by Di Morrissey
‘How big a story will this be?’ she asked cautiously.
‘As big as it needs to be. Off you go,’ he growled.
As she dashed from the office calling for Horrie the photographer, his expression softened. He jumped on her hard at times, but he knew she had a gift she hadn’t begun to suspect. Her writing style wasn’t superficial, she had a knack for description, and she talked to people in a way that somehow got them to reveal more than they really intended. She was still too soft and sensitive, but she would go far, and he hoped his initial guidance would set her on the right track.
Odette debated about going to the blacksmiths and finding Zac and talking to him first, but as Horrie drove his Holden station wagon from under the drooping trees which lined the centre of the main street, she changed her mind.
While Zac had stayed on working in town these past months, the rest of the gypsies had moved away. She hadn’t realised they had returned to their camp at the river.
‘Know anything about the gypsies, Horrie?’ she asked.
‘Nothing good. I reckon we’d better pull in before we get too close and go on foot. If you turn your back they’ll strip your car in minutes. I’ve been caught before.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, it was about two years ago. Pretty girl was hitchhiking, so I stopped and she asked directions. She leaned in the car window, wearing a low cut blouse, you know, flirting like. Offered to read my palm and so on. While I was talking to her, some blokes took half the gear in the back of the car and a couple of hubcaps.’
Odette laughed at the bulky tough-looking photographer who was as gentle as a kitten most of the time. ‘Serves you right for flirting, Horrie. Thought you’d got lucky, did you?’
‘Yeah,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘Funny thing, though, she did read my palm and a lot of what she said has happened.’
He pulled the car off the road by a thicket of trees, locked it, and slung his camera bag over his shoulder, following Odette through the bush to the track along the river. Rounding a bend they came upon the haphazard and colourful gypsy camp. Dogs began barking and ran towards them, followed by a band of small children.
Horrie stopped and started shouting, ‘Get them bloody dogs away’.
‘They’re okay, Horrie. Delia, Noyla, Mateo . . . hello there.’ Odette waved and went to greet the women and man coming towards them.
‘You know these people?’ asked a puzzled Horrie.
Odette was embraced and the children skipped about her. Quickly Odette explained this was not a social visit. ‘The paper sent me. This is Horrie, he’s a photographer. Has there been some trouble?’
The adults glanced at each other. ‘Odette, you are a friend. This could be difficult for you. We have trusted you, we don’t want our stories and pictures printed in a newspaper.’
Odette rested her hand on Delia’s arm. ‘Please trust me. I am your friend. Horrie, would you wait here, I’ll just go and talk to them for a minute.’
Horrie dropped his heavy bag to the ground and stood with arms folded. Odette walked into the camp with her friends, though she sensed their reluctance at her being there officially.
‘Does Zac know you are here?’
‘No. I wanted to see him first, but thought I’d come and see what the problem was . . . I didn’t know if there were townspeople here, or if you needed help or something. What’s going on?’
Everything about the camp appeared normal, though Odette noticed there were no men about save for old Mateo, and no horses or any of the big old American cars they liked to drive.
The gypsies exchanged glances before speaking. ‘Odette, if we talk you must write what you know to be true and not be influenced by the anger and prejudices of townies who know little outside their own small world.’
‘I always write the truth.’
‘But sometimes truth can be shaped and coloured to give a different picture,’ said Noyla gently.
‘And sometimes the facts are never simply black and white . . . you must observe the greys, Odette. Come, take some coffee with us and we’ll ask the queen if we can talk to you.’
‘Would it be all right if Horrie joins us? Do you think he could take some pictures?’
‘Don’t rush, Odette. Some of us don’t like our photograph being taken. The old people believe it steals the soul. If the queen agrees, we shall say yes.’
Odette signalled to Horrie to join them as Noyla went to the queen’s small wooden caravan which was still pulled by a horse, unlike some of the other caravans which were more modern and towed by motorcars. Horrie ambled over and sat uncomfortably a little distance away on the running board of a Buick.
After some discussion, Cerina emerged with Noyla and Mateo. She took Odette’s hands in hers and greeted her warmly. ‘You are our friend. We shall talk with you. Maybe it is time townspeople were educated a little better about our customs and why we live as we do. You have learned a little from Zac, but there are many superstitions about us which cause friction.’
The queen sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, her voluminous, colourful skirt spread around her. The bracelets on her arms tinkled as she adjusted the folds on her skirt. She wore soft satin slippers with jewelled clasps, and a kerchief flecked with silver sequins was knotted over her dark, greying hair which was pulled back in a thick coil.
Horrie coughed slightly.
‘This is Horace, the photographer. He is itching to take a picture of you,’ smiled Odette. ‘You have such a wonderful face. Would you mind?’
Cerina broke into a huge grin. The lines in her face were etched deeply around her eyes and mouth, but her beauty hadn’t dimmed with the years. ‘Ah . . . you have learned you gain more with honey than you do with vinegar. Seeing as you ask so prettily . . .’ She waved a hand graciously towards Horrie who wasted no time in preparing his camera and swinging into action with professional smoothness, shooting with his bulky Speed Graphic.
The other women, several children, a fat puppy and old Mateo formed a semicircle around Odette on the grass. She flipped open her notebook and asked, ‘Why do you wander as nomads? Wouldn’t it be easier to settle in one place?’
‘We are a lost people, we still seek the land of our ancestors. But life is a search, child. We are all seeking that elusive eternal resting place where there is tranquillity, beauty and peace. Some find it in death. Often in life, the trappings of ambition, greed and confusion cloud the purity of the simple life. Of course we all need shelter and food and warmth and love, but that does not necessarily come with lavish material things. Our needs are simple, but maybe our methods are misconstrued.’
‘Why don’t people like you? Why do the townspeople here want you to move away?’
‘There are those who distrust and decry what they do not understand. And we have been known to “borrow” possessions and, some believe, cast spells. Fortune-telling is the gift of prophecy which is perhaps no more sinister than fairy tales and myths. Deep down, I think most people envy us our freedom. To follow the sunrise and rainbows is a joyous way to live.’
The queen began to explain to Odette some of their beliefs and customs. How the gypsy kings and queens are chosen, the ritual involved at their crowning and the ceremony which takes place at their death when all the gypsies gather in one place.
‘We have many customs and talents which must remain our secrets,’ she added.
‘Where do gypsies come from?’ asked Odette.
‘Ah, now we must look back into the mists of time. It is not so much a question of where we began but where we are going. The old people tell, and they have been told by the generations that went before them, of how we are descended from an ancient Hindu tribe but chased from our lands in the ninth century. Gypsies came to Australia on the First Fleet and have been arriving here quietly ever since. We keep to ourselves when allowed and that is how we like it.’
Horrie hovered, photographing the whole group, but most often he found his viewfinder filled with
the powerful face of Cerina the queen. With a clack he slid the metal magazine from the back of his camera, swiftly replacing it with new film.
‘To get back to the troubles here,’ continued the queen, ‘to be specific, the present problem in this town has to do with the sale of some horses. We gypsies have always been horse traders, for the horse has taken us on our travels, been a means of barter and a necessity to the early warriors. We have an understanding of the creatures which is to our advantage.’
Mateo lifted a quizzical eye brow. ‘Not always to others.’ He took up the story. ‘We are entertainers, we are sellers, and so we often use tricks of the trade to assist in dealings.’
‘Like when the girls divert a driver and the men relieve him of his possessions,’ said Odette.
‘It is not thievery. We always leave something in exchange, if it is only imparting a little vision and wisdom . . . for those that care to listen and heed it. In the matter of the horses, several were sold here. Fine, sprightly, energetic animals when sold. However, it seems, they . . . tired . . . within a day. They are still good horses, and good for the price paid. If the buyer thought he was getting more . . .’ Mateo lifted up his arms and shoulders in a philosophical shrug.
It was Zac who later explained to Odette. ‘To make a horse frisky when being sold they might put stinging nettle under his tail; or rattle stones in a bucket at him for a day or more, then just the sight of the pail will send him into a frenzy. Rosemary is crushed and spread in his mouth to make his breath fresh. And there are countless herb mixtures that can be fed to an ailing horse to make it breathe easy and appear bright-eyed with health.’
‘But isn’t that dishonest?’
‘No promises are made or given. What do you say — let the buyer beware, yes?’
Odette continued to question Mateo. ‘So, whoever bought your horses wanted their money back?’
‘We never discovered what he wanted. He resold the horses at an excessive price and when the new owner came and complained to him, he blamed us. Omitting to add he had paid us very little. He drank heavily in the hotel, began raging about being cheated, and coerced a group of other drinkers into coming here. They began shouting abuse. It was unpleasant. Cerina sent them away, though they are threatening to return and run us out of town.’
‘What did you say to them, Cerina?’
She twisted her hands in a rolling motion. ‘I merely told them misfortune would befall them if they stepped any closer.’ Her face was expressionless as she said this, but Noyla stifled a giggle.
‘They looked quite frightened even though they were drunk,’ she said. ‘I think they thought Cerina was going to cast a spell on the spot and turn them into stone or something.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We are leaving at sunrise in any case, so . . .’ Again came the expressive lift of the shoulders and hands.
‘We shall see you again, Odette.’ The queen rose and laid her hand on top of Odette’s russet curls. Odette lowered her head, feeling sad, somehow knowing it would be a long time before she saw her gypsy friends again.
They left quietly, Odette embracing Noyla and Delia. Horrie was silent as they walked back to the car, but as he slung his camera bag into the boot he remarked, ‘Funny mob, but kinda interesting. The women are good sorts.’
Odette smiled but didn’t reply. She realised that, despite Horrie’s casual remark, the gypsies, especially the queen, had made quite an impression. They were not the dirty, meddlesome, dishonest troupe he had been expecting. Instead, he’d learned about a proud people determined to preserve heritage and beliefs that had been passed down through centuries.
That evening Odette waited for Zac to finish work at the blacksmiths and walked with him to the small house where he had rented a room.
‘I will wash and change before joining the others at the camp,’ he said.
‘Do you miss not being on the road with the family? Don’t you feel cooped up staying in a small room?’ asked Odette.
‘I do. But occasionally we have to conform to suit our needs. I once stayed in a town with my mother for over a year. I went to school every day. It was the longest I’d been at school in one stretch.’
‘Why did you choose to stay here? There must be better places.’
‘I don’t like big towns; I like working with horses and I’m a good smithy’s assistant; the family come through here regularly and . . . you are here.’
Odette blushed. ‘Don’t tease me.’
He took her hand and swung it as they walked. ‘So, tell me, what did the girl reporter do today?’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
Odette told him of her conversation with the queen and the issue of the horses.
‘It’s true some of the horse traders can be devils . . . but they would never sell a horse that was unwell or dangerous. That Hoskins fellow who bought them tried to resell them at an inflated price. He’s the one who should be punched in the nose.’
‘He’s threatening to run your people out of town.’
‘Booze talking. He’s a coward. But, Odette, for your story you should talk to everyone, not just us.’
‘Oh, I intend to. I just wanted to talk to you too.’
‘That’s good.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Come and eat with us, and I’ll sing some songs around the fire.’
‘All right, I will. I’ll tell Aunt Harriet I’m working on my story. Which I am.’
It turned out to be a joyful evening for Odette. One of music and laughter and stories. Seated on blankets and rugs on the ground around a big campfire, they had eaten a delicious stew. Watching the children falling asleep in the arms of mothers and aunties, being cuddled, loved and sung to, made her miss the warmth and affection of a family.
Zac reached out and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t look so sad, Odette. I can tell you are missing your parents and the life you once had. One day you will have a family of your own.’
She looked at him with her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You always seem to know what I’m thinking.’
Zac picked up his guitar and started to sing the song she loved so much — ‘Without Love’. The group around the campfire quietened to listen to Zac sing. The fire sparked, the light danced across their faces as they rocked and hummed along. The ring of small caravans and cars formed a protective barrier against the dark bush.
Before Zac had finished, a sudden commotion broke out in the darkness behind them. Dogs began barking and voices were raised. Striding towards them came Dave Hoskins, the man who’d bought the horses. Several men followed close behind.
Hoskins raised his fist. ‘All right, you mongrels. Get the bloody hell outta here. Now. Pack up and piss off. We don’t want you crooks and thieves in our town.’
Zac scrambled to his feet and was swiftly joined by Mateo and two of the other men. They faced the intruders, all of whom were obviously drunk.
‘Take it easy, Hoskins,’ said Zac carefully. ‘These people have done you no harm and they are moving on at daybreak.’
‘No harm! You call selling a man a bunch of broken down old nags no harm?’
‘They were not nags and you know it. And if they were, why did you sell them to your mate at double the price?’ asked Zac. He spoke calmly, but his eyes were cold and his fists were clenched.
Hoskins stepped forward. ‘You bloody bastard. Step over here and I’ll sort you out.’
Zac took a step towards him, as did the other gypsies. Standing in the firelight, their shirt sleeves rolled up over muscled arms, their braces stretched over powerful chests, their strong faces glaring defiantly, they looked formidable.
A man behind Hoskins stepped beside him and nudged him. ‘Just get the money back and let’s get outta here.’
‘No fear. I’m not scared of these filthy wogs.’
He staggered slightly and made a lunge towards Zac, not seeing a sleeping child. He tripped and nearly fell. Angrily he lashed out with his
boot. The young boy woke up and started to cry. Instantly Zac dashed forward and threw a hard left hook at Hoskins’s jaw.
Confused by the cry of the child and a woman rushing to scoop the boy up, Hoskins didn’t see Zac coming. His knees buckled. The other men rushed in and the camp became a confused mass of women and children shouting and scrambling for safety, with men bashing it out with flying fists, grunts, moans and the sound of knuckles on bone.
It was over in minutes. The drunken town workers were no match for the fit and sober gypsies. They took to their heels, yelling abuse over their shoulders as they limped away with bleeding faces.
Zac and Mateo watched them leave. ‘They might be back with more friends or weapons. I think you’d better make a move now,’ warned Zac.
‘Come with us, Zac.’
‘No. I am not ready to leave Amberville. Odette, come along. I’ll take you home.’
Odette pulled on her cardigan, said a hurried farewell, and followed Zac to one of the cars.
‘I’ll drive you back. Well, you have a little more to add to your story, eh?’
‘My knees are shaking.’
He reached over and patted her legs. ‘You’re always safe with me.’
Zac brought the old car to a stop outside Aunt Harriet’s where the light at the front door shone brightly.
‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks, Zac. It was a wonderful evening . . . till the end.’
‘Don’t let it upset you. We get used to being harassed. But promise me one thing, Odette . . . always write from the heart and tell the truth. There will be two versions of what happened tonight.’
‘I will. Goodnight, Zac.’
‘Goodnight, sweet bird.’
He leaned across and tilted her face towards him, kissing her lightly on the lips. Odette didn’t move. The touch of his lips had caught her unawares. She lifted her face to his to kiss him again, but Zac leaned across her and opened the car door. ‘Your aunt will be worried. It’s getting late.’
Odette stepped reluctantly from the car, smiled at Zac and waved as he drove off. Thinking about the confrontation between the gypsies and the louts, and also the touch of Zac’s lips, she found that her knees had started to shake again.
