A tinker was camped down the road. He was a phoney, not real Kalderari, tin-smithing gypsies of the Continent. Nor did he seem a Romany, one of our own. Our stupor got me down so I got Luke’s permission and strolled to see them. Four children, a shrewd wife, and a patriarch with a bent for bent.
‘Wotcher,’ I said. The tinker looked sloshed. Their donkey cart had enough utensils to stock Birmingham.
‘Morning.’ The woman started clearing away, meaning nothing doing so push off.
The children were grinding powders with a pestle and mortar. The mangy donkeys looked on disconsolately. One’s knees were a mass of sores.
‘Your donkeys need feeding, do they?’
The woman brightened. She was cagey. ‘We can’t afford to buy them food, poor animals.’
‘I’ll ask our boss if you like.’
‘You’re not travvies,’ she said. ‘You’re to the fezzie?’
‘Want a smoke?’ the bloke asked. He beckoned. ‘I’ve got plenty.’ Newcastle accent.
‘What is it?’ I crouched. ‘I don’t use just any.’
‘Not just any.’ The bloke sat heavily on the cart steps. The vehicle’s hooped top shook. It was signed Mercury in faded letters. A dog emerged, yawned, crawled back. ‘Genuine.’
‘Fool!’ the woman snapped. ‘Can’t you tell he’s trouble?’ ‘Everybody’s got friends.’ The bloke winked, managed to stay upright. I leant away from the aroma. His eyes seemed wrong. One of the children fell over. The pong was horrible.
‘Any good?’ I asked.
‘Any good!’ He crowed, hummed, held on to prevent a glide onto the grass. ‘Perfection. They’re on about Mexican toads, right? The bufo toad shit! Milk and scrape them, dry it on tissue, chop it, sell and see heaven! Toadstools and minced bark, nu-nu, five quid for one cigarette paper.’ He snorted disgust, shedding tears of anger. ‘Everybody wants Mexican, Peru, South American. But I got our own plants, toadstools.’
‘Real country lore, eh?’ I chuckled admiringly.
‘You got it, friend!’ He recovered. He had four saucers, each with a powder. He was wrapping salt-spoon quantities in fag papers, but was making a hash (sorry) of it. He lit and began to smoke one. Hardly a factory. His pipe fumed forgotten. ‘Any fezzie, I make a killing. My stuff’s currency! In Wiltshire I had money stuffed in the donkeys’ feed bags! ‘Cking glorious! I started selling bran and chalk. Jesus, paradise.’
His missus said, ‘Can’t you see what he’s up to?’
‘Me? Look. I just got fed up with our own camp,’ I said indignantly. ‘They’re mental, see.’ A Meg-type word. I brought it out proudly. ‘We’re to the fezzie. Recreation.’
‘Mad?’ The woman didn’t move, but she’d fled a mile.
‘The lot,’ I said, sighing. ‘One went off her head two nights since. You should have seen her. I’ve no drugs. It’s a liberty, leaving me without help.’
‘My mixes’d see her happy.’ The bloke wobbled, poked one of the saucers spilling some stuff.
I set it right. ‘Would they? Which one?’
‘This.’ It looked hideous, flakes of bark in grey powder. ‘Long as Bufo Brown, and happy happy happy.’
‘How much?’
‘Tenner,’ the woman said. I paid twenty for a big dose. I might need this currency.
For quite a while I sat. Mercury talked on and on. I leamt more than I’d done all my life. I was surprised when Humphrey called me. The caravans were drawn up ready to go. I said so long to Mercury and his family.
Oddly, they never caught us up. Maybe something I’d said put them off. He looked sensitive, deep down.
Luke had me at the front this time, just pointed to lead position. I clicked my tongue, but Luke had to pull Pulse forward by its mouth to set us going. Humphrey smiled as I drove. Luke said straight on, eight miles, implying that even I couldn’t mistake it.
We were nearing our destination. I was suffering withdrawal. Apart from the Tudor Arms, and the old Punch and Judy, and a ton of other things, I felt I’d not seen any antiques lately. It was a terrible ache for antiques. There were diversions, erratic trucks, limping buses, lorries, charabancs. We clopped past small fields where bonfires smouldered. We saw three encampments, packs of dogs, sprinting sheep, goats, horses. We also passed rubbish, bin bags strewing debris.
And we got stoned, chased by dogs that farmers set on us.
The first time, I was smiling a greeting, as a bloke with three serfs advanced as we trundled to pass his gate.
‘Good morning,’ I chirruped like a fool. ‘Bore da! ‘Bore da, is it, you thieving wastrels? Two of my sheep killed and six more savaged? Heathens! Despoilers!’
‘Clear off!’ a minion bawled. I quaked. He had a shotgun. ‘And tell your pals what they’ll get!’
‘We’re not travellers, lads,’ I called out, trying to pull the reins tight. The horse edged across, worried. ‘We’re from the psychiatric - ’
‘Bastards!’
‘We’re going, we’re going!’ I cried, shaking. I tried to gee Pulse up. We passed at a slow plod. Luke was last. Boris drove second in a deerstalker hat, smoking a pipe, then Preacher. For my money, we had one caravan too many. I was to remember that later.
Preacher, bloody fool, chose exactly that moment to sing the old Gospel, ‘ “Why do ye linger, why do ye stay, In the broad road, that most dangerous way - ” ’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I called to the angry lot, flapping Pulse’s reins. ‘The Holy bloke’s not right in the head - ’
We escaped, thank God, but no thanks to the Almighty’s repertoire. I fumed. The silly goon would carol us all to perdition, with his Sankey. Luke tied his rein on to Preacher’s caravan, and jogged up.
‘Lovejoy? We’ll arrive in three hours. Don’t stop.’
Even I could see the sense in that. Across a valley four more fires, several groups of ramshackle vehicles like mobile farms. I could have sworn I heard a gunshot.
‘Look, mate.’ I was uneasy. ‘Shouldn’t we take a detour? Why force our way in?’
‘We carry on, Lovejoy.’ In another reincarnation, he’d have smiled. ‘Left at the eight-mile junction. An uphill pull.’ ·
‘No galloping, Pulse, okay?’ I said. It took no notice. I whistled Tudor but he was excited, forever ferreting the hedgerows. In the end, I picked him up bodily, made him sit there.
Rita managed us a cup of coffee from an enterprising roadside stall - a farmhouse with a pleasant lady. She returned my Shwmae, hello, smiled the loveliest smile, pointing to little Arthur in his wicker basket.
‘Not mine, missus,’ I disclaimed. ‘I’m still in the market.’
‘Get on with you,’ she scolded. I cheered up. Maybe it wouldn’t all be threats and squalor.
There civilization ended. We reached Mynydd Mai.
We’d been climbing for a thousand leagues - well, miles, maybe two. Boris’d called to rest the horses. It wasn’t wise. We were driven off by two gamekeeperish blokes with shotguns and four huge dogs. We left, reviled. It happened six or seven more times, our briefest halt interrupted by people chucking stones.
It wasn’t fair. Starting out, we’d been hated because we were mental - this, note, when law, that joke, forbids discrimination against the ill. Now we were abused for looking like some other people. I was getting narked, but Luke sussed and said keep quiet, going, silent, obedient.
The countryside was now mountainous. Distantly, we saw purplish rims of mountains, shifting greens. Sheep grazed, and you could occasionally see a figure with dogs. We were now watched every yard, one farmer on some promontory to see us pass so his neighbour could take over. Usually, though, as we passed hacked trees and scattered filth, or after we’d been overtaken by another clutch of makeshift vehicles, we got stoning and curses.
At one confrontation I discovered a most astonishing thing. Boris spoke Welsh, fluent, too. We’d slowed on a steep slope the nags made heavy weather of. A farmer stomped into the road with a shotgun. I tried my affable - by now ag
hast - grin, but was met by a torrent of defilement in Welsh.
Boris answered in Welsh. The man hesitated, stepped to see who’d spoken. Boris spoke on. Pulse clopped by. The man looked, watched the second caravan pass. Not a word. He stayed silent. He was there, stock still, even after Luke’s trailing waggon lumbered past. And all the time Boris had been speaking his fluent Welsh, not raising his voice. We rounded a tangle of thickets, out of sight. Boris stopped speaking.
‘Why didn’t you do that earlier, cleverclogs?’ I bawled back.
‘Luke said not to, Lovejoy.’
Another hour and we came to it. On a hill crest, before us lay a vast encampment of the festival. I reined in, appalled. Mynydd Mai in all its glory.
Ten thousand people, maybe plenty more, sprawled in one vast camp beneath a towering mountain. Fires, cooking smells and latrines, smoke, plastic blowing, a turmoil. A score of cack-handed vehicles limped in, a jubilant mob dancing to greet them. Horses, goats, sheep, dogs, dogs, dogs. Children with bare bums played around campfires, hencoops, geese honking. The pandemonium was unimaginable.
‘God Almighty!’ I said.
‘Quite a crowd.’ Boris and Phillida were with me. We had a vantage point. Behind us loomed a mountain. Across, the taller monster, Mynydd Mai. Slung between but still high was this vale and its broiling layer of humanity. Guitarists sat and strummed. No fighting, I noticed. Two young blokes were digging latrines, canvas shelters. Pigs rummaged, lads hacked firewood.
Luke came up with Rita. Humphrey exclaimed, deploring the sanitary arrangements, thinking cholera.
‘This it, Luke? The Promised Land?’ from me.
‘Not our bit, Lovejoy.’
‘Deo gratias.' I didn’t give a hoot now I was here. I’d be off soon. Dolly would be blundering around looking for me, ballocking thousands for improper behaviour. I could see a couple copulating with abandon. A dog nuzzled the undulating flesh. Whatever turns you on, I suppose, but in a crowd ...
Preacher cleared his throat. ‘ “Yet there is room!”’ he bellowed, the old Ira Sankey. ‘ “The Lamb’s bright hall of song, with its fair glo-o-ry, beckons thee al-o-o-ong.”’
‘Knock it off, Preacher,’ I said, tired. ‘The shoulder road, Luke?’ ‘That’s it, Lovejoy.’ And I swear Luke looked sad. Old Ironsides himself with a suggestion of sorrow? ‘Take your time,’ he said, the blighter. ‘No hurry now.’
That’s what you think, pal, I thought. We clambered into our waggons. Somebody said it was two miles, left branch.
We clopped into civilization forty minutes later. No Dolly, silly cow. I didn’t care. A new one-storey building, guarded by two smart guards with pick-handles. They knew we were coming. Several motors were already there. The place looked spic and span. Bath, clean clothes, a proper meal! I was free.
Preacher sang a celebration Sankey, ‘ “Look not be-hind thee; O sinner be-ware!”’ I wanted no more community living. I’d be sorry to part, even from Duchess and Mr. Lloyd, but I was on the starting block.
‘Hey, Preacher,’ I interrupted. ‘You know a hymn my Gran used to sing, “Hasten, Sinner”?’
Preacher bellowed, slightly off key, as we disembarked and looked about. ‘Stay not for the morrow’s sun’ was the bit I liked. I hummed along.
That welcome was curious. Rejoicing, I still had strange feelings. A constant background hum made me imagine being somewhere sleepy. The huge brawling encampment of the Visigoths on Mynydd Mai?
We took our belongings in. Then Luke, the pest, said to drive the caravans to a layby overlooking a lake, uncommonly high up. We did, backed the waggons to the edge, scotched the wheels with stones. I said ta to Ash and Pulse and walked back. Luke took the nags to some pasture.
There we were. We each had a room - bed, bathroom tacked on, smelling of new paint, window opening on a garden. In the reception lounge a pale Meg welcomed us among dignitaries. Her enthusiasm was meagre.
In this strained atmosphere Valerie Arden came smiling. There was a halting little ceremony amid flowers. Mrs. Arden spoke with conviction about the benefit patients were going to receive at the Myndydd Mai Rehabilitation Centre. Carl Arden was there. Mrs. Farahar sent word she would arrive with the Colonel. There were interviews for radio, irritable interviewers cursing until they read from the idiot boards with lifelike smiles.
A local dignitary presented something, and we were sent to unpack. We obeyed. Phillida and little Arthur were next door, Meg next to her and Rita across the corridor.
After an hour we were summoned to a banquet, the Farahars among us. Simon Doussy arrived, and Raddie and Chuck were said to be around somewhere. Carl Arden told me, when I wondered aloud, that Mrs. Divine’d be along shortly.
Dull as ditchwater, but great, for it was the end. The meal was a bore like all meals, though Arthur’s singing stole the show. I changed him before the pudding.
Luke gave a short speech saying thanks. I got a message from reception saying that one Dolly had visited earlier. She’d come for me about eleven tomorrow morning. I was so relieved. Colonel Farahar spoke emotionally of Wales and glory. We of the four caravans seemed to be the only patients so far. He promised great things for the universe. People clapped, though applause for a political speech means somebody’s being conned. After, we were dismissed, I caught Luke, who was with Mrs. Arden. She looked good enough to eat.
‘Luke?’ I didn’t ignore her. God knows I tried.
‘Yes, you can wander. Sign at reception.’
Better still. Stuck in Mynydd Mai I was freer plodding the roads. Dolly would come tomorrow, and I’d take off. The question, why was I here, I ignored, like a fool.
The evening was down to twilight when I walked from the rehab centre. I did a hesitation to show watchers I lacked plans. Then I ambled left.
It was a contour path. The fells were heather-strewn. The stunted trees had a rough time. Boulders were sharpened by primaeval forces. Lichens, moss, rugged mountains. I moved quicker. A glow rebounded from the slopes.
I came on to a promontory and stood. It was almost unbelievable. I’d seen one travvie trek years ago. That had been staggering enough. Here, it looked like a population drift, a city.
The smoke, the lantern pinpoints, campfires, the windows of a myriad vehicles, the sound made up of shouts, music, chants, singing, laughter, the din stopped thought. Children everywhere, couples in sexual throes with nobody taking a blind bit of notice. I’d be hard put to find Baptation. I didn’t think of Sister Cruza, honestly. I had my powder, Mercury’s universal coinage.
The ground was muddy. Plastic bags drifted across the scene like tumbleweed. Dogs squabbled. Children trotted industriously. Two lasses knelt astride blokes, their breasts swinging, chatting to each other, one leaning her elbows on her bloke’s chest like a navvie at a bar. I found somebody not so busily employed, and asked for Baptation.
‘A bus,’ I explained. ‘He came two days since.’
The youth I asked was far gone. I stopped him from tumbling into his fire, propped him against some sacks. He was eating porridge from a cauldron. ‘Bro Bap’s headwind, bro.’
‘Headwind? Where’s headwind?’
He snored. Worried, I dragged him to flop in safety. Better muddy than charred. I asked a band, bongos and stringed instruments, no antiques. The drummer helped by pointing. I picked my way through the camp trying to avoid muck and animals. Was headwind some pop group? There was a notice. Torches burnt, tar on plaited sticks stinking the place out.
‘Headwind?’ I started saying. A toddler, tugged me to Baptation’s vehicle.
‘Can you find your way home?’ I asked the little one, but it was off. I knocked, hung about. The old bus stood at an alarming angle, done for. Three goats nestled under a mudguard. Lanterns only now, I noticed, no battery power. A fire nearby had ashed to grey.
The camp had thinned. A road started a hundred yards off, lit by smoky torches, but downhill the main sprawl thrummed on max. Bap’s bus was guardian of the gate.
; ‘Headwind means riding point,’ a voice said.
Sister Cruza, in some garment that was half - as in vertically sectioned - stood in the vehicle’s doorway. She was as beautiful as when I’d fallen for her.
‘Er, I’m Lovejoy. I met...’
She smiled, tranquil, the firelight gold on her lovely hair. ‘I saw you in the driving mirror. You were very taken. I was at prayer.’
My throat managed to swallow. ‘Is Bap around, love?’
‘No. Come in.’ She moved ahead, sleepy. ‘Point is standing sentry duty.’
I entered the shambles. A regular thumping sounded on the upper deck, prayer going on. The sink was piled with crockery. Bus seats were heaped in a corner. The controls were a mass of wires. ‘What happened, er, Cruza?’
She sank to her knees, beckoned me close. I stood there like a lemon. An oil lantern burnt. The windows let in drizzle and noise. With patient indolence she undid my belt.
‘Bap’s at a meet about the threat.’ She looked surprised as I backed away. ‘I owe you one prayer, Lovejoy.’ ‘I don’t feel like praying, love. I’ve said my ...’
She reached in, fingers stroking away my willpower. ‘You must, Lovejoy. Prayer is godly.’
‘Look, love.’ I felt hot. ‘The children. You’re gorgeous, but I mustn’t offend Bap.’
‘The littles are abed.’ She pointed to the stack of seats, and sure enough several children kipped on them. ‘Bro Bon is praying with Sister Mela. We must share their funda.’
‘Funda?’ I saw her half-dress come away as she lay back. ‘Sex isn’t sharing anything, love.’
The Sin Within Her Smile Page 22
