The Shadow of the Gypsy on White Snow
The crisp, crystalline air of January seemed forever steeped in the scent of burnt candles from the Christmas tree and the bitter tang of Mums unchecked tears. The last days in the city blurred past like a painful, smeared photograph. Emilythat was the girls name nownever even made it to the school carnival. Mum, through trembling hands and stifled sobs, had still been stitching her a costume of the Snow Queen, sewing green glass beads onto the dress that shimmered like real emeralds. But the celebration never happened. Instead, there was the endless, swaying train ride, the snow-covered fields outside the window like a vast quilt, and the icy knot of sorrow lodged beneath her ribs.
Dad he had simply ceased to be. Not physically, no. He had dissolved, evaporated from their lives as if hed never existed. And then came Grandma, his mother, her face sharp and hard as a hatchet. Her words carved themselves into Emilys memory, precise, lethal: “We only put up with you for our sons sake. A tree should be felled cleanly. Best you go back to your village where you came from. Hell pay child support, but no contact. None.”
And so they stoodon the snow-dusted village square before Grandmas crooked but snug little house. They unloaded their meagre belongings under the watchful eyes of a dozen curious neighbours. Some stared with silent, sour pity. Others with poorly hidden, venomous glee. Once, Emily remembered Mum saying, these same people had fawned over the “city girl” whod married so well. Now, they saw only a fallen woman, cast from her pedestal.
The holidays ended in a blink. The new school greeted her with icy silence and prickling, scrutinising stares. She was an outsider. A white crow in a city dress, with ribbons that now seemed absurdly naive. The girls, a cackling flock of magpies, descended on her at once.
“Look at Miss Fancy-Pants!” someone shrieked with laughter. “Legs like twigs, aint she?”
Emily curled inward, willing herself invisible, but their stares burned through her.
After school, the torment continued. The pure, fluffy snow that had seemed so inviting that morning became a weapon. Hard-packed snowballs, heavy with malice, flew at her from all sides. Each strike was precise, brutal, knocking the breath from her lungs and sending treacherous tears to her eyes. She fell to her knees, shielding her head, ready to vanish, to melt into the drift.
Thenthe screeching laughter twisted into shouts of alarm and pain.
“Go on, city girl! Give em hell!” rang a bright, reckless voice above her.
She looked up through her tears. A boy stood before her, shielding her from the assault. He shaped and hurled snowballs with such speed and fury that their tormentors scattered like startled birds.
“Run! Its the Gypsy!” echoed down the lane.
He turned to her. And yes, he did look like a gypsy from the storybooksdark-skinned, unruly black hair spilling from beneath an old woolly hat, eyes like burning coals alive with mischief. He held himself with exaggerated swagger, hands on hips, gaze defiant, but the smile tugging at his lips was astonishingly kind.
“Youre the one from the city, yeah? Im Jack. Well, Jackie to mates. Cryings no good. Theyll only come back harder. From now on, youre under my wing. No one touches you.”
He delivered the last line with solemn gravitas, clearly borrowed from some film, then flushed under his tan, embarrassed by his own grandiosity.
And so their friendship began. Jack wasnt really a gypsyjust a nickname for his dark looks. They were startlingly alike, both devouring books from the creaking, musty village library. Jack had already read every Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson they had. Their shared obsession was adventure. They spent hours perched on a hill above the Thames, the wind whipping their faces, watching colourful barges drift toward the unknown. They traded dreamshed sail the world in his own ship; shed sing on a grand stage, her voice carrying across oceans.
Years passed. Childhood friendship quietly deepened into something tender and profound. Jacks father bought him a motorbike, and it became their ticket to freedom. They raced down country lanes, the wind howling in their ears, her arms tight around his waist as she laughed into the roar. They fished in distant lakes, picked berries in the woods, rode “to the edge of the world,” as they called it.
“Em, you look blimey. Even prettier than yesterday,” hed mutter, eyes averted but stealing glances. “Just dont go near those posh city lads. Theyll stick to you like glue.”
“Jackie, is that jealousy I hear?” shed tease, her heart singing at his clumsy words.
And how could he not be jealous? The ugly duckling had become a swan. A rich, velvet voice unfurled in her. No village fête passed without her singing. She won the county talent contest. There was a magic in her nowher grey eyes brightened to seafoam green, her stride sure and effortless. And he he remained just Jack, their “Gypsy,” who felt clumsy and ordinary beside her.
Then came that sweltering, dusty June. Exams were over. Only graduation remained before theyd leave for university, both dreaming of journalism school. That day, Emily had her final rehearsal for the farewell concert, while Jack ran an errand for a neighbourmedicine from the nearest town. He never said no to helping.
On his way back, the sky split open in a biblical downpour. Lightning tore through the clouds, thunder shook the earth, and the rain fell in sheets so thick you couldnt see your own hand.
Emily was finishing her last song when an instinctive, animal dread seized her. Something was wrong. The air hummed with disaster. She couldnt breathe.
Then the door burst open. A classmate stood there, drenched, sobbing.
“Jack oh, Em, Jackie” she choked. “The rain he couldnt see the lorry”
The world didnt sway. It shattered. Sounds vanished. Only silence remained, and the scream ripping from her throatone she couldnt hear.
There was no graduation. Only a black dress, a coffin the size of her universe, and silence. She never sang again. Her voice had died with him.
Every evening, like clockwork, she went to him. The cemetery became their new sanctuary. There, beneath whispering leaves or crunching snow, she spoke to him for hours. Told him about her day, about Mum, about how much she missed him. She exhausted herself reliving that day, searching for the moment she could have changed itstopped him, begged him to wait, calleda futile, torturous labour of grief.
Years passed. Studies, then work. She became a brilliant journalist, then an editor at a regional broadcaster. Career, respect, comfort. She had everything. And nothing. Emptiness was her constant companion.
Once, years later, she asked her mothernow grey and weary, never recovering from the twin blows of her husbands betrayal and the loss of the boy shed loved like a son
“Mum, why doesnt time heal? Hes still with me. Every second. He wont let go.”
Her mother looked at her with infinite sorrow.
“Love, maybe its you who wont let *him* go.”
After a long, leaden winter, spring arrived at last. The sun warmed faces, and people spilled into the streets, starved for light. Emily took a detour home and, in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, heard a voice that stopped her heart
“Gypsy, over here! Go on!”
Blood pounded in her temples. Slowly, afraid to scare the vision away, she turned.
A football match raged on a patch of waste ground. At its centrea dark-haired boy of about eleven. He weaved past opponents, drove the ball into a makeshift goal with startling confidence.
Emily gripped the cold chain-link fence, hardly daring to breathe. The boy caught her stare. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Flustered, she turned and hurried off.
But she returned the next day. And the next. She hid behind the trunks of old oaks, drinking in his features. Learned the three-storey building nearby was a childrens home. Her heart ached with a painful, fragile hope.
One evening, she arrived late. The pitch was empty. Dusk thickened. Disappointed, she turned to leavethen saw him. He stood at the far edge of the fence, fingers curled in the wire, watching her. Waiting.
“Thought you werent coming today,” he said softly, but clearly.
Emilys breath caught.
“Lets start over. Im Emily. And you?”
“Jack. But everyone calls me Jackie. And no, Im not really a gypsy. Just dark, is all.” He grinned. And it was *that* grinkind, shy, crinkling at the eyes. Her
