Bruar's Rest

staying closed at her knock. The villagers had heard that a woman had been told by Megan that she’d meet and marry a handsome dark-haired stranger. Imagine her shock when the lady in question informed her she had mothered six kids to a shepherd with thick red hair. So it was decided that she would not go a-dukkering any more. She also felt unwilling to go gathering and bunching heather; it didn’t seem appropriate after all the bad memories of Lucy, her lover and Rory all being found dead in the stuff.
    Add to this that old Mother Foy had taken a few falls from the wagon steps, and Megan felt that it would be better to stay with her.
    Winter brought sporadic snowstorms and biting winds. Her concern for the old woman became a constant worry, and Beth’s lack of adequate shelter bothered them both.
    The old dear had a quirky sense of humour, and one morning after a battering of snow she stroked her backside and said, ‘What a horror of a night it was—did you hear the howling gale? The sleet, needle-pointed, tore into me arse by that blast of a gale. I went out for a pee in the frozen gorse and when I lifted my skirt the wind bit and stung like gunshot. Buttocks were solid for hours.’ Megan laughed, it wasn’t what Mother Foy was expecting, but she soon saw the funny side.
    Later, when they went outside, Megan ran over and rubbed Beth’s body. She shook her head, saying, ‘That bloody wind is merciless, the poor horse will be got dead. I think we should break our silence and ask the good folks at the stud farm to give Beth a shelter till spring.’
    The older woman had seen and lived through it all before, and so had the horse, but this nature-loving Scot would always put animals before her own comfort. Her protest continued.
    ‘Girlie, that horse has the hide of an elephant. See how her mane thickens to keep frost from her neck. Her tail curls under, keeps the openings warm, stops her kidneys cooling, and those skirts covering her ankles are like fur boots, they are. No, she’s all right.’
    But Megan, now with the bit between her teeth, was persistent. ‘Just the other day you told me you’d not seen a winter severe as this before. It’s as bad as the ones we have. Please let me visit the horse breeders.’
    Up till that point the old woman had decided to stay away from the stud farm. Buckley too, knew these people, in fact most gypsies did. At the annual horse sales in Appleby they were there in the midst of the gypsies, dealing, buying and selling. The old woman thought for a moment, and replied, ‘If Buckley had been caught, surely the stud farmers would know of it, so I suppose it might be a way to get the cloud of worry off our shoulders.’ Another thought occurred to her: Megan might at any time leave her to search for Bruar.
    ‘Beth might do well having a bit of shelter. We’ll ask if she can be stabled with them for the winter. They won’t do it for nix though, so give me my tin box from ’neath the bed.’ Under the bed in a metal box the old lady hid her savings. From the box she took several pound notes which she put in a leather purse.
    The snow had ceased to lay its cover of white across the fields and dead bracken. Megan had cleared it away around Beth, sufficient to allow her to sleep, walk and graze on a bundle of crunchy hay brought with them for winter feed. Feeling the sting of long, cold nights, Beth had eaten more than her usual ration, so perhaps the horse farm was the best place for her survival.
    Christmas Eve arrived cold and damp, a thick freezing fog covering every inch of the land. Without a glint of sunshine or a murmur of wind, the day’s start felt as though a leaden hand was turning time. Megan helped dress the old woman before haltering Beth. ‘Look at the icicle dripping from your nose, big soft beast,’ she whispered in the horse’s ear, rubbing a coarse blanket up and down its spine. ‘There now, that should stir up some warm blood. Before breakfast, let’s ride a mile or two.’ Half an hour later the pair were back eating a hearty breakfast of fried bread, eggs and black tea.
    ‘I’m anxious to meet your friends. Do you think they’ll take to me?’
    ‘Who could fail to like such a girlie as yourself? These folks, being an Irish family, will love the celt in you. Now hurry and rinse these dishes, before the grease hardens.’
    As they walked towards their destination through a thick mist, Megan worried about whether her old friend would manage the