outside the shop, and Mr. Martin standin’ there with a big loaf of bread shaped like the British Isles in ’is ’ands—I mean, that’s clever, ain’t it? You can cut the dough in the right shape, but to get it to turn out how you want it after you’ve put it in the oven—that takes a lot of skill, I would’ve thought.”
Maisie nodded, squinting at the photograph. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a magnifying glass, leaning over to better consider the subject.
“Shall I post ’em back to ’er?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“Got what you want, then?”
“Yes. I just wanted to double-check something, before I go any further.”
“Do you want me to come with you later on?”
Maisie smiled. “No, you’ve done enough. You’re on holiday, remember?” She paused. “Oh, and when you’re in touch with George, tell him his boys are well and truly off the hook. They won’t be summoned back to Kent.”
“Just like you thought, was it?”
She nodded. “More or less. Want a hand with the picking? I can help out until packing-in time, then I have to go up to see Webb.”
MAISIE WELCOMED AN afternoon sojourn among the hop-pickers, the smell and grainy stain on her hands, the way the bines were pulled down, opening up the blue afternoon sky, as if a canopy were being drawn back to reveal clouds puffed up with white importance, a backdrop for rooks cawing overhead and swallows calling from on high. This, she knew, was the calm before the storm, the clouds a portent for the events that must unfold in all their grayness.
The tallyman came around, and as the last count of the day was completed at each bin, the pickers moved off, either toward the hopper huts if they were Londoners or to the village for the locals, while the gypsies wandered toward the hill, the women’s skirts catching in the breeze, a profusion of color moving from side to side with the sway of their hips.
“And-a-one . . . and-a-two . . . and-a-three. . . .” The tallyman continued his count at the Beales’ bin. Maisie smiled, for each member of the Beale family mouthed the number as the tallyman, sleeves rolled up above the elbow, pushed his flat cap on the back of his head and plunged the bushel basket in again and again. “Nice work, clean picking, that’s what I like,” he said, then took his pencil from behind his ear, and noted the afternoon’s accomplishments.
Maisie waved to the Beales as she left, walking toward the hill that led up to the gypsy camp and the clearing they had used as a gathering place since before the hop-picking began. When the jook came down the hill to meet her, she stretched to rest her hand on the dog’s shoulder until she reached the vardos.
She went first to Beulah and greeted her before asking, “Is Webb back from the hop-gardens?”
The old woman was holding an earthenware cup filled with a translucent green broth that she sipped before replying. “Gone for wood. Jook brought us hare again.” Then she rubbed her chest.
“Are you feeling ill?” asked Maisie.
Beulah winced. “Not holding my food well today. It’s sitting on my chest, on account of the bread.”
Maisie sat next to her. “Do you have any other pain?”
“Don’t need none of your doctoring. I’ll see to myself.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Mixture. Helps the food go down. Now then, girl, never you mind about me. There’n be nothing wrong with Beulah.”
At that moment, Webb came back into the clearing, along the path on the opposite side of the ring of stones that marked the perimeter of the fire.
Beulah called to him. “Webb. Come, son, the rawni wants to talk to yern.”
Webb dropped the armful of wood alongside the stones and brushed his hands down the front of his trousers. As he came forward, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through the mane of brown curls that was now almost shoulder-length. “What do you want, miss?”
Maisie stood up, still concerned about Beulah. “I’d like to ask you a question or two, if you don’t mind.”
The man shifted his position, moving his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms and raising his chin just enough to reveal defensiveness. “Depends on the questions.”
Maisie wondered how she might tread lightly, how she might couch her questions in a manner that was not inflammatory. “I have a friend in London, a luthier. His name is Mr. Andersen, and—”
“Don’t know no Andersen.” Webb had taken a step back.
“Of course, but I was telling him about your beautiful violin, and when I described it he thought it might be worth—”
“You reckon I stole that violin, don’t you?” Webb’s shoulders were hunched now, his eyes flashing like those of a fox with the hunt at his tail.
“Of course not, of course I didn’t think to suggest that you stole the violin.”
Webb came closer.
“Webb!” Beulah had come to her feet, still clutching the green liquid with one hand while she rubbed her chest with the other. “No wonder my food’s stuck in my gullet with you a-goin’ on like that. Now then, my son. Listen to her.”
But Webb was not to be cut off. “You’re just like the rest of them—no, you’re worse. You come here, eat our food, dance to our music, and act like you know us, and now you’ve shown your colors as a true diddakoi, not one of
