Just a Travelling Girl Read online

  Just a Travelling Girl

  Chrissie Wren

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Just a Travelling Girl

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright Information ©

  Chapter 1The Runaway

  Chapter 2Gypsy Life

  Chapter 3The Fairground

  Chapter 4Blackberrying

  Chapter 5The Baby

  Chapter 6Full Circle

  About the Author

  Chrissie Wren started writing at seven years old, hidden in her den made of fallen branches and wild rhubarb leaves. She meticulously recorded the sounds, smells and sights in her journal ‘Observations of Nature’.

  Later, she lived off grid in a log cabin, rearing chicken, horses, cattle and flowers.

  Intrigued and able to empathise with some gypsies she met at a horse fair, she was inspired to write Just a Travelling Girl, which encompasses the joy of freedom and the difficulties and prejudice these people face.

  About the Book

  Set in the 1980s, Jenny, 15 years old, feisty and rebellious, runs away from Rushbrooke Manor children’s home. She is rescued from near death by some gypsies, who take her back to their horse-drawn caravan and hide her from the police. She left behind Dan, her boyfriend; and Matron, who ran the home, not caring about the consequences her actions have caused. Jenny soon finds that the nomadic way of life also has strict rules and moral codes, and Peter, the good-looking son of the camp leader, all too quick to point out her mistakes. Rebecca, the old fortune-teller, frightens her. What was the reason? Could she really see into the future? During the hard life on the road, Jenny comes to realise that no one can avoid his or her destiny.

  Dedication

  To Araminta, who I met outside the gypsy church on Bramdean Common. I hope this book finds you.

  To my daughter, Jane; and my son, Freddie, for their encouragement and reminding me of our family motto, ‘Never Give Up’.

  Copyright Information ©

  Chrissie Wren (2018)

  The right of Chrissie Wren to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781528908252 (E-Book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2018)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  Chapter 1

  The Runaway

  My mother said, “I never should play with the gypsies in the wood.”

  “Help,” she cried, “Help me someone! I’m going to fall!”

  The blustery wind whipped her long straw-coloured hair across her face. The rain trickled down the back of her neck. She tightened her grip on the old tree stump, her hands beginning to slip on its smooth worn surface.

  Jenny had walked along the old cliff path many times before, but on this stormy night in the torrential rain and howling wind, it had become a stranger to her.

  She knew the edge was crumbling. The prickly gorse bushes (she had grasped onto as she fell) came away easily. Their roots only hung on by a thread―just as she was doing now. Her cry mingled with a lonesome seagull unable to land on his night-time crevice, and her throat was sore from shouting.

  How would anyone hear her voice? With the wind roaring and the sea crashing onto the rocks below…

  Jenny’s thoughts went back to the last time she had run away, the consequences of which had put her in the children’s home. She shivered as she remembered the way her mother’s boyfriend used to look at her. She couldn’t believe her mother had chosen him over her. No one would miss her if she fell; no one really cared about her.

  Her foot slipped. The rain had washed away the soil on the cliff face. It was no use. This was the end―her short life had been wasted.

  “H-e-l-p!” she made one last desperate cry. “Please God, if you are up there, help me! I’ll do anything if you let me live. I’ll accept whatever fate has in store for me!” Jenny wanted to rub her eyes, the relentless rain and wind made her lashes stick together. She could feel her fingers losing their grip and one hand let go! She screamed as she swung away from the cliff face. Her shoulder bag dropped to the sea below, silently, as if in slow motion. With one last determined effort, she managed to hook one leg over the tree stump. Her ankle caught on a broken branch, tearing her jeans and her skin. She could feel the blood seeping in to her sock.

  “Hang on, girl,” called a deep gruff voice from above, “I’ll get a rope.”

  Jenny wasn’t sure if she had really heard someone or if she had just imagined it. She peered into the darkness and could just make out a shape looming over the cliff edge. “Catch hold of this loop and thread it over your arm.”

  She did as she was told. She was being pulled up. The rope felt as if it was burning her wrist, and her shoulder ached, but she didn’t care. At last, she was being rescued!

  As she was dragged on to the wet earth, strong hands pulled her to safety. Her legs felt like jelly, and her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall.

  “Is she all right?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “She’ll live,” replied the man.

  Jenny felt warm, soft hands draw her wet hair back from her neck and a heavy blanket was placed gently round her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Come on, love,” said the woman kindly, “We have a fire not far away.” Jenny staggered with the man and woman. They picked their way carefully through the gorse bushes, leaving the cliff path behind them. The moon lit the way as heads bent to brace themselves against the screaming wind. They crossed the open moorland. In the distance, Jenny could see small dots of light.

  The man strode out in front of them.

  “He’s gone ahead to quiet the dogs,” said the woman, answering Jenny’s unspoken question.

  “Wh-where are we going?” said Jenny, suddenly feeling afraid.

  “To the camp,” replied the woman.

  Three skinny, wire-haired dogs appeared out of nowhere, sniffing and jumping up at her. “It’s okay, boys,” called the woman gently, “She’s a friend. Just give them a pat, love, they won’t bite.” Jenny patted the biggest dog which came up to her waist and was rewarded with a big sloppy lick.

  The woman manoeuvred Jenny through the tethered horses who snorted as she passed, angry at being disturbed from their sleep, towards the wagon train circle of caravans; it was like something out of a picture book. “Bring her over to the fire so we can get a good look at her,” said a distant voice.

  “Am I dreaming?” she asked, looking at the flickering candles in the tiny windows.

  “Well, we must both be having the same dream then,” laughed the woman. “Come,” she said, extending her hand, “Sit down by me and get warm.”

  “Are you really gypsies?” asked Jenny.

  “Yes we are. I’m Kate,” said the woman, “And this is Sam, my husband.”

  “I couldn’t have hung on a minute longer,” said Jenny, looking at the man who had rescued her, “You saved my life.”

  “Don’t thank me,” laughed Sam, “It was Kate who h
eard you scream. I said it was a gull, but she insisted it was a human cry.”

  “Well, it was your idea to go looking for seagull eggs,” said Kate, “And I told you we wouldn’t get any on a night like this.”

  “You were certainly right about that,” he laughed, looking at Jenny. The rain had stopped and the wind was easing, and although she was still in her wet clothes, Jenny began to relax. The crackling bonfire warmed her. She glanced around at the other people―her gaze met only friendly nods and smiles.

  “Soup?” a bowl appeared in front of her.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied and looked up into the most enchanting, smouldering blue eyes she had ever seen.

  “Do you have a name?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

  “Y-yes, it’s Jenny,” she stuttered and blushed. For the first time in her life, she felt out of control of her feelings. There was something mysterious about him. She found herself staring into his eyes, unable to look away.

  “Leave the girl alone,” said Kate, seeing Jenny’s confusion. She was used to the effect her handsome son had on girls.

  “This is my son Peter,” she said. “Now you go and see to the horses, Pete, while Jenny finishes her soup. Then I want to get her into bed.” Jenny could feel Pete looking at her but she did not dare meet his gaze; she had never felt so self-conscious.

  She finished the bowl of soup which tasted mostly of potatoes, and gave it to Kate who put a motherly arm around her shoulders and led her towards the brightly coloured bow-topped caravan.

  “Now mind the steps,” said Kate, as she opened the half stable door. Jenny bent her head as she stepped into the neat gypsy caravan. A small black stove stood in the corner. It warmed a kettle which bubbled and rattled on the top. “You can sleep in here tonight,” she said, pointing to a bunk-type bed at the end of the van.

  “Take off your wet clothes. There is a night shift in the draw.” She pulled the soft winceyette nighty over her head. It smelt of moth balls, and reminded Jenny of something; a distant memory she knew was a happy one, but could not quite recall it. Suddenly, she felt very sleepy and climbed onto the bed.

  “Shh! Don’t wake the little ones,” whispered Kate.

  Jenny looked round. “What little ones? Where are they?”

  “Under your bed,” said Kate. She quietly opened the diamond-slatted cupboard doors to reveal two dark-haired children sleeping head-to-toes.

  “Where are you going to sleep?” asked Jenny.

  “Don’t you worry yourself about that,” replied Kate, “Now you go to sleep. Rufus here will keep you company.” She patted the lurcher dog, who thumped his tail on the floor and raised his sleepy head in acknowledgement.

  It had started to rain again, and the pitter-patter on the caravan roof lulled her into an exhausted sleep. Jenny did not hear the low whispering voices of the men, as they sat around the fire.

  “We’ll be in trouble for taking in that girl,” said one, “I can feel it in my bones.” She didn’t hear Kate say, “I’ll take her to old Rebecca in the morning, and see what she advises.” The men murmured in agreement.

  Jenny would not have slept so soundly if she could have foreseen her meeting with Rebecca, the fortune teller. She didn’t realise she would have to keep her pact with God and accept her fate willingly, so soon. It was midnight at Rushbrook children’s home.

  “Dan,” said the matron, “You really must tell me if you have any idea where Jenny is?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Dan, “I’m worried too. She told me she would phone when she found somewhere to stay.”

  “I didn’t think you could be so irresponsible,” the matron nagged, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, she had run away? We might have been able to find her. Social services will want to put her in a secure unit now.”

  Dan bowed his head, feeling ashamed. He knew the matron was right, but he had thought Jenny would come back as soon as it had got dark. The telephone rang. Dan rushed to answer it. “That’s probably Jenny now,” he said, picking up the receiver. His enthusiasm was short lived.

  “It’s for you,” he said, passing the phone to the matron. “It’s the police.” Her face went ashen as she listened. Finally, she replaced the receiver.

  “Well, what did they say?” said Dan, “Is she at the police station?”

  “No,” replied the matron with a catch in her voice, “They have found a duffle bag floating in the sea. A fisherman brought it into the police station an hour ago!”

  “They said that on such a rough night, it was impossible to tell which part of the coastline it came from. Jenny could have been washed out to sea. There is a search party going out at first light.” Dan felt nauseous; the full realisation of what he had done, made him feel like he had been punched in the stomach.

  “I should have stopped her. She’s dead, and it’s all my fault.”

  “You are not to blame, Dan, and we don’t know if she’s come to any harm. I didn’t realise Jenny was so unhappy. I should have given her more attention.” They both sat at the kitchen table, lost in their own thoughts. Dan remembered when he and Jenny were burning rubbish. The matron had told them to clean out the old barn standing in the grounds of Rushbrook Estate.

  “The end of an era,” she had said wistfully, “It must have been lovely to see roaring log fires in the grates at Rushbrook House, instead of the dried flowers decorating them now.”

  “You wouldn’t have such a romantic image if you had to chop the wood and clear the ashes from the grate,” he had replied.

  “I would have loved it,” she’d retorted crossly. It was then that she’d told him of her plan to run away. Dan remembered how she had threaded her arm through his and had looked up at him with her big grey eyes. He shivered slightly, as he saw in his mind’s eye the way she tossed her long blonde hair back from her face with just the slightest tilt of her head.

  “You will promise to join me,” she had pleaded, “You’ll be 18 next year, and you’ll have to leave Rushbrook anyway.” Dan had not mentioned to Jenny that the matron had arranged for him to stay on as part of his college course. He wanted to be a probation officer or a social worker. For the first time in his life, he had felt a direction. Now, his plans would have to wait. If Jenny rang, he knew he would go to her.

  The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck one o’clock, and at the same time, there was a knock at the door. The matron opened it, bracing herself against the gush of wind that rushed in. “I’m Constable Murray and this is Constable Andrews,” the older policeman said, shaking hands with the matron.

  “Filthy night!”

  “Yes,” the matron agreed, “Can I take your coats?”

  “I’ll take them,” said Dan, grateful for something to do. He hung the dripping coats on the hall stand then joined them at the kitchen table. The matron gave him a cup of tea. He held it with both hands, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

  “Well, young man,” the matron said, “You were the last one to see Jenny McAdam. Is that right?”

  “Y-yes,” stuttered Dan.

  “And,” the policeman continued, “This is not the first time she’s run away.”

  “It is the first time from here,” interrupted the matron. “I thought she was happy with us. Her mother placed her into care because Jenny didn’t get on with her new boyfriend. I believe her mother has remarried now and we have no forwarding address.”

  “Mmmm, that will be the reason then. She’s gone to find her mother,” the policeman said confidently.

  “I just don’t know what to think,” said the matron, starting to cry, “I won’t be able to forgive myself if anything has happened to her.”

  Dan felt awful, he had been in care all his life and the matron was one of the kindest, most understanding people he had ever met. It hurt him to see her so upset.

  “Now-now, try not to upset yourself,” said the policeman kindly. “Have you got a photograph we could take?”

  The matron fumbl
ed in her apron pocket. “I thought you would ask me for one,” she said, “I took this out of her file earlier.”

  “She looks older than 15 years,” he commented.

  “How did you know Jenny came from Rushbrook?” asked Dan.

  “It was her diary in the duffle bag,” replied the constable, “Actually it was your name that came up.”

  Dan blushed, wondering what Jenny had written about him. He knew she had an overactive imagination, and he hated the thought of the police reading it.

  The fisherman who brought in the bag said he saw lights on the cliff top, so we will start searching there in the morning.

  “That was probably the gippos,” said George, (the younger policeman) sarcastically. “And they won’t have seen a thing,” he sneered. The older man looked sternly at his colleague.

  “Now that’s enough of that,” he said, “Those gypsies have been camped up there for three weeks and we’ve not had any trouble.”

  “No, not yet,” said George, under his breath.

  The matron saw the two of them out into the dark, wet night and closed the imposing, heavy oak door. “I’ll just check on the children,” she said wearily, “Then I think you and I ought to try and get a good night’s sleep. Things will look better in the morning.” Dan swallowed. He had a lump in his throat and his stomach was churning. Deep down, he knew things were not going to be better in the morning; in fact, they would not get better for a very long time.

  Chapter 2

  Gypsy Life

  Gypsy gold does not chink and glitter; it gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark.

  Dan went up to the cliff top as soon as it was light. The police with their tracker dogs were working in a long line, combing the moorland.