by Ned Reardon
The man had clearly got hold of the wrong end of the stick but the boy said nothing and just listened.
‘But I got that water down you boy,’ the man revealed, looking pleased with himself, ‘plenty of cups full too along a bowl of hot simmin.’
The boy’s facial expression contorted into one of disarray trying to understand the man’s unintelligible dialect.
The man reiterates, ‘Soup, boy, a bowl of soup!’
The gypsy had given the boy shade from the burning sun, sustained him on soup and bread and most importantly rehydrated him with clean water. His kind deeds had dragged him back from the brink of death. He’d saved his life as an infant and now as a boy. But what could he do for the man in return? he wondered. How could he ever repay the compassion this man has shown him?
‘I’m so very grateful to you sir.’
‘Well don’t be!’ returned the man, making light of the whole episode. ‘And don’t keep calling me sir, my name is Tom, same as yooze.’
This was rather a surprise for he’d expected him to say Bill, quickly deciding that it was probably wiser not to question this. All the same he was pleased to have at least something, if only something as trivial as Christian names, in common with this odd but benign individual and he felt something akin to friendship shroud his little heart.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked the man, genially.
Having now regained his appetite the boy smiled and nodded convivially.
‘Come on then boy,’ said the man, climbing back out of the trench he’d dug. ‘Help us carry these sacks of pots back home and we’ll have some nosh and a good old natter too, what d’you say?’
Chapter 19
Meanwhile, back at Greenporch, Mr Stickles had felt it necessary to go and knock on the office door.
‘Come in,’ cried Mrs Saffron. She was sitting at her desk sorting through the mail. ‘Good morning Wally,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It’s not often we’re graced with your presence,’ she added in playful jest. ‘What’s the problem?’
Walter Stickles removed his cloth cap and held it respectfully at his midriff. In his gruff voice he spoke each of his words slowly and carefully.
‘The bird mam, don’t seem right at all.’ The gardener come caretaker frequently fed the jackdaw titbits and nattered to it on a daily basis. But he’d noticed yesterday that the bird wasn’t quite itself and this morning it’d seemed even worse. He’d grown quite attached to the boy’s pet and he was worried.
‘Jack! What’s the matter with him then?’
‘Don’t rightly know mam, but I reckon he’s sorely depressed. Possibly missing the boy.’
‘Well I’m afraid young Tommy’s staying over at his friend’s house at the moment. If he’s not back by tomorrow, Wally, I’ll give Mr Crispin a call.’
More or less satisfied with her decision, Mr Stickles then said, ‘Right’o mam, I’ll get back to my tomatoes then.’
‘Thank you for letting me know, Wally.’
Chapter 20
Like long-lost friends they walked back over to the washback, occasionally detouring left and right to avoid falling down into any of the old excavations. The boy was curious to know why the man had dug so many holes.
‘For the pots and bottles boy,’ explained the man.
‘Yes, but why have you collected so many?’
‘Klexem… I don’t klexem, I sells’em boy!’ declared the man. ‘That’s how I makes me living ain’t it…See, when I’ve got a half decent load of cushti gear I run it down on the train to a gadgie I know in Canterbury…I’ve known him, old Henry for years and years. He’s got a gaff down there called Ye old bottle shoppe…Heard of it, boy?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Yeah, well Henry, he buys all my stuff and pays me a half tidy sum for it too… And then he works’em into the foreign gadgies… Yanks and Canadians mostly.’
The boy was astonished to learn that good folk had actually paid this man real cash for what was basically a load of old rubbish.
A crafty smirk formed across the man’s disfigured face, ‘It’s a right cushti living I’ve made for myself out here on these boodiful marshes and I’m sure my father, God bless’im.’ At this point he stopped briefly to lower the sack clenched in his right hand to make another sign of the cross. ‘I’m sure he would’ve been proud of me.’ The boy secretly agreed with him for he was proud of him as well.
But just as they were about to set off again the man suddenly grabbed hold of the boy’s shoulder and pulled him aside, narrowly avoiding a nest of vipers lying camouflaged in between tufts of grass. Having always loathed snakes, the boy gasped in abhorrence and was about to stamp on one of the baby adders wriggling away to safety but was held firm by the man.
‘Leave it alone boy!’ he demanded. ‘A serpent is still one of the Lord’s critters and it deserves to live like yooze and me. To harm it would be worse than the curse of a cross-eyed man, you can trust my word on that one.’
Realising the danger, the boy began to appreciate the fact that although the marshes were teeming with wildlife not all of it was harmless. They continued on once more.
‘I’ve got hundreds and thousands in the Hastings and Thanet Building Society,’ the man boasted before suddenly stopping dead again. Considering that maybe he’d divulged too much, he turned and bent down level with the boy’s head so as to look him straight in the eye.
‘Here, don’t you go telling anyone about all of this, will you boy…Because I’d have’em down here, if they should get the slightest whisper, scratching about just like them scabby rats over on the dump if you so dared to blab.’
‘I won’t tell anyone,’ promised the boy. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
The man studied his new friend suspiciously. ‘Will you take an oath on it?’
‘I swear not to tell a soul sir, honest I won’t.’
The man scratched the stubble on his chin with his grubby fingers and chewed on the boy’s words for a moment or two. After making up his mind, he dropped the sack of pots, spat into the palm of his hand and offered it to the boy as a token of solidarity. Relieved with having gained the man’s trust, the boy repeated the spitting ritual and wholeheartedly shook the gypsy’s hand in friendship.
‘Good then!’ said the man, patting the boy’s back and seemingly satisfied with his young companion’s promise. ‘Now how about that grub, I could murder a cup of rosie. Let’s jel off out of here.’
Shortly before entering the washback the gypsy halted yet again and gently placed his laden sack to the ground. Holding his right index finger up to his puckered lips, he gestured for quietness. ‘Shoosh now boy!’ he demanded, whilst pointing over at a nearby grassy bank clothed in thick gorse.
The boy put down his own sack of bottles and itched with curiosity as the man slowly led him by the hand over towards the brambles.
‘Look there!’ whispered the gypsy, creeping up closer.
The boy’s eyes opened wide with joy and amazement when he saw the fox curled up asleep outside of its den. The vixen’s beautiful russet coat shone with health but she was lying there dead to the world completely unaware of her approving audience.
Studying the animal further, the boy’s heart skipped a beat. ‘It isn’t dead is it, Tom?’
‘Nar, of course she ain’t, don’t talk divvy,’ explained the gypsy. ‘Dik at her belly, she’s breathing…Most likely been hunting rabbits half the night, hungry cubs maybe.’
Overhead storm clouds were gathering, darkening the sky and the wind was beginning to gain momentum and by the time they’d got back to the caravan it had started to rain hard. The boy was famished but once they were inside and in the dry the gypsy was as good as his word. He fried eggs and bacon and served them up on doorstep slices of toast which they washed down with mugs of hot swee
t tea. The boy noticed that the album had been deliberately tucked away somewhere. He also hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to ask about the flowers on the grave, the question repeatedly refusing to leave the tip of his tongue. He flumped back in the chair with his belly about to pop. ‘Thank you Tom, that was truly scrumptious.’
‘You’re welcome, boy.’
Staring up at the happy people in the framed photograph above the fireplace, the boy wondered whom they might be. Noticing his curiosity the man then also gazed up at it and smiled, reminiscing over happier times. ‘It’s me and my mother, love her heart.’ The young man and the woman were like two peas in a pod. Both were beautiful and vibrant with life. ‘That was taken years back, picking gurlos for a farmer we knew in Teynham, not far from here… Cushti old days them.’
The boy was somewhat puzzled because his friend didn’t look anything like the image of the young good looking man in the picture but shrugged it off as the truth. He looked out of the tiny window at all of the pottery scattered about. ‘How did you discover that the pots were worth money?’ he asked. He still couldn’t quite comprehend their status as items of value.
The man placed the dirty plates and cutlery into his washing up bowl before filling his pipe with fresh tobacco and making himself comfortable on the bed. ‘I stumbled on’em quite by accident really… when I first came here,’ he began. He lit his pipe and grinned guilefully. ‘But as soon as I’d clapped my yoks on’em I knew what they were and I knew then an all that they were worth a bob or two.’ Outside it was thundering and lightning and pelting down with rain so he was forced to pause a while until the sound of the raindrops drumming on the roof had lessened.
‘Because I’d seen’em before you see, the pots. Many times, in the windows of the antique shops on my travels with my poor dear mother.’ Again he respects his mother by creating the sign of the cross.
‘Because they sell this stuff all over Kent and Sussex you know… And up in London an all I dare say…One of them shop gadgies told me he’d got a posh mush from the television people. BBC, ain’t it?’
The boy nodded in agreement, watching the raindrops trickle down the outside of the window pane. The heavy downpour had ceased but it was still quite blustery.
‘Anyway, this BBC bloke buys off him regular like. They use’em as props or somemink for their old fashion telly programmes…It’s the Americans though that likes’em the best for history and that.’ The man paused again and then said, ‘When I’ve rested a while boy, I want to show you somemink.’ He put down his pipe, closed his eyes and spoke no more.
Chapter 21
After the man had awoken from his nap, he put the kettle on the stove and called out to his young friend. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, boy?’
The rain had finally cleared up and the sun had come out again. The boy had been amusing himself just outside the caravan, stacking up the various pots and bottles and rearranging them into different shapes. ‘Umm, yes please…Look Tom, I’ve made a potcastle.’
The gypsy slowly shook his sleepy head. He wasn’t much impressed and tutted his rare annoyance. ‘See that lid you’ve got on top there.’ He was referring to a potlid which had a picture of Queen Victoria’s head on it. ‘That’s worth a couple of nicker!’
Sensing something was wrong, the boy asked, ‘What was it that you wanted to show me then?’
The man rubbed his tired eyes and yawned himself more alert before scratching his ribs with both hands. ‘There’s a decent spot I know where I sometimes go to do a bit of fishing…Just wondered if maybe you’d like to come along.’
The boy was pleased and nodded his accord. He had an idea that they were headed back to the secret island in the cornfield. ‘What are we going to catch them with?’ he asked, excitedly.
‘I’ve got some poles round here somewhere,’ replied the gypsy, searching amongst his chattels stored beside the vardo. ‘And as for bait, well we can dig a few juicy ones up on the way.’
A short while later the gypsy led his young friend towards a long, narrow field which appeared to the boy as though it was completely draped in red velvet from one end to the other and then a little later like a gigantic abrasion on the green skin of the countryside. Smothered in a carpet of scarlet poppies, it gently sloped down to the mouth of the creek where the waters flowed out wide into the Swale. Just beyond was the jetty where the barges came in on the tide to unload their cargoes of coal destined for the paper mill’s powerhouse. Swinging their fishing rods and bucket of earthworms, the gypsy and the boy gradually sauntered across the beautiful meadow with the wind in their sails and as happy as larks.
Soon they were both sat with their legs dangling over the side of the wooden pier which the gypsy had personally dubbed Poppy Wharf. The sea level was just right and it was the perfect spot from which to drop a line.
After they had carefully baited their hooks and cast their fishing lines, the gypsy filled his pipe with tobacco and lit it. ‘I saw a couple of seals here once,’ he claimed, puffing contentedly on his pipe and staring out at the calm waters. ‘Just after the surge…must have got swept upstream I’d imagine.’
‘What happened to them?’ asked the boy, with interest.
‘Dunno, never saw’em again. But I spose they’d got back safe to the sea.’
The boy, full of anticipation, was so excited by what he might hook and was pondering what it may of felt like to have actually done this with his father, had the circumstances been different. ‘Did you ever go fishing with your dad?’ he asked, wonderingly and clutching both the rod and reel with such undue force as though he was expecting to land something as substantial as say Moby Dick.
The gypsy hesitated, ‘When I was a chavvie I never knew my real father, he replied, with the words sticking in his throat. ‘Never even found out his name, not until just before my mother had snuffed it, God bless’er.’ he added, crossing himself. ‘But I think if you don’t mind I’ll tell you about him later.’
The boy paused, considering it probably best not to pursue the topic.
‘Uncle Elijah took me fishing quite a lot though.’ Revealed the gypsy. ‘I’ll say that for him, night fishing too.’ After pausing briefly he then added, ‘Umm, but then he did make me carry the tilley lamp and lug all that heavy gear about an all…It was him though who learned me to fish properly. And he showed me how to snare a rabbit. When I think back, they were the only two decent things he did do for me. And I’m not so sure if we weren’t poaching most of the time either. Still, that was then and this is now.’
‘Was Elijah your mother’s brother?’
‘Nar, he wasn’t my proper uncle, not by blood any rate. That’s just what my mother said I had to call him…Anyway, the less said about Eli, the better!’
Once again the boy dropped the subject and a little while later asked, ‘What sort of fish can we catch around here then, Tom?’
‘Ah, now let me think…We got dabs…And we got flounders…And maybe, if we’re proper fortuned, we got sea bass too.’
‘What do you do with your catch after you’ve netted it?’ asked the boy, wondering if perhaps he was expected to throw his fish back.
‘Well I fry’em and eat’em of course!’ returned the gypsy, beaming with delight. The taste of his most recent fish supper lingered on a recollection, wetting his appetite.
‘Tom,’ the boy hesitated. ‘Can I come pot digging with you tomorrow?’
‘Why d’you want to do that then?’
‘Well I was hoping to find some really good pots, so I can sell them to that man in the Canterbury shop and get lots of money like you.’
Following a pause for some serious thought, the gypsy then asked, ‘And what for you need wongur?’
The boy, not surprisingly, was stumped for an answer and so could only shrug his shoulders in ignorance.
Succeeding anot
her short spell of consideration the gypsy then followed up with, ‘But it ain’t a mucha, boy.’
The boy frowned, ‘Pardon?’
‘I said it ain’t much.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘The spondulicks!’
The boy still didn’t understand and screwed up his face accordingly.
‘Well I know I’ve got a fair bit of it down in the old society but like I say it ain’t much of a concern to me. You see, digging up the pots just sort of gives me somemink to do like. Otherwise I’d probably end up divvy I spose. But the wongur boy, it ain’t really that important…Fair enough, I can buy my grub with it and a bit of clobber here and there and not forgetting my bacca too,’ explained the gypsy, before his dark eyes began to scan the wide open sky. ‘But it don’t buy the sun and the moon up there, do it? And it don’t buy the wind and the rain and all the boodiful flowers what grow round here. Or the fox I showed you, when she comes to see me from time to time and not least the birds what sing to me every morning…can’t buy none of that, can it?’
The boy stared blankly at the man, seemingly still none the wiser.
‘So don’t yooze go concerning yourself too much about the greenbacks boy,’ continued the gypsy, now much regretting mentioning his bank account in the first place. ‘There’s time enough for that when you’ve grown up.’
But the boy continued to stare at him bewilderingly.
The gypsy shook his head a little frustrated. ‘Well, what I mean to say, what I’m trying to tell you boy, is that the best things in life will cost you nixes, so it ain’t worth fretting over.’
The rain held off and it was a pleasant thing just to sit by the water’s edge with not a care in the world and with their hearts filled to the brim with hope. Blending in with the natural serenity, with the warmth of the sun on their arms and their faces, they quietly and gently drifted off into themselves. For a long while they sat silent, basking in their own daydreams until a dinghy came sailing by. An old man in a dark coat with a long, grey beard was seated at the tiller. The gypsy was a tad concerned about the possible disruption to his fishing line but the boy was more interested in the vessel itself and was waving to the sailor. The old mariner in the little boat saw the boy and waved back.
