The Wild Cry of Love Read online

  She gave a little exclamation of excitement.

  ‘Perhaps my snapshots could be exhibited in Paris. I might even win a gold medal with them!’

  It was an exciting thought and Valda’s eyes were shining as she looked up at the stars.

  She felt they had inspired her.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile on her lips.

  Far away she heard two hoots following closely upon one another and it seemed at that moment very significant.

  Chapter Two

  Valda slept very little during the night. She was planning what she should do and knew that every detail must be foolproof.

  She remembered years ago, when she could not have been more than ten years of age, going into the study in her home and finding her father setting out piles of maps, binoculars, books and implements on the floor.

  He was holding a long list in his hand and, as she looked at him in surprise, he said with a smile,

  “Come in, Valda, and help me.”

  “What are you doing, Papa?” she enquired.

  “I am making certain that my journey to Afghanistan is a success,” he answered.

  His daughter looked at him questioningly as he went on,

  “It is detail that counts when one is exploring. Everything can go wrong and the whole project can be a failure if one does not think ahead.”

  He handed the list in his hand to Valda and said,

  “You read out the items one by one, and I will check to see if I have them.”

  It had taken some hours to make sure that Sir Edward had everything he required, but Valda had not forgotten how particular he had been about the details of what she thought of as his ‘adventure’.

  ‘I must be as precise and sensible as Papa,’ she told herself.

  *

  She rose before six o’clock and dressed herself without ringing for her maid.

  She put on a thin riding habit because, even though it was very early in the morning, and the sun was not far up the sky, she knew it would be a very hot day.

  In fact the weather was unprecedentedly warm for the time of year and the farmers were talking about an early harvest.

  When she was dressed, Valda went down the backstairs leading to the kitchen quarters of The Château.

  Already the under servants were about, the housemaids in their mobcaps carrying dusters and brooms, the scullery boys and the footmen busy in the pantry and the dining room.

  She avoided them as much as possible although one or two seemed surprised to see her and said respectfully, “Bonjour mademoiselle.”

  Valda walked down the flagged passages, passing the kitchens to enter the big cool larders where the butter was made. Huge flat bowls of cream from yesterday’s milking stood on marble topped tables.

  The larder was very cool and, although the windows were shuttered to keep out the heat, Valda could see well enough to pick up a wicker basket from a number that stood inside the door.

  Holding it in one hand she filled it with eggs and two huge pats of butter. Then, passing through the first larder into another, she lifted down a fat cockerel that had already been plucked, from where it hung from the ceiling amongst a dozen others.

  Carrying the basket in one hand and the cockerel in the other, she walked out through the back door into the kitchen yard.

  There was only one old man outside, sweeping the ground. He looked up at her and touched his forelock.

  “Bonjour, Pierre,” Valda smiled and passing through the yard walked quickly towards the stables.

  She was anxious to be on her way without her stepfather being aware that she had left The Château.

  They usually rode together in the morning after breakfast and she knew she would have to find some explanation as to why this morning she had gone without him.

  As soon as she reached the stables, a groom came to ask for her instructions and she ordered a horse for herself and instructed one of the grooms to accompany her.

  It seemed to Valda because she was impatient that she had to wait a long time before the horses were saddled, but actually in little more than five minutes she had left the stable yard and was galloping across the park with the groom behind her carrying the basket and the cockerel.

  Behind a copse of trees she found, as she had expected, the gypsy encampment.

  All through May gypsies came and went from the Comte’s land, being welcome to stay a day or so on their pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, as they were on most of the other estates round Arles and Les Baux.

  Finding on the walls or fences the gypsy signs that they left for one another had always fascinated Valda, giving information that was supposed to be known only to other gypsies.

  Outside the Château Merlimont, if Valda searched diligently enough, she could find a circle with a spot in the middle of it. This she knew in gypsy language meant very generous people and friendly to gypsies.

  Without the spot she had learnt the circle meant generous people, while, if there was a plus sign on the fence or two sticks crossed at the entrance to the field, it meant here they give nothing.

  Two lines crossing an upright one meant beggars badly received.

  The Comte, who had known the gypsies ever since he was a small boy, told Valda that there were many other signs the gypsies left for one another in order to impart information that could prove lucrative.

  “A gypsy woman of one tribe will go to a farmhouse to sell clothes pegs or baskets,” he said. “She skilfully makes the owner’s wife talk all about their family affairs and learns their hopes for a good marriage for their oldest child or perhaps about the illness of another.”

  He saw that Valda was listening intently so he went on,

  “When she leaves, she will scratch some signs on a wall or mark with chalk or charcoal information that only other gypsies will then understand.”

  “What happens then, Beau-père?’ Valda had asked.

  “Sometime later a second gypsy woman will arrive at the farm. She will tell the fortune of the farmer’s wife, who will be utterly amazed at the intimate details she knows of their family life!”

  Valda had laughed, but, although she had visited the gypsies every year, she had never allowed them to tell her fortune.

  This morning in the camp she found over twenty caravans, most of them beautifully painted, and guessed that the Delgaddes tribe, to whom she had spoken for the last three years, had returned again.

  They were an important tribe of the Kalderash and their Vataf or ‘Chief’ was a well-known and resplendent figure, respected by many of the other gypsy tribes. As Valda rode into the camp, he appeared wearing his short jacket with its bright gold buttons and carrying in his hand his long staff with a silver head.

  From his waistcoat pockets stretched a thick gold chain hung with pendants and on his head he wore a wide-brimmed hat.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Vataf,” Valda said respectfully. “It is delightful to see you again and I hope you are well?”

  “We are very pleased and grateful to be allowed to avail ourselves, mademoiselle, of Monsieur le Comte’s continued hospitality,” the gypsy said with old world courtesy that many of the younger gypsies did not have. “I have brought gifts for the Phuri Dai,” Valda said. “She is with you?”

  The Chief inclined his head.

  “She will be honoured to see you, mademoiselle, but she has rheumatism in one of her legs and finds it difficult to walk.”

  “I will go to her caravan,” Valda suggested quickly.

  The groom had already dismounted and he held the bridle of her horse as she slipped lithely to the ground.

  She took the basket and the cockerel from him, holding out the latter to the Vataf.

  “With the compliments of the Château Merlimont!” she said with a smile.

  He thanked her with a low bow, then led the way through the caravans to where a little apart in the shadow of a tree there was one that was more gaily decorated and more attractive than the others.
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br />   This, Valda knew, was the caravan of the Phuri Dai, the female counterpart of the tribal chief.

  In Romani tribes the Phuri Dai tended to be a very old woman, either the wife or mother of the reigning Vataf, holding great power and influence over the women and children, as well as sitting on the Council of Elders.

  She was usually called ‘Bibi’, which means Auntie, just as the old men of the tribe were addressed as ‘Kako’, a term of respect meaning uncle.

  The Phuri Dai of the Delgaddes was sitting on the steps of her caravan and, as Valda approached, her face lit up in a smile.

  She looked, Valda thought, very like a tribal queen with her brilliantly coloured skirt and embroidered blouse, covered with a fringed shawl. On her hair, which was still dark, there was a bright red handkerchief.

  She wore an immense amount of jewellery, because the Kalderash, who were traditionally smiths and metal workers, loved jewels.

  Valda had noticed before that the arms of the women were weighed down with bracelets and many of them wore anklets too, which tinkled as they moved. They all sported earrings, mostly of gold, but some were set with what appeared to be precious jewels.

  The Phuri Dal greeted Valda, excused herself for not rising and accepted the basket of eggs and butter with the graciousness and dignity of a Queen.

  As soon as Valda had appeared, the gypsy women from the other caravans had all stopped whatever they were doing to stand and stare at her with admiration and curiosity.

  The children clustered round the horses asking questions of the groom, but because she was talking to the Phuri Dal no one attempted to come within earshot.

  “You are going to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer?” Valda enquired.

  “I think this will be my last pilgrimage,” the Phuri Dai said. “I am getting old, mademoiselle and we have come a long way.”

  “From Normandy,” the Vataf explained.

  “That is a long way!” Valda agreed.

  “The young women wanted to pray at the shrine and spend the night in the crypt,” the Vataf explained. “They believe it will bring them good luck for the coming year and bless the children they have and those yet to come.”

  “It is too far for me,” the Phuri Dai said plaintively.

  “All women complain whatever they do,” the Vataf said. “But I too wish to touch the garments of the Blessed Sara.” There were many different versions about the Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, but Valda had heard the story from the Delgaddes.

  There were two Saras, they told her, one a Catholic, the other a gypsy. The first Sara was the servant of the three Marys, who came across the sea and landed at the village of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.

  This Sara, their servant, was not canonised and was buried in the crypt.

  The other Sara was a Gitane of noble birth, who was chief of her gypsy tribe. Usually called Sara the Kali, meaning ‘black woman’ and referring to her dark skin, she was believed to have been of Egyptian origin.

  This Sara lived on the banks of the Rhone and greeted the three Marys when they landed because she had a vision telling her that the Saints who had been present at the death of Jesus would arrive by boat.

  But when they arrived the boat nearly foundered and legend has it that Sara threw her cloak on the waves and used it as a raft, saving the Saints and helping them to land.

  They baptised her and preached the Gospel amongst the Romani and the Gadje and Sara the Kali became the Black Virgin.

  As time passed, it seemed the story of the two Saras became merged into one.

  Thinking of Sara, Valda was silent for a moment but then, as the Phuri Dai did not speak, she said,

  “I have a favour to ask of you.”

  “If it is within my power, it is yours, mademoiselle,” the Vataf replied.

  “I have a friend,” Valda said. “She is very anxious to reach Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and, as she wishes to take photographs of the gypsies, she would like to travel with you.”

  There was silence before the Vataf enquired,

  “She is a gadje?”

  This was the word, Valda knew, for a non-gypsy.

  “She is a gadje,” she replied, “but someone who is very sympathetic and interested in the caraques.”

  The Vataf looked at the Phuri Dai as if for guidance. Since a woman was concerned, it was her decision rather than his.

  Quickly, before they could refuse, Valda said,

  “Of course my friend wishes to pay for the privilege of travelling with you. She thought perhaps a sum of two hundred francs would be acceptable and a further fifty francs for every day she accepts your hospitality.”

  The expression on the Vataf’s face did not change, but Valda knew instantly that he was impressed.

  Two hundred francs was a lot of money to the gypsies. It was a sum that would take them a long time to earn by working at their portable forge, as they were allowed to do by French law.

  An edict of 1735 had declared that it was forbidden ‘to hawk tin or coppersmith’s work without qualification or to take to their own place of residence pieces to be plated and repaired.’

  This, as Valda’s stepfather had told her, prevented the gypsies settling as artisan smiths.

  On the other hand it offered them the opportunity of working, as they had always done, as itinerant tinsmiths, coppersmiths and metal platers.

  Carrying with them a portable forge, the Kalderash moved about the country, their anvil only about eight inches long and three inches wide, with a goat’s skin used as a bellows. They managed with such primitive tools to mend and even make a large number of articles for domestic and agricultural use.

  After Valda had mentioned the francs that her supposed friend was willing to pay, there was a long silence.

  She knew that the gypsy Chief was calculating how many days they were likely to take on the journey to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and whether the remuneration, large though it was, was worth the worry and perhaps the danger of having a gadje in the camp.

  As if she could read his thoughts, Valda said quickly, “There will be no trouble, monsieur – that I promise you.”

  “Your friend realises that she cannot enter the crypt while the gypsies are there?” the Vataf asked.

  Valda remembered seeing in the newspaper that there had been trouble the previous year when some press reporters had wished to be present at night.

  Only the gypsies had the right to go inside the Church crypt and Valda knew that their vigil was surrounded with mystery.

  “My friend understands,” Valda answered. “She will not attempt to photograph anything that is forbidden and will ask your advice on everything she does.”

  “In which case, if it pleases you, mademoiselle, we will take your friend with us,” the Phuri Dai said. “She may not find it very comfortable, but she can have the caravan belonging to my widowed daughter, who can sleep with me.”

  “My friend would not wish to inconvenience you in any way,” Valda said hesitatingly.

  Even as she spoke, she thought how much she would prefer a caravan to herself rather than have to share one with a gypsy woman.

  “Any friend of yours is entitled to the best we can offer,” the Vataf said.

  “Thank you,” Valda said. “I am very grateful. She will be here with you at dawn. That will be, I think, about four o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “We shall leave before five,” the Vataf said. “We have a long way to go and Bibi gets tired if we do not camp early in the day.”

  “This is the last year,” the Phuri Dai said firmly. “The last year, unless by a miracle the blessed Sara makes me young again!”

  She laughed as if at a joke, but Valda said seriously, “Perhaps a miracle will occur. It has been known before at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer!”

  “It has indeed,” the Phuri Dai agreed. “Two years ago one of my grandsons was saved from drowning because he had the medallion round his neck that had touched the blessed Sara!”

  Valda knew that not only di
d they touch the Saint, but the gypsies also carried miscellaneous objects with them on the pilgrimage representing those who were absent or sick.

  Medallions, charms and even pieces of linen and the clothes of a sick person would be taken to the shrine of Saint Sara at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer to be rubbed against the statue of the Black Virgin as they kissed the hem of her many gowns.

  “Then this year we must hope for more miracles,” Valda said.

  She put out her hand and took the Phuri Dai bony fingers in hers.

  “Au revoir, Madame Bibi,” she said, “and thank you for your kindness in accepting my friend.”

  She said goodbye to the Vataf, waved to the women who were still standing staring at her, was helped by the groom back onto her horse and galloped quickly away.

  She did not, however return, directly to The Château. Instead she rode through the Park so that she would return from a different direction to the way she had come.

  Only as they neared The Château itself did she say to the groom,

  “It would be best if you did not tell the others where we have been this morning. As you know, many of the staff in The Château are afraid of the gypsies and think they may harm them.”

  “That’s true, mademoiselle,” the groom replied. “The housemaids at this time of the year will never go for a walk in the Park in case they should meet the gypsy men. They say there is a darkness in their eyes which is of the devil!”

  Valda smiled.

  ‘Caraques’, the name by which the gypsies were known to the people of Provence, meant ‘thief’ but in the Middle Ages they had been known as Tabouins and that word meant the devil himself!

  Although the local people were supposed to be very much more enlightened and educated than they had been, the fear of the gypsies still remained.

  Although sometimes the local girls had their fortunes told, the older folk looked on the Romani with suspicion and usually, when the gypsy caravans appeared, crossed themselves and prayed to the Saints for protection.

  “In which case,” Valda said to the groom, “I think our visit this morning must be a secret between us. It would be best not to mention it even to Monsieur le Comte.”