Tabitha by Sara Stockbridge / Fiction / Untitled Books

"He looked up as I came in - his eyes were the colour of dark golden honey: they seemed to look right into me, to pierce my very soul - and I stood, frozen on the doormat, struck quite dumb. It was love, at first sight, like Catherine and Heathcliff. Nothing moved, save the lazy matchstick rolling between his shining teeth."

Tabitha by Sara Stockbridge

The first time I lay eyes on Valentin I knew that he was to be my destiny. It sounds foolish, I expect, but then I expect I am a foolish girl, and I would not be otherwise. For if I had been sensible to those around me, my responsibilities and, not least, my friend Emily - who was so very dear to me - I would have closed my eyes to his charms, turned my back and never known the joy of true love. And I do believe in true love - one true love, the meeting of two halves that makes the whole. I believe that a life can never be complete without it and that, unjust as it seems, it is the fate of some to wander the earth all their days never to find their intended. And once they are old and ugly, it is their lot to live out the rest of their lives - getting on as best they can - without it. Thus it follows that once one has found one's heart's destiny, it is the most important thing, above all else, to follow him wherever and however one must. And so, you see, what I did to my poor mama was regrettable, but quite unavoidable.

And as for Emily . . . well. It was written in the stars.

Have you ever been inside a painted gypsy wagon? They are the quaintest thing. I used to see them in Kent, as a child, when we left London for the country. If you could have told me then that one day I would take to the road in one, sleep in a bunk bed, sit on the pretty painted steps, by the fire, under the stars, why, I would have woken every morning hoping it would be the day the gypsies came for me. I used to dream about them, with their dark eyes, rings on their fingers, gold in their teeth. It is said that the Roma fall ill if they live in houses; that they must be free to go where the road takes them. Well, that was how I felt in Cavendish Square - that I was shrinking somehow: wasting away, like a bird in a cage.

I dreamed of Valentin, last night. I dreamed he was beside me and it was a dreadful shock to wake and find myself within these four walls again. I know he loves me, wherever he is. I know he looks into the dark sky and prays to God for my deliverance.

It was Emily who brought him to me. He was in the shop one morning, of all the places to find a man! It was very early, there was no one but us to see him - I would always visit at a good hour, usually on a Tuesday morning, before it became too busy, so that we might have a chance to talk while I looked at whatever new things were in that week. Oxford Street was making ready for the crowds but they were still at home in Balham, or Vauxhall, or wherever it is they come from. And in I came, with my head full of nothing at all and my hat a little damp from the spring rain, and there he was, leaning on the counter, with his strong, languid brown hands, and his rough boots. He had a matchstick in his mouth, and a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, a printed handkerchief knotted around his neck. He looked up as I came in - his eyes were the colour of dark golden honey: they seemed to look right into me, to pierce my very soul - and I stood, frozen on the doormat, struck quite dumb. It was love, at first sight, like Catherine and Heathcliff. Nothing moved, save the lazy matchstick rolling between his shining teeth.

It was Emily who brought me out of my trance. 'Why Tabitha!' she said. 'How cold you must be! Come in and get dry by the fire. This gentleman is Valentin. He has brought the most charming little buttons and brooches to show me. You must help me choose or I shall take them all.'

The buttons were the prettiest things. Tiny flowers, carved of wood, only so delicate you might have taken them for real. I remember looking at his hands then, and marvelling at the power of them, such masculine hands, how they could have made something so fine. He gave me a little primrose. 'A pretty thing,' he said, 'for a pretty lady'. I blushed then but he only smiled, flashing gold in his teeth. I still have that button. I keep it pinned under my skirts now, hidden, so no one can take it from me. I will take it to my grave.

And so I made poor Emily tell me everything. He was from a proud gypsy race, the Roma, his people lived in Dulwich for the winter, on the south side of the river, where they kept to themselves, except to sell pegs or brushes, or receive ladies at the camp to have their fortunes told. He had been coming to the shop to sell gypsy wares for a year or two, and Emily found him perfectly charming, and honest in their dealings. And where most of his kind did not care to mix - or even talk - with the gadje, as they called us, he liked to speak with whom he chose, and to do as he pleased. His mother's side had gadje blood, he had said, and when he found the girl he loved, he would marry her whether she was Romani or gadje, or she came from the moon. My heart leaped at that. I pinned the button to my breast and swore I would never dress without it. But I did not tell Emily that, yet.

................................................................................................................................................
Tabitha, is an extract from Cross My Palm, the second novel from Sara Stockbridge published by Chatto & Windus.
................................................................................................................................................

Tuesday, 5 July, 2011

In Character studies

More

Untitled Books

Your account

Untitled Books

Issue 44 / May 2012