Eli's Secret E-Book

DM Lewis

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

This story takes place between 1901 and 1921. It is set in a quiet village in the Welsh Marches where two old men, The Reverend ApIvor, and Old Eli, disagree over a moral issue that ends their long friendship. Each does so willingly to conceal the young people in their keeping to protect them and their secrets, but their wellintentioned actions have serious repercussions for the future. Years later, upon the death of Old Eli, a young woman, Lily, discovers her true identity and is suddenly thrust into a world of prejudice, anger, and revenge for the past. At odds with her affluent, middle class upbringing is the revelation that her mother, Mahalia, was raised a Romani. Within days Lily is abducted, and narrowly escapes with her life. Fleeing, she finds help and friendship amongst the people she fears. She returns home determined to discover her true origins and locate her real father. When the Reverend ApIvor learns of his old friend's involvement with Mahalia and Lily, he wishes to make amends concerning his actions long ago.In Australia, Lily's real father, using the name Harry Jenkins, learns of Lily’s existence and determines to meet her. He must convince his daughter that he did not desert her mother willingly all those years ago. He returns to England seeking redemption and hoping to be reunited with Mahalia. Unbeknown to Lily, her mother is dying of tuberculosis, a common cause of death amongst the Romani during that period. Harry and Lily meet after Mahalia’s funeral, but are not destined for happiness immediately. Someone else is out for revenge, someone closer to home who wants payback for feeling abandoned and betrayed by him all those years ago. When Harry changed his name he left England by selling his identity illegally. Now, through malice, the criminals who bought his authentic papers have been alerted to his presence. They want to remove all proof of that original transaction. Harry must return to Australia to escape detection. Now it is Lily who must protect her father and keep his departure secret. They have nothing left but hope.

Leseprobe

ELI'S SECRET

D. M. Lewis

Published by Dolman Scott

© D. M. Lewis 2010

The right of D. M. Lewis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

This book is a work of fiction and the characters depict no persons living or dead.

ISBN 978-1-905553-64-8

All rights reserved

The contents of this book may not be reproduced in any form, except for short extracts for quotation or review, without the written permission of the publisher.

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

eBook conversion by David Stockman

Dolman Scott Ltd www.dolmanscott.com

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Historically, Romanes, the Romani language was used only by the Romani between themselves, or as a way of communicating with each other amongst non-Gypsy people; the odd comment, for example, when dealing or at a market. It was spoken, not written.

It was first written down about 150 years ago and the spellings and pronunciation vary from region to region. For example: there are several words for a non-Gypsy person. I have used the term more commonly found in Wales: gajo – ga'jo, (singular), gaje – ga'je, (plural). See glossary. The Gypsy characters in this novel speak a mixture of Anglo Romani jib (speech). As they cross the Welsh border to pick hops and fruit in the Welsh Marches they use both English and Welsh words in conversation with the 'gaje'.

Nb: 'Gypsy' is used with a capital letter as in Welsh, English, not as a pejorative term. The Romani consultant for this book advised me that this is both acceptable and correct.

Part One 1913

ONE

The Church of St Michael and All Angels stood surrounded by yew trees, hollow with age, and six centuries of forgotten graves. It was empty and locked, abandoned long before the Revival across the border that had swelled Chapel congregations, and all but emptied the pubs. The backwash had even reached this quiet corner of the Welsh Marches. In summer nature spread its own tribute in memory of lost souls. A haze of pollen drifted above the mantle of Queen Anne's lace, past clustered hawthorn blossoms exuding their sickly-sweet odour of death, to the lower branches of chestnut trees around the perimeter.

It was a silent place, and a secret playground for the villagers who could not relate their homespun beliefs to this ancient wilderness of stone sepulchres. At the least disturbance, a jay would flash and swoop through the air, its klaxon cry fading into the distance, and all would be still again. But the headstones bore witness to many a tryst for the living.

The Reverend ApIvor had reorganised his timetable to drop Arthur at the railway station. There were only two private cars in the district apart from those at the manor. The more opulent belonged to Doctor Bevan. Couldn't wait to get rid of his horses, could the Doc'. He was the first to adopt this new mode of transport. His Prince Henry Vauxhall was the grandest car for miles, but it was the appearance of ApIvor's more modest Austin model T that was the real source of wonder. For a man as small in stature as their Reverend to master such a machine, and at his time of life too, caused many an open mouth. Folk marvelled that a man of the cloth should buy a car at all, but soon recovered from this show of eccentricity when his 'Tin Lizzie' became the open-handed, unpaid 'means' of 'transport' for those with neither.

Arthur was looking forward to the journey in; a chance to chat and share his hopes, wanting the minister's blessing, his almost parental approval. He had a couple of stories too (admittedly a bit second-hand), but different, sharpened by the salty tang of the bustling port he now called home. Dear old Pompey, he couldn't wait to get back there.

But instead of heading for the main Hereford road, ApIvor turned the car around.

"Now don't you worry, Arthur," he said. "There'll be plenty of time."

He took a run at the steep gradient of the Devil's Lip, crouched over the wheel as if the effort was his own and not the engine's. Cresting the top, he pulled in by the gateway to the old churchyard – much to Arthur's relief.

"I'll just stop by here. I must drop off a copy of the Parish News at Old Eli's. Don't trust myself trying to negotiate this girl of mine on that steep driveway." He gave an apologetic smile. "I know! How many years is it since he left? The tenancy has changed hands several times, but I can't help it. It will always be 'Old Eli's' place, as far as I'm concerned, and I'm sure I'm not alone in that. 'High Fields Farm' its proper name, I believe. The new people there are pleasant enough, though not as regular to Chapel as one might hope. Going to farm peas and strawberries, so I'm told. Now there's progress for you. Shan't be a tick."

Without waiting for any comment, he hurried away.

Arthur opened the car door, and sat for a moment deciding whether or not to climb out. He knew ApIvor's minutes of old. Time for a cigarette, at least. He took his tobacco tin from his coat pocket, and leant against the wall overlooking the churchyard, twirling a thin roll up with practised fingers.

His forty eight hours compassionate leave was almost over. Every winter, these past seven years, he had been expecting his older sister Louise to write: 'Our mother is dead'. But every winter their mother clung on, as if reluctant, at the last, to face the Maker she had worshipped with such fervour. Others, falling victim to the same disease, were diagnosed later, and died sooner. His brother-in-law Jack claimed he'd read it in her face, and had given her twelve months. As predictions go it was long overdue.

Her funeral was unusually well attended considering she had never been the most sociable of women. It felt odd being valued so late. Boys he had scrapped with in the school yard were now ruddy faced, and uncomfortable in their formal attire. Most were labourers on the estate. Resignation had set in their shoulders: the mark of country men. One by one they came forward to shake his hand, commenting on his uniform with a mixture of envy and respect.

The eyes of near enough the entire village bored into their backs as the service began. Every latecomer caused a momentary silence followed by a rustle of disappointment. There was an air of expectation more befitting a wedding.

Mary Prosser and her mother had positioned themselves in a side pew with a better view of the aisle.

Don't hold your breath, Mary. There's one Pritchard you'll never see again. He isn't coming back, and it wouldn't be for you if he did.

Plain, lumpy Mary, the butt of all their schoolboy jokes, who made herself a laughing stock over his big brother. All these years on surely she was over it, or maybe she and her mother were there to gloat?

Howell would never return. Twelve years had passed without a word. None of them had broken their silence about his sudden disappearance, nor would they. He knew it was out of respect for his sister, who lived on here, and the will of the Reverend, that nothing was said to stir up that particular memory. For Howell had been the favourite; unashamedly preferred by the woman lying in that wooden casket. He alone had been conceived with love. The rest of them had followed in due season, destined to come a poor second along with their father.

Half way through the last verse of 'Abide with me', as the assembled voices swelled in a triumphant finish, the Chapel door creaked open and shut. The brisk tap-tap of a woman's heels advanced towards their pew. Nancy slid in next to Jack, but kept her gaze fixed upon the coffin. Arthur felt the air vibrate when the singing stopped, but the Reverend ApIvor's voice boomed above them allowing no opportunity for comment.

There were three old favourites left on the board. None of his family needed a hymn book. They were word perfect – drilled into them from childhood. He could hear Eddie and Will's rich bass voices behind him, and to his right, Nancy's soprano, pitch perfect, soaring above the others. Their Mum would have been proud to hear it.

"Should have had her voice trained..." she would say, while Nancy pulled a face behind her back, "...it's a gift from God."

He supposed God could appreciate her singing in a music hall. At least she used her talent.

Louise, and the two younger sisters, Ruby, and May, wore their Sunday best clothes in shades of grey, and brown, with mourning bands fixed to their sleeves. Each had bought a suitable hat for the occasion. Nancy's outfit must have cost a packet. It flattered her pale skin and auburn curls. Even in black she made her sisters look dowdy.

The Reverend had volunteered the back of the Chapel for the wake. True, he hadn't expected such a turnout, but the village hall had yet to be repaired following the floods. The Pritchards' old home remained uninhabitable, and the lane to Louise and Jack's cottage was too much of a climb for most.

In the centre of the refreshment table, someone had placed a large fruit cake of the sort usually found in hotels. It dwarfed the plates of delicate scones and sandwiches his sisters had prepared that morning.

Nancy bustled forward to kiss Louise.

"I brought that, Lou', didn't have time to make anything." She glanced disdainfully at the chattering congregation. "Should be more than enough for this lot."

Gwyneth Prosser nudged her daughter. He could imagine the comments over the Post Office counter. "Shop-bought cake, and at her mother's wake too. Agnes would have had a fit."

Without waiting for a formal invitation to start, Nancy helped herself from the tea urn. She sat down a little apart from the others, lifting her cup with exaggerated delicacy – little finger extended.

Jack brought a cup of tea for Arthur, and one for himself.

"All right, our kid?" His hands shook with the effort of holding such delicate china. It was his wife's best service. "I still prefers pouring mine into a saucer, cools it down quicker." He winked at Arthur. "D'you 'spose our Nancy'd mind if I sat next to her while I sup mine up?"

Arthur smothered a grin. Not so long ago he would have been embarrassed by his sister's behaviour. Now he had no illusions.

Jack, mindful of his duty, moved away to join Louise, leaving him standing alone at the back. From there he had a good view of the assembly. He sensed a change in the atmosphere. A circle was tightening around Nancy.

Their token cups of tea discarded, Gwyneth and Mary were homing in on their prey. The two younger Prosser sisters had joined them, along with Jim Evans. One of them was married to him now, or engaged, he couldn't remember which, Louise had written. That Evans always was a nosey devil, couldn't wait to stir up trouble even as a boy. Well, Nancy might not be his favourite sister, but she was still family. He moved in front of her, effectively blocking their view. His brothers, who must have been watching him for a signal to disperse, detached themselves from the main group and formed a line by the door. Those remaining mourners took the hint. This was all. No one else would arrive. There was no more to see, and nothing left to eat.

*

Louise and Jack, with Nancy hanging on to her sister's elbow, walked ahead to their cottage. They were followed by the others, relaxed now the wake had disbanded; even enjoying a joke or two. Arthur strolled along behind them keeping pace with May's shorter steps, her arm linked through his. Another hour and all this would be over. Eddie would take his girl back home to the next village; Will, smiling and apologetic, would cycle back to his digs; Joe, heavyset and belligerent, would hold his peace and follow him. At least, that was his hope.

They went in through the back door without ceremony. Nancy pushed ahead into the front parlour. They heard her gasp, and found her standing in front of the mantelpiece, arms folded, jaw set, her cheeks flushed. With all that paint on her face she looked like an angry doll. She came straight to the point.

"You didn't waste any time, did you, Louise? I wondered who got the bronzes. All those years I dusted them for our Mum. Said I was the only one she trusted to do it properly. Good as promised them to me, she did."

Before Arthur or the others could protest, Joe stepped forward, and placed himself squarely in front her.

"The Reverend gave those bronzes to Mum and Dad as a wedding present. And in front of witnesses our Mum gave them back – during one of her clearer moments – no doubt to stop any of your nonsense."

"Joe..."

Louise, close to tears, began to plead with him, but Joe was in full spate now.

"Last week he returned them to our Lou', in recognition of all her hard work." It wasn't true. Louise had spoken to him about the bronzes wondering what to do. She'd rescued them from their old home, 'but only to keep them safe' as she'd put it. Listening to Joe's strategy, Arthur hoped the others would fall in. "There's no argument about it. We all agree." His other siblings were nodding vigorously. "So, if you don't like it you can do the other thing. Take it up with the Reverend. See what he has to say." Knowing full well she wouldn't. "But," he added, looking her up and down, "you and Mum were about the same size, I'm sure no one will mind if you want to pick through what's left of her wardrobe."

The shaft went home. Nancy narrowed her eyes at him, oblivious to the hostility she had roused. Turning to her eldest sister, she tried a different tactic.

"Louise, how could you let him say such things to me, today of all days?"

She even produced a tear or two. Funny watching her mind working; growing up, everyone gave her the benefit of the doubt, unwilling to believe she could be devious. Everyone except Howell, that is; yet he had been Nancy's hero.

As if on cue, they heard a car pull up outside the gate. The driver left the engine running, and honked his horn. It fractured the peaceful country air sending Jack's hens cackling round their enclosure, and setting off next doors' dog. Someone hurried down the path, knocked twice, and retreated as quickly. Joe ducked his head to look through the front room window.

"Your fancy man's come for you – and not before time."

"He's my fiancé."

"If you say so."

Nancy looked ready to spit.

"Goodbye Louise. Goodbye Jack, Arthur."

Snatching up her bag, she ignored everyone else. Joe swept open the door, stood in mock salute as she slipped through, then shut it none too gently behind her. In the silence that followed he cleared his throat and looked hesitantly at his sister and brother-in-law.

"I'm sorry for speaking out of turn, but she makes me that angry, always did. Got away with everything, scheming little baggage. I'm sorry about that story too," (he baulked at the word 'lie') "but you know the Reverend would have done just what I said. The rest of it is true enough. We're all of an accord. Those bronzes belong to you – no argument. And don't you go soft, our Lou', and tell her otherwise, or she'll have them away, and sold, and be wearing the profit." His brothers and sisters murmured their assent. "And now I've gone and said too much again."

Jack patted his shoulder.

"Consider it forgotten. We're all a bit upset today, Joe."

Louise twisted her handkerchief in her fingers.

"It still dussen seem right, Jack."

"That's enough now. Everyone's agreed. Here they stay." He tried to give her a little hug. She didn't respond. "Come on, love, this won't do, let's forget about all this nonsense, or I'll take the bronzes down to the Reverend myself – and we'll have to go through the whole performance again when he sends them back."

Outside, in his eagerness to be gone, Nancy's beau tried to turn his motor car on the steep road junction. The wheels churned up enough sticky red mud to spatter most of the gleaming exterior, windscreen included, before it roared away. They crowded at the window to watch. Will spoke up for the first time.

"He'll need to be a bit careful on that slope."

Joe agreed with him.

"It's a wonder he can see over the steering wheel. Perhaps he has blocks to reach the pedals!" They both laughed. "Must be doing all right for a jockey, having a car like that. They'll be chewing it over for weeks in the village."

Perhaps Nancy's visit was welcome after all. It had provided a diversion from their unspoken hope. A false hope as it turned out. They could go their separate ways now: no more harm done.

"We'll be off too, Arthur." Joe gave his older brother an affectionate wallop on the arm. "You'll see the rest of us in uniform before long, though it'll be sommat a bit more becoming than Navy blue!"

While the others busied themselves with coats and hats, Arthur moved nearer the mantelpiece to examine the imposing, and controversial, bronzes. He'd never paid them much attention before. 'The sower', and 'the reaper' were Italian, or French maybe, and had occupied recesses either side of the chimney breast in their old cottage for as long as he could remember. They were 'exquisite', as the Reverend might say. Every detail was sharp and beautifully crafted. They must be worth a few bob. Now he had all of Nancy's motive.

The only other thing of value he remembered was the lectern their father had carved for his new bride to support her family Bible. It had been made at the height of his skill and was much admired. He wondered what became of it. Back then it held pride of place by the front window.

Her face still troubled, Louise came over to the fireplace.

"There's something else I should have mentioned – went clean out of my head earlier. We gave ApIvor the lectern. It seemed only proper. Said he'd keep it at the Chapel. The wood dried out after the flood, but Mum's Bible was damaged beyond repair. Jack did try, but it was hopeless. You don't mind, Arthur, do you?"

"No," he said. "The Reverend will be pleased to have it. Remind him of Dad, and their long friendship."

As for his mother's precious Bible, he wouldn't upset his sister by saying so, but picturing its watery end gave him immense satisfaction. There had been many occasions when he wanted to hurl the unwieldy tome into the river and dance upon the bank awaiting damnation or else tear out fistfuls of its slippery pages and thrust them into the range while her back was turned.

'The Almighty sees into the blackest hearts. He'll strike you dead...'

That was a favourite line while she chased them round the kitchen, or down the garden, in pursuit of a confession. You can only beat so much religion into a child.

There was a pleasing, if warped, justice in that Bible's destruction. Maybe such thoughts were risky. But here he stood – not struck dead yet.

He drew on his cigarette only to discover that it had gone out. He relit the dog end, narrowing his eyes against the acrid smoke, and glanced at the scene in front of him. Their local post office kept cards of a painting made in an earlier century, a romantic depiction of St Michael's that didn't sit well with Arthur's memories of boyhood escapades and conker tournaments. He preferred the photographs ApIvor had arranged in the village for Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee celebrations in 1897, when he and Howell were in the choir.

There, he'd thought of him again, his eldest brother long gone from the place. Grinding his cigarette stub under his heel, he climbed into the passenger seat, not wanting to dwell on anything else that held sad memories. It seemed that everywhere he looked something half-forgotten surfaced to remind him.

Turning back to the lane, he saw ApIvor puffing up the hill towards him and leant across to open the driver's door.

"All done now?"

ApIvor's face was a deep crimson from his exertions. It was several minutes before he could reply. He obliged him by cranking the car into life again. It was all the old chap could do to nod his thanks.

"Yes, sorry about that, but if I don't do these things when I think of them, I forget."

He released the handbrake gently, allowing the car to creep forward until his breathing and the engine's shuddering rhythm were in harmony again.

ApIvor looked older. His hair was thinner. Each strand stood out from the shining scalp as if sewn on individually, although there was still no trace of grey. His face was rounder than ever, and gold rimmed spectacles – a recent addition – emphasised the small, almost delicate features gathered in the middle. Curiously, the gap in his front teeth looked wider. It increased the benign effect. If a cherub could age, he would resemble ApIvor.

He smiled at the man who had been their family friend through many a crisis, and generous in ways not measured by money. Arthur had known him all his life, and loved him. If he missed anyone, it was ApIvor. Settling back in the seat, he knew it might be years before he saw him again.

"Come... on... now... my... lovely." Punctuating each word with a grunt as he wrestled the wheel, ApIvor turned the vehicle round. "Now, Arthur, a chance for us to chat uninterrupted, for once, but you first while I catch my breath. What were you going to tell me about this new posting?"

It would be all right this last journey together. There was no need for platitudes, or sentiment. Now their mother lay at rest with their father, a curious peace had enveloped the family. It affected ApIvor too. He read as much in his eyes. Like his companion, he felt the need to change the subject and fill the silence with something life renewing. Not too many laughs though. He wanted to keep both ApIvor's hands on the wheel, for when laughing, tears would stream down the good Reverend's cheeks, and he would have to wipe his eyes. No doubt the old fellow had some personal news he wanted to tell. There would be plenty of time to chat on this last trip, but nothing too animated or emotional. Now they were leaving, Arthur didn't want any more diversions or unexpected stops.

No, keep it all simple, and they might just arrive in one piece.

TWO

ApIvor served the Chapel, and the Chapel those who were God-fearing for miles around. Whenever there was a service, it was packed. His flock preferred simple rituals, polished boards, and plain prayer. Like their minister, they could all sing. They loved to sing. The walls reverberated with ApIvor's trained baritone and their enthusiastic harmonies. They left elated, and much closer to God.

Anyone wishing to visit ApIvor at home faced a half mile walk uphill to the manor gates. Set in the wall was a brass bell-pull, but the amiable cleric would open the side door to the lodge long before his visitor recovered breath enough to ring it.

ApIvor liked the elevated position of his 'abode', as he called it, claiming the exercise to and fro kept himfit. He had been to public school with the present incumbent of the manor, Godfrey Chalfont. It was one of his reasons for applying to such an out-of-the-way place to practise a ministry. His other reason, well hidden from all save his friend, was more prosaic. He had built and furnished the Chapel with his own money. Every brick and board a penance for the vast fortune his father, and grandfather before him, had accumulated at the height of the copper industry boom in South Wales. His conscience drew him away from the ornate mansion on the Gower where his only sister Gertrude still presided. It spared him her disappointment. She never recovered from the shock that once ordained he eschewed 'High Church' for Chapel.

Godfrey had been more enthusiastic.

"They're a Godless bunch in these parts since the old church fell into decay." He told ApIvor, by way of encouragement. "Altogether too much nonsense from the past. Too close to nature by half. Could benefit from a little fire and brimstone."

Godfrey's comments were only half-serious. They agreed a 999 year lease for a plot of land owned by the Chalfont estate on the edge of the village.

"After all," the 'squire' had reasoned, "a God-fearing workforce will be advantageous to all."

Over the years they developed a truce on the subject of alcohol. ApIvor would have had them all teetotal, but Godfrey was adamant.

"My success (and patronage) is founded on the cider and brewing industries. Discourage drunkenness by all means, but you know I still pay half my casuals in cider. Take away their life blood, and you, my friend, will have no congregation!"

*

ApIvor chose to rent the smallest of five houses within the manor grounds, a single-storey arrangement of three and a half elegant rooms behind rose-coloured stone, with deep windows.

The gillie lived in a matching lodge on the far side of the estate, nearer the river. Though married, he had no children, and for many months of the year, one salmon after another occupied the bath. It amused ApIvor, who had listened to his cleaning lady's outrage on the subject more than once.

"It's shocking, just shocking. A proper bath to themselves, and he keeps fish in it. I blame her, mind, dirty madam. More than half a Gyppo, if you ask me. Water strictly for drinking with her."

"Come on now, Gwyneth, that's not a particularly charitable thing to say, is it? And it's not every week he has a salmon."

He smiled to himself, prepared to overlook the gillie's laxity towards personal hygiene in favour of the few choice cuts of salmon that came his way. But Mrs Prosser had warmed to her theme.

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm sure. But most of us have to put child after child in our tin baths of a Saturday night. Well, you wouldn't know how inconvenient it is, of course, or the time it takes filling it up and baling out again afterwards, and water spilt everywhere. Seems such a waste for a couple like that."

"Ah, but 'Judge not', the Lord said."

He attempted to look stern, but the image of salmon cutlets with a side boat of delicate hollandaise sauce (his particular favourite)... new potatoes... early garden peas... maybe even a few broad beans... wouldn't leave him.

He shook himself out of such inappropriate musings, aware that Mrs Prosser, having ignored his admonition, was polishing with renewed vigour, and muttering.

"And you're wrong about the Gypsies, Gwyneth. They think we're the dirty ones, so I'm told."

Mrs Prosser snorted her contempt. Long-ingrained prejudice was hard to shift amongst the village women, even though their community was closer to the Gypsies than most. They worked along side them for six months of the year, and he knew they enjoyed the fortune-telling behind his back. Little escaped his notice, or if it did there was always someone willing to enlighten him.

He turned away to study his fine book collection. Mrs Prosser took the hint and retreated, leaving a trail of lavender-scented disapproval in her wake.

*

ApIvor appreciated the scaled down aesthetics of his accommodation. He was comfortable there, felt 'at home', and relished his bathroom, despite the chill that seeped through the lime-wash, summer or winter. He propped his shaving mirror on a little shelf that had been installed just for the purpose. It was one of his late friend's, (Wilf Pritchard's) many well-constructed niceties.

That morning, as he prepared for the day ahead, he thought about the Pritchards. He'd volunteered to take young Arthur back to the station after the funeral, and reminded himself that he must speak to him about the family. It was high time. He'd been sworn to secrecy while Arthur's parents, Agnes and Wilf, were still alive, but now, well, Arthur was a man, full-grown and responsible. He needed to know the whole truth. He owed him that. It had been so difficult to talk to any of them after Howell left. There was a complicit silence amongst them. Now, despite Arthur's maturity and good nature, he knew it would be difficult to instigate any discussion on the subject. He felt awkward compromising him in such a way, but springing it on him in the car was his last chance.

Young Howell, where are you now?

He doubted he'd recognise him so many years on. Millions had left from all over Europe for the New World. He prayed he'd used the brains God gave him, and made a decent life for himself.

The wardrobe door swung open, and he glimpsed the elderly man he knew to be himself from an unexpected angle. The thought depressed him, and he pushed the offending reminder out of the way with uncustomary irritation.

Where had his life gone? Three score of his allotted span were already used up, yet the interim years seemed to have passed almost without him noticing. So many looked to him as the arbiter of their problems, or for advice, but on days like this he felt convinced that he was the least qualified to solve the dilemmas of others. Nothing had worked out as he intended.

It had been his suggestion to send Howell away; his money that funded the voyage. Yet, truth be told, there were moments of regret. Moments when his heart raced remembering the enormity of such a choice, banishing the one young man he had truly loved (he would say like a son) for no one in their quiet backwater would repudiate such a statement.

The events of 1901

THREE

Mahalia sheltered behind the skirt of hawthorn separating their encampment from the neighbouring fields. This sudden squall had caught her unawares. Rain began beating a tattoo on the stiff piece of canvas that served as a makeshift cape.

She carried a small hurricane lamp, but feared its light would betray her. Hooked over her arm was a new enamel night-pail from the collection stowed beneath the steps of her grandmother's waggon. Struggling with two objects in this weather was foolish, and might prove her undoing. She set down the lamp. It would be easy to retrieve in the morning. The pail had another purpose.

Their waggons, six vardos of differing sizes, had been grouped together for protection. In the spaces between, several bender tents wobbled uncertainly as the wind tested their stability. Tiny plumes of smoke wavered as each family's fire sputtered and went out.

Farther away, in a more sheltered spot, a larger yog had been lit. A group of men were tending it, arranging overlapping corrugated iron sheets, already slick with water and blackened by soot, at angles to protect the blaze. Their figures cast large shadows on the remaining stone wall of a derelict barn.

Wood smoke stung in her nostrils as it spiralled along the ground towards the thicket. Rain gleamed on nearby branches. Their mesh of thorns captured the firelight in a display of brittle lustres that trembled, and betrayed the slightest movement. Although her hair hid most of her face, she was careful not to stay too long in one position, or turn fully towards the light.

Mahalia counted the men. Caleb, her older brother, stood nearest the fire. She blinked away the rain and the picture cleared. Yes, and next to him a slighter version, her other, younger brother Job. Caleb was holding forth as usual.

She watched their gestures. They must be discussing the move across the border. It couldn't come soon enough. She hated this place. Within days, the few families accompanying them would take to the drom, splitting off in search of better sites. She would remain with her old grandmother, her Puro Dai – widowed only a year ago, Caleb, and Job – neither of them wed, and their cousins and families, less than twenty counting all her cousins' chavvis. It would be a time when tensions rose and the main topic of conversation would be her proposed marriage to Reuben. She felt like one of her Puro Dai's songbirds trapped in a cage.

The wind was mountain-cold, and relentless. She began to shiver, but concentrated on the group of men in the firelight. Two had their backs to her. It was harder to identify them. One must be Noah, her cousin-in-law, but the other... She couldn't be sure, even now, that it was wise to move.

She had slipped away again, desperate to be alone before being closeted for the night in the stifling heat of her Puro Dai's vardo. The old grandmother felt the cold too much and no longer slept outside in the bender tents. She kept Mahalia close, as much to keep the men at bay as for her own comfort. But most evenings, if only for ten minutes before she was missed, Mahalia crept off. It was becoming a habit – anything to get away from all the noise.

There was no privacy anywhere. Someone was always watching. Now, in the darkness, her pleasure at being alone evaporated. Far from the others she was vulnerable. Ordinarily, she need stay only a few minutes longer before one of the women, Kezia probably, would worry enough to call out. Tonight, in these conditions, her reply would be snatched away on the wind.

The smoke pothered through the branches making her eyes smart. She would have to move or risk coughing. Gathering her skirt into a knot in front of her, she covered the joint between the handle and pail to prevent it clanking. If careful, she could slip past the tethered horses unnoticed and from there to safety.

She could see her Puro Dai's vardo now, the custom-made, smaller Ledge that had replaced her grandfather's ornate Burton show waggon.

When her Puro Dadus died they had left the familiar faces and places of their show folkendi. Her grandmother was anxious to get back to her roots, back to the old ways; the more elderly she became, the more difficult and demanding. Coming here to the Beacons was like an obsession with her: it made no sense. She claimed the openness improved her health, but Mahalia saw only her age and frailty. There was no spare money for medicine, and they avoided gaje doctors. Just the mention of one would make Puro Dai curse and spit.

There were few opportunities now to play her harp. Cash work was getting scarce, and she feared that one day Caleb would make good his threat to chop it in, if only to have enough wonga to keep them fed. How had it come to this so soon? As the memory of her beloved Puro Dadus faded like winter grass, so had their fortunes, but for now, her grandmother was 'queenie', their acting leader until the family could agree on another chief. Her word was law. Mahalia had no choice but stay; no say at all in her own future.

Twenty yards to go. She paused to catch her breath. Edging along in the dark needed all her concentration. There were so many unseen obstacles waiting to trip her up. Every few feet she stopped to listen. The rain struck each surface with a different note, rising in a crescendo and drowning out familiar noises. Ahead were two bender tents; one for Lymena's numerous chavvis – tangled together like a mound of sleeping puppies; the other for the single men.

The wind had been savage these past few days, driving most of the family into their vardos earlier than usual. Only the sturdiest tents remained. She was spared the usual catcalls. Three more yards to go. More confident now, she emerged from the shadows.

Reuben stepped in front of her, barring the way. With one swift movement he grabbed her upper arms in a pincer grip, lifted her off the ground, and pushed her against the wooden panels. She had enough presence of mind to hold on to the bucket, concealing it behind the fullness of her skirt. Using it as a weapon was no longer an option. Another idea occurred to her – it would get her into trouble of a different sort, but was worth the risk.

Crushed by his strength, she managed to wrench her face away from him. Undeterred he laughed, slurring his words.

"Dikka for sommat, are yer, Mally? Think ya'd give me the slip? I've been waitin'. What yer after in the dark, eh?"

He breathed beer fumes over her. These days, it seemed, he never lost the smell. She shuddered, fearing his strength and nearness.

"Cold eh? I'll soon warm yer up." He pressed closer. "Can't put me off much longer, our Puro Dai agreed, remember? Yer mine, or soon will be..." His breath was hot on her cheek, "...no use struggling, though I likes a mort with fight in 'er."

Not caring if it angered him, she shook her head until all her loose, dark hair completely obscured her face. Summoning all her remaining strength, she yelled,

"Caleb!"

It came out as more of a squeak. Through her hair she saw him grin in triumph. He took no notice of this gesture of refusal, amused by her helplessness. Pinned in this position, it was difficult to kick him – he'd made sure of that – being too well-practised at subduing people. He had beaten her brothers before now, though never in a clean fight.

In the distance she recognised Caleb's voice, and hoped he was coming towards them, though she risked his temper being out here alone. He'd say she asked for it. Give her a thrashing most likely if she upset him. But she had come prepared.

Reuben heard him too, and released his hold a fraction. It was all she needed to half-throw the bucket, letting it clatter against the wooden steps. If that didn't put him off at least the noise might bring someone... anyone. Seeing the night-pail roll towards his feet, he dropped her with a grunt of disgust, and lurched backwards.

Caleb hurried round the side of the vardo, his anxiety giving way to anger at the scene in front of him. He looked from one to the other, then down at the bucket. Mahalia sprang forward, snatched up the offending item and returned it to the hook beneath the steps. Reuben swayed on his feet. Her brother glared at her, jabbing his finger towards the ground.

Pushing past him, she hissed,

"It was empty. I took it to protect myself, since my prala don't think I'm worth the effort."

With that she ran up the steps, and out of reach. Balancing on the narrow top step, she slipped off her boots and jerked open the doors, leaving him to cope with their cousin, the man to whom she had been promised, with little regard for her feelings, since childhood.

*

"Dordi! Dordi! Shut the door quick, Mally, we're losin' the warm."

There were already three women inside the vardo. They had been playing cards while they waited for her return. Lymena, her cousin Paoli's wife, sat on the rug directly in front of the entrance, with her back to it. Without getting up, she hitched over to make room.

"Look at yer, soaking wet. Yer been out so long I reckoned yer found a mush to keep yer dry!" She rolled her eyes at her sister Kezia, sitting next to her, and dug her in the ribs. "Don't know what 'er's missin', does 'er, penna? Don't know what it's like to 'ave a mush keep 'er warm. Wait 'til yer wed, then'll see." She turned towards the old lady sitting in a small upholstered seat fixed to the side of the waggon. "Shoulda put 'er on a lower stool when 'er was fourteen, Beebi Rae, to see if 'er was ready, 'er being such a kusi thing! My Zilla now, 'er toes reach the ground at eleven. Be ready next year, that one, and look at yer, twenty this summer – an old woman nearly – and still not rommed. I had three by that age. Folk'll think there's sommat wrong wi' ya." She nudged her sister, who was more concerned with helping Mahalia remove her muddy outdoor clothes, and gave a lewd wink. "...and I wouldn't keep a mush like Reuben waitin'."

Kezia took the towel she had been warming by the small stove, and wrapped it around Mahalia's hair.

"Leave 'er be. Let 'er enjoy a bit o' freedom while 'er can. There'll be no time for day-dreaming, or playing that harp once 'er's rommed and 'as 'er first tikni in 'er arms."

"Aye, true enough." Lymena laughed, "That mush'll give 'er a drom full of chavvis."

Mahalia hung her wet clothes on the hooks above the door next to those of the other women, and joined them where they sat on the floor, clad in just their bodices and petticoats. It was stifling: an over ripe mixture of stale pipe smoke, sweat, and damp, unwashed clothes. Even though it was a good size vardo and they were small women, she didn't know how long she could stand the atmosphere. Hated being shut in, but to be shut in with Lymena – a proper ferret that one, always spite behind everything. She hoped her Puro Dai would soon feel drowsy and send the sisters away.

Lymena was fixed on the subject, worrying at it like a snappy jukel. They'd heard it all before, yap, yap, yap. On and on about being wed, but when she had laughed Mahalia noticed that another of her teeth was missing. There were those who said she talked too much, looking the other way when her mush used the only method he knew of shutting her up.

As for Reuben, he and Paoli were from the same stock. Despite the fact that he boasted of her to other men, as if she was a prize mare ready for breeding, she knew it wouldn't be long before her youth and dreams were knocked out of her.

There was a different atmosphere these days. She sensed the unrest between the men. Who would become chief? If she married Reuben, he would have a stronger claim to the title. The drinking worried her too, and the way Job seemed to be shifting his loyalty from Caleb, to Reuben, the cousin he admired and copied.

When their Puro Dadus was alive he had made such a fuss of her, relishing the gift (his words) of a granddaughter in a familia where the men outnumbered the women of her generation. He insisted that she should marry only when she was ready, preferring instead to encourage her music, even buying her a harp, a cause of great resentment at the time.

Music was her only love. From the first notes she plucked, it had bewitched her. While other girls accepted their future role, this enchantment took her to a different place. She had the gift, her grandfather said, and no one could deny that. The harp had been an unusual indulgence. Now he was dead, her Puro Dai was anxious to resolve matters. But in her dreams she played in different places, halls like those the gaje built for their singing and dancing, where sound bounced off the walls and encircled her. Locked in this imaginary world, she accompanied songs she composed for ears that could no longer hear them. But although the dimensions of her dream shifted and changed, one thing remained constant: it contained no cousin to ensnare her.

Lymena had been watching her face closely.

"Look at 'er, sulkin' now that 'arp of 'ers bin stowed away." When her teasing went unanswered, she nudged her sister again. "I'll read the leaves. That'll tell us, eh, penna?"

Kezia removed the first towel, and put another around Mahalia's shoulders.

"Set by 'ere," she said, moving from her position near the stove. She fanned out her friend's luxuriant hair to catch the heat. "It'll soon dry." She checked the amount of water in the kettle. It had been simmering on the hotplate. Satisfied, she reached for the teapot and caddy. "Let's see what the leaves say, Mally. I wants another readin'."

The wind shook the vardo making everything rattle. There was no sitting outside in this squall.

Mahalia relaxed. This was a chance to get her own back. Lymena was hopeless at the leaves, though no one dared tell her. It was a skill that needed patience and imagination to interpret correctly. Her cousin's wife had neither virtue. She snatched at the first image she saw, and invariably made a hash of it.

Mahalia understood Kezia's eagerness for a new reading. She wanted another baby. Fate had left her with two children. The eldest, a boy of nine, spent most of his time with the men and the other lads, while her remaining son, little more than a toddler, slept in the bender tent outside amongst Lymena's brood. Kezia had lost almost as many babies as her pen had carried. Some trick of the blood, their outsider's ratti, her grandmother thought. Such a shame; she was the better mother.

The sisters sat together, knees touching. Lamplight softened the reality of life on the drom so clearly etched on their features in daylight. Lymena was twenty-eight, Kezia a year younger, yet their bloom had faded early. Their fingers bore permanent stains from years of hop-picking, and the hand-rolled cigarettes they smoked incessantly.

'Strong and limber' with 'flying fingers and feet' that was the measure of a Romani chi, so her Puro Dadus had said, not 'bone and string' nor 'soft and whey-faced' like the gaje.

How she missed him. There were moments, sitting in the vardo like this, when she sensed his presence. He had been a rare mush – a 'one-off ', she realised too late, believing everyone was blessed with such a grandparent.

'A regular peacock' her Puro Dai called him. Nothing, and nobody got the better of him. And no one could miss him. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat with a silk dikalo knotted at his neck in the traditional way; the brighter the better. But it was his headgear people noticed most. His favourite was what the gaje called a 'topper', bound with coloured bands and pierced by jay feathers.

"Dikka that mush!" her grandmother used to say, "Why 'e 'as more hats than one of them fancy Paris ladies!" half in pride at his appearance, half in mockery at such vanity.

The topper exaggerated his height, and he enjoyed causing a sensation. A showman he had been when her grandparents first met – and a showman he remained in his heart. 'Swanky Jessel' people called him. No one remembered his other name. Yet despite the hostility between the show folk and the travellers theirs had been a remarkable marriage with a temporary truce between families.

It had all been so different when he was alive. He had shown her what it meant to be Romani, taking pains to explain their traditions. From the moment she could talk, he had taken her hand explaining every small detail.

"The gaje are dirty," he said. "Use the same bowls for washing their clothes as they do for their dishes – and all their crockery is mixed up. No one has their own special things. No wonder when sickness visits one of their houses they all get it. We can't afford to be ill, not on the drom."

And it all made sense to her. Later, when she railed against the inequalities of women's lives compared with the men, the taboos surrounding her femaleness – the restrictions all the women had to endure, her grandmother had been exasperated with her. Unusually, for this was always considered 'women's business', his had been the logical explanation.

"Women are vulnerable," he said, "too much familiarity raises the temperature, fires the blood – and Romani men are ever prey to that. Modesty is your protection, that and honour, which binds the Romani chal. At least for most...", he had seemed displeased when he spoke of this, as if a name occurred to him that rankled. "There will always be those who break it."

He left the rest of his thoughts unsaid. She realised he meant his grandson. For while Reuben could charm (and fool) most people, she had heard her grandfather admonish his wife many times for spoiling him. Maybe he delayed the marriage deliberately, hoping Reuben would change his ways?

The relationship her grandparents enjoyed would be hard to match. It was his favourite topic.

"As for romipen..." There had been a gleam in his eyes as he turned to this subject, "a Romani chi should be proud to have a mush approved by her elders. It was good enough for us."

He had looked over at his wife, but catching the expression on their faces, Mahalia hadn't believed him. As she thought about her beloved grandparents, she knew a kinder fate had joined them together. She glimpsed something exceptional, real love, and she wanted that for herself.

Her head had been too full of music, too bound up in her grandfather's view of the world to dwell on her future. Now he was dead she had no choice in the matter.

Rachael, her Puro Dai, was tiny, smaller even than Mahalia who was barely five feet tall; a brittle kusi bird wrapped in layers of shawls secured by jewelled brooches. Each fragile wrist seemed too insubstantial to support her bangles. Rings slipped up and down her fingers when she moved her hands. Only the swollen knuckles prevented her from losing them.

All this gave a false impression. She was indomitable. The family had been rich, in Romani terms, making her a woman of importance. The lamps caught a glint of gold amongst her possessions, for there were still a few reminders left of their former status.

Mahalia remembered her grandfather boasting.

"A two hundred and fifty book vardo, this beauty!" referring to the booklets of genuine gold leaf decorating his home. "Ordered it special. Done by the best – that gajo, Jones of Hereford."

Well, that was long ago when he'd had a show waggon that was the talk of the fairs. Now, that old vardo was chopped away, and all the bright display of wealth with it. No one could bear to burn it when he died.