The Girl on the Doorstep Read online

  Having decided to go their separate ways, Maria and Rosie had agreed to meet at the end of the day back at the vardo. The sun was going down as Rosie trudged along on aching feet. She prided herself on having sold everything except a length of lacy ribbon and she was now looking forward to a rest and cup of tea. However, all day her heart was heavy in her chest, something wasn’t right with Maria. She had tried to shake the feeling, but it persisted. Maria was poorly.

  Walking wearily along Portway Lane, Rosie glanced towards the wagon she lived in. Seeing a small group of people gathered around, her heart sank. It looked very much like she and Maria were about to be moved on again. Steeling herself for the onslaught of abuse she thought might come, she strode on.

  As she neared the caravan she saw the boat people milling around and heard the mutters as they spied her. Here we go! Rosie marched confidently towards the group and they began to part to allow her through. A pain shot through her body as she glanced from one person to another. Something was terribly wrong. Running the last few steps to the rear of the caravan, she gasped as she dropped her basket on the ground.

  ‘Maria!’ Dropping to her knees by the woman lying on the ground, Rosie’s tears ran freely. ‘Maria!’ Covering her face with her hands she sobbed her despair.

  After a moment a woman stepped forward placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘We found her on the heath cocker, so we carried her back here.’

  Rosie looked up at the woman who spoke to her. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered finally dragging her emotions under control.

  ‘Don’t know what happened though…’ the woman began again.

  Rosie stood saying, ‘Maria had a bad heart; the doctor said this would happen one day.’ Unlocking the padlock on the door she turned again to the people standing around. ‘Thank you for the kindness shown to Maria, but could I ask some kind soul to carry her inside please?’

  A strapping man stepped forward and as gently as he could, lifted Maria in his arms. Taking her indoors he laid her reverently on her bed before taking off his flat cap and holding it to his chest.

  ‘Rest well,’ he said before exiting the wagon.

  The woman who had spoken previously asked, ‘What happens now, after the doctor’s been I mean?’

  Rosie replied sadly. ‘We don’t bury our dead in cemeteries as is the practice of the townspeople…’ Rosie saw the glances being exchanged. ‘I have to prepare Maria and then I will fire the vardo.’

  Shocked looks passed between the folk standing around her and Rosie said simply, ‘It is the way of the Romany.’

  Nodding and muttering quietly the people moved away back to their boats. They were close enough to see the spectacle but far enough away to remain safe. None were leaving until their morbid curiosity was satisfied and they’d seen the caravan burn.

  Locking up Rosie trudged back into the town to fetch the doctor. Her thoughts strayed to when Maria had done this for Rosie’s mother and now Rosie was doing the same thing for Maria, both victims of their bad hearts. Drawing in a deep breath, Rosie marched on.

  Once the doctor had been and gone, Rosie had the death certificate in her hand which she placed in a small box along with the one given over for her mother. She sat on the vardo steps for a long time allowing her grief to pour forth. It seemed she sobbed for everyone and everything. Her heart was breaking and now she was all alone again. After a while and feeling a little better she gathered the things that belonged to her and carried them over to where the horse was tethered. Stroking his neck, she then turned back to the vardo.

  Inside she looked around at the wagon that had been her home for the last thirteen years. She wanted to take one small thing to remember Maria by. Lifting the lid of Maria’s clothing chest, she peered inside. A large envelope with her name on sat on the top of Maria’s neatly folded clothes. Leaving it where she knew Rosie would find it, clearly meant Maria had had a premonition. Lifting it out, she opened it and gasped at the contents. It was filled with money along with a necklace that had been the woman’s favourite. A simple note read,

  For you my beautiful Rosie, use it wisely. I love you,

  Maria

  Rosie’s sob caught at the back of her throat as she read and re-read the note. Laying a gentle kiss on the forehead of the woman who had raised her, Rosie said her last goodbye. Tucking the envelope into the bodice of her dress, she moved around the interior of the caravan striking matches and placing them so they would ignite the surrounding fabrics quickly.

  Leaving the wagon, Rosie walked over to the horse. She knew the smell of the fire would cause him to panic and she stroked his neck and talked to him gently. ‘Steady Samson, don’t be afraid, we’ll be all right.’

  Rosie watched as the vardo was consumed by the flames. She stood for many hours calming the horse who was scraping his hooves on the scrubland. His frightened eyes rolled and he snorted as the smoke reached his nostrils.

  The fire burned fiercely hot until eventually it died down and only a pile of smoking ash, tin pots and cracked china remained. Her home had gone and with it the woman who had raised her. Rosie was all alone in the world and now she had to decide what she would do and where she would go.

  It was very late and fully dark when Rosie gathered the ashes of the woman she loved with all her heart. She scattered them over the heath as a mark of respect. The bones she buried beneath the tree.

  Then settling around the small fire in the ring of stones, she sipped her tea as the darkness enveloped her. She would be sleeping beneath the stars tonight and Rosie hoped there would be no rain. After everything that had happened she dreaded the thought of lying on wet ground. Laying out her blanket near the fire she gazed into the flames. Silent tears coursed down her face and she wept for her birth mother as well as the woman who had assumed that role over the years. Watching the tiny flames dance in the makeshift hearth, Rosie considered her options. Maria had left her a sum of money; would it be enough to buy her own vardo, or maybe a reasonably priced cottage here in the town?

  Lying on her blanket her thoughts continued on. If she chose a house she would have to sell Samson. She would be settled in one place and would have to find work of some sort. On the other hand, if she chose her own caravan she could keep the horse. She could continue to travel and attend the ‘Gatherings’.

  Drifting into sleep at last, Rosie had no notion that her life would shortly take another path entirely.

  Three

  There was still a chill in the air despite the early spring sunshine and Margy Mitchell shivered. She cast her mind back to her family. She had, as had Abner, been born and raised on the canals. Their boat had come to them from a long line of ‘cut-rats’ in Abner’s family. She in turn had given birth to Bill on this very boat and as he grew he fell in love with their way of life every bit as much as she had.

  Margy now sat on the deck of the ‘Pride of Wednesbury’ watching her husband load the crates of vegetables. Her mind was in turmoil as she relived their visit to see the twins and tears formed as she heard again the venomous words of Bill’s wife. What was it made some people so evil?

  Margy stared at the image in her mind of the twins the last time she’d seen them. Both blond like their father, they also had his twinkling blue eyes. Her tears fell as the thought struck her: she might never see them again.

  Without her realising they had set off, the movement of the boat wrenched Margy back to reality and her eyes frantically searched the basin and towpath in the hope of seeing her son. No, Bill would be at work at this time of the day, but her eyes continued to roam nevertheless. Margy watched until they were well along the waterway. She knew in her heart they would probably not be back this way for a long time, if at all. Wiping away her tears she gave a weak smile as Abner called out.

  ‘How about a cuppa?’

  ‘You’ll turn into a tealeaf, Abner Mitchell, the amount you drink!’ Margy called back as she descended the few steps into the belly of the boat. While the tea mashed, Margy cri
ed her heart out.

  ‘I wonder if the gypsies are still in Wednesbury?’ Margy said handing a mug of tea to her husband a little while later, after she’d composed herself.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought I’d pay them a visit,’ she muttered.

  Abner nodded his head as he steered the boat along the canal. ‘Don’t bank your ’opes up, they’ve most likely moved on by now.’ He was trying his best to save his wife from any more disappointment.

  ‘Ar, most likely.’ Margy repeated his words, but secretly she hoped they were still there. She wanted to know if they could tell her anything more about her family and what she should do about it all.

  The sun shone down and glittered on the water as the narrowboat traversed the canal. The Mitchells greeted other boat users as they passed by, waving and calling out as they went.

  The grassy banks either side of the water rose high in places before levelling out to reveal wooden buildings showing signs of decay through neglect and abandonment. Iron and steel works stood sentinel on the edge of the canal, their huge towers reaching to the sky. Coal barges and boats containing pig-iron sat nearby waiting to be unloaded.

  The road was carried over the canal via a massive stone and brick bridge. Navigating the boat through the arch required slow speed and careful handling, but Margy was unconcerned, for her husband was an expert in his trade. She was just grateful not to have to ‘leg’ it – lying on her back on the top of the boat and pushing her feet along the roof of the bridge – anymore.

  Their boat slowed as they waited their turn at one of the many locks. Margy jumped down onto the towpath as their boat came to a standstill and walked along to the lock, stopping to chat with the people of a coal barge along the way. She learned that there had been a fire on the heath in Wednesbury. The woman Margy spoke with didn’t know what had caused the fire but said it had raged very hot and for a long time. Margy’s stomach roiled as she wondered again about the two gypsy women and whether they had been hurt in the fire.

  Walking to the lock, Margy leaned her back against the balance beam and, digging her heels into the ground, she pushed hard. Slowly the massive plank moved and the lock gate began to open allowing the water to pour through. She pushed until the gate opened fully then held it in place, the beam across her back. After the boat passed through the gate, Margy closed it again before moving further along the towpath to operate the second gate.

  Once through the lock safely she relayed the news to Abner.

  ‘They will ’ave been long gone by that time,’ her husband said, ‘besides, the ’eath is expansive; the fire could ’ave been miles away from their caravan.’

  ‘I suppose you’m right,’ Margy said but the worry lines still etched her face as their boat chugged along.

  Immediately they moored up Abner called to his wife. ‘Get yerself along and see if them gypsies am still there. I’ll see to the boat.’

  Margy hitched up her long dark skirt and jumped onto the towpath. Striding briskly forward, her eyes searched for sight of the caravan. There was no sign of it as she stepped onto the heath and she sighed with relief. Clearly they had left the town, but as she walked to the place where the women had camped her heart skipped a beat. The spot where the vardo had stood was a pile of ash and the ground around it was charred black. Walking towards the area she saw bits of broken china lying in the ash. A tin pot here, a painted kettle there. Standing with her hand on her chest, Margy stared at the scene before her. A whole lifetime gone up in smoke.

  A sound made her turn and she saw the horse still tethered to the tree and, sitting beneath the branches, was the young gypsy girl. Relief flooded her once more as she rushed over to Rosie Harris.

  ‘Oh gel, I ’eard and I thought…’ Margy cried.

  Rosie shook her head sadly. ‘No, I’m all right Margy. Maria passed away and I had to fire the vardo as is our custom.’ Her pretty dark eyes sparkled as Margy sat on the ground next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry to ’ear that. Couldn’t you ’ave kept the caravan though?’ she asked.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘No, it is Romany lore and I had to abide by that.’ Her voice cracked on the words.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Margy asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Rosie’s rising tears spilled over and she wept openly.

  Folding the girl in her arms Margy felt the heaves as Rosie sobbed out her loss. ‘Cry it out yer’ll feel all the better for it.’ Margy’s heart ached as she held the young woman until her tears ceased.

  ‘Thank you. Oh Margy, it feels like you’re my only friend in the world,’ Rosie said on a sob.

  ‘Ain’t you got any gypsy pals?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re out on the road. I’m grateful for your visit and concern though, Margy.’ Rosie tried her best to smile.

  ‘Ar well, I think as you should come along with me back to the boat for a bite of supper. The ’orse will be all right where ’e is, so get your things together.’

  Margy got to her feet and helped Rosie carry all her worldly goods collected in two carpet bags, to the narrowboat.

  As they neared her home on the water Margy called out, ‘I ’ope you’ve got the kettle on, Abner Mitchell!’ Grinning at Rosie by her side she added quietly. ‘He’s a good man is my Abner.’

  Climbing aboard the women descended the three little steps into the cabin.

  ‘Abner, this ’ere is Rosie Harris. Rosie, meet Abner Mitchell.’

  Shaking hands Abner pointed to the bench by the small table. ‘Sit you down, Rosie, tea is just mashing.’

  Rosie had felt the familiar tingle down her spine when shaking hands with the man; he was grieving a lost one also.

  Margy explained about Maria’s demise as her husband busied himself with the tea things. Then the question came again. What would Rosie do now?

  ‘I suppose I have a choice,’ she said. She watched husband and wife exchange a glance. ‘Maria left me a small inheritance so I can either see if it will buy me another vardo or look around for a cheap house in the town.’

  ‘You realise you won’t be welcome in the town,’ Margy said as her husband tutted loudly.

  Turning to him she added, ‘What? I’m only telling the girl the truth!’

  ‘She’s right, Abner. I think I knew that anyway.’ Rosie gave a smile which lit up her whole face.

  ‘That’s as maybe, but Margy is not known for her tact.’ He returned her smile.

  Margy shrugged her shoulders. ‘Why use a dozen words when a couple will do? Any road up, yer’ll be getting another caravan then?’ Her eyes met those of the young girl.

  ‘I would have to find someone willing to build one for me and that would take time,’ Rosie said quietly.

  ‘Well now, you can find a carpenter in the town and while ’e builds it, yer welcome to stay with us, although we move around a lot. I understand we don’t really know each other, but I see a closeness between you and Margy. We do, ’owever, come back ’ere quite often so you can watch the progress made on your caravan,’ Abner ventured.

  ‘That’s most kind of you both. I’m surprised that you would take in someone you barely know,’ Rosie said.

  ‘We’m “Black Country” folk lass, we never see anybody without if we can help.’ Abner smiled kindly.

  ‘But to welcome me onto your boat – into your home—’

  Rosie was cut off by Margy. ‘My old mum took in strangers all the time. Them that live on the land do the same so don’t you fret none.’

  ‘What about the horse?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘You can either sell it or yer can ask a smithy to feed and stable it until such time as yer can fetch ’im back. It will cost yer, mind,’ Abner answered.

  ‘Another quandary.’ Rosie laughed lightly.

  ‘At least if you sell it, yer’ll ’ave some money put by to buy another when the caravan is finished,’ Margy said.

  Rosie nodded seeing the sense in the woman’s words. ‘
I can pay board and lodging if you’re sure you have enough room for me, at least until I decide what to do.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Margy said slapping her hands on the small table. ‘Tomorra you and Abner get that ’orse into the town and get a good price for it. After supper, yer can sleep in the spare bed along there.’ She pointed to the small cabin further down the boat’s innards.

  ‘Thank you both,’ Rosie said feeling a little happier. ‘I once lived in a cottage, then in a vardo and now – I will live on a boat! How lucky I am to have met you.’

  After supper of faggots and peas in a rich onion gravy flanked by chunks of fresh bread smothered in butter, Abner said his goodnight and retired to bed. The two women remained at the table with steaming hot tea.

  ‘I ain’t ’alf sorry for your loss,’ Margy said.

  ‘Thank you.’ The young girl looked at her new friend and went on. ‘Margy, there’s a woman in your life who is out to cause you great distress. I felt it when we first met.’

  Margy Mitchell sucked in a breath and nodded.

  ‘The man she is with does not know, but he will. There will be a parting of the ways Margy and it will be upsetting for many.’

  The older woman’s tearful explanation followed and Rosie listened carefully. The story of Margy’s daughter-in-law’s spite unfolded leaving them both feeling sad.

  ‘You will have good fortune in time, but more heartache will precede it.’ Rosie sniffed.

  Margy sighed heavily as she mopped up her tears. ‘I expected the ’eartache – but the good fortune I’m ’appy to take.’

  Showing Rosie to her bunk, Margy climbed into her own bed and lay in the darkness thinking over what the gypsy girl had told her.

  Good fortune – did she mean money? Or was it to be something concerning her family? Margy knew only time would tell.

  The following day after the crates were unloaded from their boat, Rosie and Abner collected Samson and walked him into the town to find a blacksmith.

  ‘I ain’t in the ’abit of buying ’orses,’ the smithy said, ‘I usually just shoe ’em.’