She could not believe it. This is the 21st century, she said to herself. I'm on my way to Exeter, in my car. This is not right.
She had swept around one of the many corners of the Devon lane from Kingsbury St Jude, and found the road blocked by a caravan. Not another infuriating tourist towing his temporary home into places it did not belong, but a real caravan. A canary yellow, gypsy caravan, with a horse.
Virginia stopped her car and stared. The caravan stood across the road, trying to pull into the fields. She had never seen anything so pretty outside a picture book. The caravan had an arched black roof with a miniature chimney. A quaint window, with open shutters pinned back, nestled under the roof. The red shutters and the caravan's corner posts bore a tracery of hand painted leaves and flowers, the whole making a comet of glorious colour against the dark trees and hedgerows beyond.
Drawing the caravan, a stocky horse of brown, white and black patches. A miniature carthorse, with a long white mane and white feathers hiding his hooves. He had mounted the verge and was on the point of pulling his load off the road and into a hidden gateway. Virginia could just make out a man sitting in the caravan's doorway, flicking the reins to urge his horse on. The horse lowered his croup and with a powerful heave, pulled the front wheels of the van up over the curb. The back wheels bumped up in turn, and the caravan disappeared into the Devon hedge.
Virginia had just seen something that belonged to Victorian times, when no cars disturbed the peace and horses ruled the road. She eased forward and looked for the caravan. It had dived into an overgrown lane. She could see its back wall completely filling the narrow slot between the hedges. As she watched, it dipped out of sight, leaving only wheel marks and hoof prints.
She found herself smiling as she drove on to Exeter. The sight she had just seen was so startling, so incongruous, so out of place in a modern world. The brightness of the horse and its van would bring a smile to anyone's Saturday. All morning, she found the image of it springing back into her mind whenever she had a quiet moment.
She finished work early that day and it was still mid-afternoon when she turned into the narrow lane leading back to Kingsbury St Jude. If she looked carefully, she could pick out white scrapes the horse's metal shoes had left on the tarmac that morning and she followed them to the overgrown lane. When she reached it, she wanted to stop and investigate, but that was silly. She drove reluctantly past but, at the next farm driveway, she stopped. I'm stupid, she thought. It's Saturday, I’m early, and what's so important at home that it can't wait a little? She turned and drove back, searching for a place she could safely pull off the road and park.>
She put her hand bag under her arm, for no sensible reason beyond the feel of it, locked up and set off down the lane. She quickly wished she was wearing proper shoes, and not slip-on leather sandals. The grass in the centre of the track was long, but walking in the wheel ruts meant offering herself to the nettles and brambles leaning out from the hedges. She pushed on down the lane, pausing only once to look back and find the tarmac road had disappeared.
Abruptly, the lane turned and passed between two rough-hewn, granite gate posts. Beyond them, the track continued though a wood of oak, ash and hazel. It was dark, and there was a heavy afternoon silence. Oh well, too late to turn back now and besides, the caravan wheels had left clear prints here. The track continued gently downhill.
Now she could hear something, a rhythmic noise, close at hand. Again the track turned sharply, and this time she stepped out into sunlight. She was in a quarry. An old quarry cut into the hillside, unused and returning to nature. The caravan stood in front of her, its shafts resting on the ground, with black harness draped over them. The man was grooming his horse, brushing in long, rhythmic strokes, and pausing to dip his brush into a bucket of water that stood beside him.
The horse looked around at her, and the man stopped his work to look at her over his horse's back. Suddenly, a black and white collie rushed out at her and stood barking.
“Get back, Shep,” ordered the man, “Stupid dog. You were asleep. She’s here already.” The dog came close enough to sniff the hand Virginia offered, lost interest in her and walked away. The man dismissed his horse with a pat and a quiet “Get on, Jack”, and turned his attention to Virginia.
“Well, well, well, and what brings you here, milady?”
His voice sounded gentle, his accent part Devon and part something she did not recognise. His eyes are almost black, she found herself thinking. Wavy black hair and dark eyes. He's handsome. Then she managed to stammer “I saw you this morning. Coming in. Your caravan looked so pretty. And your horse...”
“Well, now. I wouldn't know about that, but would you be ready for a cup of tea?”
Without waiting for her answer, he emptied the bucket of dirty water and upended it for her to sit on. “Here you are. You bide there, and I shall just start the fire going.”
Virginia sat hunched over her handbag on her lap, and watched him work. He had a small pile of kindling ready, and he hitched up the knees of his trousers to kneel beside it. He produced two pieces of metal from his pocket, and started to strike a fire. How strangely he dresses, she thought. Collarless shirt like Granddad, and an outrageous red kerchief tied around his neck above it. Heavy navy trousers with a brown belt and boots unlike anything she had seen before. He bent to blow on the fire and the soles of his boots turned towards her. They were clogs! Stiff leather uppers, but the soles were thick wooden clogs, with heavy metal strips and triple hobs nailed to them. He must make as much noise as his horse when he's on the road.
Smoke blew up around his head. He sat back and smiled at her. “There, milady. We'll just let that take, and we shall have tea in no time.” He added twigs to the fire, and went to fetch a large black kettle and a metal tripod to hang it from. He climbed into the caravan and came back with a stool, and a plastic washing up bowl with cups and jars. He settled on the other side of the fire, and Shep came to lie beside him.
Virginia felt uncomfortable. The man was not talking. He and the dog simply sat in silence, sometimes looking at her, and sometimes at the fire. She had to speak. “What’s your name? I’m Virginia.”
“Virginia. Well now, I’m John. This here’s Shep.” The dog looked at his master’s face when he heard his name. “And that’s Jack over there.” The horse was standing quietly in the shade of a tree.
“He’s a beautiful horse.”
“So he is. He could pull a van twice as big as this one, if he had a mind to.” He poked the fire with his foot and looked ready to return to his silence.
“Are you going to be here long?”
“Could be. It’s a fine spot. Private like, and the farmer’s kind enough.”
Steam was rushing from the kettle’s spout. He spooned tea leaves and sugar into a small can with a bent wire handle, and topped it up with boiling water. When he passed her tea over in a plastic cup, she sipped cautiously. It was sweet, and good.
“Are you always by yourself?” she asked.
“More or less. Yes, more or less. ‘Cept for Shep and Jack, of course.”
She sipped her tea again and looked around at the shaggy walls of the old quarry. “Must be a lonely sort of a life.”
Her question did not bother him. “Perhaps it is, but I meet people. Folk come a-visiting sometimes, like yourself.” He finished his tea without saying more.
Virginia knew it was time to go. “Well, thank you for the tea. It was very nice.” She stood up, her stupid handbag in her hand. “I’d better go. Can I talk to Jack first?”
“Surely, though he’s not a great talker.” He walked over to the horse with her. “Come on, old fella. The lady wants to make your acquaintance.”
Jack ignored her, so Virginia stretched a hand for him to sniff. He touched it with his nose, warm and soft.
“He’s a good horse, but not what you’d called expressive. Keeps his opinions to himself.”
She was conscious of John close behind, and a shiver ran through her.
“What about you, milady? Do you have a husband waiting at home?” He brushed at something on her shoulder, and she shivered again. She could smell him. Strong and masculine, compounded of wood smoke, horse, and saddle soap.
He had left his hand on her shoulder. “Will you come down here again, milady?”
She turned to shake his hand free, and found she was looking straight into his dark eyes. He’s short, she thought, no taller than me. “Er - yes. If you don’t mind.”
“You’ll be welcome, milady. Always welcome.”
They were moving towards the track out of the quarry, and Jack was following. “When - when shall I come?”
“Anywhen, milady. Anywhen, and I shall be here, like as not. I’ve no promises to keep.”
As she passed the caravan, she looked into the open doorway. A stumpy black stove stood just inside, its flue leading up to the ceiling. In the darkness, she could make out cupboards and a low seat opposite the stove. Across the back of the compact space and stretched on top of another cupboard with decorated doors, she could make out the blankets on the man’s bed.
On the bed, open ready for use, lay a laptop computer.
Link to Jacqueline's home
Great start to your new story, Jacqueline. Coincidentally, my latest release, Land of Falling Stars, has several chapters about the Romani people (gypsies). And the readers seem fascinated by their customs.
ReplyDeleteI'm looking forward to reading the next chapter.
Well done, Keta
http://www.ketadiablo.com (sign up for my newsletter here)
Thanks Keta, you're very kind. Look out for the next episode on 25th October...
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