by Neil Mach
‘What do you do for a hotel?’
‘I keep my ears and eyes open...’
They went along a circuitous path that led beyond trees and shrubs and a low hedge.
Then she saw it.
She did not expect anything wonderful —but the trailer was, well, to put it candidly — it was discouraging.
‘This is it?’ she said with an empty tone, as she stumbled mid-stride and frowned. The Hummer was parked by the side, covered in mesh and leaves, but the caravan itself — it left much to be desired.
‘What do you think?’ Moondog asked, with bright eyes. ‘Brand new and state-of-the-art...’ he said. ‘Like it, eh?’
‘I don’t know what to say...’ she opted for diplomacy, ‘It’s a slightly boxy...if I'm honest.’
‘Exactly... It doesn’t attract attention, you see.’
‘Well, no, maybe it doesn’t. But it’s not desirable to look at, is it? And no windows? It’s not particularly pleasing if I'm frank.’
‘It’s a self-sufficient rotating trailer,’ Moondog continued, ignoring her objections. ‘The first of its kind and it uses wind and sun to provide the energy it requires. It is ready to hook-up and depart in twenty minutes.’
‘It’s okay,’ Hopie said, with doubt in her voice. She took a patient breath and made a noise that sounded like hmm. Honestly, what she saw was a box on wheels.
‘Come,’ he said, accepting she was not entirely convinced. ‘I’ll show you around... once you see everything, you’ll understand why I like it so much. It has a toilet, sink and shower and bedrooms...’
Moondog pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, directed it to the front of the box as if he was using a television remote control, and the magic started to happen. Slowly, and quite wonderfully, the entire hinged front panel lowered gracefully. Behind the panel, which became a floor they could stand on, were windows and a door. The area was also equipped with a sliding roof and portable sides which moved into position mechanically. Soon the bland box doubled in size. And that was the first surprise.
‘This area is for outdoor dining and barbecues,’ Moondog told her, as he pulled her hand to a sparkling chromium entranceway. ‘As you can see it has a sit up bar...’ He took her inside and opened a control-panel. He pressed a set of keys, then led her outside. She saw a tall chimney-shaped thing rising from the roof of the box and a whirly thing with a big silver lip also elevating. ‘That's the vertical wind turbine and the solar panels going up now...’ he told her. ‘All electronically controlled. There are also antennas and a dish ... now, this way…’
He beckoned her indoors. She saw an elegant, modern, and clinically white kitchen with the countertop, circular sink, and fitted cabinets. There was a frost-fronted fridge-freezer, white taps over a sink and even an extractor hood above an oven. Then Moondog slid open the door to reveal a large bedroom with a huge round window. It had a lovely white duvet on a king-size bed. He spun her around so she could view the other end of the trailer, where she saw a dinette with space to sit six people beneath another round window.
He showed her the main flat-screen television, viewed from one side of the dining table, then a smaller bedroom located behind a wall that even had its telly and a workstation with a laptop. When Moondog went through the kitchen again, this time to point out the dishwasher, he rubbed his hands because he became excited to show her the best bit. He clicked open a door and took her into a dressing room furnished with a table and lights around the mirror, a washing machine, a shower compartment, and a separate toilet. Of course, everything gleamed and was impeccably clean.
‘This is incredible...’ she said with a wide smile. ‘I don’t say the word much — but this is awesome.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it,’ Moondog said. ‘As I said, this is self-sufficient. Off-the-grid. Though I must bring down the parabolic mirrors now because it’s dusky and miserable outside...’
‘What does off-the-grid mean?’
‘Nobody can find me. This home is not plugged into services. It has rainwater harvesting and inbuilt filtration. I carry gas bottles and a portable generator…’
She turned her eyes to the large bed, and the soft comforter laid upon it. ‘What will we do now?’
‘Now? Now we eat and relax. I have a few things to do first on the internet. But, oh yes, first...’ his eyes sparkled.
‘Yes?’
‘First, we drink cocktails.’
‘Bravo.’
*
He fixed Hopie three colourful cocktails. One effervescent, one sour, one sweet. All in different shaped glasses and assembled with chunks of fruit on sticks and with twisted paper straws.
‘Wowee’ she said, admiring the drinks laid-out on the polished bar-top. She licked her lips. ‘I did not think you drank alcohol.’
‘Oh? Why do you think that?’ He took a sip of a cloudy yellow concoction.
‘I don’t know.’
Moondog suggested she ought to start with the fizzy one. He called the drink a ‘French Seventy-Five,’ and he had made it with fresh lemon juice, dry gin, and English champagne. ‘The others will improve as they stand,’ he explained. He grabbed his laptop, took it to the office, and opened the lid. ‘You can watch your shows on telly if you like, in the main room...’
But Hopie wanted to peek over his shoulder to see what he was doing. She wanted to remain as close to his body as possible, especially this evening. She needed a reliable human in her life. ‘What are you checking?’ she asked.
‘I have several remote cameras posted in different places around the area. I like to see what images they collected.’
‘I don’t want to seem rude, but I’m curious. How do you get money for all this stuff?’ She looked around the trailer with wide-eyed wonder. ‘Surely your television show and private detective work don’t pay for all these gadgets?’
‘Hmm?’ Moondog became distracted by the images that had been sent-in from camera nine.
‘How do you earn a living?’
‘Me? Oh, I do this and that,’ Moondog told her, as he tapped a function key to bring up the next image. ‘Odd jobs, and so on. My main income is from buying and selling agricultural technology. I import innovations and sell them to inquisitive farmers.’
‘I see.’
Moondog smiled politely and gave the nod: ‘There’s nothing of note on these cameras. I’ve not seen any activity on the Freemen’s Meadows cameras. I also put cams on Groby Pool...’
‘You are much more, er, technical than I expected. Do you like technology? ‘
‘Of course, all travelers love technology. We have a joke in our community about social networking. But before I tell you the joke, though, do you know what a Gaujo is?’
‘No...’
‘You are one. A Gaujo is anyone who is not a born gypsy. Most Gaujos live in houses, they go to work, they pay bills and taxes, and they comply with company rules.’
‘Oh,’ she bit her bottom lip because, for some reason, she felt hurt.
‘Don’t worry. You’re not a normal Gaujo. You’re unlike any other I’ve met, that’s why I like you so much.’
She brightened. ‘So, what’s the joke?’
‘Even Gaujos are on Facebook these days...’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Never mind.’
‘So, you are an authentic gypsy then?’
‘, some would disagree with that nomenclature. My mother was true blood, that’s all that counts.’
Hopie didn’t know what nomenclature meant, so she stopped to reflect. Then she added, ‘So, how is it? What is it like, living like a gypsy? Moving all the time, raised in a caravan. I can’t imagine a life like that.’
‘We are proud of our culture. Travelling folk, that’s what you should call us, go back thousands of years. Our traditions are passed down word-of-mouth. It’s called Romani Lore. Our education finishes at primary school and so most stuff, the important stuff, is learnt at the roadside. The most important lesson we
learn is to cherish freedom. We learn that when we’re running wild as a child. We believe in ourselves, and we cherish a nomadic heritage. We are a distinct ethnic group, and our identity is protected and respected by international law. Mainly, though, being a member of the travelling community is about being a kind person.’
‘You are kind, and you are also well informed, and...’ she shoved his shoulder playfully. ‘You are great.’
He closed the lid of his computer and aid, ‘What about you?’
‘Me? What’s to say? Nice home, I went to school. I went to Sixth Form College. I did not get good results. I got a job with the police. I moved from home because of all the squabbles. I ended here with you.’
‘Is that your whole story?’
She waved the question away with a hand, then changed the subject: ‘Is it dangerous to live like a gypsy on the road? Do gypsies, sorry I mean travelling people, do they get into scrapes?’
‘It’s a hard life, a struggle sometimes. All travelling people fight, for example. The females learn to stay-at-home because they want to become Mums at an early age. That’s important for our community. Loyalty and duty are what our life is all about. The men work hard all day, they graft, but they’re faithful. They mostly do the right thing...’
‘It seems, the way you tell it, travelling people are typically decent, dignified and respectable...’
‘But most of society thinks otherwise, right?’
‘I guess they do. The guys at the police station think gypsies stink. And they’re thieves, liars, dirty and lazy.’
‘Most of our community thinks that all Gaujos are unscrupulous cheaters who harbour impure thoughts and live a degenerate lifestyle. But most that I’ve met are pleasant, loyal, clean and conscientious...’
Hopie sipped the last of her first drink through the paper straw. ‘Am I one of those?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Thanks for letting me in.’ Hopie touched her lip with a free finger and felt her cheeks redden.
‘Thanks for letting you inside my trailer. Is that what you mean?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks for letting me into your life.’
*
After the fizzy cocktail was consumed, Moondog passed her the next one. This was called Jack O’Hara. ‘One of my Dad's favourites,’ he told her. ‘Whiskey and elderflower, with fresh cranberry juice, lime and a drop of myrrh. Good for you is this...’
‘Can we snuggle in bed?’
‘Let’s sit by the table. I’ll bring over a quilt so that we can hide beneath it. How does that sound?’
‘That sounds delightful,’ Hopie said. She skimmed her fingers along her jawline and shut her eyes to enjoy the flavours of the drink.
Meanwhile, Moondog found a hand-stitched quilt and draped it over her legs and shoulders. He made sure to tuck her in but left one arm free to grab the drink.
He took a mouthful of his second tickler, pure orange juice then said, ‘So what are we going to eat?’
‘Oh, gosh! Should I do it? I suppose I must.’
‘It’s fine. You stay nice and cozy. You are my guest. I already have some things that will go straight into the oven. I prepared savoury pastries. I can grill two little fishes. We’ll have a salad with them and some fresh bread that I baked this morning.’
‘You are so clever...’
So Moondog made their supper and carefully steered the conversation away from her troubles with Jimmie. He asked about her education, about her hobbies (she didn’t have any, except watching telly) and asked her to recall her most memorable family holidays.
He told her all about what Christmas were like in a traveler’s camp and about the magical day he saw his first wild boar in an ancient forest. That was as a child on Boxing Day, and after the sighting, he decided he would dedicate his life to protecting natural things. Then he delivered a tray of yummy snacks and told her the story of his first encounter with what he described as an ‘amorphous actuality.’ He said the mystical experience happened in an old cemetery in France and this was the moment he realized that there were ‘other things’ on earth — things he described as ‘essential essences’ — and these deserved a degree of special protection.
She munched on the savoury treats he placed before her and rested her head against his shoulder. Then he maneuvered the third cocktail to her lips and described it as a ‘double coconut and almond-cream liqueur.’ It smelled fragrant and tasted wonderful.
‘I rise early in the morning,’ Moondog told her. ‘So do not worry if I’m not here when you get up. Pour yourself green tea and mix oatmeal, but do not leave my trailer unless you must. Though take a shower and use the facilities.’
She nodded with happiness as she made long cat-like stretches with her arms, and then she spread her legs under the table. She felt ready to say something really important but felt too squishy to speak. She knew she was sozzled. She looked into Moondog’s eyes and moved her hands close to his cheek. She even pushed her chin out to try to kiss him. But she zonked out. Her head fell into his lap.
*
Hopie woke with a dry mouth and a confused frown on a clammy face. She found herself in a strange bed with a man’s shirt covering her underwear.
Sunlight glinted through the ceiling like a million dazzling stars and a softer light mingled through a round window at her side. She did not know where she was for a moment, then the events of the previous evening returned to her mind.
‘Oh, God, what time is it?’ Hopie struggled to get out of the slim bed. There was no easy way to slide out of it, so she had to wriggle on her tummy to get clear of the mattress ‘Where’s my stuff? My phone?’ She still wore panties and bra, so he’d not completely undressed her. But what the hell happened last night?
She blundered bleary-eyed into the kitchen area and managed to shout: ‘Moondog, wake up. I’m late for work. Moondog, where are you?’ The trailer was silent. The large bed in the corner made, the soft duvet pulled over delicately. On the table were her possessions: clothes, shoes, and purse. She burrowed into the bag like a dog seeking a hidden bone, until she found what she wanted, her phone.
She pushed the screen to get it to come to, ‘Come on, damn it, idiot, work.’ Then it burst into life, she stared at the screen, trying hard to understand what it told her. ‘Five thirty? What the hell time is that?’ Certainly, the earliest she’d been up in her life.
Hopie went back to the kitchen area and saw a biscuit tin laid on the counter. It had a post-it note stuck onto it, decorated with a smiley. She looked inside the tin and found oatmeal. Then she saw bags of green tea, plates, and a cup waiting to be filled. ‘Oh yeah...’ it all came back. The tea was left to drink, the oatmeal was left to fix, and she was told to have a shower. Then she remembered he’d gone out. He had said something about going stuff early on, although she couldn’t remember what —she sensed he’d return soon. She felt calm, her heartbeat returned to normal, and she noticed her shoulders were cold, so she dragged the coverlet over, to warm her shoulders like a shawl. Then she went to boil water.
*
After a shower and a drink, she felt a whole lot better. And when she tried to figure out how to make oatmeal, Moondog returned. She heard the door unlock and then he stepped inside. He looked fresh as a daisy, strong and supple in his gym-clothes.
‘Best of the day to you,’ Moondog said with a wide smile.
‘Hi. I wanted to say —’
‘Good sleep?’
‘Yes, look, I’m sorry if I behaved badly last night. I do not know what happened. I don’t remember much, but it’s possible I might have conducted myself foolishly. You will forgive me, won’t you?’
Moondog squeezed past to prepare himself a drink and rubbed her shoulders as he went. ‘The cocktails were a bit strong, it’s my fault. You were charming. You have nothing to apologize about.’
‘You put me to bed. I was mullered — I must have been in a dreadful state. You probably think I’m a right dozy mare. I don’t usually cr
umple so easily.’
‘No, of course not. I hope you don’t mind that I put you into bed. I didn’t want your work clothes to crumple, so I lent you my shirt and laid you on the spare mattress...’
‘That’s good of you, I —’
Moondog winked and gave Hopie another playful prod. ‘Nothing to regret, nothing at all. You never need to apologize to me. Here, have my oatmeal...and I’ll make some more.’
She nodded. ‘It’s early. Is it always this bright so early in the day?’
‘Yes, I normally rise with the dawn, so I enjoy a full day...’
After food, Moondog suggested they use the same cab to get to town. He said he wanted to meet a girl named Kelly Locke. She was the woman who had reported the attack upon her along with her boyfriend at Groby Pool.
‘I’ll get you dropped off at the station,’ he told her. ‘Unless you want to go to the Porter’s Lodge for fresh clothes.’
Hopie shuddered, ‘I never want to go back there. Never. He will be waiting...’
‘You will have to return sooner or later, but it’s up to you for now. We can discuss it later...’
‘What am I going to do with Jimmie?’
‘You have to deal with him. You can’t go on like this, with him shadowing your every move. Can’t you get him reassigned? Can’t you get him relocated miles away? Won’t your uncle help?’
‘That’s part of my problem. I don’t think I told you yesterday… but my uncle is a complication. I’m sure he has my best interests at heart, but...’
‘But what?’
‘He’s made this whole difficult situation a lot worse. You can put it down as a mix-up or a misunderstanding or whatever — but he gave Jimmie my key.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘They wanted to find to dirt on you. They thought you’d stayed in my house... and you had left, you know...’ she looked him in the eyes, ‘Traces. You know — evidence of your being with me...’
‘Traces? Me? Why would I have done that?’
‘It’s worse, far worse than that — I’m afraid. I was going to tell you yesterday; truly I was — but then this whole Jimmie thing blew up in my face, and so I got distracted. But please hear me out...’ She lowered her head, afraid to look up, and clasped her hands as if she prayed. ‘Please forgive me, I beg you... I betrayed you...’
