by M. P. Wright
I watched as Truth slowly and silently walked up to me, a neatly folded blue shirt and a pair of men’s pinstripe trousers in her outstretched arms. She carefully placed the clothes on top of a small chest of drawers at the foot of the bed then came and stood at my feet and looked at me, tilting her head inquisitively. I saw the corner of her mouth tremble a little as she bit nervously at her bottom lip before plucking up the courage to speak.
“Who’s Ellie, Joseph?”
Truth’s out-of-the-blue enquiry hit me harder and meaner than a prizefighter’s uppercut. I felt my body straighten and my fingers ball into nervous fists. My head became woozy as it filled itself with cruel echoes from my veiled past. I felt myself choking back the wall of tears that had begun to well in my eyes as I struggled to find the painful words that the little girl beside me patiently waited to hear me speak.
28
The sky outside was blue and clear, the air still and humid. I stood unsteadily at the foot of the steep steps of the caravan, closed my eyes then rested my back against the porch entrance for a moment and let the heavy rays of the sun warm my face. I rubbed at the stubble on my cheeks and jowls and opened my eyes. It took them a moment to become accustomed to the brightness of the hazy June day. The caravan had been unhitched underneath the canopy of an oak tree, its heavy branches laden with the season’s full bloom of leaves, hanging down towards the ground. The old tree offered a welcome umbrella of shade to two large piebald horses, which were securely tethered by long lengths of navy rope to a couple of metal pegs hammered into the parched earth. Around me was a dense wooded area that acted as a secluded perimeter to a meadow of rich green grass populated by shining buttercups and wilting dandelion heads.
By my side was an old ex-army two-man tent that had been pitched next to the remains of a dug-out campfire that still smouldered in a shallow pit. Above the glowing embers, tied to a metal tripod, an iron pot filled with hot water steamed. Its opaque vapours gently rose into the air and wafted towards a row of drying clothing that had been hung on a makeshift washing line that was hitched by a thin cord between the limbs of two trees. I caught sight of my own jacket, shirt and trousers hanging next to a woman’s bra and lace underwear. I felt myself flush with embarrassment. Averting my gaze, I turned sheepishly and took a closer look at the place that had been my overnight refuge.
The brightly coloured paintwork of the bow-topped Gypsy caravan was as extravagant and ornate outside as it was indoors. A large weatherboard hung over the ornate wooden stained-glass door, and carved on each side of the entrance were two vicious-looking lion’s head gargoyles that gave off the appearance that they were protecting the mobile domicile. Either side of the van above the waist boards were four small sash windows, the inside of the travellers’ home masked by lengths of decorative lace curtain. I rubbed admiringly with the flat of my hand across the flamboyantly decorated fascia; the fancy painted wood panels felt warm and comforting to the touch.
“There he is then, an’ about time too.”
I turned on my heels and found the woman called Drina standing a few feet behind me. She smiled then rested both hands leisurely on her hips.
“So, you’ll be liking the vardo then?”
“The what?”
“The vardo . . . our wagon.”
“Oh, yes, it’s beautiful.”
Drina laughed to herself. “Beautiful, is it . . . Listen to ye. Ye wouldn’t be saying that in the dead o’ winter when it leaks and feels like a fecking icebox inside there.”
“Maybe so . . . I’m still tryin’ to acclimatise myself to the winters over here. It’s certainly very different from home.” I chuckled thoughtfully to myself.
“And where’d home be then?”
“Barbados.”
“Never heard of the place. Is that in Africa?”
“The Caribbean – a long way from here, that’s for sure.”
“A long way, ye say. Ye a travelling man then, Joseph?”
“More of a runnin’ man at the minute.”
“Running . . . from what?”
“Seems just ’bout damn near everyting.”
Drina looked lovingly at her home and at the wooded area behind us. “None of my people have ever been great ones for running; besides, it ain’t easy to get to the gallop when yer towing ye bloody home behind you.”
I nodded my groggy head in agreement then took a couple of steps away from the caravan and felt my body teeter forward slightly. Drina reached out toward me and took hold of my arm just underneath my elbow and rested her body against my own.
“Ye look like a corpse, fella. Ye need to neck a brew.”
“Neck a what?”
“A brew.” Drina raised an arm up into the air in disbelief at my ignorance. “Tea, ye eejit . . . I’ll go mash ye a cup. Ye sit yerself down, ye can wait here for my old fella: he’s the one that found ye and the child in the woods last night.”
I sank down onto the edge of a large log that had clearly been left for future firewood. I stretched out my aching legs and watched as a bee, its familiar low drone echoing in my ears, flew from flower to flower, sipping nectar and collecting grains of pollen, which it held in huge yellow sacs at the backs of its legs. I looked out across the meadow. In the middle of the grassland I could see both Truth and the boy, Connell, sitting. She was happily chatting away to her new-found friend, something that took me back a little at first. Since we’d met she’d been reticent about opening up to me, choosing to speak to the other adults she had met. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to ask me the question about my deceased wife, Ellie, earlier, it was me that had been struck dumb. I’d shooed her out of the caravan door, telling her that I needed to get dressed and that I’d maybe answer her question later. Despite my own aloofness on the subject matter and my reticence to answer to her, it was good to see Truth relaxed and in the company of another child of her own age.
I felt drained and tense; my body twitched and jumped. The skin on the palms of my hands itched and was clammy to the touch. I took a deep breath and let the continuing warmth of the sun caress my head and neck. I tried to loosen myself up by rolling my shoulders back and forth; the muscles creaked and groaned inside as I tried to work out the tension. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of birdsong. My troubled mind began to unwillingly trawl back over the dark events that had occurred during the last few days, remembering the violent death of Doc Fowler and reflecting on the presumed demise of both Benny and Lazarus. Once again, not only had I brought trouble and bloodshed into my own life, I’d gone on to share a fair deal of that unwelcome misery with innocent folk who hadn’t deserved to be touched by such cruel misfortunes. Under my breath, I cursed myself, berating my own stupidity and lack of good judgement. I’d let the desire to make a fast buck turn my head and, in doing so, had dragged myself up to my neck into a mire of trouble. With my eyes still shut, I quickly became lost in a world of my own bleak thoughts. Wallowing in self-pity and anger, I failed to hear the sound of someone moving towards me.
“Well, look at that . . . the phari’s managed to raise himself outta his pit, has he?”
Startled, I shot to my feet, my fists clenched, my body stooped like a boxer about to bolt out of his corner after hearing the clang of a bell. Heading towards me was a short, muscular, big-set man, his barrel chest arched out in front of him. His determined gait was more of a swagger than a natural walking movement. He was dressed like an English country gent out on a morning’s grouse shoot. A thick red polka-dot neckerchief was tied tightly around his throat and a faded black bowler hat tipped precariously across the front of his lined forehead completed the stranger’s unusual look. In one hand he carried a heavy-looking hessian sack and in the other an antique shotgun. He laid both down on the ground and moved a little closer towards me.
“Take it easy, fella. What’s a matter wid ye, don’t like to be called phari?”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet ye have. Sit yer
arse back down on that tree stump, fella, before ye fall down.”
I did as I was told and dropped back heavily onto the makeshift seat.
“So, what name did the Lord Almighty be giving ye then?”
“Joseph, my name’s . . . Joseph.”
“Is that right, Joseph? Well, don’t ye have a truly biblical name, that’s for sure.” The big man suddenly smiled at me then stretched out a tanned, muscular, heavily tattooed arm and stuck a calloused, hard-looking hand in front of me. “I’m Milo Hughes.”
I took hold of the man’s hand and we shook, his grip firm, the stubby fingers and huge palm rough to the touch. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Hughes.”
“Stop with the Mr Hughes malarkey: call me Milo.”
I nodded back at him. “It would appear I owe you a debt of gratitude, Milo.”
“Get ta bugger. Gratitude, for what?”
“Your wife told me that it was you that found the girl and me out in the woods last night.”
“I did. Finding ye wasn’t the bother. It was the carrying ye back.” The big man grimaced then looked at me sternly for a moment before winking mischievously up at his wife, who had just arrived carrying two white enamel mugs filled with steaming-hot tea. Drina passed over one of the mugs to her husband before handing me the other. She put her hand on top of my shoulder then pointed behind her towards the caravan.
“I just put the pan on, will ye have a fry?”
I had no idea what she was talking about and didn’t get the chance to answer her peculiar question. Milo snapped at his wife, “Course the fella will, from the look o’ him he could do with a good plateful. Cook Joseph and me here up a pound o’ rashers, there’s a good girl.”
Drina shot her husband a hard stare. “Less o’ the ‘good girl’ from ye, and pass me up that sack by yer feet.”
Milo did as he was told and handed over the bag to his wife. “There’s four good-size rabbits in there. I’ll gut an’ skin ’em after me fry.” Milo clapped his hands together and nudged me hard in the shoulder with the tip of this elbow before rubbing at his belly with the flat of his hand. “I do like a good fry, Joseph, and my Drina knows how ta cook a grand one. I tell ye now, yer in for a treat for sure, fella.”
Milo looked out across the meadow and pointed at Truth. “The chavi there, she belongs to you then?”
“No . . . She’s ain’t my kin. You could say the child’s in my safekeeping for a while.”
“Safekeeping? I never heard it called that. From what or who are ye keeping her safe?
“I ain’t exactly sure any more.”
“Maybe it’s from those gobshites that were on to the pair o’ yous last night?”
I felt my guts sink and looked up gravely at Milo. “Did you see any of them?”
“No, I didn’t need ta, they was making enough o’ a din out there in dark for me to know they was up ta no good. Me and the boy were setting pike traps down by the stream. We found you up on the side o’ the bank, that child was clutching on ta yer hand for dear life, God bless her.”
“And they didn’t see you?”
Milo looked down at me indignantly. “Fella, I work this land at night for a living, an’ I bin doing it for as long as I can tink. I only get seen when I wants ta be seen.”
Against my better judgement, I pushed another question at the big man. “And you don’t think you were followed?”
“Followed? Out there, I don’t tink so.” Milo jabbed his thumb towards the woods. “The stream ye crawled outta is a mile an’ a half from here. I know that cos I know my miles and I know I carried yer heavy phari hide over my shoulder ta get ye back here. Nobody followed me or my boy, get that inta yer t’ick skull.”
Milo left me with his words ringing in my ears. He walked back to the caravan and went inside and then moments later returned and stood in front of me. In his hand he held the army holdall Lazarus had given to me. Milo dropped it at my feet. I reached down, undid the straps and opened it up. Inside, everything was the same as when I had packed it. On top of a heap of damp children’s clothes sat my wristwatch, revolver and the envelope containing the wad of dirty money that the cop, Beaumont, had given to me in exchange for Truth. I looked back up at Milo, but he was already walking away from me back towards his wife and home. I was about to call out after him to offer my thanks when his gravelly voice bellowed back at me.
“We’re tinkers, not thieves, Joseph.”
I’ve heard it said, “I never wonder to see men wicked, but I often wonder to see them not ashamed.” At that very moment I felt the evils of both wickedness and shame wrap themselves around my insides and begin to draw me into a bleak and tempered underworld reserved only for the wretched.
29
We Barbadians have a word for the stupid or foolish. We call those blighted with the continual ill-fated ability to be unthinking or thick-headed as “dumpsy”. To this day I can still hear my momma scolding my sister, Bernice, and me with the same old phrase whenever we’d been thoughtless or imprudent: “You, listen, you, de higher de monkey climb, de more he does show he tail.” My assumption that Milo would have taken the opportunity to root through our belongings in the holdall or perhaps pilfered something said much about my own suspicious nature and my inability to see the inherent decency in my fellow man.
Drina had cooked a wonderful late breakfast of thick-cut bacon, fried duck eggs, tomatoes and field mushrooms, the hearty food piled mountain high and dished up on pristine-looking willow-pattern china plates. With the sun high in the sky, its warmth beating at our backs, we’d all eaten our meal outside at a large fold-out camping table complete with a fine linen tablecloth and an antique Georgian silver cutlery and cruet set. Milo and Drina Hughes were fine and generous hosts, and their hospitality and good grace was unexpected and very welcome. I had a lot to thank both of them for, more than they could have ever realised.
After we’d all finished eating, Drina, Milo and I sat in silence for a while and watched as Truth and Connell ran and played in the meadow in front of us. I nervously looked down at my wristwatch; it was just after one in the afternoon. I stared back over at Truth and down at the holdall sat at my feet.
Drina leant forward slightly in her chair and gently placed her hand on my arm. “Ye got somewhere important ye gotta be, Joseph?”
“No . . . I’ve lost track of the time, that’s all.”
I watched as Drina turned and looked knowingly at her husband. She took his hand in her own and squeezed it gently then looked back at me and pointed at my watch.
“Ah, time . . . It’s easy ta lose when ye live the life o’ a Romany, for sure it is. Ye probably noticed, we don’t go much for man’s time round here.”
I nodded. “Tings do move kinda slowly, I’ll give you that.”
“Better to move slow and know where ye are than move fast and be lost, Joseph.” Drina smiled at me. “Milo and me are tinking you might just be lost an’ in need o’ pointing in the right direction. All ye gotta do is ask, fella.” Drina got up out of her seat and began collecting the plates from the table and carried them back into the caravan. Milo drank the last of his tea and set the mug down on the table then pulled out a brass lighter and a packet of Woodbine cigarettes from his jacket pocket, stuck one in his mouth then offered one to me.
“No thanks. I don’t.”
Milo shrugged his shoulders and lit his cigarette, taking a long draw on it and blowing the smoke out across the table towards me. I pointed to the packet of smokes.
“I used to work where they made those.”
Milo looked at his Woodbines. “What, the fag factory? Geddaway wid ye, is that a fact?”
I nodded my head and laughed to myself. “I managed to stay in the job all of ten months befo’ I was given the sack.”
“Given the sack, ye say. Were ye on the fiddle?”
“No . . . But a man called Meeks wasn’t too keen on the way I worked.”
“Or on the colour o’ yer skin, I’d wager?”
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I raised my eyebrows and didn’t reply.
Milo took another deep pull on his cigarette. “What kinda troubles you in, fella?”
I looked down at the ground and swallowed hard before returning to make eye contact with the big man. “The worst kind. The sort that strangers shouldn’t be drawn into, Milo.”
Milo slapped the table and laughed. “Fella, I was born in trouble, you let me be the judge if I wanna be drawn inta yours or not. Who was it on yer tail last night?”
I took a deep breath before replying. “Two men by the name of Paxton and Jardine, along with some of their buddies.”
“They gavvers?”
“What the hell are gavvers?”
Milo blew out a sharp breath of air and shook his head at me in despair. “Is it the filth that is onta ye? Ye know . . . the police.”
I nodded my head. “Yeah. American and English police.”
“Yanks . . . What would Yankee gavvers want with a phari fella like yourself?”
I pointed across the meadow towards Truth.
“The chavi?” Milo sat back in his chair and took another deep drag on his cigarette then pointed one of his stubby fingers at my face. “Ye snatch that poor youngster?”
“No.” I felt my shoulders sink as I spoke. My head ached, pain nagging again at my temples. I rubbed at my forehead with the tips of my fingers to try and work out the discomfort. I heard Milo drop his cigarette into the dregs of his tea mug.
“Joseph, why don’t ye tell me just what the devil is going on?”
And that’s exactly what I did. For the next ten minutes I sat and explained everything that had happened to Truth and me over the last few days. I felt like the sinner seeking the sacrament of penance, my soul and sins opening up inside a confessional of my own making. Milo sat and listened to me unburden my woes without uttering a solitary word. When I had finished talking, he pulled himself forward in his chair and tapped at the top of the table with his finger.
“And what is it I can do to help, fella?”
