The Lazarus Gate (36 page)

‘Please,’ I said, perhaps too pleadingly. She sighed at me, in her customary way.

‘It is called Faversham, I think. We can go there if you like; they are not too disapproving of my kind, if you can stand to be seen with a gypsy woman.’

Faversham! Again I was left befuddled by a string of coincidence.

‘Faversham is close to my old home,’ I remarked. ‘This is… uncanny.’

Rosanna looked as surprised as I sounded.

‘John,’ she said softly, placing a hand against my cheek, ‘perhaps it is time you stopped fighting against the signs. Perhaps it is time to see where they are leading you.’

I put my hand to hers, brushing it gently with my fingertips. My senses were full of her; I could notice nothing but her lavender scent, her warmth. It was somehow comforting, and where my head had been full to bursting with thoughts of destiny and precognition just moments before, I was immediately soothed. What a spell she had cast on me, this dusky witch of the Romani.

She smiled, stepped away from me, and turned to leave. ‘Eat, rest, and grow strong,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we will talk, and see what lies in store for us.’ With those cryptic, mildly encouraging words, she made to leave, but I called her back.

‘Rosanna, there is one thing I need, though I don’t know if you can help.’

‘Name it.’

‘I need some good clothes. If we are to go riding, these just won’t do,’ I laughed.

‘My Captain, I think perhaps your heart has not fully left the city. I will see what I can do, no? But in return, you must get some rest.’ With that, she left me to my own devices.

I must confess that the idea of lollygagging around for the day seemed somewhat appealing, but instead I dragged myself from my cot a short while later, determined to ignore Rosanna’s advice and make myself useful.

The camp was a little busier than it had been on the previous afternoon, but still there were few of the men around to ask for work, except for some of Andre’s friends, who I would have spoken to only if they were the last men on Earth. Instead, I reacquainted myself with Drina, who in turn introduced me to another of the Five Sisters, Esme. When I told them I wanted to work to pay my way, they gave me queer looks, and told me that I was ill-suited to heavy work in my condition. However, I persisted, and offered to do anything that would prove useful: fetch water, wash clothes, and so on. Finally they relented, and took me to a group of old women who were on their way to carry out those very tasks at a brook on the eastern side of the woods. Some of my new-found workmates could barely speak English, and poked fun at me relentlessly, grinning at me toothlessly and laughing through wrinkled lips. Still, I went with them, determined that I was good for something.

The day did not pass as quickly as I had hoped, for my industry was painstaking with one arm, and the washer-women were not the greatest conversationalists. Despite the drawbacks, I managed to pick up a few words of the Rom tongue, which I was surprised to discover was not too dissimilar to Rajasthani, a language I had some grasp of. It was not enough to converse, but certainly enough to catch the gist.

When the time came to return to camp, I believe I had earned their acceptance, if not their approval. The same could not be said, however, of the gypsy men. When I returned with the old women and set down my pail of water, I noticed a small group of rough-looking sorts pointing at me and laughing. Standing not far from them, in the shadow of a large elm, was Andre, who glowered at me. With him, again, was William—the two had become thick as thieves. I wanted to go over to the men who mocked me for doing ‘women’s work’, to say something terribly clever to put them in their places. Instead, I held my peace, and when one of the old women tugged at my shirtsleeve and ordered me to carry the pail to the centre of the camp, the little gang of gypsy men burst into laughter at my expense. I reddened, but did not rise to it. I did as I was bid, and when the work was done I returned to my tent in a most irritable mood.

I kept my own counsel for a while, scouring the old newspaper—which I had clung to jealously—for every scrap of news and gossip, and even leafing through Rosanna’s copy of
Great Expectations
, though I could not concentrate on the prose. I was too absorbed in my thoughts; whenever I was alone I found myself brooding on Lazarus, on Lillian, on Ambrose, and wondering how on earth I could return to London, or whether I ever could. Even these dark thoughts helped to take my mind from my withdrawal, for the sickening hollow within me was often so strong that I almost stormed to Rosanna’s caravan more than once to find the half-bottle of laudanum.

I did not pop my head outside of the tent for several hours. Presently, Gregor entered the tent, returned from a day’s work at one of the factories near Faversham.

‘Friend John,’ he said, ‘I have something for you.’

Gregor handed me a package. I tore through the brown paper and found a serviceable suit of clothes, about my size. Finally I had a clean shirt, trousers without holes, and a thick tweed jacket that made me look more like a local landowner than a wandering gypsy. I thanked Gregor profusely, and asked if there was anything I could do in return, but he would not hear of it.

‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow you go out with Rosanna, and maybe you will impress her in your fine clothes, no? Or maybe you do not understand Romani women at all, eh? We will see.’ He grinned at me as he said this. ‘It will soon be time to eat,’ he said. ‘Now you can, how do you say? “Dress for dinner”.’ With a hearty laugh, he left the tent. Unlike William, whose motives and loyalties I could not fathom, Gregor was an open book, and good-natured. I reminded myself again that he was a murderer on the run, and scowled. I wondered where the clothes had come from—a landowner’s washing-line, I had no doubt—but decided it was better not to ask.

When I ventured outside the tent at last, the sky was a deep blood red, and the atmosphere in the camp was subdued after the excesses of the previous night’s revelry. I ate a hearty stew, got to know my hosts a trifle better than before, and eventually managed to steal a few moments with Rosanna.

She was in a melancholy mood, reminiscing about her late father, perhaps because I had reminded her of her loss. It was strange to see her that way—the very solemnity that she had accused me of was now surrounding her like a cloak. I sat with her for an hour at least, talking of my own childhood—the happier times—and reminding her that she had many reasons to be thankful. Her sisters loved her, her people respected her, and she had the freedom to roam where she wished and live how she wanted. As we watched the moon rise high in the sky, the mandolin player strummed a sad song, and Rosanna placed her head on my good shoulder. I breathed in the scent of her. I had had no wine that night, and did not need any, for her company was intoxicating.

When I returned to my tent, I felt the oddest mixture of sadness and elation, as if my heart was being pulled in two. I felt so at home amongst the gypsies, and yet so out of place, and thoughts of Rosanna filled my mind as though I were a love-struck youth. When I fell asleep, there were none of the feverish nightmares or fitful awakenings that had so characterised my nights of late. No dragons, no burning cottages, no sinking ships or devilish siblings. Instead I slept soundly, and dreamt of childhood and balmy summer days, of pretty girls in yellow dresses, and of lavender scents.

I
t was good to be back in the saddle again after so long. Rosanna had presented me with a piebald horse—a good-natured, broad-backed animal—and she had been surprised at how quickly I had taken to such a large beast; but in truth it was not much different from riding the tall, muscled hunters of my old regiment. I felt better for my change of attire also. Gregor had done well, presenting me with a set of tweeds and a flat cap, so that I resembled a country squire (albeit one on a rather scruffy mount). Rosanna, as expected, looked radiant and exotic, wearing a loose blouse, beaded waistcoat and baggy silk trousers beneath a skirt made of brightly coloured scarves.

The further we rode from the sheltered camp and into more cultivated land, the more familiar it all seemed. I was so near to my old home—albeit one that I had not seen for almost twenty years—that even my encounter with Lazarus and Agent Lillian Hardwick could not quash the lure of nostalgia that swelled within me. We spent a pleasant morning riding along beaten tracks and field boundaries, along vaguely familiar country lanes and towpaths. Now and then we skirted hop fields and saw plumes of smoke drifting idly from the chimneys of the oast-houses. As we neared Faversham itself we rode along the boundaries to the great cherry orchards, shaded from the sun by trees fifty feet high. The weather was fine, the conversation easy, and I felt more at home than I had at any time since my return to England. There was something special—safe, I suppose—about the pastoral bliss of Kent. It seemed a million miles from the dangerous alleyways of the East End, though it was not far at all: not far enough, leastways.

We passed by the creek to the north of Faversham, and stopped to eat our picnic, lying on a hillside for a while watching the clouds drift by. They were growing dark again, and we knew that the break in the weather would not last long. As we lay there in a companionable silence, Rosanna’s hand reached for mine. I thought at first to withdraw, but then told myself that to do so would be folly—how often does such a perfect moment occur in one’s life, especially in the life of a man such as I, scarred and broken as I was. I squeezed her hand, and thought how soft it felt in my own. I remember being surprised by the roughness of my own hands—that told its own tale; an artistic life spurned for a decade of war and toil. Was it any wonder, then, that in that moment I rejected the reserve of my upbringing and instead indulged fully in the tenderness of that beautiful woman? If my father could have seen me, lying beside a gypsy girl in a meadow, he would have been incensed. It was then that I had the most curious thought—I did not care a fig! All my life I had tried to please my father—or my father’s ghost, at least—and if there was one thing that his dreadful ‘reappearance’ on the banks of the Thames had taught me, it was that I had spent my life pursuing the wrong goals. Those goals had brought me nought but pain. In my darkest hours these past days I had come to rue the day I’d ever signed my commission, or donned my uniform. I cursed the name of Marcus Hardwick.

I turned my head to look at Rosanna, and found her already looking at me, and I thought that perhaps it was all worth it. Whatever I had been through, whatever destiny or providence or whatever it was might yet visit upon me, there was still this. There was still her.

‘I could lie here for ever,’ she said, as if reading my thoughts. Perhaps she had been.

I smiled at her simply, for I could not find the words. She seemed to understand. Then a great splotch of rain hit me on the forehead, then another and another, until it was clear that the heavens were opening. We did not move at first, so caught up were we in the moment. Our smiles turned to laughter, and as the April shower grew heavier we leapt to our feet and dashed to the shelter of the nearest tree where the horses were tethered.

‘What shall we do now?’ Rosanna asked.

In response, I produced my watch-chain, upon which hung an iron key. It had stayed with me even as I’d half-drowned in the Thames, and fate had brought me back to that white farmhouse that harboured so many mixed feelings and memories for me.

‘What is that?’ she asked.

‘A key to the past, I think. I am going to take you home.’

And with barely another word, we mounted our scruffy horses and rode off into the deluge.

* * *

The farmhouse was exactly as I’d dreamed it, set back from a narrow lane, hidden by tall hedgerows. The whitewashed walls, the thatched roof, the paint peeling off the front door; nothing had changed in well over a decade. The gravel drive at the front of the house led to a small lawn that, curiously, was neatly trimmed, although it was a different story at the rear of the property: the grass was tall, the little apple orchard had run wild, and the kitchen garden was all bare earth and weeds. The garden gate, so vividly rendered in my dream, was there still, set into the wall leading to the pasture, surrounded by honeysuckle. The nagging sense of dread and apprehension, conjured by the remnant of my nightmares, was exorcised almost in an instant by my sheer joy at seeing the old house again.

Rosanna was sheltering from the rain under the little porch at the front door, waiting somewhat impatiently for me to tether the horses in the small lean-to beside the house. I noticed that the outbuilding, too, had been used fairly recently to house at least one horse. Before I could launch a further examination of my old playgrounds, I was interrupted by Rosanna’s call, asking me if I intended to leave her in the rain all day. I returned to my companion, pausing momentarily as I saw the carved stone crest above the porch. I had almost forgotten it.

‘John?’ Rosanna frowned.

I reached up and traced my fingers over the wet stone. The emblem of the dragon was worn, but still proud, a heraldic sigil left by whomever had built the cottage a hundred years ago. It was doubtless the origin of my fevered dreams, and only now did I remember the fanciful stories that the crest had inspired during my childhood.