A Kiss and a Promise (46 page)

Ginny awoke at dawn the next morning, feeling very much better. Her clothes had dried on her and the bruises, sustained as she hurtled downriver, had begun to show. Indeed, she was one enormous bruise from her neck to her ankles. Yet she managed to crawl to the barn door and peer through it, eager to see just where they were and whether there was human habitation at hand.

It was a beautiful morning. The rain had cleared, leaving the countryside sparkling. A hawthorn tree, leaning out of the hedge, was diamonded with a million drops, and every time the little breeze stirred its branches the drops fell, pattering, into the ditch at its foot. The sky arched overhead, a gentle misty blue, and the golden rays of the sun shone not only on the fields and distant hills, but on a nearby farmhouse, its cob walls whitewashed and its golden thatch steaming gently in the sun’s rays.

Ginny gasped. Whilst with the tinkers, she had often marvelled at the beauty of the Irish countryside but, perhaps because she was free from their unwelcome presence, the landscape before her looked lovelier than anything she had ever seen. She eased herself out of the barn door and padded, with some care, round to the back, so that she could take a look at the river. To her satisfaction, it was, if anything, wilder and more turbulent than it had been the day before, and she remembered hearing Granny Dido, the oldest of the tinkers, telling the children that they should beware of the river three days after the rain. ‘For it takes three days for heavy rain in the mountains to work its way down to the plain and then the water comes in a great, wicked wave which uproots trees, tosses boulders as though they weighed no more than apples, and can drown a young tinker whilst he or she is fillin’ a bucket for to make a cup o’ tay,’ she had told them. ‘Oh aye, the river in flood ain’t no friend to tinkers, so when you go down to fetch water on a mild an’ sunny day, just you remember that the mountains can unleash a great wave on you when you least expects it.’

Ginny had left Conan sleeping, but even as she stared down at the turbulent river she heard his voice at her elbow. ‘Mornin’, Ginny! Everything’s too wet to light a fire – and that includes me little box o’ matches – so I reckon we’ll ha’ to go down to the farm, see if they’ll feed us. I wish we had shoes, because if they guess we’re tinkers, they’ll mebbe keep themselves to themselves and set the dogs on us.’

Ginny had felt quite well disposed towards Conan, but at these words she stiffened angrily. ‘I am
not
a tinker, Conan O’Dowd,’ she said coldly. ‘An’ neither are you, not a proper one. If we tell the folk in that farm that the tinkers caught us and meant to ransom us to our daddies, then I reckon they’ll take us at our word. After all, I don’t believe we look much like tinkers, an’ we certainly don’t sound it.’

She turned back towards the barn but Conan caught hold of her arm. ‘Meant to ransom us to our daddies?’ he said. ‘Wharrever makes you say that?’

Ginny sighed. ‘I heard you tellin’ one o’ the other kids that that was what the chief meant to do – to sell me to me daddy,’ she said patiently. ‘And I reckon, if it were worth doin’ to me, then it might be worth doin’ to you, an’ all. Oh, I know they said you were a horse caller, wharrever that may be, an’ that makes you valuable, but that’s an even better reason to demand money from your daddy, don’t you
see
?’

There was a long moment of silence whilst Conan thought it over, frowning down at her as though he could not believe his ears. Then his brow cleared and he smiled. ‘D’you know, I believe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Oh, ain’t I glad I decided to leave the Kavanaghs an’ stick wi’ you. Ain’t I glad we met up on that ferry, an’ all? Oh, Ginny, it’s goin’ to be awright, I know it in me bones!’

Later that morning, they set off, keeping well clear of the river. Conan took the meal scoop so that he might milk cows as they went, and they managed to find enough vegetables in the fields to sustain them, for a while at least. But one thing was worrying Conan and at last Ginny noticed his frown and asked him what was the matter.

‘I’m worried about the tribe,’ he said at last. ‘We’re valuable to ’em, as valuable as though we were made of gold, pretty near, so it stands to reason they’ll search for us. I know we’ve crossed the river, but the truth is, we’re all headin’ in the same direction. When we come to a village, we’ll have to go into it, see if we can nick some clothes off of a line so we won’t be so easy to spot. But goin’ into a village is dangerous, see? Because the tinkers go into villages to buy grub an’ to sell bits an’ pieces an’ if they see us … well, the game ’ud be up, wouldn’t it?’

Ginny agreed, rather mournfully, and suggested that they should make straight for the nearest village, reconnoitre it carefully, and then go in and see whether they might beg, borrow or steal some sort of disguise. ‘I could get a dark headscarf, or something, mebbe,’ she said vaguely, then her face brightened. ‘Oh Conan, I’ve had a grand idea, so I have! We’ll take a leaf out o’ the Kavanaghs’ book, do what they’d do. That way, I’m sure we’ll be safe as houses!’

It was the terrible wind and rain, Mabel thought, which had actually brought herself and Michael closer together, for there had seemed little point in tramping in the tinkers’ wake when they could scarcely see more than ten feet before them.

‘I reckon the tinkers will lie up under the cover of a wood whilst the weather stays so bad, because they can’t expect to be given fieldwork in conditions like these,’ said Michael. The two of them were in a pleasant lodging house in a small village, enjoying an excellent breakfast of boiled brown eggs, bread and butter and strong tea. ‘We have to work on the assumption that Ginny is still with the tinkers because now we know they’re headin’ for Kerry, Ginny might as well be with them as not.’

Mabel, with her mouth full of crusty bread, nodded. They had been told, at the last village, that the tinkers would be making their way to Killorglin, in Kerry, for the August Puck Fair, since this particular tribe were horse dealers. The Puck Fair, Michael had explained, was the most important event of the year, not only for local people, but for the tinkers, horse dealers, stall holders and side-show entertainers who flocked to it.

‘Everyone wit’ livestock to buy or sell goes to the Puck Fair,’ the farmer they had questioned assured them. ‘The Kavanaghs are bad lot, though, stop at nothing. Most tinkers is all right, but if you sup wit’ the Kavanaghs, you need a long spoon, so you do. There are so many of ’em that it’s nigh on impossible for any poor farmer to guard his stock. We’re used to tinkers takin’ the odd hen that lays astray, as well as her clutch of eggs, digin’ a sack o’ spuds out o’ a field durin’ the night, milkin’ the cows an hour or so afore we brings ’em in, but this lot ain’t content wit’ such trifles. They’ll steal your best bay mare an’ by mornin’ she’ll be skewbald, ’cos they’ll bleach white patches here an’ there. Even donkeys an’ mules disappear from their pastures when the Kavanaghs are in the neighbourhood.’ He had grinned suddenly, his mouth twisting with wry amusement as though, in a way, he admired the cunning of the Kavanaghs. ‘But they’re well thought of at the horse fairs, ’cos they only steal the best … well, it don’t do to ask too many questions or to wonder aloud why the black gelding’s coat feels harsh to the touch.’

‘Why harsh to the touch?’ Mabel had asked, curiously, as they had left their informant behind and set out to get themselves lodgings. ‘Does that mean the horse isn’t well?’

Michael had laughed. ‘You’re an innocent, so you are,’ he had said teasingly. ‘A harsh coat is usually a sign that dye has been used, perhaps to turn a nice little snow-white horse into one black as pitch, whose own master wouldn’t recognise him. Oh aye, there’s no doubt these Kavanaghs are up to all the tricks. We’d best get our Ginny out of their clutches before they think of a way of turning her to good account.’

Mabel had agreed and they had continued their pursuit though now, as Mabel said, Ginny’s presence with the tinkers made a good deal more sense. Since the tinkers were heading for Kerry, the child’s best possible move would be to stay with them until they were within shouting distance of Michael’s home. Then she could make her own way to the farm, sure of her welcome and with no further need of the tinkers’ company.

Over breakfast, Michael put forward the suggestion that they should actually take advantage of the terrible weather and the fact that the tinkers would probably be lying up in some sheltered spot. ‘If we catch a long-distance bus, it’ll get us well ahead of the tribe. What’s more, it might take us to a decent-sized town where we can buy ourselves wet weather gear, and then we can discover from the locals where the Kavanaghs usually camp when they’re in that area. We can hide ourselves somewhere handy and, in all the bustle of setting up camp, I reckon we could get in and get Ginny away without any bother. I keep tellin’ meself that no harm can come to a child whilst she’s with a large group of adults, but from what folks have said, these Kavanaghs aren’t the sort o’ people anyone would willingly associate with. If we’re honest, they’re more like thieves an’ robbers than ordinary tinkers, so the sooner we find ’em an’ take Ginny away from ’em, the better.’ He looked enquiringly at his companion across the table. ‘What d’you think?’

‘I think it’s an awfully good idea,’ Mabel said. The thought of visiting a town, of seeing shops and people instead of rain-drenched meadows, cows and sheep, was an attractive one. It had been her own fault she had not thought to bring a waterproof, but the thought of some protection against the rain was exceedingly welcome. And a really long bus journey, when they could settle into a warm, dry seat and watch the rain through the bus windows, was pleasant, too. Irish rain, Mabel had heard, was the most penetrating in the world; it would be good not to be out in it, and still feel they were getting closer to Ginny.

So later that day they boarded a bus and set off on their journey the easy way. The bus was old and rickety and filled not only with humanity, but also with livestock. The rain beat against the windows but by late afternoon the weather had changed to a nippy sunshine full of gusty breezes. Mabel was so happy not to be on foot that she scarcely noticed. They had intended to go to Nenagh but since the rain had stopped they got off the bus at the village of Toomyvara. They climbed down, got themselves rooms in a local bar and then started asking whether tinkers ever camped nearby on their way to the Puck Fair. ‘We’ll ask about the Kavanaghs,’ Michael remarked, ‘where they stay, an’ so on, when they’re in the neighbourhood. That way, we won’t have to waste time tomorrow.’

They asked the locals for information about the tinkers and, as usual, were rewarded with pungent opinions of the Kavanaghs and their like. Fortunately, the villagers were also able to direct Michael and Mabel to the very spot where the Kavanaghs had set up their camp in past years. The two of them slogged out and examined the site; Michael even going so far as to choose a vantage point from which they could watch the camp whilst remaining unseen themselves.

‘I bet they’ll arrive tomorrow,’ he told Mabel, ‘now the weather has improved.’ He grinned down at her and Mabel was struck by how much his attitude towards her had changed. At first, he had been prickly, difficult, quick to take offence and slow to respond to any friendly overture. Now, they were like two old pals, thinking along similar lines, sometimes even anticipating what the other was about to say so that they spoke in chorus, breaking off and laughing together. She realised that, much though she wanted to find Ginny, she was beginning to dread parting from Michael. She told herself that it was simply that she’d grown used to him, but she was beginning to suspect that it was more than that. She had not meant to like him, far less love him, but she was very much afraid that she was in danger of being far fonder of him than was wise. After all, when they found Ginny, he would return to his Kerry farm and she to her classroom. There was little chance that they would ever meet again, for Michael had made it plain that, if Ginny were willing, he meant to keep her in Ireland. So the sensible thing was to treat him with friendliness whilst never forgetting that they were soon to part.

‘Mabs? Will you stop dreamin’, girl! Do you or do you not think that the weather’s going to be fine tomorrow?’

Mabel, rudely jerked back to the present, said that she certainly hoped he was right. Then the two of them returned to the village, arriving at their lodgings in time for an evening meal.

They ate their breakfast with sunshine pouring in through the window and Michael felt, optimistically, that today might see the end of their search. He beamed at Mabel as he told her that he thought they ought to go straight to the camping ground as soon as breakfast was over and Mabel smiled back, though not, he thought, quite as enthusiastically as he. But of course Ginny was only her pupil, not her little lost daughter, so he could scarcely expect an equal show of excitement from her. He thought she looked extra specially pretty today, with the sunshine glinting on her golden head and a flush on her cheeks. For the first time, he realised how the good weather had improved her. In Liverpool, she had been pale with the pallor of a plant kept too long in the shade, but now she was gloriously sun-kissed, her skin golden-brown, even her hair seeming to have an added lustre. But it would not do to sit mooning here; they had work to do. He glanced interrogatively at his companion. ‘Finished your breakfast? If so, we’d better be after makin’ tracks for the camping ground. Tinkers get on the move before the sun’s up so we’d best get into our hidin’ place in good time.’

Mabel stood up. ‘Right. I’d better get a jacket,’ she said briskly. ‘And if you’re right, Michael, and we do find her today, I suppose I ought to start looking up the times of buses back to Dublin.’

Michael had been about to turn away to go up to his room, but at these words he stopped short and turned to stare at her. ‘Back to Dublin?’ he asked in an incredulous tone. ‘Whatever would you be wantin’ wit’ a bus to Dublin?’

Even as he said the words, he remembered that of course, for Mabel, there had been one reason and one reason only for accompanying him on his search. She knew Ginny and he did not. With a heart plummeting into his boots, he realised that her presence had made the search into a happy, shared adventure and that he had not once thought that it must end when they found Ginny. But – but why should it end? Surely she would agree to come home with them, to meet his parents, see the farm, settle Ginny in? Surely she did not mean to simply point Ginny out and then desert him? But of course, right at the start of their trip, she had told him her parents expected her to go home to Suffolk for some part, at least, of the summer holidays. He supposed that he should have realised she would do what she had come to do and then return to England to take up the threads of her normal life. She was a bright, intelligent woman with a good job and excellent prospects and he was just what Granny Bennett had called him – an ignorant, Irish bog-trotter with straws in his hair. He could offer her nothing, save the hard life lived on the land, but even so …