they returned to find a gorja woman waiting.
“It’s kushti.” It’s good. “She’s alright. Now get on.” Her language was thick on her tongue, her words barely mumbled, yet herinstruction resonated though she had not once raised her voice. Without looking at Maisie, she took her kettle out from under the caravan, along with the bowl for washing her hands.
“Carry this for the old auntie you’ve come all this way to see. You’d better come sit and talk.” And with that she whistled for the lurcher, who walked behind her into the clearing, moving from side to side so that Maisie remained in third place and could neither walk beside nor in front of the dog’s mistress.
FOUR
Maisie emerged from the clearing as the late-afternoon sun began to give way to a dusky early evening light, the mellow echo of horses nickering as she passed by on her way down the hill. Billy might have expected her to drop in to see the family before she left the farm, but though she could see hoppers gathered around the cookhouse, she was late already and did not want Frankie Dobbs to worry.
Easing the MG out onto the road, Maisie thought the village seemed quiet for a September evening, when folk might be expected to be walking along to the local inn for an ale to talk of the day, the weather, the harvest just in, or the hop-picking. It was the time of year for ease, as barley was cut to form sheaves across the sundrenched stubble that remained and hay was rolled into bales or set in stooks; for easy ambles along narrow country lanes and memories exchanged of years gone by. It was a time for bottling and drying vegetables for the winter table, and for rich summer pudding filled with berries to be set in a cold larder, the juices to mingle. But there seemed to be little of the season’s joy in Heronsdene, a mood, asshe’d reflected earlier, that might be connected to the influx of outsiders.
Her thoughts turned to the gypsy encampment and her time spent with Beulah next to the fire. The woman had led her into the clearing and bade her sit on the log next to her. The lurcher nestled at the woman’s feet but kept Maisie in her line of vision, lifting her head if she moved even an inch. The animal had no name, and was called, simply, jook , the gypsy word for dog.
While Maisie and the woman spoke, heads drawn close so that conversation could be kept low, she knew the attention of the rest of the tribe was upon her, particularly that of the man she understood to be Webb, Beulah’s son. He was tall, with eyes of blue and long hair that was not as dark as the others. Maisie knew that many Roma had deep copper glints in their hair, and some were redheads, though most had rich black locks like Beulah or Paishey Webb’s wife. Indeed, they had hair like her own. Webb wore an old shirt and dark corduroy trousers, a waistcoat, and a blue scarf around his neck. A hat with a broad brim partially obscured his face, and he too wore earrings, though not as wide in circumference as those of Beulah or Paishey. Even baby Boosul wore tiny earrings.
From the way he moved, Maisie estimated Webb’s age to be about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, just a few years younger than herself, yet in the features she was able to discern he seemed much older. His wife was about nineteen, perhaps twenty. Webb glanced up at his mother every few minutes, as he stooped to light the fire, or when dragging over the heavy cast-iron pot for the women to make a stew of rabbit, with vegetables bought in the village and tasty greens from the forest that anyone other than a gypsy might ignore. Without making her interest obvious, Maisie could tell much about the man from his demeanor. Though she could not emulate his carriage from her seat on the log, she could see the feelings he carried within him, as if a weighted sack were tetheredto his body. Webb was not only enraged, he was fearful. Maisie could see both emotions as plain as day. And when she turned to Beulah, she
“It’s kushti.” It’s good. “She’s alright. Now get on.” Her language was thick on her tongue, her words barely mumbled, yet herinstruction resonated though she had not once raised her voice. Without looking at Maisie, she took her kettle out from under the caravan, along with the bowl for washing her hands.
“Carry this for the old auntie you’ve come all this way to see. You’d better come sit and talk.” And with that she whistled for the lurcher, who walked behind her into the clearing, moving from side to side so that Maisie remained in third place and could neither walk beside nor in front of the dog’s mistress.
FOUR
Maisie emerged from the clearing as the late-afternoon sun began to give way to a dusky early evening light, the mellow echo of horses nickering as she passed by on her way down the hill. Billy might have expected her to drop in to see the family before she left the farm, but though she could see hoppers gathered around the cookhouse, she was late already and did not want Frankie Dobbs to worry.
Easing the MG out onto the road, Maisie thought the village seemed quiet for a September evening, when folk might be expected to be walking along to the local inn for an ale to talk of the day, the weather, the harvest just in, or the hop-picking. It was the time of year for ease, as barley was cut to form sheaves across the sundrenched stubble that remained and hay was rolled into bales or set in stooks; for easy ambles along narrow country lanes and memories exchanged of years gone by. It was a time for bottling and drying vegetables for the winter table, and for rich summer pudding filled with berries to be set in a cold larder, the juices to mingle. But there seemed to be little of the season’s joy in Heronsdene, a mood, asshe’d reflected earlier, that might be connected to the influx of outsiders.
Her thoughts turned to the gypsy encampment and her time spent with Beulah next to the fire. The woman had led her into the clearing and bade her sit on the log next to her. The lurcher nestled at the woman’s feet but kept Maisie in her line of vision, lifting her head if she moved even an inch. The animal had no name, and was called, simply, jook , the gypsy word for dog.
While Maisie and the woman spoke, heads drawn close so that conversation could be kept low, she knew the attention of the rest of the tribe was upon her, particularly that of the man she understood to be Webb, Beulah’s son. He was tall, with eyes of blue and long hair that was not as dark as the others. Maisie knew that many Roma had deep copper glints in their hair, and some were redheads, though most had rich black locks like Beulah or Paishey Webb’s wife. Indeed, they had hair like her own. Webb wore an old shirt and dark corduroy trousers, a waistcoat, and a blue scarf around his neck. A hat with a broad brim partially obscured his face, and he too wore earrings, though not as wide in circumference as those of Beulah or Paishey. Even baby Boosul wore tiny earrings.
From the way he moved, Maisie estimated Webb’s age to be about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, just a few years younger than herself, yet in the features she was able to discern he seemed much older. His wife was about nineteen, perhaps twenty. Webb glanced up at his mother every few minutes, as he stooped to light the fire, or when dragging over the heavy cast-iron pot for the women to make a stew of rabbit, with vegetables bought in the village and tasty greens from the forest that anyone other than a gypsy might ignore. Without making her interest obvious, Maisie could tell much about the man from his demeanor. Though she could not emulate his carriage from her seat on the log, she could see the feelings he carried within him, as if a weighted sack were tetheredto his body. Webb was not only enraged, he was fearful. Maisie could see both emotions as plain as day. And when she turned to Beulah, she
Similar Books
