The Shadow of the Gypsy on White Snow
The crisp, icy air of January clung with the scent of burnt candles from the Christmas tree and the bitter tang of her mothers tears. The last days in the city blurred into a painful, foggy memory. Emilythat was the name she bore nowhadnt even made it to the school carnival. Mum, with trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks, had stitched her a costume of the Snow Queen, silver sequins shimmering like real diamonds. But there was no celebration. Instead, there was only the endless, swaying train ride, snow-laden fields stretching beyond the window like a vast quilt, and a frozen knot of sorrow lodged beneath her ribs.
Dad He had simply ceased to exist. Not physically, no. He had vanished, dissolved from their lives as though hed never been. Then came Grandma, his mother, her face sharp as a blade, her words carving into Emilys memory with lethal precision: *”We only tolerated you for our sons sake. Cut your cloth according to your means. Go back to your village where you belong. Hell pay child support, but no contact. None at all.”*
And so they stoodon the snow-dusted village square before Grandmas crooked but cosy cottage, unloading their meagre belongings under the watchful eyes of curious neighbours. The onlookers had gathered as if for a spectacle. Some stared with sour sympathy, others with barely concealed, venomous delight. Once, Emily remembered from Mums stories, these same people had fawned over the “city girl” whod married well. Now they saw only a fallen woman, exiled from her pedestal.
The holidays ended in a blink. The new school greeted her with icy silence and sharp, probing stares. She was an outsidera swan among crows in her city dress and ribbons that now felt absurd and painfully naive. The girls, a cackling flock, descended on her at once.
“Look at thata porcelain doll in a frock!” someone shrieked with laughter. “Those legs! Like twigs!”
Emily shrank, wishing to disappear, but their stares burned right through her.
The torment didnt end with the school bell. The fresh, powdery snow that had beckoned that morning became a weapon. Hard-packed snowballs, moulded with spite, pelted her from all sides. Each strike was precise, cruel, knocking the breath from her lungs and drawing treacherous tears. She fell to her knees, arms shielding her head, ready to surrender, to dissolve into the snowdrift.
Thenchaotic screams and laughter turned to cries of pain and fear.
“Get em, city girl! Go on!” A bright, reckless voice rang above her.
She lifted her tear-streaked face. A boy stood before her, shielding her from the onslaught. He shaped and hurled snowballs with a speed and fury that sent the bullies scattering.
“Run! Its the Gypsy!”
He turned to her. And yes, he did look like a Gypsy from a storybooktanned skin, unruly jet-black hair escaping from a battered wool cap, and eyes like burning coals, alight with mischief. He held himself with deliberate roughness, hands on hips, gaze defiantbut the smile tugging at his lips was startlingly kind.
“Youre the one from London, yeah? Im Jack. Well, Jackie to my mates. Cry again, and theyll come back. Enough. From now on, youre under my protection. No one touches you.”
He said it with solemn, boyish gravity, clearly parroting something hed heard. Then, flushing beneath his tan, he stumbled over his own grand words.
So began their friendship. Jack wasnt a Gypsyjust branded for his looks. They were startlingly alike, both devouring books from the creaking, musty village library. Jack had already torn through every Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson. Their shared obsession was adventure. They spent hours perched on the hillside above the River Severn, wind lashing their faces, watching cargo ships disappear toward the horizon. They dreamed aloudhe of sailing the world, she of singing on grand stages, her voice carrying across the sea.
Years passed. Childhood friendship melted into something deeper, tender and profound. Jacks father bought him a motorbike, and it became their ticket to freedom. They raced down country lanes, wind howling in their ears, Emily clinging to his back, shrieking with joy. They fished in distant lakes, picked wild berries in the woods, ventured to “the edge of the world,” as they called it.
“Em, youre blinding today. Prettier than yesterday,” hed say, looking anywhere but at her, yet stealing glances all the same. “Just stay away from those posh city boys. They swarm round you like bees to honey.”
“Jack, is that jealousy talking?” shed laugh, heart singing at his clumsy words.
And why wouldnt he be jealous? The ugly duckling had become a swan. Her voicerich, velvety, powerfulfilled the village hall at every concert. She won the county talent show. There was a magic in her now, a beauty that shone from within: her plain grey eyes turned vivid green, her walk light and sure. And he? He remained just Jack, the “Gypsy,” who felt clumsy and ordinary beside her.
Then came that sweltering June. Exams were done. All that remained was to collect their certificates and leap into the futureboth dreaming of journalism school. That day, Emily had her final rehearsal for graduation, and Jack had promised old Mrs. Wilkins hed fetch medicine from the town. He never refused anyone.
On his way back, the sky split open. A biblical downpour. Lightning seared the air, thunder shook the earth, rain fell in sheets so thick he could barely see his own hands.
Emily was singing her last song when a primal dread gripped her. Something was wrong. The air crackled with disaster. She couldnt breathe.
Then the hall door crashed open. A classmate stood there, drenched, dishevelled, sobbing.
“Jack Oh, Em, Jack” Her voice broke. “The rain he couldnt see the lorry”
The world didnt spin. It shattered. Sound vanished. Only silenceand the scream tearing from her own throat, one she couldnt hear.
There was no graduation. Only a black dress, a coffin too small for the universe it carried, and silence. She never sang again. Her voice had died with him.
Every evening, like clockwork, she visited him. The cemetery became their new sanctuary. There, beneath whispering leaves or crunching snow, she spoke to him for hoursabout her day, about Mum, about how much she missed him. She tortured herself with memories, replaying that day, searching for the moment she could have changed it: if shed stopped him, begged him to wait out the storm, called him A futile, agonising ritual.
Years passed. University, then work. She became a brilliant journalist, then editor at a regional broadcaster. Career, respect, comfort. She had everything. And nothing. Emptiness was her constant companion.
Once, years later, she asked her mothergrey-haired and weary, never recovered from the twin blows of a vanished husband and the boy shed loved like a son
“Mum, why doesnt time heal? Hes still with me. I feel him every second. He wont let go.”
Her mother looked at her with infinite sorrow.
“Darling, perhaps its you who wont let go of him?”
After a leaden winter, spring came at last. Sunlight warmed her face as she walked home, detouring through an unfamiliar neighbourhood. Then
“Gypsy, over here! Go on!”
Her heart stalled. Blood roared in her ears. Slowly, afraid to scare the vision away, she turned.
On a scrappy football pitch, a match raged. At its centrea tanned, dark-haired boy of about eleven. He weaved past defenders, struck the ball with fierce precision.
Emily gripped the cold fence, barely breathing. The boy caught her stare. Their eyes met for a second. Flustered, she looked away, hurried off.
But she returned the next day. And the next. Hiding behind old oak trees, studying his features. She learned the building nearby was a childrens home. Her heart ached with painful hope.
One evening, she arrived late. The pitch was empty. Dusk thickened. She turned to leave
Then saw him. At the far edge of the fence, fingers curled around the wire, watching her. Waiting.
“I thought you werent coming today,” he said softly.
Emilys breath caught.
“Lets get acquainted. Im Emily. And you?”
“Jack. But everyone calls me Jackie. And no, Im not a Gypsy. Just dark.” He smiled. And it was *his* smilekind, shy, crinkling at the eyes. Jacks smile.
The next day, Emily sat in the directors office. Her decision was unshakable.
“I want to adopt Jack.”
The director, a weary-faced woman, raised her eyebrows. Boys his age were rarely chosen. His story was simple:
