Bruar's Rest
on. Mrs Newton’s gone away, poor woman. Do you know they haven’t caught the killer yet?’
She knew all right, but because she’d put his life in danger by telling the police, he was after her. Once more she found that staying silent about Bull Buckley to safeguard Mother Foy was the best option. Also, his ugly face being absent meant perhaps that he’d been forced away by another rival predator. Changing the subject, she asked how Beth was faring.
‘Come and see for yourself. I think she’s a beautiful shire. If I had a horse like that, I’d get me a plough and do work for farmers and woodsmen.’
‘Well, she belongs to Mother Foy for pulling her wagon. Talking of my old friend, I’d best hurry back to her.’
‘You’ve only just come, don’t rush off. I’m alone here with the animals, and could do with a bit of company. Have some tea.’
Beth seemed in fine fettle, and it was obvious with the nudging going on she’d a fancy for Sam. A quick cup of tea and chat, then best get back to the wagon.
As they parted she wished him a Happy New Year when it came, followed by a promise to visit tomorrow. ‘Mother Foy is sickly, so it might not be possible to leave her. You come to us, there’s good whisky for the thirsty.’
He laughed and said, ‘You won’t catch me refusing a dram, I’ll be there by ten.’
‘Bring Beth down with you, my dear friend could do with a look at her horse to perk her up.’
As she hurried back, to her disappointment a stabbing wind was already whipping up storm clouds on the horizon. ‘Bloody weather, not clear one whole day. Ever since we arrived, if it hasn’t been thick mist it’s been sleet, rain or snow.’ The thought had no sooner left her mind when sleet, harried by a rising gale, forced her head down. The wind was merciless, she wasn’t wearing a hat or scarf, her exposed fingers soon froze and her buttonless coat blew all over the place. ‘I’ll have to find shelter, else this will be the death of me, but where?’ The only place was the old stone dyke and an occasional holly bush. She opted to crouch down behind the wall and curl her head under her arm like a robin under its wing. She lost track of how long she stayed there. What was certain, though, was a great deterioration in the weather. Suddenly her wet hair prickled on her freezing neck. Following hard on the torrents of sleet came a storm of thunder. A zigzag of lightning earthed into a far-off tree, and as it crashed into the ground she shivered. Cowed and at the mercy of the elements, she wanted to run. But if it was holding her back, then it was hindering Buckley too; if he was around he wouldn’t want to be out in these conditions.
After another peal of thunder she rose and dashed blindly back down the rest of the way. Dripping wet and frozen through, she stepped briskly into the wagon.
Nothing in her young life had ever prepared her for what lay on the bed! It was Mother Foy, bereft of any sign of life, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.
The dear, kind old gypsy who had given her an unquestioning hand of friendship was dead. ‘Oh please, not you, my only friend in the world, Mother, poor old thing, to die alone!’ She cradled the still warm body, rocking it back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably as outside the storm wreaked havoc through all the countryside.
The presence of death didn’t frighten her: she’d seen it before, but never faced it entirely alone. ‘What a horrible end to the year,’ she thought selfishly, then scolded herself for not thinking on her friend facing death alone. If she’d not sheltered from the sleet or wasted time with Sam she’d have been back when she’d promised.
She remembered her last words of reassurance, ‘I’ll be back before the hand goes twice round’. Glancing at the mantel clock, she saw not two but four hours had gone by.
Megan’s mind was in utter turmoil, what could she do? Sudden emotions, mixed with guilt and sadness, engulfed her. Buckley wasn’t an issue now. Here was a much-loved and devoted old woman. Her funeral had to be prepared, and her traditional incineration. This was far too great a responsibility for such as she, a simple tinker lassie; but where were the other gypsies? Who would take matters in hand? It was all too much.
The stove had but a few red-grey ashes, throwing out little or no heat, but it mattered not.
Old cant words that her mother used at her granny’s funeral came to mind. It was as if
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