This is a World War II story with a difference. Taking place in 1940, it is about a young girl on the edge of puberty who sees all her potential boyfriends and other men disappearing before her very eyes.  She finds solace in two old gypsies who have taken over one of her father’s fields; she goes to them ‘Through the Field Gate’ .

Through The Field Gate

Lizzie climbed onto the field gate and stared into the meadow.  Camped in the middle was a brightly painted caravan. She knew the gypsies had arrived because she had heard her father complaining about them.  “With this war on, we could well do without them,” he had grumbled to her mother.  “They’ll steal our chickens if we’re not careful. You make sure you keep an eye on them.”

Her father’s remarks had made Lizzie curious.  She had never seen gypsies before and although she didn’t have time on her way to school to have a good look at them she decided that on her way home she would find out more.  However there was no sign of life, apart from a thin horse who munched contentedly at the grass.  At first glance, Lizzie couldn’t really see how the inhabitants of the one caravan would be able to cause as much trouble as her father feared.

Disappointed at not seeing anyone, Lizzie continued on her homeward journey. She began to worry again about her best friend who hadn’t turned up at school that day. She had an uneasy feeling about it all, but couldn’t face up to it.

When she reached the high bushy hedge which bordered her garden, she could hear her mother talking to Mrs Gotts, the postmistress.  They couldn’t see her, and even if they were able to they were so deep in conversation that they probably wouldn’t have noticed her anyway.

“Your Lizzie is growing up,” Mrs Gotts was saying.  “How old is she now?”

“Twelve, nearly thirteen.  But she’s a lot older than her years.  I think most of the children are these days, what with this dreadful war on.  They hear and see things they shouldn’t, bless them.”

“At least your husband is fairly safe; being older and running a farm has its compensations.  I worry about my Stanley.  If I lost him I don’t know what I would do!”

“Hush,” Dorothy said.  “You mustn’t think that way.”  There was a pause, then she went on.  “Bert helps in the war effort, you know,” she said, defending her husband. “He is out at all hours and often in a lot of danger – especially at night.” Silently, Lizzie went pale.  “Did you hear that plane come down last night?”

“I think we all did.”

“Bert was the first there. A lad had managed to bale out, terribly wounded apparently, and he landed in the barbed wire. They tried to cut him out of it but he was in a terrible mess, and he died a few minutes later.”

“What a waste.”  Mrs Gotts sounded near to tears.

Lizzie pushed her way into the garden through a gap in the hedge.  Her mother looked round, clearly worried that Lizzie may have been listening.

“Hello Lizzie,” she said.  “You look pale, my love.  Are you all right?”

“Bella wasn’t at school today,” Lizzie stated quietly. She stood waiting for reassurance from the grown-ups. She wanted them to say they had heard that Bella had a cold. That she was unwell. She wanted them to tell her that her fears were groundless, to tell her that Bella’s dad had not died like Jean’s dad.

There was a silence.

“I think her dad’s been killed,” Lizzie persisted.

Mrs Gotts looked away.

Lizzie felt her mother’s comforting arm go round her waist. From conversations Lizzie had overheard she knew only too well that her friends who were suddenly absent from school might have lost a member of the family.  Three men had already been listed as missing, presumed dead, in the past few weeks. She heard it said that 1940 was not proving to be a good year for the town, and that the war did not look as if it was about to end.

“It may not be as bad as we think,” Dorothy said.  She smiled bravely.  “I’ve got a brown speckled egg for your tea.  I’ve been keeping it specially for you. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

Lizzie nodded. She tried hard to dispel the uneasy feeling that she too might lose her dad.  For some reason she thought of the gypsies.

The next day, on the way back from school, Lizzie once more stopped at the field gate.  She could see two chairs placed near an open fire and suspended above it was a frying pan, from which a most delicious smell came wafting across to her. She waited hopefully, and after a bit her patience was rewarded.  From out of the caravan came a tiny old woman, followed by an equally small and elderly man. The woman paused in front of the fire and prodded at whatever was inside it with something which looked like a toasting fork. Curiosity, and the smell of the food, was too much for Lizzie.  She had to make the acquaintance of the gypsies. She lifted the latch and passed through the gate, closing it behind her. Nervously she walked through the meadow towards the old couple. They stood waiting expectantly.

Lizzie’s legs suddenly felt like lead. All her courage seemed to desert her.  She thought of her father.  Did he ever feel frightened when he was called out?  It wasn’t very likely.  Her dad was the bravest man on earth.  However, even with the thought of her father in her mind, she still glanced fearfully at the gypsies.  They certainly appeared to be different from anyone else she had ever met.  The old man’s suit had seen better days; there were no buttons on the jacket and it was held together with a long piece of string knotted tightly in the middle.  The old woman wore a black dress which hung loosely around her thin frame; the sombre colour was relieved by a profusion of beads of all shapes, sizes and colours which she wore around the neck.  Lizzie’s knees began to quiver. She had almost decided to turn and run away and to leave the visit for another day, when the woman gave her a slight smile and, sitting down in one of the chairs, nodded to her to sit in the other. It was as if Lizzie had no choice, and under the hypnotic glare of the old woman she perched nervously on the edge of the chair. She could see her legs visibly shaking, and she clutched her skirt around them to try to stop them from trembling. The old man gave her a sideways look and then took up the task of prodding the meat.

Lizzie remained ready for flight.  But then, as she stared into the eyes of the old woman, her fear began to subside slightly. The woman’s face might looked lined and well-worn, almost witchlike, but her eyes had a hint of kindness mingled with shrewdness and understanding.

“I live just down the lane,” Lizzie ventured.

Neither of the gypsies answered her. The old man turned the meat once more, and then, reaching into his pocket, he brought out a small penknife.  Lizzie swallowed nervously as she watched him feel the blade carefully with the tip of his finger.  The knife glittered dangerously in the sunlight as he spat on it and then wiped it with an old rag. Lizzie could not speak. She could not move.  What was he going to do? She stared in fright at the old man. He went back to the pan; he vigorously sliced through a piece of the meat, and then brought it over to Lizzie.  Apprehensively Lizzie took it.  It burnt her hands as she held it, and it burnt her mouth as she ate it.

“Good?” he asked.

Lizzie could only nod. The taste of the succulent chicken was better than anything she had ever savoured.  She had never eaten it from an open fire before.  Her mother had always cooked something like that in the oven.

The old man smiled to himself, and, once more expertly wielding the knife, cut up the chicken into bits, handing some of it to his wife, before taking a large piece for himself, which he ate off the end of the knife, all the time staring at Lizzie. When the food had gone the old woman leant back in her seat and closed her eyes. The man gave Lizzie a nod and disappeared into the confines of the caravan.  Lizzie waited, wondering what to do. The old woman was soon sound asleep and snoring loudly, the beads on her neck rising and falling as she slept. Lizzie peered at the beads in wonderment.  If only she knew some Romany words and the combination of Romany numbers with which she could create her own spell; she could make a wish – a wish that the war would end and her dad would be safe. Maybe if she just touched them…  Tentatively she reached forward – but at that moment the old gypsy woman snorted loudly and Lizzie drew back in alarm.  Perhaps the unknown was not yet to be revealed to her – maybe if she brought the gypsies a present they might teach her something of their ways.

The old man was still inside the caravan.  Lizzie felt tempted to peep inside but suddenly felt worried at what strange objects she might see. She decided she had achieved enough for her first visit. Quickly she made her way out of the field.

She soon reached home. There was no-one in the garden.  The sheets billowed on the washing line, drying in the summer breeze. Lizzie stood next to one of them, letting it blow gently into her.  It was like the arms of someone nice holding her and caressing her. She remembered the airmen in the town the week before.  There had been four of them, strong men whose laughter was hollow.  Would they still be alive when she was old enough to dance with them?

She was awakened from her reverie by the droning of a plane.  Idly she glanced up at the sky. The aircraft seemed to pick up speed as it came through the clear blue sky towards the house.  It was very low now, and Lizzie thought she could see the pilot inside.  She heard her dad shouting at her suddenly from an upstairs window, but she didn’t need to be told that she stood within the sights of an enemy plane.

Lizzie clutched at the sheet for protection.

“Run!” her dad bellowed. “Get into the orchard! Lizzie, move yourself!”

But Lizzie didn’t move.  She stared up defiantly.

The plane came even closer.  Lizzie waited.  If her blood was to be spilled she wanted it done now.  She would suffer like the airman caught up in the barbed wire. She would be his soul mate in death. She would cover the white sheets with her red blood.  She dared the German to shoot at her.

But he didn’t. He passed over, and was quickly gone.

Her dad came running from the house.

“Lizzie, what are you doing?” he cried.  “Why didn’t you run?  He might have killed you.”  He held his daughter tight.  “They’ll get him, don’t worry.”

Lizzie was suddenly crying.  She could smell the sweat on her dad’s skin. He was so different to her mother.  His body was firm and hard, not soft and cuddly like her mother’s.  For some reason, which she couldn’t understand, she didn’t want the German pilot to die.  She didn’t want any of the men to die.  And most of all she didn’t want her father to die. Why couldn’t they stop all the fighting?

The next day Lizzie decided that she must again venture out to make acquaintance with the gypsies, but this time also taking them something.  She thought deeply about what they would like and decided that she would give them a present of two of the best eggs their chickens had laid that day. And so when her mother was busy in the kitchen Lizzie crept round to the chicken run. The chickens clucked at her hopefully, coming to greet her at the netting, but Lizzie had no time to go in and stroke them and turn the soil over for them with her dad’s fork as she did on some Saturday mornings. Instead she headed toward the chicken hut itself.  Inside it was dark and smelt of hay, and fortunately the eggs had not yet been collected. Lizzie selected two of the largest she could find and, carefully holding them in her hands, made her way down to the gypsies. Once more, with a feeling of apprehension, she walked across the field toward the couple who were again cooking over the open fire.  She held out the eggs to the old man; he seemed reluctant to take them but the old woman pushed him out of the way and seized them without a word of thanks.  Lizzie hesitated, sensing their hostility. The man turned his back on her and concentrated on cooking rabbit on the open fire. When he gave her a piece from the end of his knife he still did not look at her and Lizzie began to think that either she or someone else had upset them.  The old woman seemed distant.  Again they didn’t speak, either to her or to each other. Feeling rejected and not wanted, Lizzie soon left and went home.  The visit had not gone well but she would not give up. She had to learn more about them if possible.

Just over a week later, when Lizzie had almost returned home, she suddenly heard terrible sobbing coming from within her garden. Paralysed, she listened in horror.  The sound of intense grief reached her. It was the stricken cry of a woman bereaved.  Lizzie’s heart started to pound.  She clutched at her stomach; it churned with fear. It had to be news of her dad! He was dead, of that she was certain.

Half faint, she forced herself to walk into the garden.  She could see her mother with her arms around Mrs Gotts.  But it wasn’t her mother who was so distressed. It was Mrs Gotts who let out the tortured cry of someone being torn to pieces.

Dorothy turned as soon as she saw Lizzie.  She put a finger to her lips and motioned her not to disturb them.  Lizzie quietly dropped her school satchel. She knew what had happened.  It wasn’t her dad who had perished, it was Mr Gotts. Her dad was alive! Relief flooded through Lizzie’s body – and then guilt.  She shouldn’t be glad that Mr Gotts had died.  Conflicting feelings wracked her.

Lizzie ran out of the garden and down the lane towards the meadow.  She flew in through the gate and awoke the gypsies, who were snoozing in their chairs.  The old man took one look at her, got up to make way, and went to stroke the horse.  The woman beckoned Lizzie to sit.

“Well?” she croaked.

Lizzie’s breath was coming in short gasps, her face red with relief.

“So?” the gypsy said.

“I thought my dad had been killed,” Lizzie said, panting. “But it wasn’t him, it was someone else.”

“Then you should be grateful.”

“I am. But I didn’t want Mr Gotts to die. But if it had to be one of them then I would rather it was him.”

The old woman’s bright eyes fixed themselves on Lizzie.  “A lot more will die before this war is finished,” she said.

“I want to stop it,” Lizzie cried in desperation.  “I can’t bear it. I don’t want all the men to suffer and die so horribly. What can I do? What can I do?”

“Very little,” the old crone answered. “All you can do is to sit out the war, and wait.”

“I can’t!” Once more tears were spilling down Lizzie’s cheeks.

“You’ve got to!” the woman said. “Will you have these people die in vain by allowing the war to destroy you? No!  Let me tell you something, girl.  It will get worse before it gets better. You must live for the moment, just as we do. You will survive the war, but it will leave you scarred.  You mustn’t let those scars get too deep, or they will devour you. You will be a woman soon.  You must learn to comfort, learn to love, forget the hate. If things seem too much for you, you must come through the field gate and remember us, the gypsies. We will always be here – even if you can’t see us. Come back here, girl, to gather your strength.”

Lizzie stared at the old woman.  She had said so much!  Lizzie would have to think about it hard, for it was full of good sense.

And then, as if she had worn herself out by the long speech, the gypsy settled back once more into her seat, and fell asleep.

Lizzie got up and went over to the old man; he merely looked sadly at her, and continued stroking the horse.

She reluctantly returned home. Mrs Gotts and her mother had gone off somewhere. It was her dad who stood waiting for her. Lizzie threw her arms around him, hugged him tightly, and nuzzled her head against his chest for several minutes.

The next morning he walked with her to the field gate.  He kissed her on the top of her head and ruffled her hair a little. “Don’t loiter on the way back home from school,” he said.

Before she reached the top of the lane Lizzie turned round.  He still stood where she had left him, leaning on the gate and watching her.

The next day the gypsies had gone. Disappointed, Lizzie crept through the gate and into the meadow.  The small patch of scorched earth from the fire was the only sign they had ever been there. Perhaps someone had moved them on. But Lizzie knew they wouldn’t be upset.  They took life as it was and lived for the moment.  She would try to do the same.  She would never forget them.  And one day in the future she would talk and laugh and dance with a boy.

Lizzie went out, closing the gate behind her.

With a determined step she headed for home.