Bruar's Rest

grey plait of hair and expertly intertwined it into the scarf. She threw a disapproving look at her new visitor’s hair and scoffed, ‘Avoid a mother blackbird, she’ll eye your hair for next year’s nesting.’
    Laughter spread around Megan, tempting her to give another tirade of verbal defiance. She hadn’t given any thought to her appearance that morning. Her priorities were to find a bite to eat, and some way of finding work, so that she could get on with her search for Bruar. She decided to apologise, however. ‘Look, I’m sorry, missus, this tongue of mine has a life of its own, but please allow me to tell my story,’ she said, and insisted that all should listen. So she explained her past to the women. Young and old, they listened in silence as she opened her heart and finished with retelling her robbery at the hands of the station thief.
    Mother Foy came down from her wagon and bade Megan sit at her side on a willow seat. ‘Your load is heavy, girlie, as heavy a one as would bend the back of someone twice your age. Yes, you can stay with us, for as long as you like. If I offered the money needed to end your epic journey, would you take it?’
    ‘I will take only payment for work. I’ll turn my hand to anything, but I’ll not take money for nothing. I already owe my man’s auntie a bob or two, and there’s a debt unpaid to a certain doctor. Please give me work.’
    ‘I’m thinking now, after hearing the woe in your life, that’s the answer you’d give me. The girls here, well, they make wooden flowers, and then dye them. They use beetroot juice and get lovely red ones with it. Onions give yellow and white, oh, and when they are crushed and boiled with daffodil heads, one would be hard pressed to tell the difference twixt real and false flowers. Sometimes they go onto the moors to collect heather blooms. When these are boiled, they extract a fragrant, purpled pink dye. They also pick summer blooms and dip them into melted wax. And there are the whittling pegs, you could sell them. What turn do you know could bring in lowie [money]?’
    ‘I gather heather and wind it into coarse balls for pot scrubbers. I can catch the pheasant, snare the rabbit and guddle the trout. I’ve even been known to belly-catch a sleepy salmon. I can gather the hay, lift potatoes, plant anything, harvest anything needs harvesting. Mistletoe-selling, hawking, reading palms.’ She could have reeled off lots more, had the old woman not slapped her back and said, ‘You’ll do. But first, and don’t take offence, what would you say to a nice fresh frock?’
    Glancing down at her tweed skirt, plain and dowdy, and stained with travel, and well aware that the laced-up, black leather shoes on her feet would have been more suitable for a sixty-something spinster, she agreed with rose-blushed cheeks of embarrassment.
    Lucy walked off, while Ruth and Anna ran to search their small clothes bags for a suitable dress. Mother Foy took her into the varda wagon, to administer a piece of worldly wisdom. ‘Now, child, gypsy boys are as healthy as gorger [non-gypsy] ones when it comes to flitting eyes at slender ankles and firm breasts. And there are more than enough young men in our circle,’ she smiled, then went on, ‘albeit most are spoken for. But they’re spunky and healthy, and might have a try on you girl. So after supper, the first thing we must do is let everybody know that you’re not free for the taking. Usually our boys, who are busy on the moor at the beating, have respect and won’t bother you. There is one, though...’ she hesitated with her words, as she thought on him. Her shoulders rounded like an old cat apprehensive of an approaching rainstorm, her brow narrowed as the broken-stemmed clay pipe twitched between clenched teeth. ‘You don’t want anything to do with him; he’s a bad lot and cares nothing for respect or honour, nothing like that. His heart is as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat; don’t even look in his direction.’
    Megan smiled and touched the old woman’s arm, ‘I fill my heart, sleeping and waking, with my man.’ She went on, ‘He’s a big handsome brute with wavy blond hair and eyes you could swim in. No, I won’t be giving myself to any other.’
    The woman could see the love lighting up her young friend, so changed the subject. She spoke instead of Megan’s journey south with them. ‘If you do as I say, I can promise you a free passage with us through the country. We