farm to chase off intruders, both would be a lot safer. Bridget however put a stop to that possibility. ‘We’re off for the holidays, but don’t worry about Beth. She’ll be in the capable hands of a young lad that Stephen hired yesterday to see to the horses while we are gone.’

  Megan’s heart began pounding when Bridget continued, ‘We have received a letter from Michael, he wants us to join him in the old home. Oh, and one more thing, I nearly forgot,’ she lifted her basket and emptied its contents onto Megan’s bed. There were sweeties, eggs, cold beef, Christmas cake and lots more. ‘Goodies to see you over, in case the weather deteriorates again.’

  She thanked her host, but it was late and they had to make tracks for home, ‘Nuala, Stephen, come in here from the snow and say your goodbyes.’

  Megan and Mother Foy sat close, listening intently until little Nuala’s laughter and her parents’ chatter faded away in the distance. Once more they were at the mercy of a cold midwinter’s night and those who inhabited it, what or whoever they may be.

  Like soldiers preparing for war, they weaponed up: forks, knives and any sharp object that came to hand went beneath the old woman’s pillow. Megan positioned the poker and carving knife by the door.

  ‘Were you frightened while I was away?’ she asked

  ‘To tell the truth, I busied myself and did a little rummaging in my old clothes for buttons. I found green ones for that coat of yours, girlie, but me fingers couldn’t hold a needle. I dare say you’re a dab hand with it, though.’ She was trying to get Megan’s mind off Buckley.

  ‘You must be kidding, Mother, I’m useless at sewing. But Rachel, well, she could sew clouds together, could that sister of mine.’

  ‘Where is she? Did I hear you once say to Ruth she went to America?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story—but yes, with her wee laddie, Nicholas.’

  Her companion smiled in a sad way. ‘Do you know that two centuries or so past, hundreds of gypsies were rounded up and sent off to America as slaves? Dreadful times they were, bad days indeed.’

  ‘Rachel was promised a far wealthier existence than a slave’s. I would imagine it wasn’t without sacrifice, though.’

  ‘And do you wish to tell me what it was that cost her so dear?’

  ‘She handed over something precious to a woman who had lost her husband when he was killed in the war. She’s a nice woman, owns
a mighty big chunk of land with a castle sitting at its head.’

  ‘She sounds like aristocracy.’

  ‘Her full title is Lady Cortonach.’

  ‘What is it your sister sacrificed?’

  ‘For a better life than our ancestors provided, my sister gave her only child to the stranger, and for that I think she was wrong.’

  Mother Foy wasn’t judging, or listening for that matter: her old head lay upon the pillow and snores filled the silent night.

  This time the pee bucket sat in its corner, and as the clock on the narrow mantelpiece tick-ticked, Megan found her eyelids weighing heavy.

  But, thank heaven, whatever plans Buckley had for that night, they didn’t include the wagoners in the gorse field.

  New Years Eve came, and much to their relief he continued his absence from their remote campsite. Yet this did not stifle the awful memory of his presence, or the nagging fear that if a sound awakened them in the night, it would be him. While it was dark, Megan would stay forever vigilant. During the daylight hours, her thoughts turned to Beth. Without doubt Stephen had left her in good hands, but she needed to see for herself, anyway. Bull Buckley wasn’t a day person, she’d convinced herself of this. His type haunted shadows, moonlight and misty dawns.

  Mother Foy’s chest was sounding that crackle again. This worried both of them, but she too wished to know how Beth was doing, so agreed that Megan should pay her a visit. ‘I will be back in no time,’ she promised, ‘try to sleep.’

  With bedcovers wrapped under her chin, she said weakly, ‘When you return, I’ll show you how to prepare a cough medicine for me.’

  ‘All right, but keep your eye on the clock. I’ll be walking up those steps before the hour hand circles twice.’

  The weather showed no sign of mist, rain, sleet or snow, and the sky was clear blue. She could see for miles. High upon the horizon several sheep mingled with cows and munched on scattered hay. Spirals of smoke curled towards a frosty sun from faraway cottages. The silhouettes of naked trees and fence posts dominated the scene, and beyond was a church spire. Yes, it was a day to fill one’s mind with positive thoughts. ‘Us Scots look toward the coming of a brand new year,’ she mused. ‘Tonight I’ll share a dram with my old mate and toast my Bruar, and hopefully she’ll regain some strength so that I can make plans to move on.’

  Bull Buckley faded into a dark memory as she came upon the outhouses of the ranch. Beth was tied up outside in the cobbled courtyard. She called to her. The horse lifted her head and neighed back. The young man who’d been left in charge of the Irish stables came out to see who had arrived. At the same time both shielded their eyes from the sun’s glare to see each other. ‘Is that you Sam?’ She called to the young man walking nearer. ‘Is that Megan?’

  Of all people it had to be the lad from Burnstall Hall. He must have been in need of employment after all.

  ‘What of your mother?’

  ‘I was most grateful for the ten shilling, though it done little good. To tell the truth, she was already dying, but didn’t tell me.’

  ‘That’s a mother for you, always protecting her chicks. When did she pass away?’

  ‘Only last week I buried her. It felt lonely in our house—well, it wasn’t ours, it belonged to the landlord, so I had no choice but to leave. I knew of this place, and with me being all my life with horses, it was good luck the Irish took me on. Mrs Newton’s gone away, poor woman. Do you know they haven’t caught the killer yet?’

  She knew all right, but because she’d put his life in danger by telling the police, he was after her. Once more she found that staying silent about Bull Buckley to safeguard Mother Foy was the best option. Also, his ugly face being absent meant perhaps that he’d been forced away by another rival predator. Changing the subject, she asked how Beth was faring.

  ‘Come and see for yourself. I think she’s a beautiful shire. If I had a horse like that, I’d get me a plough and do work for farmers and woodsmen.’

  ‘Well, she belongs to Mother Foy for pulling her wagon. Talking of my old friend, I’d best hurry back to her.’

  ‘You’ve only just come, don’t rush off. I’m alone here with the animals, and could do with a bit of company. Have some tea.’

  Beth seemed in fine fettle, and it was obvious with the nudging going on she’d a fancy for Sam. A quick cup of tea and chat, then best get back to the wagon.

  As they parted she wished him a Happy New Year when it came, followed by a promise to visit tomorrow. ‘Mother Foy is sickly, so it might not be possible to leave her. You come to us, there’s good whisky for the thirsty.’

  He laughed and said, ‘You won’t catch me refusing a dram, I’ll be there by ten.’

  ‘Bring Beth down with you, my dear friend could do with a look at her horse to perk her up.’

  As she hurried back, to her disappointment a stabbing wind was already whipping up storm clouds on the horizon. ‘Bloody weather, not clear one whole day. Ever since we arrived, if it hasn’t been thick mist it’s been sleet, rain or snow.’ The thought had no sooner left her mind when sleet, harried by a rising gale, forced her head down. The wind was merciless, she wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf, her exposed fingers soon froze and her buttonless coat blew all over the place. ‘I’ll have to find shelter, else this will be the death of me, but where?’ The only place was the old stone dyke and an occasional holly bush. She opted to crouch down behind the wall and curl her head under her arm like a robin under its wing. She lost track of how long she stayed there. What was certain, though, was a great deterioration in the weather. Suddenly her wet hair prickled on her freezing neck. Following hard on the torrents of sleet came a storm of thunder. A zigzag of lightning earthed into a far-off tree, and as it crashed into the ground she shivered. Cowed and at the mercy of the elements, she wanted to run. But if it was holding her back, then it was hindering Buckley too; if he was around he wouldn’t want to be out in these conditions.

  After another peal of thunder she rose and dashed blindly back down the rest of the way. Dripping wet and frozen through, she stepped briskly into the wagon.

  Nothing in her young life had ever prepared her for what lay on the bed! It was Mother Foy, bereft of any sign of life, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.

  The dear, kind old gypsy who had given her an unquestioning hand of friendship was dead. ‘Oh please, not you, my only friend in the world, Mother, poor old thing, to die alone!’ She cradled the still warm body, rocking it back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably as outside the storm wreaked havoc through all the countryside.

  The presence of death didn’t frighten her: she’d seen it before, but never faced it entirely alone. ‘What a horrible end to the year,’ she thought selfishly, then scolded herself for not thinking on her friend facing death alone. If she’d not sheltered from the sleet or wasted time with Sam she’d have been back when she’d promised.

  She remembered her last words of reassurance, ‘I’ll be back before the hand goes twice round’. Glancing at the mantel clock, she saw not two but four hours had gone by.

  Megan’s mind was in utter turmoil, what could she do? Sudden emotions, mixed with guilt and sadness, engulfed her. Buckley wasn’t an issue now. Here was a much-loved and devoted old woman. Her funeral had to be prepared, and her traditional incineration. This was far too great a responsibility for such as she, a simple tinker lassie; but where were the other gypsies? Who would take matters in hand? It was all too much.

  The stove had but a few red-grey ashes, throwing out little or no heat, but it mattered not.

  Old cant words that her mother used at her granny’s funeral came to mind. It was as if they had been tattooed deep inside her head. All she had to her name to give was the respect those ancient chants offered. Covering the corpse she put a small cushion beneath her knees and chanted:

  ‘Tre banni, tre banni, [Three prayers, three prayers]

  Femma tori marra, [Woman to earth]

  Femma tori glimmer, [Woman
to fire]

  Femma tori panni.’ [Woman to water]

  On and on she repeated the chants, and hoped that her friend’s soul would go wherever her heart and truth lay. All that she could give her friend was what the Earth offered all people—the elements of earth, fire and water. Nothing else mattered, and this then was her parting gift to Mother Foy.

  When at last she ceased chanting, the faraway clock tower rang for all to know that a New Year had begun. There was no way gypsies could be found to deal with the elderly woman’s death; anyway, Megan’s knowledge of the countryside amounted to the mile between the ranch and the gorse field. She decided to burn the wagon herself.

  ‘Perhaps when Sam comes,’ she thought, ‘he’ll help.’

  A long night lay ahead, as all across the land a nation would be drinking, dancing and celebrating. A solemn duty rested on her young shoulders, a preparation of the final event, and the last ceremony of Mother Foy’s life.

  Having no one to talk to or help with the preparation, she started conversing with the corpse. ‘You have plenty bonnie petticoats and blouses, ideal for cutting into strips to bind you with.’ This helped her loneliness. During wakes she’d listened to many of her own tinker folk having conversations with the dead.

  By first light she stood back and congratulated herself for a job well done, and wished someone would come and take a look at her fine handiwork, such a perfect job. Before bandaging her body, Mother Foy’s earrings had been slipped into almost paper-thin lobes. Gold rings were placed onto every sinewy finger. ‘You’d a great love of jewels, I bet each tells a story,’ she said. Once more it seemed appropriate to explain to the corpse what her work entailed. ‘I put two pennies on your eyes and shined and laced to perfection these narrow shoes of yours. I wish you could see yourself, old friend, you’re a right bobby-dazzler.’ It took her a long time to plait the long grey hair, then to arrange it over her head with pretty ribbons. But it was worth it; she was lovely. Death removes wrinkles to such an extent that the skin of a corpse takes on a semblance of near white porcelain. ‘Do you know, my old friend,’ she said again, ‘I wish you could see yourself, you’d be right pleased.’ With these, her last words to the woman who’d taken her in and given her hope, she very delicately bandaged every inch until not a single hair was visible.