The Winter Ground Read Online Free PDF Page A

lifeline,’ she said, running her fingertip around the pad of my thumb. ‘Very clear and sure, but your money has run out – turn your hand a little to the light – no, there it is! It’s just coming from a different place now. And your heart line, let me see …’
    ‘Broken?’ I suggested.
    ‘Chained,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Intertwined, doubled, and it dun’t untangle any time soon there.’
    I said nothing.
    ‘And that’s not all,’ she went on, warming to her task now, bending close over my hand. ‘What’s this I’m seeing?’
    ‘But Mrs Cooke, that’s Mrs Gilver’s left hand,’ said Ina. ‘Shouldn’t it be the right?’
    ‘Of course it should,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘unless you’re left-handed. Well, forget all of that and we’ll start again.’
    The sound of feet on the caravan steps, however, prevented it and we all turned to see a dapper little man, breathing heavily and dressed only in shirtsleeves and britches despite the cold, step through the door to join us. He was about Mrs Cooke‘s age but looked younger somehow, his greying curls less draining to the complexion than her blackened ones – when one looked closely one could see that the black extended to her scalp and even crept across her forehead here and there. His figure was youthful too and better suited to caravan life, one imagined, than Mrs Cooke’s comfortable girth.
    ‘Here’s Pa there,’ she greeted him. ‘Pa, here’s Mrs Wilson back again, on the quiet, mind, and we han’t seen her, and her friend Mrs Gilver and have we seen you or han’t we now?’
    ‘Tam Cooke,’ said the man, in a voice which was of purest Edinburgh and more, like Sir Harry Lauder over-egging for Americans in the music hall. ‘So you’re back amongst us, Mrs Wilson. Cannot keep away.’ He sat down heavily on the edge of the box-bed and wiped his brow with a large silk handkerchief pulled from his pocket.
    ‘Is that your day done there, Pa?’ said Mrs Cooke, moving the kettle forward again.
    ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he replied. ‘The lass is that headstrong and as wick as a flea with it. Changed days, Ma, changed days.’ Mrs Cooke shook her head and sucked her teeth in sympathy. ‘Our newest entrée,’ her husband explained to Ina and me, ‘our Anastasia .’ The word was in heavy italics. ‘A fine talent for the voltige – never seen a trick rider so slick since Ma was a girl – but she’s a josser all the same – not circus-born – and it shows. I’m done telling her, Ma. I’m the equestrian director, never mind the owner – Cooke’s Circus, it says over the ring door, and she can read better than most.’ He took a cup of tea from his wife’s hand and nodded his thanks.
    ‘Oh, Tam,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Don’t you go fretting the maid there. She hasn’t had her troubles to seek. Anyways, it said Cooke’s Family Circus last time I looked, and she’s one of our own now, like it or not.’ She spoke easily enough, but she was watching her husband closely to see how the words went with him, and the overall effect was rather pointed for the setting. Mr Cooke said nothing. Ina gazed dumbly out of the window. I cleared my throat. Mrs Cooke stepped in and ended the silence at last.
    ‘Any sign of Topsy’s swing?’
    ‘Not a sniff of it,’ said Pa, with a faint smile. ‘That lass needs to learn to take more care of her props – I’m not made of money for new ropes and she should know it.’ He spoke, however, with a chuckle in his voice and Mrs Cooke relaxed too and grinned back at him. ‘So the Prebrezhenskys are up now.’
    ‘Our Risley act,’ said Mrs Cooke, turning to Ina and me. ‘Foot jugglers – worth a look for you there.’
    ‘For sure,’ said Mr Cooke. ‘They’re working on the double flick-flack, and it’s looking good too.’
    ‘Tell me they’ve got them little maids on the mechanic,’ said Mrs Cooke, pressing her hand to her heart. Mr Cooke nodded wearily and flapped a hand at her to calm her. I