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CHAPTER 1

It was that time of year in the picturesque village of Nettlebridge, when swifts, with the air heavy with a scent of roses mingled with the fragrance of honeysuckle borne on a summer breeze, were preparing to leave for their wintering grounds.

Iris Blackmore stood by the open casement, drinking in the morning air. A dark-haired woman, petite in stature, with piecing blue eyes, in Harry, her husband’s opinion, a force to be reckoned with.

Her mind still absorbed with memories of the previous evening, she pondered.

What had obsessed her to suggest such a meeting, to resolve the ongoing issue of the gypsies, and such a seemingly unsolvable one on everyone’s lips? Once again, she experienced that same feeling of hopelessness when picturing the unrelenting animosity of the villagers amassed in the church hall. On such a wet and windy night, she had been pleased to see such a good turnout.

At first, the evening had gone true to plan, each point of view noted and amicably discussed, that is until halfway through the evening. The door swung open to reveal the rain-coated figure of Mildred Marsh, a known gossip and troublemaker. From then on the atmosphere in the room changed dramatically, the Colonel who up until then had been quite subdued had become quite belligerent. He like Mildred, harboured an intense dislike of the gypsies, it was as if her presence, had given him the impetus to voice his hatred of them. Voices raised, in the chaos that ensued, many of the villagers made for the door. Iris for once wanted no part of what would have been a relatively successful evening. Reluctantly, she had left a disgruntled few with the Vicar and Mildred Marsh still arguing the toss by the empty stage.

Iris filling the kettle mused. True there had been a valuable ring stolen from the then artist’s studio in the village, from the boundary walls of the churchyard, a number of coping stones unaccounted for, but that was nearly a year ago.Then as now in her opinion, the finger of suspicion had unjustly pointed at the travellers. At that time, causing no trouble at all they had been encamped on a rough piece of commoners land on the edge of the village where one hardly ever saw them. Neither did she blame Farmer Brown for profiting from the extra revenue, by letting out a field of which he had no apparent use.

The Colonel or Squire as he liked to be called, had become an embittered and lonely old man and somewhat of a recluse, since his wife’s death. Arrogant and self-opinionated refusing all offers of help, his presence in the village created an embarrassed silence. He now habitually disappeared for hours on end in the woods, but no-one knew where nor questioned why.

The kettle whistled filling the small kitchen with steam. Iris filled a large earthenware teapot with boiling water. She tucked in a stray strand from her otherwise tidy hairstyle, and, then straightened her floral wrap-over. The kitchen was untidy and not up to her high expectations. She was forever picking up after Harry, had reprimanded him on many occasions, but he either would not or could not see it her way. She took a cursory look around. Discarded newspapers, spillages, half-empty milk cartons, you name it, hopefully, Charlie would not take a leaf out of his father’s book. When they had first married, everything had seemed so perfect, but now every day was so humdrum.

An empty beer bottle caught her eye and picking it up she scrutinized it, before tossing it into the waste bin. Sweeping up cigarette ash and dog ends, she wished Harry didn’t smoke so much, better he’d come with her to the meeting, still he didn’t get drunk like some men, she should at least be thankful for that.

Take the Colonel for an instance, living in that big house, all by himself. He had never been the same since his wife’s death and at such a young age too. T’was in a car crash, wasn’t it? Iris searched her memory.

And then Charlie, their only son, Harry’s slovenly behaviour up until now had had no adverse effect on him, had it? Of course, he got up to all sorts of mischief but then boys will be boys!

Iris looked up on hearing the click of the latch.

The door creaked open. ‘You’re up early, how’s that?’ Harry raising an enquiring eyebrow, wiped his muddy boots on the doormat.

‘I thought I heard something.’

‘That damn fox was after the hens again. I wish I’d had my shotgun.’ Mopping his brow with a grubby handkerchief, he sat down heavily on a kitchen chair.

‘Did it get any?’ Iris asked, handing him a mug of tea.

He shook his head.

‘Well, that’s alright then, I’m glad to see you wiping your boots.’ She added, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Harry running his fingers through blonde hair, now tinged with grey, gave a look of disapproval, soon to be replaced by a mischievous grin. ‘What about me breakfast, woman,’ he said, slapping her lightly on the backside.

‘You behave yourself!’ Iris exclaimed, smiling at his audacity. ‘Keep your hands to yourself!’ She lit the gas and cracked eggs, thinking as the bacon sizzled in the pan, Harry’s so endearing, he never bears a grudge.

‘Smells darn good to me, where’s Charlie?’ Harry indicated the empty space at the table, ‘… Not down yet?’

‘Really Harry, where else would he be!’ She dished up and handed him his breakfast. ‘It’s the start of the school holidays.’

‘I suppose we won’t see much of him then, still he could help out a bit.’ He studied her face. ‘You look tired.’

Iris stretching across the kitchen table helped herself to another slice of buttered toast. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She yawned and rubbed her eyes.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ Puzzled, he asked. ‘Why?’

‘It was that meeting, you know…’ Iris felt a sense of relief when unburdening herself, ‘The meeting in the village hall last night.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ Harry reaching for the teapot, poured himself another mug of tea, and taking a slice of bread, wiped his plate clean. ‘Guess I must have drifted off to sleep.’

‘Probably, anyway it ran on far too late and the Colonel was upset.’ She grimaced.

‘Upset.’ Slightly confused, Harry asked, ‘What about?’

‘Harry, do keep up!’ cried Iris, exasperated with his lack of interest. ‘You know those confounded gypsies.’

‘Oh that, is that all.’ Her husband gave a smug smile, then pulled a face. ‘The old man’s got it all out of proportion, I blame you and the villagers for pandering to him.’

‘He’s not the only problem.’ Iris sighed. ‘There’s that interfering Mildred Marsh, she’s always stirring things up.’

‘She was there then?’

Iris nodded, soulfully.

‘Now we’re on the subject, I saw the Colonel this morning passing the gate. He was with his old retriever. To me he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He was making his way along that narrow footpath into Peckham Woods. I wondered where to, especially at that time of the morning. Still it’s none of our business is it?’ Harry getting up, slipped on his working jacket and stepped to the door. He turned and smiled. ‘See you tonight, love.’

Iris her hand on the sill, watched his retreating figure. Through the open window, the fragrance of a rambler, carried on the breeze, tainted by the odour of silage, wafted from a neighbouring field.

Iris thought of the Colonel. His attitude intrigued her. Where was he now? She wondered. Why was he rarely seen? Had he something to hide? She mused. To be sure, the Colonel was indeed a man of mystery.

In an otherwise cloudy sky, a ray of sunshine broke through highlighting the tip of the church spire. Iris on her way to the village shop paused by the church gates to check her shopping list. With not a soul in sight she looked up when hearing the ting of a bicycle bell, just in time to see the Vicar rounding a bend in the lane. Brakes screeching he drew abreast, the old bike shuddering to a halt.

It was a sturdy-framed bicycle but needed a lot of attention. She eyed it sceptically, as he dismounted.‘The bike’s seen better days,’ she said, appraising its rusty exterior.

‘It seems none the worse for wear, the tyres haven’t perished.’ He smiled, touched by her concern, but quite unperturbed. ‘I found it in an old potting shed in the vicarage garden; someone must have left it behind.’

Relative newcomers, the Rev. Ralph Watson, his wife Maria and daughter, Julie had soon settled down in the rambling old vicarage next to the church, and in no time had won the hearts and minds of the villagers. Some even said, ‘He’d charm the birds off the trees.’

The Vicar glanced at his wrist watch. ‘You’re up early.’

‘Yes, so my husband said just now. I thought I’d make an early start, I’ve some shopping to do.’

‘I’ll walk along with you, that’s if you don’t mind.’ He grasped hold of the bike’s handlebars.

‘That will be nice,’ said Iris, her mind elsewhere. This time, she told herself. I mustn’t forget to pick up some washing powder.

Outside the shop front, Iris bid ‘Goodbye.’ She stood and watched, shaking her head in disbelief, as the Vicar wobbling precariously, pedalled down the fore street past Sid Evan’s Bakery.

One could always rely on picking up the latest gossip in the Nettlebridge General Store. The proprietor, Mr. George McDonald, a stocky built, ruddy faced, congenial man of forty, was proud of his establishment and considered himself a pillar of the community. A confirmed bachelor, he gave the impression that everyone could expect a welcome on the mat on entering his store. The shop front had recently had a face lift with a ‘Wet Paint’ Sign urging passers-by to take care. And now with the morning sun glistening on its windows, and green coat of paint dry, really looked quite impressive.

As usual, Iris before entering it’s interior was drawn to the adverts in the side window. This morning, wiping away the condensation, she scanned the board, her eyes darting from one card to another. ‘Pup needs loving home, Tel. etc. After …,’ hopefully Charlie would not see that. ‘Part-time cleaner, flexible hours, Tel. …,’ handy to know; ‘Lost, Ginger Tom answers to the name of Marmalade,’ how appropriate, someone must be upset; ‘Newspaper Round, preferably a young boy …’ applicants must be enthusiastic. She’d mention this to Charlie. But what was this? Another notice almost shouted out at her, in large black capitals, it read, ‘NO GYPSIES SERVED HERE.’ So much for George’s so-called hospitality, it obviously had its limits.

‘I wonder what the Vicar will think of that?’ she mumbled.

The shop bell jangled as Iris stepping in distracted a number of villagers grouped around the counter, their eyes focused on Mildred Marsh.

‘As I was saying, and I’m not one for gossiping unnecessarily.’ Surrounded by a rapt audience, still in her ascendancy, Mildred stopped abruptly, as heads turned towards the door. Somewhat ruffled, she smiled indulgently on seeing Iris, and then carried on. ‘As sure as I’m standing here, as large as life I saw him …’

‘Saw who?’ asked Iris, baffled by such intensity.

‘Why the gypsy who else, really Iris who do you think I meant?’

‘Perhaps the Colonel?’

‘I saw him this morning, the Colonel that is.’ With all eyes levied in her direction, Emily Woods, a frail old spinster dithered.

‘How was he?’ asked Iris, aware of her discomfort.

‘Just the same.’ Emily snapped open her purse. ‘Yes, I could do with some loose potatoes, I’ve enough here,’ she muttered, after counting the change. ‘Just the same I think …’

‘Doesn’t matter what you think.’ Mildred’s eye started to twitch.

‘Don’t you dare speak to her like that,’ snapped Iris, staring at Mildred, ‘She’s a right to her opinion.’

‘I myself don’t think it’s right and proper to be discussing the Colonel,’ responded Mildred truculently, holding her gaze, while Emily coughing nervously fiddled with her string bag.

Iris had never liked Mildred Marsh. They hadn’t seen eye to eye on several occasions. She remembered the time when Mildred had found Charlie’s ball in her garden and wouldn’t give it back; and then again Guy Fawkes Night when a banger had exploded right next to her porch. She’d sworn it was Charlie, although it wasn’t, and Iris had known why. Mildred had it in for him because she, Iris, was the only one who stood up to her. Others not so brave, avoided any such confrontation. A big woman with steely grey eyes, her ample bosom heaving when pointing the finger at some unsuspecting villager or child, she generated fear, a person not to be trifled with, even the Vicar, relatively new to the village, found it difficult to engage in conversation with her.

‘Good morning, Ladies, I’m sorry to have kept you.’ George McDonald having emerged from a back room straightened his apron. ‘I was in the stockroom. Now who’s first?’ He caste an enquiring eye.

‘You were telling us about the gypsy.’ Undeterred, one of the group, turned to Mildred.

‘Yes, well not now, I’ve lost my thread, I’ve other things to think about. When I’ve been served,’ she looked fixedly at George, ‘I’ll be on my way.’

‘You were first?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course!’

‘You’ve got other things to think about, have you?’ cried Iris. ‘If that’s so, if you feel so strongly about the gypsies, why were you so late coming to the meeting last night?’

With a face like thunder, Mildred flounced out slamming the door behind her. A rapt silence prevailed, the bell jangling noisily, as swinging from side to side.

The first person to speak was George who having momentarily covered his face with his hands, was now audibly mouthing the words, ‘My door, my door, the hinges.’ Much to their surprise, with his fist he thumped the counter, uttering loudly as tongues started to wag. ‘Ladies, Ladies enough of this, this is a place of business, now who really is next?’

Iris coughed and catching his eye asked, ‘I just wanted to know if the position had been taken for the paper round? I was thinking of my Charlie he …’ Conscious of a certain amount of hostility, she blushed, hastily adding, ‘I’m sorry to have butted in, it really isn’t my turn.’

‘My dear, there’s no harm in asking.’ replied George, feeling a modicum of pity. ‘The Newspaper Round, I should have taken the card out of the window, how remiss of me. The round was taken only a while back by …’ He paused and scratched his head, ‘by, now who was it? My memory is not as good as it used to be.’ Frowning, his countenance lightened. ‘Now I remember, it was the red-haired boy, Gerry Pearce, the milkman’s son. What is it you wanted Emily? You were next I believe. Potatoes? Certainly, I’ll weigh you up some, they were fresh in today.’ At that moment, Iris could have sworn he winked at her.

In a lighter frame of mind, Iris clutching her purchases left the shop, thinking as she went on her way, he wasn’t a bad old stick, after all.

CHAPTER 2

In the heart of the woods, an owl twit-twooed. The retriever pricked his ears when hearing a sudden movement, the scent of which lingered with a fluctuating breeze, on all fours watchful he lay, sniffing the air.

Colonel Clifford Hardwick in a grassy copse positioned himself comfortably on a fallen tree trunk to drink in a freedom of fresh air and sunshine. He found it good to sit alone in a silent solitude, broken only by a babbling brook and birds on the wing. He no longer relished village life, but would have preferred a rudimentary hut in the woods, had age not hindered him, with only the wildlife for company.

In such a tranquil setting, a shot rang out, breaking the spell. Oscar, wild-eyed, barking frantically, scampered down the path out of sight.

‘Damn the gypsies!’ The Colonel muttered under his breath, ‘Poaching, I’ll be bound … What!’ He mopped his brow with a red-spotted handkerchief.

In the ensuing silence, lulled by the murmuring waters, memories came flooding back. An image of his wife, as a young woman on the brink of life. A chance meeting that had changed his life, now without her, a bleak outlook.

Unashamedly, tears trickled down his cheeks, a nostalgic train of thought, broken by a muffled bark. The old man opened his eyes as Oscar, brown eyes glowing with pride, laid a trophy at his master’s feet. ‘Good lad,’ the Colonel murmured.

Oscar’s tail twitched. To show the old man he heard, the dog raised his grey muzzle.

The Colonel, a burly man, generally showed little emotion. At one time a leading light in the village with his wife at his side, he had partaken in all facets of village life as Chairman of the Parish Council.

Now alone, he felt isolated, misunderstood and very much on guard, only letting the mask slip on occasions such as these with Oscar, his dog.

Up early that morning in the grey dawn, his dog at his heels, he’d threaded his way down the narrow woodland path to his leafy haven to find peace of mind.

He often questioned himself about his newly enforced nomadic existence. Was he going mad? Weren’t the gypsies nomads too? He knew not nor cared what the villagers thought about his attitude, but condescended to make a rare appearance such as the one last night in the church hall, when it suited him.

The weather wet and windy, no sooner through the door, as expected, his eyes had met a blur of faces in a noisy crowded room. Trying to be inconspicuous, he had quietly taken a seat in the back row. Half way through the evening, the door had swung open, all heads had turned. Framed in the door none other than, a drenched to the skin Mildred Marsh. He had heard that she was a trouble maker, that the villagers took measures to avoid her, but felt an empathy for wasn’t he too misunderstood.

In no time evoked by her dogmatic views about the gypsy encampment, a heated argument had developed, the atmosphere in the room charged, a once orderly meeting out of control.

Amidst voices raised in anger, blindly, he’d unceremoniously pushed past all and sundry in a bid to beat an hasty retreat. The rain had cleared, and outside on the steps in the cold night, unleashing Oscar, he had been happy to be alone.

On the edge of the clearing, with Oscar at his side, the Colonel stood and looked down at the world he loved, the world he would have preferred to live in alone and abandoned.

The hill sloped gently below him, a rough stony track joined by a fork leading to the Gables, its stately portals and ornate facade basking in the noon day sun.

A ray of sunshine fleetingly lit up the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, just like his memories with it’s passing nothing but a dream. A muffled whimper with a bark jerked him back to reality. The old man smiled. He bent down and patted the retriever on the head. ‘Come on, Old Boy,’ he said. Straightening up, he shouldered the shot gun. ‘Let’s go home.’

At the same time, out all night poaching, with little to show but a brace of pheasants slung over his shoulder, the gypsy trudged along the rutted road where not far away blue smoke wisped from the gypsy encampment.

One could not fail to notice ‘The Gables.’ A rather pretentious red-bricked building in it’s own grounds, situated on the outskirts of the village. A mansion, for that’s what it was, now housing but a single occupant. It’s many windows glinted in the mid-afternoon sunshine, like so many eyes, looking out onto ornate manicured lawns set on either side of a wide gravel path, sweeping down to rusting wrought iron gates.

In his study, the brocade curtains partially drawn, Colonel Clifford Hardwick puffing on a half smoked Havana, poured himself a generous whisky and soda. From a side table, he picked up the ‘Sporting Life’ and scanning it’s contents, eased himself into his favourite armchair by the hearthside.

‘Nothing much here,’ he muttered, placing the paper on his knees, he closed his eyes. Vaguely aware of the paper falling onto the tiger skin rug, he was back in India. Imaginary smells assailed his nostrils of spices in the bazaars, the faint musty smell of dry water buffalo dung, dust and decay. He pictured himself as a young officer striding past the harbour walls to the sounds of cracked trumpets, drums, and shouts from the water carriers.

A privileged child, the Colonel brought up in the foothills of the Himalayas, in the days of the Raj, had been the only son of wealthy parents. Idolized by his father, Charles, a tea plantation owner, Clifford Hardwick had led an idyllic life. At an early age, he accompanied his parents on the obligatory social circuit: cocktail parties, polo and tennis matches, and tiger shoots in unbearable heat.

The family’s carefree life style came to an abrupt end shortly after Clifford’s eighteenth birthday. He joined the Indian Army. He soon found favour with his commanding officer and rose rapidly up through the ranks.

In no time, Clifford received a commission and, as luck would have it, spotted his future wife. He was on his way home from the Chandrapore Club when he paused by the tennis courts to watch the young women throw themselves at the ball.

Then he spotted an angelic being. Could she really be that beautiful? He rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things? She was tall and slim, silky blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her long shapely legs were bronzed by the sun.

He was spellbound, and stayed until the end of the match, a turning point in his life.

Seated on a bench, in the half light, aware of his interest, with no intention of leaving the others, she’d glanced in his direction. Taking this as an invitation, he had joined her. In the next few hours, it wasn’t so much what they said as their awareness of one another, or so it seemed to him at the time. The evening air was thick and warm. She’d drawn closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, as they watched the sun set in a final blaze of glory. Later, in a starlit sky, the moon in a layer of cloud, as it emerged, they held hands, in the moonlight beside a silvered stone Buddha partially entwined with red strands of bougainvillea, this the first of many chance meetings, mainly contrived on his part.

The Colonel waking with a start, sat up and rubbed his eyes, as the heavy oaken study door creaked, prised open by a wet nose. Padding across the room, Oscar nudging him, rested a wiry head on his knee. The old man smiling, patted the dog’s flank. The carriage clock, its hands pointing to four o’clock, chimed the hour. ‘Was that really the time?’ It hadn’t seemed long since he’d left the leafy haven of the woods, partaken of the cooked meal left warming in the oven on his return, read his housekeeper’s note.

He watched, as with a gentle breeze, the roller blind lifted, sending a shaft of light, which rested fleetingly on a silver framed photograph of his then young wife.

Just like his memories of Nicola … nothing was tangible or permanent, but with it’s passing nothing but a dream.

Nicola Davenport, the only daughter of Brigadier Ernest Davenport, had been the talk of the cantonment. Her coquettishness had led to a number of indiscreet affairs with wealthy men.

On many a sultry evening, Nicola could be seen seated at the long bar surrounded by male admirers. Her slender fingers, perfectly shaped painted nails, holding a long silver cigarette holder. She would throw her head back and laugh outrageously at something somebody had said. The memsahib raised their eyebrows, tongues wagged. Some chose to turn a blind eye to her overblown behaviour, others simply retired gracefully. The Brigadier and his wife often excused themselves on some pretext.

‘She’s like a loose cannon,’ one officer was heard to remark to guffaws of laughter, ‘But a nice one.’

‘I heard you … A loose cannon I’m not! For that nasty remark, you horrible, horrible, little man, you can get me another drink. Yes, a Singapore Sling.’ Her voice slurred and discordant she’d swung around on the bar stool and burst into song, ‘You’re the cream in my coffee.’

Bored with their company, lurid stories and vulgarity one evening she’d found herself distracted by a solitary figure. A young army officer, not much taller than herself, with tousled brown hair, seated at the far end of the bar scrutinizing a broadsheet he’d placed on the counter. After a while, he’d risen stretched his arms and yawned. Intrigued, she’d watched him fold the paper, drain his glass, and leave the room. She known immediately he was the one, that they were destined to meet.

But distant storm clouds gathered on the horizon. In the bazaars, remote villages, and countryside, the news spread like wild fire.

What with trade sanctions and with Ghandi stirring up the natives, clashes were inevitable and with the uprising, an air of gloom hung over the cantonment. Interest in Nicola waned. Instead of going to the Chandrapore Club she’d started playing tennis, telling all and sundry she chanced to meet, ‘I’ll fire at random, should they attack!’ She’d changed, becoming at times quite subdued and serious, even more so after meeting Clifford.

Clifford said very little, but when he voiced an opinion, she hung on to his very word.

When he announced, quite out of the blue, ‘I think we should get married.’ She readily agreed.