A Red Herring Without Mustard

“Yes,” the woman said. “I’ve stopped there. Never knew what the place was called.”

Stopped there? I could hardly believe it.

“The lady let my rom and me camp in a grove by the river. He needed to rest—”

“I know the spot!” I said. “It’s called the Palings. All elder bushes and—”

“Berries,” she added.

“But wait!” I said. “The lady? There’s been no lady at Buckshaw since Harriet died.”

The Gypsy went on as though I’d said nothing.

“A beautiful lady she was, too. Bit like you,” she added, peering at me closely, “now that I see you in the light.”

But then her face darkened. Was it my imagination, or was her voice growing stronger as she spoke.

“Then we got turned out,” she said angrily. “They said we wasn’t wanted there no more. ’Twas the summer Johnny Faa died.”

“Johnny Faa?”

“My rom. My husband. Died in the middle of a dusty road, clutching at his chest, like, and cursing the Gajo—the Englishman—that had turned us out.”

“And who was that?” I asked, already fearing the answer.

“Never asked his name. Straight as a ramrod on two sticks, the devil!”

Father! I was sure of it! It was Father who, after Harriet’s death, had run the Gypsies off his estate.

“And Johnny Faa, your husband … he died because of it, you say?”

The Gypsy nodded, and I could see by the sadness in her eyes that it was true.

“Because he needed to rest?”

“Needed to rest,” she repeated in a whisper, “and so do I.”

And that was when it came to me. Before I could change my mind I had blurted out the words.

“You can come back to Buckshaw. Stay as long as you like. It will be all right … I promise.”

Even as I said it I knew that there would be a great flaming row with Father, but somehow that didn’t matter. Harriet had once given these people refuge and my blood would hardly allow me to do otherwise.

“We’ll park your caravan at the Palings,” I said, “in the bushes. No one even needs to know you’re there.”

Her black eyes scanned my face, darting quickly from side to side. I held out my hand to her for encouragement.

“Mmmm. Go on, old girl. Take her up on it. Spot of rest would do you a world of good.”

It was Dr. Darby, who had slipped quietly back into the tent. He shot me an eighth of a wink. The doctor was one of Father’s oldest friends, and I knew that he, too, could already foresee the coming battle. He had viewed the field and weighed the risks even before he spoke. I wanted to hug him.

He placed his black bag on the table, rummaged in its depths, and extracted a corked bottle.

“Take as required for cough,” he said, handing it to the Gypsy. She stared at it dubiously.

“Go on,” he urged, “take it. It’s wicked bad luck to refuse a licensed practitioner, you know.

“I’ll help with the horse,” he volunteered. “Used to have one meself.”

Now he was putting on the old country doctor routine and I knew that, medically speaking, we were in the clear.

Knots of people stared as the doctor shepherded us towards the caravan. In no time at all he had the Gypsy’s horse in harness and the two of us settled on the wooden ledge that served as both doorstep and driving seat.

The old woman made a clucking noise and the villagers gave way on both sides as the caravan jerked into motion and began to rumble slowly along the churchyard path. From my high vantage point I looked down into the many upturned faces, but Feely’s and Daffy’s were not among them.

Good, I thought. They were most likely in one of the stalls stuffing their stupid faces with scones and clotted cream.

TWO

WE LUMBERED THROUGH THE high street, the sound of the horse’s hooves echoing loudly on the cobbles.

“What’s his name?” I asked, pointing at the ancient animal.

“Gry.”

“Gray?”

“Gry. ‘Horse’ in the Romany tongue.”

I tucked that odd bit of knowledge away for future use, looking forward to the time when I would be able to trot it out in front of my know-it-all sister, Daffy. Of course she would pretend that she knew it all along.

It must have been the loud clatter of our passage that brought Miss Cool, the village postmistress, scurrying to the front of her confectionery shop. When she spotted me seated beside the Gypsy, her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. In spite of the heavy plate-glass windows of the shop and the street between us, I could almost hear her gasp. The sight of Colonel Haviland de Luce’s youngest daughter being carried off in a Gypsy caravan, no matter how gaily it was painted, must have been a terrible shock.

I waved my hand like a frantic dust mop, fingers spread ludicrously wide apart as if to say “What jolly fun!” What I wanted to do, actually, was to leap to my feet, strike a pose, and burst into one of those “Yo-ho for the open road!” songs they always play in the cinema musicals, but I stifled the urge and settled for a ghastly grin and an extra twiddle of the fingers.

News of my abduction would soon be flying everywhere, like a bird loose in a cathedral. Villages were like that, and Bishop’s Lacey was no exception.