The Snow Gypsy(5)

There had been many times, at school and in college, when spiteful words had made her long to deny her Jewish blood. And sometimes she had denied it. She sensed that, to get closer to the Lee family, she needed to convey empathy for their way of life. So when she ran into Bill again while picking mushrooms one morning, she started dropping one or two Romany words into the conversation.

“Where did you learn that?” Bill had stared at her, wide eyed, when she’d asked him if she could borrow a kipsi to transport the dinas she had for him and his sisters. Instead of replying, she’d named the gifts she would put in the basket: meski (tea), foggus (tobacco), pobbles (apples), pishom (honey), and men-werigas (necklaces).

She had learned these words as a child—from a bewitching Gypsy woman with the fabulous name of Bessarabia, who used to go from house to house, selling wild daffodils. Rose’s father, true to his Middle Eastern roots, had strict rules about offering hospitality to people he regarded as being poor, and so the flower seller had been invited in for tea and cake.

Rose had been unable to conceal her fascination. Bessarabia wore a bright-orange skirt and a cloak of purple velvet, peppered gold from the daffodil pollen. Copper rings the size of saucers dangled from her ears, and on her wrist she wore a silver bell tied with a green ribbon.

Keeping her company while she ate, Rose had learned the Romany for objects lying around the kitchen—the words for potatoes, broomstick, kettle, and cake. She wrote them down the way they sounded and added new ones each time the Gypsy called.

Bessarabia had disappeared from her life a few months later when Rose was sent away to school. But the words had lodged themselves in her head. Like a golden key, they had the power to take her into a hidden world. She had watched Bill’s face light up when she dredged them from her memory.

“I told my sisters you must have Gypsy blood!” He had taken her hand and run to find Constance, Patience, and Mercy. The sisters had hugged her, pulling out strands of her hair to wrap around their fingers, their eyes shining with relief at no longer having to hide what they called their kawlo rat. Their dark blood.

During that summer of 1936, Rose had grown very close to the Lee family. At Chichester market they had introduced her to other Sussex Gypsies. For a packet of tea and a pouch of tobacco, they would tell her how they’d cured a horse or a dog of this or that ailment, where to find the herbs they used for the treatment, and the right way to administer them to the animal.

Bill himself had taught her how to treat a horse with colic by mixing grated gentian root and mint leaves with warm milk and honey. When she went with him searching for herbs, he would take her to hidden places and show her things she’d never seen before, like a beaver’s dam and a squirrel’s nest. And in return for all that he did for her, Rose had taught Bill how to read.

Now as she waved and ran toward the vardo, she thought how little he had changed in the years since that first summer. He was as lithe as the dog that bounded around his feet, and his face, though constantly exposed to the weather, bore no trace of any lines or wrinkles.

“Rosie! Tatchoavel mi kushti pen!” Welcome, sweet sister. He bundled her in his arms, lifting her off the grass and waltzing her around the fire.

She kissed his cheek. “Where’s Martha? And the chauvis?” She reached into her bag. “I’ve bought them a book of fairy tales—and a shawl for Martha.”

“They’ve gone to visit her mother.” Bill smiled at the gifts. “They’ll be grieved they missed you!”

Rose held his gaze. Words hung in the air, unspoken. There had always been a slight awkwardness with Martha, the woman Bill had chosen when Rose had turned him down. And seeing their children was always bittersweet, knowing that this was what she could have had.

Bill’s sisters had revealed his feelings the week before she was due to leave Sussex to resume her veterinary course. Constance, Patience, and Mercy had pulled her inside the vardo, giggling, when Bill had set off on a fishing trip.

“He’s terrible in love with you,” Patience had whispered. “If you marry him, you can live with us—won’t that be kushti!”

Rose had tried to explain. She’d already told them she was in love with a boy in college.

“But you’re not promised to him, are you?” Mercy had given her a sly look.

They hadn’t understood when she’d told them she was too young to settle down, that there was so much she wanted to do before getting married and having children. All three Lee sisters had found husbands since that summer. They had eleven children between them.

Now as she looked into Bill’s eyes, Rose saw nothing but friendly concern. Whatever romantic feelings he had once harbored toward her were long gone.

A loud bark broke the silence. Gunesh was chasing Bess in and out of the trees, and they had flushed a rabbit from the undergrowth.

“I’ll make us a brew, shall I?” Bill hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, then patted the step of the caravan. She settled down beside him, and for a few moments they sat watching the flames rise and fall. He sucked on his pipe and she breathed in the drifting smoke. It smelled of spiced cherries and roasted chestnuts. There was something very soothing about it.

“I’ve got something to show you.” She fished a small package wrapped in brown paper from her bag. “My book.”

He unwrapped it, angling the cover to catch the dying rays of the sun. “Herbal Healing for Animals.” He traced the letters with his fingers. “By Rose Daniel!”