Eric was fair, almost as tall but more solidly built. He lacked the bulk of Damien’s vivacity, and had his own sometimes monotonous blend of humour and taunting. Perhaps a little in revenge at Damien’s continuous teasing, he would monotonously chant aloud his doubt as to Carlotta’s regal claims. His face was square, and his eyes were a light brown. Every movement seemed to emphasise confidence and solidarity. His love of life was displayed in a quieter, more reserved outlook. Eric was a perfect foil to Damien; he was his opposite in temperament and yet shared his every pleasure. They enjoyed the rare privilege of being able to read each other’s thoughts in every detail. Easter, Whitsun, Bank Holiday and two months in the Winter were the only times they were together; astonishingly their friendship survived as if they had never been parted. Between these occasions the Fair travelled the country, returning with the cold weather for necessary repairs and renovations. This longest period they enjoyed the best—and also quarrelled the more incessantly. All this—and its memories—made Eric ecstatically happy.
“If I catch you playing with that little guttersnipe again, I’ll go straight to your father.”
She stood before him with pursed lips. Eric gazed up at his Mother, not with fear or annoyance, but with a gradual bewilderment at the density and stupidity of the adult world.
“And let me tell you, my boy, that once your father finds out, you’ll rue the day you ever met that band of hobbledehoys.”
Eric continued to stare at her with a puzzled frown—his mother made some very strange and irrational remarks sometimes. He decided to ignore her—but realised in his own mind that she was someone to be pitied. He simply gazed at her until she could bear it no longer, and not trusting her temper she left the room.
Carlotta would watch the boys play, smiling at her grandson’s devilry and admiring Eric’s resilience. Shortly after the argument over Carlotta’s origins, he had come shyly up the caravan steps, and asked her, point blank, if she were truly a Romany Queen. The old woman grinned slyly at him, and drew him over to a cardboard box which lay under her bunk.
“Am I a Romany Queen?” she had echoed. “Am I a Romany Queen?” She came close to Eric, and with a furtive look around her whispered, “I can prove I’m a Romany Queen—and what’s more, one of the most powerful Queens in the world.”
Eric remained unimpressed, staring up at her with serious brown eyes. Carlotta drew out the box with a swift movement of her long brown hand, and laid it on the table. Out of it she drew a stone, so highly coloured that it positively shone amidst the gloom of the caravan.
“See that?” she said, and her eyes twinkled alarmingly. Her brown wrinkled face gave away no secrets—it was just the eyes that made Eric wonder if she were a witch or a Queen or just an old woman having a joke. Her deep-set dark eyes flashed as she slid a small label bearing the inscription “A Present from Clacton” hurriedly out of sight. But Eric’s eyes were alternately fixed on her face and the glimmering multi-coloured stone. Veins of colour ran into its centre, delicate and rich tones were intermingled, to give an impression of constantly flowing light and shade. The whole presented a kaleidoscope of restless but muted pastel.
“This stone,” she continued, “was given to me by the last Romany Queen as she died. It is a talisman—it brings Good Luck, and it can weave spells. But see—there are more treasures”—Carlotta rummaged in the box again, and produced a ring, a highly coloured Rosary and a small silver knife. “See—this is the ring of Thor—rub it in a certain way, and the Thunder god will be summoned.” Carlotta paused speculatively. “The Rosary belonged to a mad nun who dabbled in the Black Arts—they walled her up,” she paused dramatically. “And the knife is of silver wrought by the little people. Polish it and you can see their shadows: wear it, and it will protect you against everything.”
Eric fingered it awesomely, and believed. Surely only a true Romany Queen would be in possession of these slightly frightening objects. His commonsense numbed, and his logic overridden, Eric left the caravan, to apologise to Damien. Inside, Carlotta fingered her treasures. After a while she began to laugh softly.
Seasons passed. The Fair came and went, and fleetingly four years went by. The boys changed very little, neither outwardly nor inwardly. Perhaps Damien came to rely a little more on Eric, and Eric became a little more independent. He became a fraction more serious minded, was inclined to be less easily diverted from his rigid simplicity, and became slightly more introverted. Damien grew a little taller, and his hair was more unruly. He still shouted and sang—perhaps a little louder. The common and the Fair, from early morning until dusk, continued to fascinate them.
The factories that surrounded the edge of the common reddened the sky in the evening with their furnaces. The wind tossed the smoke protestingly towards the twin ponds, set in the middle of the expanse and the strands drifted unwillingly spiralling and diving as each gust caught them. The water caught the glow, reflecting it blearily as a surface of crimson fire that was several tones too dark to resemble flame. Eric and Damien would often come to watch these effects at night, gazing at the dull red of the furnaces and listening to the rattling of the trains that passed slowly over the many points which wove their way around the base of the factories. They would stand silently watching, and then Eric would terrify Damien by telling him of the industrial horror of Poe’s cone. After this Damien would be anxious to hurry back to the sanctuary of lights and music that was so familiar to him, away from the horrors of the factories and the dull colour of heat and sound.
Sometimes Eric would stand there by himself, gazing at the dark, busy shapes. Once he heard what he had been told by his mother was “concrete music” on the radio. “Disgusting,” she had said. “It’s not music, it’s a lot of tin cans.” But listening carefully, he had heard the heavy steel hammers, the presses, the screams of winches and the roar of the fire as the furnace door was opened. At night it seemed a very beautiful thing, this oppressive monstrosity of a hidden sound and shape and the ever present throbbing colour.
“Real Romanies wear ear-rings,” chanted Eric one day. So Damien pierced his ears, bled freely and retired in discomfort. His bandaged ear lobes were a continual source of devilish amusement to Eric. Damien did not see the funny side of the affair.
“Romanies, like Indians, become blood brothers,” said Eric wickedly.
Predictably, Damien took out his penknife and tore rashly at his arm. Eric was several yards away, as Damien was pathetically about to pass the knife to him. There was no doubt as to Damien’s susceptibility over all Romany matters. However ridiculous the dare—proof of lineage was of the highest importance.
In return, Damien revenged himself on Eric with his continual sarcasm about his “Prep School Clothes”, his lack of freedom, his inherent respectability. Quite often these encounters would end in a fight—but rarely with any after-effect. They remained inseparable as they grew up, and the years passed in the same happy contentment as each day succeeded the other. When they were apart they dwelt on the memories of their times together, and when they were in each other’s company time flew only too fast.
Suddenly, or so it seemed to Carlotta, they were fourteen. It was one Easter when she realised that they were growing up—realised it and at the same time deeply regretted it. Perhaps it was only then that she knew how much she loved them—or perhaps it was simply that she realised she was growing older. Either way, she soon became radically depressed, and resolved to draw them close to her. She was now more conscious of how much time the boys spent with her, and decided pitifully to entertain them with meals: she even bought a television set, something that would have been unthinkable a few years ago. But they were not interested—especially with the Fair around them. If they had in any way outgrown Carlotta, they would certainly never outgrow the hypnosis of the lights and the vibrant music.
“Mister! Mister!” Damien shouted coarsely at the passing wagon.
The words ‘Brady’s Amusements’ were brashly painted on th
e sides of the converted bus that he had hailed. It ground protestingly to a halt, and an irritated face appeared from the cabin.
“Yes—what do you want?”
“If you want the Park, Mister, it’s over on the left—’bout a hundred yards.”
The season was Winter—late November, and it was dry and cold. At this time the machinery and vehicles were housed in a large covered park at the edge of the Common. Part of the Fair split up into sections over the summer months, and covered various coastal resorts, returning in the Autumn to the park for renovations. Here they stayed until Early Spring, the people of the Fair taking temporary but profitable jobs in the town’s factories during the Winter. This, then, was Damien’s intent in his directions to the rather surly driver.
“I don’t,” he returned, “and I’m not your bunch anyway.”
“Oh,” said Damien, unabashed, “then where are you going to?” He spoke as if there could be no other place to go to but his Fair. The man did not seem particularly disposed to talk, but threw out a remark that eluded Damien completely.
“I’m off to Emma Barnett’s funeral.”
“Who’s her?” demanded Damien lucidly.
“Miss Barnett? She’s—well—surely you know she’s Queen.”
“Queen of what?”
“Us—if you’re a Romany. She’s been dead two days, surely you all know that here, don’t you?”
“I told you she wasn’t,” declared Eric triumphantly. Damien regretted his compulsive honesty—then realised that to hide his discovery from Eric would have been unacceptable. Damien hardly knew what he felt—his discovery simply hazed his senses to a point where his reason had become clouded—perhaps, fortunately.
“Told you she wasn’t,” repeated Eric.
Damien leapt on to him, but only half-heartedly, and the fight was soon over, with Eric the victor. After a while Damien began to cry, slowly at first, then resorting to almost convulsive sobbing.
“Cry baby, cry,” chanted Eric recklessly, forgetful of the maturity of his fourteen years.
“Leave me—Eric, please leave me,” commanded Damien dramatically, mindful of the fact that he needed a more sympathetic audience. He rose to his feet, and ran between the caravans with a jeering Eric calling after him.
“Go and tell Grannie, then, go and tell Grannie all about it.”
In a few moments Eric regretted his teasing—he ran after Damien and failing to find him, walked miserably over to the twin ponds on the Common.
Damien said nothing to Carlotta for over ten days. He held the information in as a closely-guarded secret. Eric, anxious now for his friend’s peace of mind, avoided the subject. The discovery rapidly became a part of Damien, something that replaced a part of him that had slipped away. On the Wednesday of the following week he spoke to Carlotta, his voice breaking and his face flushed scarlet with the pain and the anger of the revelation. Carlotta said nothing to his first angry outburst and as he began to storm again she interrupted his oration, quietly but decisively.
“Damien—I feel a Queen still, and between all of us, I’ve been a Queen.”
“You’ve been a liar,” shouted Damien.
“No. I have been a Queen.” The old woman turned away from him and tears filled her eyes.
“You told me—you’ve always told me—that I’m a Romany, a real Romany. I believed you, but you’re a liar, a dirty liar.” Damien stuttered in his rage.
Carlotta turned, and with the return of her control she hit the boy sharply round the face. He stopped shouting, and began to cry, sobbing hysterically.
“Damien—listen to me, and look at me.” She gripped him firmly by the shoulders and raised his convulsed face to her own.
“I’ve been rather a silly old woman.” Her proud gipsy face looked almost as defiant as Damien’s. “Whatever I’ve said to you—whatever you’ve believed—is true in our world, dear—we’ve all believed in it, believed in make-believe. Let’s go on a little longer, shall we?”
“But I’m not a Romany—I’m not a Romany.”
“Damien,” she asked slowly, “do you love me?”
He nodded miserably.
“Do you love Eric?”
He nodded again and said disconsolately, “Eric thought I was a Romany, too.”
Carlotta smiled slowly. “You don’t need to be a Romany for him to love you, do you?”
“But I want to be a Romany,” Damien scowled.
“You don’t need to be a Romany for him to love you—do you?”
Damien stared up at her, his dark brow furrowed, and his eyes flashing up at her in their fiery intensity.
“Do you?” she repeated.
“No—he respects me, anyway,” was the stolid retort.
“Does he love you anyway?”
“Of course,” Damien scoffed back at her.
“Then—do I need to be a Romany Queen for you to love me?” She peered anxiously down at him, her hands still firmly placed on his shoulders. Her eyes met his, and she looked deep into Damien’s face, looking for—demanding, his reply.
“Of course not.” Damien threw this out, and looked steadily at the floor.
“Then,” said Carlotta gently, “can you not forgive an old fool?”
Damien took her hands from his shoulders and put both his arms round the old woman’s waist.
In the cold clear morning light a sun shaft caught part of a hillside and Eric raced towards it. The grass seemed to crackle with the stiff early dew, and his shoes were soon soaked. His feet crunched on a horse ride, and pale sunlight trickled through a leaden sky. Brambles were laced with cobwebs, frozen into perfection, by the slight hoar frost, and suddenly Eric saw a great spreading patch of sunlight creeping up the hill. Soon he was in its temporary pallid warmth, feeling deliciously the contrast with the grey stillness that he had been racing through. As suddenly as it came the sun seemed to sweep over him, obscured by the folds of the heavy clouds. As the grey sky drew across the face of the sun the beams seemed to dance ahead, leaping to the top of a rise and taking refuge in a hollow. But they were not quick enough to avoid the inevitability of the encroaching cloud.
Damien, shivering slightly in the grey dawn, stared down at the unbroken surface of the ponds. He picked up a stone and threw it in. Ripples slowly spread outwards as the stone sank and he watched them intently nudge the weeds at the edge, sending them nodding sedately. He looked up and towards the bulk of the factory surround, the intricacies of their features bound into a shapeless, ungainly mould in the early morning light. The sun broke through for an instant on the roof of one of the buildings, making the tiles wink and gleam brightly and fleetingly towards him. He wished the beams would touch the surface of the ponds, sending a myriad of shimmering light-toned reflections up to him. But the water remained lifeless and it seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the grey surface by throwing in another stone. Damien sighed and scuffed his feet in the mud at the side of the twin ponds.
Carlotta, frying bacon, huddled over the smoky, invitingly warm stove. She would have to go outside and fetch the milk in a moment, and she was not relishing the prospect. The kettle began to sing, and she hunted under the bed for a slipper which had fallen off. As she groped her gaze lighted on her cardboard box of treasures. She smiled.
“Hello, gipsy,” Eric shouted as they met by the twin ponds. Damien laughed, and tried to make a grab at him. But Eric was too quick for him, and was already running back to the huddled, untidy clutter of tents and caravans. With a shout Damien gave chase. The two boys ran over the wet grass, towards their breakfast and the new day.
Children With Flowers
His mouth was dry and stale and the road stretched before him, leading him further and further into the untidy jungle of anonymous suburbia—leading him to the place where Emma was. The October afternoon was grey and enclosed in a light inconsequent drizzle that had not ceased since he had left London. His untidy mood and brackish throat had begun just after lunch—when he knew he wo
uld have to leave the office and drive out to—Emma.
There was something heavy and sluggish about the sleek car, and he wound down the window in an attempt to clear the smoke-laden atmosphere. The warm damp air did nothing to relieve the fug and he soon closed the window irritably. He drew into a garage, switched off the engine and asked for petrol, air and more cigarettes. Then he climbed stiffly out of the car and went into the lavatory. He studied an obtrusive poster on the wall and thought abstractedly how much simpler it would have been if only Emma had the disease mentioned. Irrelevantly he imagined his sister applying for the prescribed treatment—and his thoughts swung back abruptly to the real treatment. His sister Emma—the relationship, in the circumstances, sounded unreal. She was unreal—every part of her was alien. That they should be linked seemed impossible. Not revolting nor degrading nor unpleasant—simply unreal. Staring at the peeling pencil-scarred plaster he tried to imagine her as she was. But he was thinking of a different person—Emma then and Emma now—two entirely different people. Their personalities were in no way associated.
He buttoned up his flies and walked out on to the forecourt of the garage. Attendants buzzed around the low-slung car—anxious bees trying to find another square inch of chrome to polish. Suddenly he felt imperious and would like to have dismissed them with a clap of his hands. They charged him eighteen shillings, half a crown of which was compensation for their diligent scurrying.
A Pocketful of Rye Page 13
