VIOLET COULD HARDLY BELIEVE HOW things had worked out. Actually, she thought with pride, it was due to some cunning planning on her part. It was one thing to have time off from work during harvest; it was quite another to have that time remain unfilled by one’s organising mother. But, without exactly telling fibs, Violet had left Ma with the distinct impression that there were still daily chores to be done at the rectory. To give her her due, there had been chores to do, but Violet had completed them all, and now she was free. As much as she liked Pa, she was pleased he was too busy sorting fattened lambs to be involved in the wheat harvest. Having Joe in the field was awkward enough, but she could dismiss his disapproving glances in her direction as she flirted; her father’s would have been harder to ignore. And the flirting was going so decidedly well that she certainly did not want any unnecessary interference.
Reuben was by far the most intriguing man Violet had ever met. He was so strong and manly, able to keep up with the head reaper with ease. The harvesting team was pleased with his assistance, acknowledging him to be well worth his daily rate, and yet he kept aloof from them all. Violet was the only local who had been able to draw more than a few words out of him, and she was proud of the distinction. If Violet was in the field, Reuben would sit with her at meal times; if not, he would sit alone. But whether alone or with Violet, the area he chose was always away from the group and out of sight. Violet heartily approved of this arrangement, since away from prying eyes, they could lark about. They could playfully feed each other mouthfuls of bread and cheese, tease one another, and kiss. Their deep, mutual understanding bypassed the need for conversation, Violet reasoned.
The little Reuben had revealed to her of his past was very romantic. He was a real, proper gypsy, born and bred in a tiny horse-drawn wagon, roaming the country with his family as they sought seasonal work. Every year they took the same route across the country from Cornwall to Kent, picking snowdrops, daffodils, cherries, apples, hops, or whatever was in season. Violet imagined the star-lit evenings around a camp fire, rabbit stew simmering in a big cauldron. Reuben’s father would be telling tales of yester-year, his mother putting a baby to bed, and the other children sitting on the wagon steps, spell bound by their father’s stories, staring into the glowing fire while the aroma of the stew whetted their appetites. What an idyllic childhood!
Violet longed to be part of the close-knit gypsy community, which was despised by others yet fiercely protected their own. Their ancient traditions and customs were fascinating, and she would embrace them wholeheartedly. Her wagon would be kept as spotless and polished as any gypsy wife’s, and she would lovingly lavish Reuben with the respect and attention gypsy husbands demanded. She would gladly abandon her plain, boring frocks for bright colourful dresses, and her ears would just suit big golden rings.
Violet understood Reuben’s reserve. Wherever gypsies traveled, they were treated with disdain and suspicion. He had grown up knowing he and his loved ones were loathed and misrepresented. His aloofness was a natural response to the hostile world around him. His acceptance of her was an acknowledgement of their natural affinity.
She felt somewhat guilty by entertaining such thoughts when she should have remained loyal to Mr. Christopher, but his delay was inexcusably lengthy, and she was beginning to entertain some doubts about his fidelity. Anyway, would a grand country house really have suited her? Oh yes, she could very easily get used to the idea of never scrubbing a boiled over milk-pan again; but always having to be genteel and lady-like would be stifling. Never again to experience the delight of walking barefoot through a dewy meadow, nor the satisfaction of swinging an axe and splitting a log, let alone to enjoy the camaraderie of a reaping team. These were high prices indeed to pay for a life of fine frocks, elegant meals, and enforced ease. No, the gritty life on the road, where one relies on one’s sheer hard work and wit to keep alive, was more the stuff she was made for. Living close to nature, dictated to by the seasons and shunned by society, she could cope with that; within months she would prove herself to Reuben’s family, and they would forget she was ever a non-gypsy—a “gorder” girl.
Reuben was lodging at The King’s Head on the village green. After a meal at home with the family, as the dirty dishes and tired children vied for their mother’s attention, many a villager slipped out of his noisy house and made his way to the snug interior of the bar. Here his voice would be heard and his opinions respected; here he could relax after a hard day’s graft, away from squawking offspring and a grumpy spouse. This escape was the breadwinner’s right, despite the united chorus of disapproval from over-zealous parsons, the interfering Temperance Society, and nagging wives. Indeed, as the men sat together, pint mug in hand, chewing on tobacco and gazing into the flickering fire, they became invincible. Safe in the knowledge that no woman was allowed to cross the threshold, a husband could tell tall tales without the inconvenience of a wife’s correcting voice. He could elaborate on subjects he knew little about without encountering the dampening effect of a skeptical look. Here he was a man among men, the very pinnacle of creation.
Violet had often walked past The King’s Head on a dark, damp evening and looked longingly and unseen through the steamed-up windows. The flickering candles and fire light gave a warm, inviting glow. The waft of beer and tobacco escaped the open window, along with laughter and loud male voices. How she longed to sneak in and witness the masculinity of it all! Men had all the fun. And now the attraction was even greater, for somewhere among all the males was Reuben. She imagined him sitting in a corner, silently observing the action, listening to the conversations but never adding his voice.
Due to the warm summer weather, the pub was not quite the closed cocoon it became in winter. On hot harvesting evenings, when even more men felt the need to quench their thirst, the drinkers spilled out onto the benches outside. This situation was a rare opportunity for the local lasses. If they just happened to have gathered on the village green, they might be invited to share a pint with some generous lad. Any respectable woman would never place herself in such a situation, Violet had repeatedly been told by her parents. But as her father never frequented public house and her mother disapproved of most things, Violet dismissed their advice as old-fashioned and ill-informed. They carried on as if they were Georgian, not Victorian, wary of any changes in society or new inventions. Anyway, this evening Violet was not going to hang around outside the pub, hoping to entice some lads, and one in particular. Oh no, that would be far too unsubtle.
As soon as the washing up was done, Violet disappeared from the house and started rounding up her friends. Molly and Clara were up for a laugh and walked with her to the vicarage. Having found the key in the woodpile, Violet approached the back door.
“Vi, ya can’t do this!” protested Molly.
“Don’t worry, scaredy-cat, there’s no one around.”
Molly shook her head. “I don’t mean that.”
“Well, what do you mean?”
“Ya can’t just walk into someone’s house when they’re away.”
“But I happen to work here,” reasoned Violet, turning the key in the lock. “And I am only borrowing something.”
She swung open the door and walked in.
“Are ya coming to help or not?” she called back. Molly and Clara giggled nervously as they followed her down the dark hall and into the study.
“I feel bad, being in a vicar’s study like this,” said Clara.
Molly glanced around. “’E ain’t ’alf got a lot a books.”
“We ain’t looking for books, girls,” Violet reminded them. “It’s the skittles we’re after.”
“Vicars don’t normally keep skittles in their studies,” Clara said, frowning.
“Well, my one does and we need to find them.”
Molly placed her hands on her hips. “Ya should know where they are cos you dust in here.”
“But I don’t dust skittles.”
“No?” queried Clara in a posh voice, “Then I fear you are rather negligent in carrying out your domestic duties, my girl.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” replied Violet. “Next time I’ll dust ’em and polish ’em till I see my own beautiful reflection in ’em. Until then, just keep on looking.”
“’Ere they are,” cried Molly triumphantly, “in the sideboard.”
“How dare you look in there!” Violet grabbed the heavy bag from Molly.
“At least they’re found,” said Clara with some relief.
Once outside in the sunlight, the girls inspected their find.
“They’re beautiful and smooth.”
“’E’s a clever man, all right.”
“Nicely painted.”
“How did he make the balls so perfectly round?”
“Vi, we can’t borrow them,” said Clara. “They’re too good.”
“Oh, come off it, Clara.” Violet waved away her friend’s concern. “He made them for the good of the community and for the enjoyment of others, and that is exactly how we are going to use them.”
“But what if we smash ’em?”
“You just said how clever he is. He made them strong enough to get hit. That’s the whole point of the game, isn’t it?”
“But the paint might chip.”
“Have you ever seen skittles without chipped paint?”
“No, but I’ve never seen skittles anywhere else before anyway.”
“Well then,” said Violet decisively, as if she had won the argument. “Anyway, I reckon I know where to find more paint if we need it.” And with that she locked the door, returned the key, and walked toward the green, the other girls trailing behind.
Having reached the village green, they realised there was a problem.
“The grass is too long.”
“And the ground is too bumpy.”
“Then we’ll have to go on the road.”
“Where?”
“Well,” said Violet as she thought aloud, “we need to be near enough to the pub for the lads to see us, but not too close, or we would look ‘unrespectable.’”
So, at a suitably discreet distance, the girls set up the ten pins.
“How do they go?” asked Molly.
“In a triangle.”
“Five or four at the back?”
“Dunno, but come on, we don’t want to look like idiots who have never played it before.”
“Well, we haven’t.”
“But that isn’t the point.”
The lane was disappointingly rough, and every little bump or stone could send the ball flying off at an unexpected angle, but the girls laughed at the misses and cheered at the hits. As their skill increased, so did their enthusiasm and competitiveness. Violet’s cunning plan worked splendidly, for within five minutes the lads outside the pub were cheering raucously. Within ten minutes they had wandered over, pint in hand, to watch and then to join in the action.
Violet was surprised that Joe was among the lads, as he was not a regular pub-goer. She was even more surprised at the familiar way he flirted with Molly. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with Molly, but there wasn’t anything particularly amazing about her either. Violet was stunned at Joe’s lack of taste. Not that it had anything to do with her, of course, but Molly’s replies were so boringly predictable. She, Violet, could have given Joe much more of a laugh. She knew the kind of replies he liked, wit that Molly was totally incapable of. Anyway, each to their own, she thought with a shrug. It didn’t matter at all, because right now Reuben was strolling over in her direction.