‘Please tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark and very handsome stranger one day,’ Florence said nervously. She might just as well enter into the spirit of the thing; after all, this old crone of a woman couldn’t be genuine, could she?
The woman gave her a terrifyingly severe look in the candlelight. ‘You’ve come in here to mock me, have you? You may live to regret that. Give me your penny, and then your hand.’ She stuck out one of hers, gold bangles jangling on her scrawny wrist. She took the coin Florence offered and hid it somewhere in the folds of her skirt.
The woman’s fingers were dry and rough as she snatched hold of Florence’s hand, but surprisingly cool given how hot and fusty it was inside the small tent. Florence began to consider the possibility that she might actually be a real gypsy; she certainly had the sort of face that looked like it had spent most of its life outside in all weathers. She even had a gold tooth, and hooked through her ear lobes were gold-hooped rings, which caught the light from the candle when she moved.
A long bony finger traced a line on the palm of Florence’s hand. ‘I see a long life ahead for you,’ she said in a raspy tone. ‘It won’t be an easy life, though. You’ll have many obstacles to overcome. You’ll find love and you’ll lose love. Now then, this is interesting. I see … I see a woman … a woman with red hair …’ She raised her dark eyes to Florence’s. ‘Red hair just like yours.’ She dropped her gaze back down again. ‘This woman … you haven’t seen her in a long time—’
Florence snatched her hand away. ‘You’re making this up!’
‘Am I, dearie? And why would I do that?’
‘Because … because that’s what people like you do.’
The woman laughed scornfully. ‘That’s what all unbelievers say. If you don’t want to hear the truth, don’t waste my time. Be off with you!’
Florence couldn’t get away fast enough from the old witch. She emerged from the tent into the bright sunshine breathless and close to tears. It was just a lucky shot in the dark, nothing more than that – Florence’s own hair was red, so it made sense that somebody close to her would also have the same colour hair. Anyone could have guessed at that.
Her heart beating fast, she was practically running when she crashed full tilt into Billy Minton. ‘Hey, what’s the hurry?’ he asked, catching her by the arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, flustered and feeling foolish. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘You okay?’ he said with a frown of concern. ‘You look properly ruffled. Did something upset you in the fortune-telling tent?’
‘How did you know I was in there?’
‘I saw you go in. Plain as daylight.’
‘Well I wish I hadn’t,’ she said hotly. ‘The old hag in there shouldn’t be allowed to take hard-earned money and then tell lies to innocent folk. She’s nothing but a charlatan.’
Billy laughed. ‘She’s here every year – she’s a rum ol’ gal and no mistake. She once told my gran that she was going to have an accident, and sure enough she fell down the cellar steps that very evening.’
‘Was she all right?’ asked Florence.
He laughed again. ‘Yes, she was right as rain until she died quite peacefully in her sleep the following year. Fancy trying your luck on the coconut shy with me?’
‘Aren’t you needed in the band?’
‘We’ve a short break before we have to play again. I’ll stand you a go on the coconut shy if you come and listen to me play later. I’ve got a solo,’ he added with obvious pride.
Her mood lightened and she smiled. ‘Go on then, why not?’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said.
The combination of his words and his taking her hand made Florence’s heart, which had only just settled, skip a beat.
But then like a shadow passing across the sun, the gypsy woman’s words echoed in her head: You’ll find love and you’ll lose love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arthur had been drinking steadily since his stepmother had given that toe-curlingly awful speech about his father and declared the fete open. Could she have been any more nauseatingly sentimental?
Everything about the fete was just as Arthur had known it would be; nothing had changed since he’d attended as a boy – tombola, hoopla, tug of war, donkey rides, country dancing, best dog in show, sack races. It was pathetically unsophisticated entertainment for the pathetically unsophisticated. At least the up side was that as an adult he could drink as much as he wanted instead of sneaking into the beer tent to help himself to somebody else’s glass while they weren’t looking.
He’d been in the tent for over an hour, observing the comings and goings. Apart from a few women, it was mostly lads, and older men in their caps and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Every one of them had eyed him warily without actually looking him in the eye, and not a single one had spoken to him; most had actively given him a wide berth. Which suited him just fine. He was in no mood for small talk.
It had been a ridiculous idea of Romily’s to insist they show a united front in the village. For what purpose? Who did she think they would be fooling? It was nothing but a pointless exercise. Or more precisely, on her part, an exercise in divide-and-conquer warfare. For there was no doubt about it, she was already showing signs of winning the others round. In fact, he’d go so far as to say they were warming to her so much she’d be lucky to be rid of them when the week was up. More fool her!
As for him, he’d be off just as soon as he’d fulfilled the requirements of his father’s will, heading back to town on the first available train. Better still, he’d make a detour to Wembley. By God, after being cooped up here, he’d have earned the right for a lengthy session of pleasure with Pamela. And there’d be no need to worry about Irene. With her safely up in Scotland with her family, he’d be able to indulge himself for a few days before she rejoined him at home. But what pleased him most was the satisfying prospect of coming into a great deal of money before too long. Life was definitely looking up. ‘Thank you, Father!’ he said aloud, causing those nearest him to look his way. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Jack Devereux, who has proved to be a better father when dead. A shame he didn’t die sooner. What?’ he said when a cloth-capped old man tutted and shook his head.
