The Return of the Gypsy (36 page)

He took my arm as we walked through the streets towards the river. It was a lovely morning: the sun was warm and that ambience of victory still hung about the streets. Everyone seemed full of joy.

“I am so pleased I found you,” he was saying. He pressed my arm. “Of course I should have done so in due course. I was planning to come down to find you when I left London. How much more interesting this is! I little knew when I set out for the Inskips’ ball how much I was going to enjoy it.”

“Surprises are always appreciated.”

“Pleasant surprises, yes. Do you know, I have often thought of something like this, sauntering through the streets of London, a beautiful young lady on my arm, and the strange thing was that it was with one particular young lady … and here I am. In my mind’s eye I have seen it many times. Is that precognition, would you say?”

“Certainly not. Once you were in London you could easily have found a young lady to stroll with you. You must have been homesick during your stay abroad.”

“Homesick for a morning like this.”

“It is certainly a beautiful one and I suppose however far one roams one never forgets one’s native land.”

“The longing to return is always there.”

He turned his head to look at me. “I had a very special reason,” he said.

“Because you were a prisoner and you knew you could only walk again in the streets of London as a free man.”

“It was more than that.”

We had reached the river. He hired a boat and helped me in; then he picked up the oars and we were speeding past the banks, past the Tower of London and all the other craft on the river. There were people in boats, bent on enjoying themselves, laughing, shouting to each other, some singing, some swaying to the strains of violins.

“It will be quieter by Greenwich,” he said. “That is where I propose to take you. The White Hart. I went there long ago and was impressed. Of course, I was young then. Do you think it is wise to go back to the haunts of one’s youth?”

“Hardly ever. They become beautiful in retrospect. Then when you see them again they are less than you expected, because they remain the same as they always were.”

“I have an idea that the White Hart is going to be more delightful today than it ever was.”

“Don’t set your hopes too high. I should hate them to be disappointed.”

“That will not happen.”

“You’re tempting fate.”

“I have always tempted fate. Do you know, I have a sneaking feeling that fate likes to be tempted.”

“I don’t think that is the general opinion.”

“I was never one who went in for general opinions. I was always an individualist.”

“You must have been to leave home and live with the gypsies. How long were you with them?”

“About two years.”

“That’s quite a time.”

“It was a gesture of defiance. They were camping on our land. My brother and I were engaged in one of our quarrels. It would have been unusual if we had not been. These quarrels were part of our daily lives. He said, ‘You’re no better than those gypsies. It would suit you roaming about, getting nowhere, living aimlessly …’ I said to him, ‘Maybe you’re right. At least they live naturally.’ And then I went off and joined them. It was a stupid thing to do. I was eighteen at the time. One can do stupid things at eighteen.”

“Yes,” I said quietly, “one can.”

“Not you. You never would.”

“You do not know me.”

The boat had drawn up at some stairs. We alighted and he tied it up. “Here is the inn,” he said. “Right on the river. There are the gardens. We could sit out there and watch the craft on the river while we eat. It’s just as I remembered it.”

We climbed the slight incline to the inn and seated ourselves. A buxom girl in a mob cap and a low-cut bodice came out to attend to us. There were fish fritters, whitebait, cold beef and pigeon pie, she told us, with ale, home-brewed cider or real French wine to go with it.

“I wonder if it is Charlot’s burgundy,” I said. “That is my half brother who lives in France.”

“Let’s have it in honour of your half brother.”

“I must tell you about him,” I said.

We decided on the cold beef and it was served with hot potatoes in their jackets. The food was plain but delicious. I quickly told him about Charlot’s vineyard and how now the war was over and Napoleon finally defeated, I expected we should be visiting him now and then.

He listened attentively, then he said: “It is so good to be here with you.”

I flushed a little and gave my attention to the beef.

“I want to talk to you about my experiences. Do you know, I have never talked about them much.”

“Won’t that bring back to your mind something you would rather forget?”

“Once I have told you I shall begin to forget. Can you imagine my feelings in that courtroom?”

“It is difficult to imagine something which has never happened to one, but I have a fair idea what it must have been like. Horrifying!”

“I trust you will never come so close to death as I did.”

“We all have to come close to it some day.”

“When we are old it is inevitable, yes, but not when it is decided by others that it is time you left the Earth. I used to lie in my cell and wonder. The uncertainty was hard to bear. I used to say to myself, This time next year, where shall I be? Shall I be on Earth or in the realms of the unknown?”

“Don’t speak of it.”

“I shall tell you once and then never again refer to it. There I was in the courtroom. I believed I was going to be condemned to death. To be hanged by the neck is so ignoble … so undignified. No man should be subjected to that humiliation. That was what I cared about… the degradation … not losing my life. I’ve risked that often enough.”

“You must put it out of your mind.”

“I will, so I’ll go back to the moment when I knew I was going to live. I had not realized before how very sweet life is. To live … but as a slave … seven years of servitude in a foreign land. But for a time I rejoiced. As I said, life is sweet.”

“Tell me about Australia,” I said.

“I shall never forget my first glimpse of Sydney Harbour. We had been battened down in the hold for the voyage. We did not know whether it was night or day. There were the terrible hours at sea when the ship pitched and tossed. People were ill and some died. The sea was beautiful but we only saw it when we were taken up on deck for an hour’s exercise each day. There we were roped together… thieves, vagabonds, murderers, men who had been guilty of poaching a pheasant, stealing a handkerchief or writing something which was not approved of. All of us together … the seven year men, the fourteen year men and the lifers. There were times when I wished your good father had not intervened on my behalf and I was sure it was more comfortable dangling from a rope than living in that hell.”

I put my hand across the table and touched his. The response was immediate. He grasped my hand.

I said: “I am very sorry. I wish I could have helped you escape from Grasslands that day.”

“If I had I should have been a hunted man for the rest of my days. Now you see me free. I have served my sentence. I am at liberty. I was fortunate. I could have been in a chain gang.”

I shivered.

“Imagine that. Guarded by troops when at work, never having the chains removed from one’s legs … living in a stockade with a hundred other wretches. But why am I telling you this? This was to be a happy day.”

I said: “I think you want to talk of it… just once. Relieve your mind and then try to forget. Have you talked of it often?”

“No. There is no one to whom I wish to speak. It is different with you. You were my friend … right from the day when you came upon me in that house.”

“I thought it was so unfair. You had killed that man who deserved to be killed. You had saved Leah … and for that you were hunted … called a criminal.”

“Now let me tell you of my good fortune. We came up and there before us was that wonderful harbour. How can I describe it to you … all those inlets, the sandy beaches fringed with foliage. It was quite splendid and one’s spirits rose to contemplate it… The hot sun, the fragrance in the air, the magnificent birds … cockatoos, parrots … of the most dazzling colours. It must have looked a little different from when Cook first saw it for now buildings were visible, little houses which had been built by the settlers, low hills, gullies and the bush in some parts coming to the water’s edge. When one has been cooped up for months it is a glorious feeling to look at all that beauty, to take deep breaths of that wonderful air and suddenly to feel how good it is to be alive.

“We were in the ship a few days before we were chosen by those who would be our masters for the term of our sentence. An advertisement would have appeared in the newspapers to say that a cargo of prisoners had arrived for selection. We were taken on deck and there we stood while our prospective owners came and inspected us. I can tell you that was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. We were like cattle. But I distress you again and I want to tell you of my good fortune. I was selected by a grazier who had a small station some miles out of New South Wales. He was not a bad man. He wanted a good worker. I was young and strong and I was to serve a seven years’ term, which was an indication that I was not a hardened criminal.

“Joe Cleaver selected me and from that moment I began to feel a little more like a human being. It was not an easy life. I began to realize how comfortably I had lived during my twenty years. But I was not averse to work. In fact I welcomed it. I was given blankets and I slept in a hut which I shared with two others. There we prepared our food and boiled our water in billy cans. Eight pounds of beef a week, ten pounds of flour; and a quart of milk a day—that was our ration. And we laboured from dawn to sunset. It was a hard life but I began to like it. Joe Cleaver noticed me because I had introduced him to one or two methods of work which produced good results. Within a year I was sleeping in the house. He consulted me now and then.”

I nodded. I could well imagine it. He would be noticed wherever he was.

“The months passed … the years passed … all seven of them and I was free. Joe didn’t want me to go. He gave me a strip of land and helped me. I had a few sheep. Then I had more sheep. Joe said I would be a lucky grazier. He reckoned in no time I would have a station of my own. Then the news came. They had traced me. My brother had died and I had inherited my family’s estate and title.”

“So you left what you were building up and came home.”

“Yes, I came home.”

“You will go back to Australia?”

“I think I may one day. You would be interested to see the place?”

“I am always interested to see new places.”

“It changes all the time. It grows. I saw it grow in the years I was there. Joe used to take me into Sydney with him. He said I had a way of bargaining which he lacked. I supposed I was more articulate, more shrewd perhaps. Joe and I became very good friends. What was I saying … Yes, a growing town. There are streets where once there were cart tracks. There are so many natural assets. Yes, I should like to go back.”

“What of the land you have there?”

“I put a man in charge of it, so I must go back one day.”

“Not to stay.”

“No. My home is in England … in Cornwall. Do you know Cornwall?”

I shook my head.

“You would like it. It is different from the rest of England. It’s closer to nature. It isn’t that only. The Cornish are a superstitious race. There is something there … something fey. You who are so practical, so full of good sense would be sceptical perhaps.”

“I fear I am not so full of common sense as you appear to think.”

“I am sure you are.”

“How could you be sure? You hardly know me.”

“I know a good deal about you.”

“You met me when I was a child more or less … and then nothing more until last night.”

“You have never been far from my thoughts since our first meeting.”

I laughed lightly. “Gallantry, I suppose,” I said. “The sort of thing men feel they must say to women.”

“The truth,” he insisted. “Do you know, when I was battened down in that loathsome place I could soothe my fury against fate by thinking of that bright-eyed little girl who was so earnest, so eager and who had saved my life. One never forgets someone who saved one’s life.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Indeed not.”

“
I
didn’t save your life. My father did what he could.”

“Because you insisted. Penfold told me everything. He came to the docks to see me off before I left.”

“I felt responsible.”

“Because you were followed to the house. Yes, you sustained me during those days. And then afterwards when I was living in my hut I would think of you. I used to say to myself, One day I am going to be free and I shall go back and find her. She will be grown up then …”

“Did you ever think of Dolly?”

“Now and then. Poor Dolly.”

“I should have thought she might have been the one in your thoughts.”

“Dolly? She was there … and she was gone. I think she felt like that of me.”

“Do you think a girl like Dolly would indulge in a light relationship, a sensation of an hour and then think no more of it? Dolly never knew a man before you, nor after you. Dolly was no light o’ love to be picked up and thrown aside.”

“It happened. She understood. She knew I was going away. It was that sort of relationship. There was never intended to be anything permanent… on either side.”

“I find that difficult to understand.”

“Of course you do. But for the child it would have been of very little moment.”

“I do not think it was for Dolly, but then of course she is a member of that sex which is born to serve the other.”

He smiled at me. “How fierce you are in defence of women. You are just as I knew you would be. But I never thought I should come back and find you … married.”

“Why not? I am not a child any more. I shall soon be twenty-one.”

“Seven years … eight years … it’s a long time out of a life. Tell me about your marriage. Are you happy?”

“I am happy.”