“Go on,” he urged, “take it. It’s wicked bad luck to refuse a licensed practitioner, you know.
“I’ll help with the horse,” he volunteered. “Used to have one meself.”
Now he was putting on the old country doctor routine and I knew that, medically speaking, we were in the clear.
Knots of people stared as the doctor shepherded us towards the caravan. In no time at all he had the Gypsy’s horse in harness and the two of us settled on the wooden ledge that served as both doorstep and driving seat.
The old woman made a clucking noise and the villagers gave way on both sides as the caravan jerked into motion and began to rumble slowly along the churchyard path. From my high vantage point I looked down into the many upturned faces, but Feely’s and Daffy’s were not among them.
Good, I thought. They were most likely in one of the stalls stuffing their stupid faces with scones and clotted cream.
WE LUMBERED THROUGH THE high street, the sound of the horse’s hooves echoing loudly on the cobbles.
“What’s his name?” I asked, pointing at the ancient animal.
“Gry.”
“Gray?”
“Gry. ‘Horse’ in the Romany tongue.”
I tucked that odd bit of knowledge away for future use, looking forward to the time when I would be able to trot it out in front of my know-it-all sister, Daffy. Of course she would pretend that she knew it all along.
It must have been the loud clatter of our passage that brought Miss Cool, the village postmistress, scurrying to the front of her confectionery shop. When she spotted me seated beside the Gypsy, her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. In spite of the heavy plate-glass windows of the shop and the street between us, I could almost hear her gasp. The sight of Colonel Haviland de Luce’s youngest daughter being carried off in a Gypsy caravan, no matter how gaily it was painted, must have been a terrible shock.