Hidden by a dense hedge from the highway, this Gypsy abode stood back amid a cluster of apple trees, and a daylight view of the place would have revealed to you an entirely nondescript habitation, with here a home-made porch, and there a creeper-grown extension sheltering a green caravan in which Ladin and his wife Juli have travelled many a mile over the smooth causeways of the far-reaching flats.
Let me picture for you the tiny apartment where we now sat happily blowing clouds of tobacco smoke. Over the wide fireplace, which occupied one side of the room, rose a high mantelpiece surrounded by coloured prints of Derby winners, divided one from another by glistening horse-bits and brass-bound whips. Opposite the fireplace a small casement looked out upon a bulb-garden aglow by day with hyacinths, tulips, and narcissi—a common sight in the Fens. The side walls were adorned with portraits of Gypsy relatives deceased and living, and the brazen ornaments on parts of a van-horse’s harness gleamed in the rays of the pendant lamp. Before the fire sat my friend and his wife, a tall, striking woman of the old-fashioned Draper clan, and along with us were two youthful sons of the house, Rinki and Zegul, smart, quick-eyed fellows, who occupied a home-made bench opposite my seat of honour in the chimney corner. At our feet lay a dark lurcher, a type of dog whose peculiar qualities are well appreciated by Gypsies.
I have already spoken of my friend as “Gypsy” Ladin, but his ruddy complexion and grey eyes are scarcely suggestive of the pure Romany. About the good “black blood” of his wife, however, there can be no manner of doubt. Probably my friend would agree with the roving gawjo, who, having married a pure Gypsy, declared that the mingling of gentile and Romany crafts was a desirable blending of qualities. Did not Lazzy Smith, renowned in Gypsydom, once say—
“Ain’t it in the Bible that God’s people should multiply and be as one? It ain’t no sort o’ use at all a-goin’ agen the dear blessed Lord’s words. Why, a cross is good, even if it be only in wheat, ain’t it, now?”
Belonging to East Anglia, Ladin’s forelders have mingled a good deal with the Herons who formerly travelled the counties bordering upon the North Sea. Himself akin to the Chilcots and Smiths, Ladin has inherited not a few traditions of these families.
“Do you remember Yoki Shuri Smith?” I asked.
“You mean Old Ryley’s wife? Ay, I mind her well, but Ryley I don’t remember. Shuri”—Ladin shivered as he uttered the name—“was looked upon as a tshovihawni (witch) by our folks. We allus thought it unlucky to meet her on the road of a morning. I’ve known my folks turn back, saying, ‘It ain’t no use going out to-day.’”
After a discussion of Shuri’s “powers,” I ventured upon a tale of my own experience of a witch who lived in a parish of which I was formerly curate-in-charge.
About a fortnight after my arrival at the Rectory, our aged gardener took me into his confidence.
“Excuse me askin’ if you’ve seen Old Betty what lives agin the well at the bottom of the lane? You must mind you don’t never get across wi’ that woman, or she’ll sartinly mek things awk’ard for you.”