As it was a warm day, he elected to sit on the caravan-step, and she was secretly relieved that he had not come in. But as he sipped his tea, curiosity finally got the better of good manners. `If you don`t mind me saying so, it`s unusual to find a woman travelling the roads on her own in a caravan,`
Here we go, she thought, alarm bells ringing in her head. Why on earth had she offered him refreshment? With him sitting on the step, she could not pull the door to, and he could be inside in seconds – fool-me! -- what`ve I done?
When she did not respond, he smiled quizzically. `I guess I said the wrong thing there, didn`t I, missus?`
Don`t upset him, she decided, feigning bravery. `It`s just the way things are, since I lost my husband.` This gets worse, she scolded herself – what am I saying? -- I sound as if I`m asking for it.`
The young driver did not offer any suggestive remarks, however, a look of understanding dawning on his face. `He gone to his rest, missus?`
`Yes. I suppose you could say that.` To her embarrassment, tears flooded down her face.
`I`m sorry for your loss. Was he a good man to you?` Another odd remark – what business was that of this stranger?
`He was.` The first shock of bereavement over, she was coming to appreciate just how much Tom had meant to her. `Nobody could`ve had a better husband.`
`Then you`ll see him again in the New Order.` From his pocket, her Good Samaritan handed her a fold of printed paper embellished with garish pictures of smiling people, sunshine, and idealised landscapes. `Read this, and take heart. We`re living in critical times hard to deal with just now, but thing will change. No more sickness and dying, and those we love`ll be raised to us again when the time`s right.`
`Thank you. I will read it, I promise.` Sylvia laid the leaflet on the table, fighting an upsurge of laughter -- Of all the roads I might`ve taken, and all the people I might`ve met, how on earth have I managed to land myself with probably the world`s only Jehovah`s Witness lorry-driver? But she should not make mock. He had been kind beyond expectation, and she wished him Godspeed as he drove away with a cheery wave of the hand from his open window.
Mobile once more, where should she go? On one score her mind was made up – she would not stay again in the city where night-shadows crawled with menace. What`s gone wrong with this country? she asked herself -- when we went to Amsterdam, we walked through the red-light district at midnight, and I felt safer in a place like that, among foreign strangers, than I do here in the country where I`ve spent my whole life. Best to head for the Borderlands again, she decided. There, she had never been afraid to close her eyes at night.
Too tired at the moment to face the two hours-or-so of driving necessary to get her back to North Northumberland, she left the motorway and followed signs towards Brougham where, she recalled, there had been an open field with a few derelict farm buildings near a ruined castle. She found the field easily enough, but a startling change had come over it since her last visit. A motley array of elderly vans, buses, camper-vans and caravans occupied what had formerly been empty land. Travellers, Sylvia realised – now what do I do?
Her arrival attracted immediate interest. Surrounded by a rabble of scrawny dogs and shouting children as soon as she pulled-up, she remained sitting behind the wheel, wondering what on earth had possessed her to drive on to their parking-ground. `Are you coming to stop here, missus?` a small girl asked as Sylvia wound down her window cautiously.
`If I can.` Though inquisitive, the child seemed to present no threat, and in any case her father and mother appeared at once, calling her out of the way. To Sylvia`s surprise, the young woman was heavily pregnant -- how could anybody contemplate bringing a baby into this situation? However, they looked like reasonable people and Sylvia decided to speak to them. `Is it all right if I stop on here with you?`
The man looked doubtfully at her car and caravan, both too smart for their surroundings. `It`s no skin off my nose, lady, but wouldn`t you sooner be on a proper site?`
`I can`t afford to.`
`You and us both,` the young woman remarked, `but we`ll most likely not be stopping long. The Law`ll be here any day to move us on, I expect.`
`The only reason we`ve not been shifted already is, they`ve got to check on the kids, to make sure we don`t neglect`em.` The young father looked affronted. `As if! We`re just as good at looking after our kids as anybody else is of theirs. Stop here if you want – nobody`s bothered.`
Relieved by her reception, Sylvia retreated to the caravan for a couple of hours` sleep, briefly interrupted by the sounds of children at play. The noise did not upset her, awakening memories of Patty`s offspring shouting and laughing in the museum garden. If I shut my eyes I can be there, and see them all again, she mused -- I wish I could go back -- I need to get my life together before much longer, but my home`s gone, and I couldn`t face living with Paul and Delia again. However, there was nothing to be gained by worrying about the future at this juncture. Could the laid-back attitude of the New Age Travellers possibly be infectious, she wondered as she drifted off to sleep.
Awakening refreshed, she went outside to take a closer look at the encampment, wondering what Tom would have made of it. Not a lot, probably - he had never had any time for people living alternative lifestyles. It must be almost dinner-time now, the air full of the smell of cooking from camp-stoves and open fires. Near the rear-doors of an elderly Transit van, the couple she had encountered earlier – answering to the curious names of Indian and Sunflower – were sitting on the grass, with a young child presumably their daughter, to partake of their meal, and waved to her.
Reminded of how hungry she was, Sylvia searched the caravan for suitable supplies. Tinned stewing-steak, baked beans, tinned potatoes and peas all flung together in the same pan and stirred briskly looked revolting, but she enjoyed it as if it had been the finest of gourmet meals. Seated opposite her, Thomas and his silly fixed-grin continued to raise her spirits – he had been worth buying for that alone. `This`s the life, eh?` she remarked, beaming back at the bear. `Sorry I haven`t left you any, but you can lick the plate while I`m out.` Ye gods, talking to a stuffed bear! she scolded herself -- it`s high-time I made for home, if this`s the best I can do.
With nothing to occupy her after lunch, she sat out on the step, watching traffic passing on the A66, and getting to know some of the travellers who – for the most part – seemed likeable enough. `Is it right, we`re getting moved on?` she asked a young man covered in a range of tattooed flowers, hearts and daggers, at the same time mentally noting that she had used the word We. It sounded as if she had joined their unorthodox lifestyle already.
Her companion`s response was not encouraging. `More than like. We never get to stop anywhere very long.`
Indian glanced skywards, sighing deeply. `I hope it`s not today. I`d sooner not be on-the-move, with Sunflower the way she is. She`s due to drop the kid any minute, and if she starts while we`re on the road, God knows what we`ll do.`
That would be unthinkable, Sylvia agreed, `Let me know if there`s any way I can help when her time comes.`
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a smart navy-blue car, at sight of which the tattooed man laughed shortly. `Hoh! Here we go!`
`Have they come to evict us?` Sylvia was not sure whether the tight feeling in her chest was anticipation or fear.
`No. There`s only two of them, and no cops. They`ll be from the Social, to see if we got nits, and why we don`t go to school.` That her informant should be a small boy occupied in juggling a tennis-ball from one foot to the other hardly surprised her at all. Everyone on the site seemed far more worldly-wise than herself.
Her companions were quickly proved right. The two social-workers, male and female, began visiting each of the makeshift homes in search of malnourished or neglected children, making notes and tutting over the replies. Losing interest, Sylvia returned to her caravan to make another cup of tea, interrupted by a brisk knocking on the door.
Apparently under the im
pression that Sylvia was a regular member of the group, the woman social-worker had called to interview her. She had a short efficient-looking haircut and fashionable glasses, and Sylvia disliked her immediately.
`Could I have your name, please`
`Brandon.`
`And how many children are travelling with you?`
`None.`
Seeming surprised by the neatness and comfort of the caravan -- and perhaps by the recent registration of the car hitched to it – the woman tried another tack. `Are you living permanently in this caravan, Ms. Brandon.`
`It all depends on what you mean by Permanently. I haven`t got any other home to go to, right this minute. Social Services in Newcastle were trying to find me a place, but all they`ve got are grotty bed-sits.`
The woman frowned at her. `Homes for rent don`t grow on trees. When there are any, they go to families. A bed-sit`s most likely all their budget allows for re-housing a single person. But surely what you`ve been offered must be better than living in a caravan?`
`No. I`d sooner stop here.`
`Whatever for?`
`I`m an eccentric millionaire.` The feeling of power that flippancy gave her was invigorating as well as satisfying
The woman again adopted the officious tone that had annoyed Sylvia from the outset. `How are you managing financially?`
`What`s that got to do with you?`
The woman`s face was a picture of long-suffering and patience. `I`m simply trying to ascertain how you manage to live.`
`Widow`s Benefit, and a few pounds from my late husband`s occupational pension-fund.`
`And how is it paid to you?`
Irritated, Sylvia cut her off abruptly. `Why are you asking all these questions? I thought you were here to check up on the welfare of the kids. I haven`t got any, so why are you bothering me?`
`Only because I`m surprised to see a woman of your obvious good background living a life like this. It might be worth calling at the Benefit Office in Penrith to see whether you`re entitled to help to get out of your current situation.`
Sylvia`s surprise was genuine. `Am I eligible for anything?`
`That`s not my department,` the woman said, abandoning her attempt to make notes of the conversation. `I`m not a benefit-clerk, I`m a social worker. We don`t deal with claims. We`re only here to assess whether the travellers – and particularly their children – are living in adequate conditions. If you were allowed anything, you`d have to collect it daily.`
`What! Trip backwards and forward into Penrith every day? That`s madness! I`m not even in Cumbria every day.` Sylvia retorted, beginning to enjoy the confrontation. `Other folks seem to get plenty, without all this carry-on.`
The woman glared at her. `Not if they`re in your position. Persons of No Fixed Abode can`t have payments given by Order Book – you have to re-register every day.`
`This is my abode.`
`It doesn`t count as a proper address, so you wouldn`t be issued with a Benefit Book, even if you qualify.`
`Do you mean to say I`d have to go through all this palaver every place I park-up, if I did want to claim benefit?`
`Those are the rules for all persons of No Fixed Abode.`
`So if I got myself an Abode?`
`Then the Benefit Office would issue you with a book, if you turned out to be eligible,` the woman said triumphantly, with the air of a card-player trumping an opponent`s Ace.
Displeased to find herself classed as a vagrant, Sylvia struggled to make sense of the apparently-senseless. `As long as I live in the van and don`t claim benefit, I`m not costing the taxpayers a penny. Where`s the harm in me living like this if I`m happy?`
`I`ve explained to you what the position is,` the woman reiterated. `My only concern is whether you`re in any physical need, distress or danger as a result of your living-conditions.`
`I`m not. And if I`ve got to trash-about from one place to another to collect benefit every day, no matter where I am, I don`t want help, so there`s no more to be said.` Sylvia folded her arms and sat back, enjoying the look of frustration on the social worker`s face.
`But you can`t go on living in this caravan indefinitely. You won`t be allowed to park anywhere permanently without permission.`
`Britons never shall be slaves!` Sylvia jeered, pouring herself another cup of tea and offering the woman a cup.
Her visitor waved the teapot away, tutting under her breath. `It`s not a question of slavery. There have to be rules.`
`Yes, but do they have to be such silly rules? If I part with the van, you`ll have to find me some place to live, and the taxpayer`ll have to foot the bill for my rent. If I keep using the van as my home, the money I`ve got will be enough to keep the wolf from the door. I can draw it out with a cash-card wherever I am, without all this palaver of signing-on every day.`
The woman made no effort to hide her irritation. `This sort of lifestyle`s all very well for these hippies, but surely a woman of your age . . .`
`What has my age got to do with it?` Sylvia enquired in a dangerous tone. `I may not be as young as you, but I do know that people matter more than rules and regulations. If I don`t mind living in my caravan rather than a house, what skin is that off your nose?`
`I keep trying to explain that you won`t be allowed to pitch anywhere other than on a licensed site. There won`t be much difference between paying site-fees for a week, and renting a flat, for which you could probably get Housing Benefit if you`re as badly-off as you say. Where will you go when the sites close-down for the winter? It would be far more sensible to get yourself somewhere more permanent.`
`And find myself paying Council Tax, gas, electricity, water and what-have-you? I`d be left with nothing-a-week to live on,` Sylvia insisted, wondering why she felt so calm when what the situation cried out for was hysterical laughter.
`A widow`s-pension isn`t going to keep you in luxury. In a proper house or flat you could well be entitled to financial help you`ll never get as long as you stay on the road. How will you manage otherwise?`
A few lines of comic verse sprang to mind. `The same way as John Stuart Mill, I expect.`
`WHAT?` snapped the woman.
`By a mighty effort of will.` Sylvia dipped a biscuit into her tea as the woman left in a mixture of concern, anger and absolute bewilderment.
Euphoria did not last long, however, for the social worker was right about one thing. At the end of October, almost every touring-site would close-down until Easter. Once more she would be reduced to fly-parking in places of possible danger – and in cold weather, the temperature would fall to the point where the gas would not light, meaning no heating for the van, and no more hot meals unless she bought them. I won`t be able to manage through winter without a fire, she admitted to herself -- I can`t go on like this for much longer -- it`s over three months since Tom died, so I should be thinking about the future now, not drifting around like this, with nowhere I can stay-put, and no plans.
There would also be a good side to settling down. With a permanent address, she would be able to get back some of her possessions stored in Jenny`s workshop, and make a new home that might feel more like the old. She might find a job, perhaps even go back and see Mrs. Hillier. If nobody interrupted this time, she would maybe get a message from Tom. And most of all, she would once more be able to hold the grandchildren she so much loved and missed.
But one drawback forced her to keep on-hold her dream of returning to Newcastle. Until she got that new home, where would she live? With Paul and Delia? -- I don`t think so! -- Patty hasn`t got room, and I won`t be able to park the van in her path, with it being a council-house -- I know they would let me, but they might lose the tenancy if anybody reports them, and they don`t deserve that. Life with her unconventional companions was not so bad. For the moment, at least, it would have to suffice.
The next few days passed peacefully. Although the occasional police-car patrolled intimidatingly back and forth along the main road, no attempt was made to move the travellers on, pending the results
of the assessment of the children and their needs. Enjoying the feeling of safety-in-numbers, Sylvia relaxed enough to sleep peacefully for three nights on-the-trot. At the first hint of danger, the motley army of dogs around the camp would raise the alarm.
By the fourth day in that haphazardly-tranquil atmosphere, she felt strong-minded enough to resume sorting-out Tom`s paperwork, and dragged out another box for perusal. The contents proved no more significant than previous finds – an old office calendar, probably saved for its pictures, and some self-build magazines. Tom had once cherished the ambition to self-build a house for their retirement, and even had his eye on a plot of land for sale near Hexham. But many years had gone by since then – the land must have been sold to someone else long ago, and Tom was no longer around to build anything.
Incredible amounts of petrol-station vouchers, meant to be exchanged for gifts, were only fit for dumping in the first bin she came across - how long has he had these?- does anybody still redeem them nowadays?
At that moment, her work was interrupted unexpectedly by a loud banging on the door.
NINE
Her visitor was the young man she had come to know as Indian, his customary cheerfulness changed to agitation. `Have you got a mobile phone, missus?`
`Sorry, I`m afraid I haven`t. Why? What`s wrong?`
`Sunflower`s gone into labour, and I think I`ll have to get her to A & E – unless you know aught about delivering babs?` he added hopefully.
`Not enough,` Sylvia admitted. `What are you going to do?`
`Take her to the hospital in our van.`
`If they keep Sunflower in hospital, are you staying with her?`
`You bet! She wants me to be there for the birth.`
In which case there was a complication he had apparently not foreseen. `What about your little girl?`
Indian looked vague. `Ripple? What about her?` Taking note of Sylvia`s doubtful expression, he guessed wrongly at its cause. `You don`t like the name.`
A Long Road Through The Night Page 10
