Lynda La Plante: The Legacy

It was not done for a girl to make the first move, or even be out for too long a time with a young man, a young man who hadn’t even been courting her, a young man who had hardly said two words to her, let alone one with the reputation of Hugh Jones. They said not a word — he just sat there and she lay back with the crown of cornflowers on her head. Her hands were at her sides and she could feel the cool grass between her fingers. She began to wonder if he would speak at all, or if he would just get up and walk away. When she opened her eyes he was leaning up on one elbow, staring into her face.

She smiled, but he continued to stare as he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. Still keeping his distance from her, his huge hand covered hers completely … then he lay back and closed his eyes, holding her hand tight. Mary raised herself on her elbow and looked at his handsome face. His hair was a thick, curly mane, blond, yet his eyelashes were almost black. She bent closer and closer, and in one sudden move he pulled her on top of him, held her face and kissed her. She had expected him to be rough, to kiss her like Joe Scuttles had when he grabbed her on New Year’s Eve. Hugh’s kiss was sweeter, and so gentle her body ached to pull him tighter to her. He laughed, his eyes twinkled, and the dimple in his chin deepened. Then he stood up, scooping her in his arms and carried her to the steep drop of the mountainside and she clung to him. She knew he was teasing, but he took her closer and closer to the precipice.

‘Marry me, Mary, or I’ll throw you over the mountainside, because if you don’t I’ll not let another man touch thee. You belong to me.’

Mary clung to him, burying her face in his big, broad shoulder and kissed his neck. There had been no need to speak of love, no courtship, no arguments with the families. They were destined for each other.

The village said that Mary had tamed the wild lion. Stories of what Hugh Jones had been up to, and with whom, were passed around and several girls wept themselves into puffy, red-eyed misery. The prize had been caught by Mary, the quiet one — a dark horse if ever there was one, with her big brown eyes and lanky legs. She’d never even said as much as two words to the lad. The truth was there’d been no ‘taming’, simply a mutual recognition that they belonged together. Everyone said it wouldn’t last without even a few weeks’ courtship for them to get to know each other. Of course, some said she had to get married — the wild one must have got her in the family way — but that wasn’t true either.

Eventually even the most sceptical had to button her mouth, because the couple seemed so contented, so happy, with no need of the social life of the village. They kept themselves to themselves, and were the envy of many other couples. Hugh Jones never stopped off at the pub on his way home from the mine with the other lads. He would be up and out of the cage faster than anyone else as soon as the hooter sounded the shift’s end. At home he would be building, sawing, painting, and if anyone so much as hinted that he would go back to his old ways, Hugh’s temper would flare up and no one in his right mind ever wanted that. Memories of Hugh with his shirtsleeves rolled up, taking on any comer at fist fighting, even the gypsy travellers, were as clear as day. Hugh had been the source of much gossip in his wild days, but the gypsy fight was the one the village remembered best.

No one could recall the reason, it had been so long ago. It was a blazing hot day in August when, as Peg-Leg Thomas remembered, three gypsies had called on Hugh’s invalid father. They had come to exact some kind of vengeance and they weren’t just any old travellers, they were from the Romany clan that sold the pit ponies to the mine. They would arrive in midsummer every other year, with their wagons and trailers and roped lines of ponies. Once they had set up camp the women would go from house to house selling pegs and ribbons. Some, with their bright skirts and headbands, would be invited in to read the tea leaves or the worn, red palms of the miners’ wives.

It was always an occasion, and if they were there on a Sunday, they would set up a small fair. The children were warned not to go too near to the camp or the gypsies, as no one could ever really trust them. On this particular Sunday, according to Peg-Leg, three gypsies, all wearing their smart suits and brightly coloured neckerchiefs, walked down Elspeth Street. Their arms were linked and they knocked any passer-by out of the way with a shrug. It was whispered that the man in the middle was descended from the Romany king himself. Proud, their black eyes expressionless, they were the real Romantishels. They seemed almost to skip, their steps as light as if walking on air. Peg-Leg said you could always tell a gyppo by the spring in his walk.

It was typical of the Jones family, no one could get out of them the real reason for the visit of the three cocksure, highstepping men. All they did know was that Hugh was taken from his house, not exactly held between the men, but walked by them up to their camp. A few of the village boys followed, but kept well back because they could see trouble brewing, like a small cloud in the air.

They saw Hugh Jones being led to one of the very ornate caravans, taken inside and then brought out again. All the gypsy men formed a circle around him, and the one who had walked in the middle of the threesome took off his jacket. Hugh threw his own worn jacket to the ground and adopted a boxer’s stance. Quite a few of the older men from the village had joined the watching boys. They all had to admire Hugh. He seemed fearless with his fists up, his face grim, and yet he could have been no more than sixteen or seventeen. For all his youth, Hugh was a lot taller than his opponent who was a grown man and, by the firmness of his muscular body, also a fit one.

The villagers watched Hugh Jones take one hell of a thrashing. Time and time again he was knocked to the ground, but every time he got up again, although his nose was bleeding and his eyes cut. Nor did his opponent fight clean — there were kicks, and Peg-Leg swore he saw the gypsy snarling and snapping as if he was trying to bite Hugh’s ear off. There was no outright winner; the fight went on for a full hour until both men sank to their knees in exhaustion. Hugh had been picked up by two youths and flung out of the camp. His pals dunk down and helped him up, and only when they had put a safe distance between them and the camp were there raised fists and defiant yells, before they hurried away with the bleeding Hugh. And, by God, Hugh was at the pithead that night, bloody nose and all. They tried to wheedle out of Hugh why he had taken such punishment, but he wouldn’t say a word. A couple of the boys even tried bribes, but he shook his head. It was a private matter.

The gypsies moved on and soon the incident was forgotten, unless Peg-Leg was in one of his story-telling moods or had a few beers too many. Of course, Hugh Jones always came out as the champion, taking on five men — sometimes six or seven — which only built up his legend as a great boxer. It was always murmured in the ear of anyone who crossed Hugh, ‘Eh, watch it, remember the gyppos.’

So when Hugh had insisted on staying by Mary’s side for the birth of their first child, the account of the fight Hugh had with Doc Clock brought out all the old stories again, and Peg-Leg drank quite a few free pints down the pub. Hugh’s workmates shook their heads in amazement. ‘Imagine wanting to be there at a birth,’ they muttered, ‘dear Lord, what was the world coming to …’

Hugh had been at Mary’s side for the birth of his eldest three sons: Dicken, the first, then Will and Mike, but for Evelyne’s and little Davey’s births he had been on the night shift so he had missed their deliveries. The neighbours whispered that perhaps if Hugh had been there when Davey was born, he wouldn’t be the way he was.