An Incomplete Revenge (29 page)

“Of course. I shall also speak to my solicitors.”

“Indeed. Now I must go, James. I have no doubt I shall see you soon.”

Maisie allowed herself a short time alone in the MG, leaning her head back against the seat. Her stomach grumbled, and a warmth rose up in her chest that took her breath away. Was she sickening for something? Beads of perspiration trickled down the side of her nose, and she reached for her handkerchief to wipe her brow and cheeks.
I am on fire
. She opened the door to allow a breeze to waft into the motor car and recognized that she was unsettled about the feelings rising within her.

Soon the sensations subsided, the inferno that had gripped her insides extinguished by logical consideration and fresh air. In some
way she thought the lingering image of Simon’s cremation had played a part in her indisposition. She shook her head and once again set off for Heronsdene and the farm.

THE PICKERS WERE
only two hop-gardens from the end of their work on the farm, and many were already talking of the packing up, the journey back, and welcoming autumn’s snap, then winter’s chill. Billy saw her approaching from a distance, waved, and came toward her, stopping to pick up his jacket on the way. They dispensed with the pleasantries of greeting.

“I went into Maidstone on the train yesterday mornin’ to see Beattie Drummond. Blimey, she’s a bit of a one, eh?”

“Push you for a story, did she?”

“Not ’alf, but I was ready for ’er when she said you’d promised she’d be the first to know when you’ve done your bit.”

Maisie nodded. “So, did she find anything?”

Billy pulled an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Maisie. “She came out and gave me some photographs taken in the village before the war. I didn’t let on, didn’t say what we was lookin’ for—or who.”

“Right.” Maisie opened the envelope and flicked through each photograph with some speed, until she came to one image in particular.

“Here we are.”

“I can smell the bread from ’ere. I reckon that was taken on Empire Day, what with the flags and bunting outside the shop, and Mr. Martin standin’ there with a big loaf of bread shaped like the British Isles in ’is ’ands—I mean, that’s clever, ain’t it? You can cut the dough in the right shape, but to get it to turn out how you want it after you’ve put it in the oven—that takes a lot of skill, I would’ve thought.”

Maisie nodded, squinting at the photograph. She reached into
her shoulder bag and pulled out a magnifying glass, leaning over to better consider the subject.

“Shall I post ’em back to ’er?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Got what you want, then?”

“Yes. I just wanted to double-check something, before I go any further.”

“Do you want me to come with you later on?”

Maisie smiled. “No, you’ve done enough. You’re on holiday, remember?” She paused. “Oh, and when you’re in touch with George, tell him his boys are well and truly off the hook. They won’t be summoned back to Kent.”

“Just like you thought, was it?”

She nodded. “More or less. Want a hand with the picking? I can help out until packing-in time, then I have to go up to see Webb.”

MAISIE WELCOMED AN
afternoon sojourn among the hop-pickers, the smell and grainy stain on her hands, the way the bines were pulled down, opening up the blue afternoon sky, as if a canopy were being drawn back to reveal clouds puffed up with white importance, a backdrop for rooks cawing overhead and swallows calling from on high. This, she knew, was the calm before the storm, the clouds a portent for the events that must unfold in all their grayness.

The tallyman came around, and as the last count of the day was completed at each bin, the pickers moved off, either toward the hopper huts if they were Londoners or to the village for the locals, while the gypsies wandered toward the hill, the women’s skirts catching in the breeze, a profusion of color moving from side to side with the sway of their hips.

“And-a-one . . . and-a-two . . . and-a-three. . . .” The tallyman continued his count at the Beales’ bin. Maisie smiled, for each
member of the Beale family mouthed the number as the tallyman, sleeves rolled up above the elbow, pushed his flat cap on the back of his head and plunged the bushel basket in again and again. “Nice work, clean picking, that’s what I like,” he said, then took his pencil from behind his ear, and noted the afternoon’s accomplishments.

Maisie waved to the Beales as she left, walking toward the hill that led up to the gypsy camp and the clearing they had used as a gathering place since before the hop-picking began. When the jook came down the hill to meet her, she stretched to rest her hand on the dog’s shoulder until she reached the vardos.

She went first to Beulah and greeted her before asking, “Is Webb back from the hop-gardens?”

The old woman was holding an earthenware cup filled with a translucent green broth that she sipped before replying. “Gone for wood. Jook brought us hare again.” Then she rubbed her chest.

“Are you feeling ill?” asked Maisie.

Beulah winced. “Not holding my food well today. It’s sitting on my chest, on account of the bread.”

Maisie sat next to her. “Do you have any other pain?”

“Don’t need none of your doctoring. I’ll see to myself.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Mixture. Helps the food go down. Now then, girl, never you mind about me. There’n be nothing wrong with Beulah.”

At that moment, Webb came back into the clearing, along the path on the opposite side of the ring of stones that marked the perimeter of the fire.

Beulah called to him. “Webb. Come, son, the rawni wants to talk to yern.”

Webb dropped the armful of wood alongside the stones and brushed his hands down the front of his trousers. As he came forward, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through the mane of brown curls that was now almost shoulder-length. “What do you want, miss?”

Maisie stood up, still concerned about Beulah. “I’d like to ask you a question or two, if you don’t mind.”

The man shifted his position, moving his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms and raising his chin just enough to reveal defensiveness. “Depends on the questions.”

Maisie wondered how she might tread lightly, how she might couch her questions in a manner that was not inflammatory. “I have a friend in London, a luthier. His name is Mr. Andersen, and—”

“Don’t know no Andersen.” Webb had taken a step back.

“Of course, but I was telling him about your beautiful violin, and when I described it he thought it might be worth—”

“You reckon I stole that violin, don’t you?” Webb’s shoulders were hunched now, his eyes flashing like those of a fox with the hunt at his tail.

“Of course not, of course I didn’t think to suggest that you stole the violin.”

Webb came closer.

“Webb!” Beulah had come to her feet, still clutching the green liquid with one hand while she rubbed her chest with the other. “No wonder my food’s stuck in my gullet with you a-goin’ on like that. Now then, my son. Listen to her.”

But Webb was not to be cut off. “You’re just like the rest of them—no, you’re worse. You come here, eat our food, dance to our music, and act like you know us, and now you’ve shown your colors as a true diddakoi, not one of us and not gorja but half and half, and they’re the worst—they’ll stab a back before it’s turned.”

“Webb! Now, then. You pull your neck in, my boy!” Beulah nodded toward Boosul, who was swaddled in her mother’s skirts, for Paishey had come to sit beside Beulah.

Maisie looked from Webb to Beulah, then shook her head. She had been wrong in her timing, off in her choice of words, and she knew she should leave. “I know the truth, Mr. Webb.
I know.
And I can help you.” She squeezed Beulah’s hand and began to walk away.

She had gone but a few paces when she heard Paishey scream, followed by Webb shouting, “Beulah, Beulah!”

By the time Maisie reached the woman’s side, she was wide-eyed, gasping for breath, her words barely audible. The gypsy clan gathered around, as Paishey knelt behind Beulah and rested her head in her lap.

“Move back, she needs air!” Maisie heard her own voice echoing in her ears as she waved her hand to add weight to her words.

“Do as she says,” urged Webb. “Give her room to breathe.”

Maisie felt for Beulah’s pulse, her fingers barely moving against a throb that was neither strong nor rhythmic. “It’s her heart, Webb.”

Paishey had loosened the gypsy matriarch’s silver-gray hair, which lay down across her shoulders. Now, as the lines and wrinkles that marked her age diminished with each second, the woman raised her arm and motioned to her son to come to her. Maisie moved aside, allowing Webb to crouch beside his mother, then looked on as the dying woman wrestled against the weakness in her body to grasp the cloth of her son’s shirt and pull him closer. Webb cradled her in his arms, while Paishey remained at her head, and he leaned forward to hear the words his mother strained even to whisper. He nodded, his eyes reddened, yet his grip remained firm.

“Listen to her, son. She’ll free you,” was all that Maisie heard. Then, calling upon all reserves of energy remaining in her body, she spoke loud enough for the clan to hear. “He is
my son
. Follow’n
him
now.”

Webb began to sob. “No, Beulah, please, no. Stay, don’t go.”

But Beulah was smiling, holding up her hands as if to one who was reaching down to her, and saying her final words with a gentleness Maisie had not heard before. “Set yourself free, boy. Set yourself free.”

Maisie stepped forward, kneeling to feel her pulse and then to listen for her breath. There was nothing. She sat back to look at
Beulah, then turned to Webb and Paishey. “She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

Leaning forward, Paishey placed her hands on each side of Beulah’s head and used her thumbs to close her eyelids. Then she kissed each closed eye before reaching into her pocket for two copper coins to lay on the motionless lids. Webb moved away, and the women came forward, Esther helping Maisie to her feet. “We’ll’n look after her now, miss. You go on home. She belongs to us. We’ll’n take care of her.”

Maisie walked once more to the edge of the clearing, where even the horses had gathered, their heads up and intent. She pushed them aside to pass, and as she made her way down the hill, she heard the heartsick wail of a dog howling. It was not an ordinary call, the yelping that might answer a vixen’s midnight screech, but the timeless baying that country folk called a death howl. Maisie stopped to listen, was still so the dog’s cry could move through her, so she could feel the vibrations she had never been able to voice, that had caught in her chest so many times.

SEVENTEEN

As she walked away from the encampment, Maisie knew the keening had started, a sound that would grow ever louder as the gypsies gave vent to their loss. There would be no time to speak to Webb until after Beulah’s funeral, for which she would return in a few days. It would be a narrow opportunity—the gypsies would move on with haste now.

Not wanting to be on her own, Maisie walked to the hopper huts, where Tilley lamps burned outside to beckon her forward, for the sky bore the rose tint of sunset and dusk was but minutes away. The doors of the huts were open, and Londoners had brought chairs outside so they could sit and talk now that the day’s work was done. Billy’s mother was seated outside the family’s hut, shucking peas, the colander on her lap held steady by her knees.

“Is Billy here, Mrs. Beale?”

“Him and Doreen are in the cookhouse.” She pointed toward the whitewashed brick building and went back to her task.

Maisie stopped to talk to Doreen, noting the gaunt pallor that had clung to her skin since the death of her daughter was now
disguised by sun-kissed cheeks. Billy walked outside with Maisie, where she told him about Beulah’s death.

“Well, that’ll put the tin lid on that, won’t it?”

Maisie nodded. “It certainly makes things a little trickier.” She paused. “You know, there’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Billy. I want to know what you heard after Sandermere attacked Paishey, when you restrained Webb. He said something that appeared to flummox you—then you seemed thoughtful, as if what he’d said wasn’t quite right.”

Billy nodded. “It was when ’e said
mornin’ hate.”
Billy pronounced the h—a consonant that was usually absent in his cockney accent. He was emphasizing the word
hate.

“What does it mean?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Maisie understood that he did not care to speak about the years of his soldiering. “It’s what we used to say, in the war.” He kicked his foot against the clay-like earth, folded his arms, and looked down as he spoke, staring at the sandy patterns left by his boot. “There was times we knew the Hun didn’t want to be there any more ’n we did, and they knew we didn’t want to be there either. These weren’t the big shows but the sort of in-between times. We’d be in our trench, like ants, and they’d be in theirs. Bein’ a sapper, I was with the lads what ’ad to get out there and mend the wires, lay communication lines, that sort of thing. But of course, the ’igher-ups, theirs and ours, didn’t like us all just sittin’ there, not doin’ anythin’ but brewing up a cup o’ char, so we ’ad to fire off a few rounds every mornin’ and again at night, just to show we were still after the enemy.” He shook his head. “And it was as if we all knew what we ’ad to do, them and us. Someone would call out to us, ’Guten Morgen, Britisher,’ or we’d call out to them, ’Wakey, wakey, Fritz,’ and then we’d go at it for a while, prayin’ that no one copped it. Don’t know what
they
called it, but we called it the
mornin’ hate
and the
evenin hate
. Sort of summed it up, shootin’ at each other to show—to prove—that we
hated.”

Maisie nodded.

“And for what? That’s the big question, ain’t it? For what?” Billy shrugged.

She placed her hand on his arm. “I’d better go, Billy I’ll leave you in peace with your family. Not long to go now, eh?”