Water Gypsies by Annie Murray

would’ve been here, the comfort of her, not gone for ever. She ached with loneliness, the tears running down her cheeks and dripping into the washing-up water, but when she tried to stop, wiping her face with her sleeve, the sight of a fraying tear in her old brown cardi made her cry even harder. If only I had someone to talk to, she wept. God, the way I nearly blurted everything out to that preacher last night. That would’ve given him something to pray about, all right.
    They’d reached Tyseley in the late afternoon and Maryann had hurried out without the children, to get to the shops for their rations before everything closed. Even a brief chat with Mr Osborne hadn’t lifted her spirits. As she came back across the wharf with her bread, meat, spuds and tinned milk, she saw the pale young man whom she had caught sight of with his bible on the wharf a few months back. He was speaking to one of the other boatwomen as she stood on the counter of her butty boat, lifting out the tiller to upend it for the night. The man was dressed shabbily in black and wore a trilby hat. His one flash of colour was a red tartan scarf, the ends of which were blowing back over his shoulder in the breeze. Maryann saw the woman nod politely, say something which was evidently dismissive, and disappear into her cabin.
    And as Maryann moved across to the Theodore ,he was suddenly beside her.
    ‘Good evening, madam,’ he said, touching the brim of his hat.
    ‘Evening,’ Maryann said brusquely. She knew nothing about the man except that he must be one of those ‘holy Joes’ and they were people she had long found disquieting. She remembered the odd figure of Jimmy Jesus, who used to stand shouting out his message in the Bull Ring. And as children they were frightened of running into the Mormons because people said they would steal away young girls and force them to be brides in Salt Lake City.
    ‘May I presume upon a moment of your time, madam?’ he persisted. From his accent, Maryann could tell he was not from Birmingham but from somewhere further north. He held out to her a pale, thin hand and when she felt forced to stop and glance into his eyes, she saw they were large and dark grey and somehow melancholy in a way which made her soften a little towards him. He had well-pronounced brows and lips so full that she found them off-putting, they looked so plump and moist. But she felt obliged to push her packages into the clasp of her left arm and shake hands, conscious of her rough, callused palms.
    ‘I’m Pastor Owen,’ he told her. ‘James Owen.’ Instead of releasing her hand, he turned it over and examined it.
    ‘A hand that knows a hard-working life,’ he said, giving her another of his deep, mournful looks. To her consternation, Maryann felt tears pricking her eyes. She pulled her hand away, making out that she was about to drop her shopping.
    ‘What d’you want?’ It came out sharper than she had intended.
    ‘Only a moment of your time to share with you the good news of the risen Christ. I’m quite new to the Lord’s work in this area.’ He spoke so humbly and sincerely that she felt guilty, but had no idea what to say in reply. In her head, her mother’s voice admonished, ‘Tell him to bugger off!’
    Instead, she said, ‘Oh, I see.’
    From the pocket of his coat he drew a small, plump bible. Without opening it, but holding it out on the flat of his hand as if proffering a plate of sandwiches, he said,‘“Come to me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The words of our Lord Jesus – and I am very certain that upon Him alone you can lay all your burdens, Mrs…?’
    ‘Bartholomew.’
    ‘Mrs Bartholomew.’ He went on to tell her how Jesus was the only gate to eternal salvation and to ask whether she had any pressing burdens upon her soul.
    Maryann almost quipped that if he had a couple of hours to spare she could tell him a few, but she was prevented by the genuine sense of