Voices in a Haunted Room (52 page)

A scene of wild disorder met my eyes. The grass was on fire and the flames were running across it towards the trees, licking at their barks while I watched in horror.

My father was in the midst of the melee shouting orders; cottagers who lived nearby were running out with buckets of water.

“We have to stop it reaching the thicket,” cried my father.

“Thank God there’s hardly any wind,” said David.

I could see how the difficulty of getting water to the scene made us helpless. This went on for some time and the fire fighting method was most inadequate. I was sure that part of the woods could only be saved by a miracle.

And it came. The rain began to fall, a slight drizzle at first which soon changed to a downpour.

There was a shout of relief from everybody. We stood, faces uplifted, letting the precious rain fall on us.

“The woods are saved,” said my father. “No thanks to those plaguey gypsies.”

He noticed me and cried: “What are you doing here?”

“I had to come, of course,” I replied.

He did not answer. He was watching the flames being beaten out. Then he shouted to the gypsies: “You’ll be off my land tomorrow.”

He turned and started to ride away. I followed with David.

My father was up early next morning, and so was I. He was preparing to go out and I said to him: “What are you going to do about the gypsies?”

“Send them packing.”

“What? Now?”

“I’m riding out in a few minutes.”

“Are you going to blame them all because one or two were careless?”

He turned to me, his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about it? These people nearly burned down my woods. If it hadn’t rained how much timber do you think I would have lost? I won’t have them burning down my trees, stealing my pheasants. Thieves and vagabonds, the lot of them.”

“The woods weren’t burnt down. And I don’t suppose you’ll miss a pheasant or two.”

“What does all this mean? Why are you making excuses for a band of gypsies?”

“Well, they have to stay somewhere. If people won’t let them camp, where can they go?”

“Anywhere, but on my land.”

With that he strode out. I went to my room and hastily put on my riding habit. I ran down to the stables. There, they told me that my father had left a few minutes before.

I hurried out and caught up with him before he had reached the woods. He heard my approach and looking round pulled up sharply and stared at me in astonishment.

“What do you want?”

“You are going to see the gypsies,” I said. “I am coming with you.”

“You!”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”

“You’ll turn right around and ride straight home.”

“I don’t want you to go alone.”

I saw the familiar twitch of his lips. At least he was amused.

“What do you think they are going to do to me? Truss me up like a pheasant and eat me for supper?”

“I think they might be dangerous.”

“All the more reason why you should not be there. Go back at once.”

I shook my head.

“So you would disobey me, would you?”

“I am coming with you. I am afraid for you to go alone.”

“Do you know,” he said, “you
get
more like your mother every day. Plaguey daughters! I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I’m coming,” I said.

He was laughing inwardly, well pleased. He turned his horse and started to trot towards the woods. I fell in beside him. It was far from his mind that there would be any trouble or he would then have insisted that I go back. He must have been dealing with gypsies all his life and I doubt he had ever known rebellion, either from them or anyone else with whom he came into contact.

We came to the gypsies’ encampment. There were four caravans there—brown and red—together with a van which was laden with baskets, clothes pegs and plaited rush mats. A fire was burning and over it sat a woman stirring something in a pot which smelt like a stew. Several horses were tethered in the bracken and four or five men were seated near the fire watching us.

It was clear that no preparations for departure had been made.

I felt a shiver of apprehension as I glanced at my father. The blood had rushed into his face. He was going to be very angry and show these people who was the master here.

He said in a voice of thunder: “I ordered you off my land. Why are you still here?”

The group near the fire did not move and the woman went on stirring. They just behaved as though my father was not there. This was the quickest way to anger him. He urged his horse forward towards the group of men. I followed.

“Get up, you louts!” he shouted. “Stand up when I speak to you. This is my land. I’ll not have you despoiling it… stealing my birds. Take your horses and your caravans and go. Go, I say. You were here with my permission. That permission is now withdrawn.”

One of the men got slowly to his feet and sauntered towards us. There was insolence in his very movements. Colour burned under his brown skin and his eyes were fierce. I saw that his hand rested on a knife in his belt.

“We do no harm here,” he said. “We go when we are ready.”

“No harm!” cried my father. “You call setting fire to my woods no harm! No harm … stealing my pheasants. You will go when I say and that is … this minute.”

The man shook his head slowly. He stood there threateningly but my father was not to be threatened.

My throat was dry. I tried to whisper that we must go at once. The gypsies in this mood were dangerous; they were a wild people and we were unarmed. It was folly to stay here. They were so many and we were but two.

“Father…” I whispered.

He made a gesture with his hand. “Leave me,” he said. “Get away … at once.”

“I will not go without you,” I answered fiercely.

Another of the men stood up and started to come towards us. Others followed. Four … five … six, I counted. They came very slowly. It was as though time had slowed down and they were taking a long time to reach us.

“Do you hear me,” cried my father. “Start packing …
now.”

“The land belongs to the people,” said the man with the knife. “We’ve got a right.”

“Much right as you have,” shouted one of the others.

“Fools! Knaves! I’ll have the law on you. I’m going straight now to see about it.”

He had my horse by the bridle and was about to turn it when a stone hit my saddle. I caught my breath. It was too late for retreat now. I was aware of them closing in around us, and for the first time in my life I saw fear in my father’s face. It was for me, of course. He was terrified that he would not be able to protect me.

Then suddenly there was a shout from one of the caravans. We all looked towards it. Romany Jake was standing on the steps—colourful in his orange coloured shirt and the gold glittering in his ears.

“What’s to do?” he shouted.

Then he took in the scene—my father with me beside him, the angry gypsies surrounding us.

“His lordship wants to drive us off the land, Jake,” said one of the men.

“Drive us off? When we’re going in good time?”

He sauntered towards the crowd and came close to us. Even in such a moment his eyes held mine, slightly mocking, full of hidden meaning. “Good sir,” he said, in loud ringing tones, “I and my friends will not harm your land. Last night there was an accident. It was not our intention to cause damage.”

“But you did,” said my father. “And you’ll get out… now.”

“In good time we will pass on.”

“Not in your good time but mine. And that is now! This day, and, by God, if you continue to defy me I’ll have the law on you. It’s time some action was taken. I’ll get you shipped to Botany Bay, the whole lot of you. Perhaps you’ll be prevailed upon to do a bit of honest work out there.”

The man with the knife stepped nearer. I saw it flash in his hand as he lifted his arm. At that moment someone threw another stone.

“My God … Jessica…” murmured my father. I think he would have killed the man who threw the stone if he could have caught him. I felt numb with fear. I had always thought of him as invincible. He had always been a power in our household; he had lived a life of adventure; he had faced the French mob in the Terror and brought my mother out from under their noses; but here he was, unarmed, completely outnumbered … and vulnerable … because he was afraid … afraid for me as he could never be for himself.

They were cunning, these gypsies. I think some of them sensed the weakness in him.

One of them came close to me and laid a hand on my thigh.

My father made an attempt to seize him but then Romany Jake spoke.

He said in loud tones which rang with authority: “Stop that. Leave the girl alone.”

The man who had touched me fell back.

There was silence, tense and ominous.

“Fools,” said Romany Jake. “Do you want to get the law on us?”

I was aware of the effect he had on the gypsies. The knife had been ready and was for my father. The man stood still with it in his hand.

“Get back,” said Romany Jake.

The man with the knife seemed to be some sort of leader. He said: “It’s time to show them, Jake.”

“Not now … not before the girl. Put that knife away, Jasper.”

The man looked at the knife and hesitated. It was a battle of wills, and I sensed that a great deal hung on this moment. Those watching people were ready to follow either man. Jasper wanted revenge, wanted to wreak his anger against those who owned land and whose permission had to be granted before the gypsies could rest their caravans. What Romany Jake felt on that subject I was not sure. He had spoken as though it were solely on my account that they were to hold off. What would have happened to my father if he had come alone?

My father remained calm. He said: “You seem a reasonable man. Be off my land by nightfall.”

Romany Jake nodded. Then he said quietly: “Go. Go now.”

“Come, Jessica,” said my father.

We turned our horses and walked them slowly away from the gypsy encampment.

When we had left the woods my father pulled up and turned to me. I saw that the rich colour which had suffused his cheeks while he was talking to the gypsies had receded and he was pale. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.

“That was a near thing,” he said.

“I was terrified.”

“And had every reason to be. And another time when I tell you to do something, I expect obedience.”

“What do you think would have happened if
I
hadn’t been there?”

“Ha! You may well ask. I would have given my full attention to those rogues.”

“Romany Jake saved us. You have to admit that.”

“He’s a rogue, like all of them. If they are not off by dawn tomorrow, there’ll be trouble for them.”

“That man with the knife …”

“Ready to use it, too.”

“And, Father, you had nothing.”

“I wish I had brought a gun with me.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. You had me instead, I was better than a gun.”

He laughed at me. I believed he was very touched because I had insisted on going with him.

“There’s no doubt whose daughter you are,” he said. “Jessica, forget I said this, but I’m proud of you.”

“I’m so glad I insisted on coming with you.”

“You think it would be the end of me if you hadn’t, don’t you? You’re kidding yourself. I’ve been in tighter spots. What beats me is that such a thing could happen on my land in broad daylight. Another thing … not a word of this to your mother.”

I nodded.

And as we rode home each of us was too emotionally stirred for words.

The next morning the gypsies left and there was lamentation in the kitchen because of the departure of Romany Jake.

L
IFE SEEMED QUITE DULL
after the gypsies had gone. We were all dismayed to hear of Napoleon’s great victory at Austerlitz that December. It seemed that he was not beaten yet. Trafalgar had merely robbed him of sea power and he was anxious to show that his armies were supreme.

However, we settled into the usual routine: lessons, rides, walks, visiting the sick of the neighbourhood with comforts. It was only with the preparations for Christmas that life became eventful again. Bringing in the log, hunting for mistletoe, cutting the holly, and all the baking that went on in the kitchens; selecting the gifts we were giving and speculating on what would be given to us: the usual happenings of the Christmas season.

Christmas came and went and it was January, three months after the gypsies had vacated our woods. I had not forgotten Romany Jake; I believed I never should. He had made a marked impression on me. I found myself thinking of him at odd moments. I was sure he had been attracted by me in a special sort of way; and there was no doubt that he had had an effect on me. He made me feel that I was no longer a child; and that there were many things I could learn and which he would teach me. I felt frustrated because he had gone before I could understand the meaning of this attraction between us.

The winds were blowing in from the north bringing snow with them. We had fires all over the house. I loved fires in the bedrooms; it was pleasant to lie in bed and watch the flames in the grate—blue flames which were due to the salty wood which was brought up from the beach after storms. It was great fun going down to collect it and to burn the pieces we had personally found; I always said that the pictures in the blue flames were more beautiful than any others.

Outside the wind buffeted the house; and there we were warm and cosy with our fires round which we sat roasting chestnuts and telling uncanny stories—the same which we told every year.

It was the middle of January, during an icy spell, when Dolly Mather came over to Eversleigh in a state of panic. She asked for young Mrs. Frenshaw. She seemed to have a special feeling for Claudine. I happened to come in just as Claudine was coming down to the hall, so I heard what was wrong.

“It’s my grandmother … Oh, Mrs. Frenshaw, she’s gone.”

“Gone!” For the moment I thought she was dead for people say “gone” because they fight shy of saying the word “dead” and try to make the act of dying less tragic by calling it something else.