Bruar's Rest

out of respect you lower the tone of your voice.’ Then she told him what had happened. He was genuinely sad and said there would be a lot of tear-shedding by gypsies when this news reached them. He knew where several families were wintering, and if she wanted he’d go and inform them. For a moment she thought it would indeed be proper, but something nagged at the back of her mind—Buckley! If others heard, he most definitely would. ‘I might as well send a news bulletin,’ she thought, and then wondered if Sam should be confided in.
    ‘Sam, I can’t tell anyone about this. I have good reason, and I’m sorry I can’t give you the promised dram, I’ll need it to fire the wagon.’
    ‘Are you telling me that a funeral of one as revered as Mother Foy is to be carried out by, and I mean no offence, a Scottish tinker of no relation?’
    ‘I have good reasons. She knows why too.’ She ran a hand across the wagon. ‘You must know, Sam, I can’t bring attention to myself, and if I say Bull Buckley, will you understand?’
    He turned quite pale, shook his body as if a giant spider was crawling up his back, and spat into the red ashes. ‘When are you going to burn her?’ he asked, looking into the embers.
    ‘Tomorrow, will you come and help?’
    ‘The Irish are back in two days, and I’d promised to clean the stalls, polish the brasses and oil the leathers.’
    She lowered her eyelids at his rejection.
    But when he saw this, he said, ‘Hell, I’ll work through the night and finish my chores. Yes, I’ll come. Wait for me, don’t start until nine in the morning.’ She brightened up no end.
    If ever a night dragged on with no sign of morning it was that one. Snuggling inside her small tent and looking at the clear night’s starry sky, she was transported back to a campsite at home, her head filled with stories of ghouls and doom-slayers. An owl hooted, she held her breath, it hooted again. Thinking of those old faces telling tales of werewolves and witches only added fuel to her already heightened imagination. A wind rose, and on its tail came devilish groans; she could almost reach out and touch the cloven foot of a she-demon. ‘What a night to be alone.’ She shivered inside, but not with cold, for she was warm enough in her home-made tent. No, it was the fear that maybe Buckley might be joining the foxes and the rats watching her from the shadows. The hairs rose on her neck, while nearby a stream where she and old Mother Foy drew their drinking water gurgled with otherworldly chit-chat. Her chest heaved as she panted with fear. Her promise to keep vigil was scattered on the chill wind; she opted instead to bury herself under the heap of blankets and covers lining her shelter. And there, until early light, she remained.
    ‘Thank you, whoever you are, who looks after vulnerable folks in unsafe places, including me. Give me enough strength to carry out this day’s farewell to my old friend.’ Her predicament seemed to call for such prayers but to whom was she praying? Somehow, under the cover of the endless sky it mattered not if her ancestors or an unseen God listened, something mightier than humanity was what she needed at that time to support her through each fathomless minute.
    With a fire lit, kettle boiled, breakfast eaten, she began the funeral. It was not so easy when the bushes and tree branches hung thick with snow and morning dew. Still, there were plenty of bits and pieces to light a fire from Mother Foy’s bottomless hoard. Old books, boxes of rags and piles of torn curtains soaked in whisky were scattered under and around the wagon. Making certain that no eyes, prying or otherwise, were in the vicinity, she waited for Sam. If he had fulfilled his promise to work through the night, then surely he’d soon appear, but when nine o’ clock passed and ten followed with no sign, she decided to go ahead without him.
    So, with a lighted rag dipped in paraffin and lamp oil, she lit the undercarriage of the bowed wagon, the pride and passion of an ageless gypsy woman who had been held in the highest respect of anyone she knew.
    The resin in the wood flashed instantly to life, flames fighting for control of the fir’s breath. She stood well back, such was the intensity and speed of burning. Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. ‘The tin box was full of money—if I am to leave this place, I’ll need that money for train fare and food.’ She might just have time to get it from the