Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  CARAVAN OF THE LOST AND LEFT BEHIND

  by Deirdre Shanahan

  Imprint

  Copyright © Deirdre Shanahan 2019

  First published in 2019 by

  Bluemoose Books Ltd

  25 Sackville Street

  Hebden Bridge

  West Yorkshire

  HX7 7DJ

  www.bluemoosebooks.com

  All rights reserved

  Unauthorised duplication contravenes existing laws

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN 978-1-910422-47-2

  Paperback 978-1-910422-48-9

  Printed and bound in the UK by Short Run Press

  Dedication

  for

  Sadie and Con

  Caulnamore: 1

  The bench was hard and a wind whistled through the bus station, sending sweet wrappers skittering across the concrete. He sneezed and wiped his nose with an old tissue. An empty chicken meal carton rolled to one side and rain clattered on the roof like bullets. The ticket office had not yet opened, but what could they expect at six in the morning? All the other passengers off the boat must have had places to go, people to meet or trains running on time. He and his mum had been travelling for over twelve hours, on the coach up the length of England and across the sea, and he was ragged with tiredness. The boat had lurched through the night, sending his senses into a spin, and he had been sick. He stretched out his legs while his mum dozed, leaning back to the support of the wall. She gasped a little intake of breath.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I am, Torin. I was only dreamin’. Any sign of the bus?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I can’t sleep properly in this jakes of a place. I’m frozen.’ She coughed and pulled her coat around her. ‘Is it open?’ She indicated with a nod to the tea kiosk. The hatch was mid-way down but a man stood behind the counter.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Take a look, will you lovey?’ She tugged his arm.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Tea. Hot and sugary. And bring over a spoon so I can give it a good mix. Have you any money?’

  He took a handful of foreign coins from his pocket. The money was running out, but according to her they’d be living free with his grandfather.

  ‘I’ve got some of those euros we had on the boat.’

  ‘Good. My mouth’s dry as an old sack.’

  He walked over to the kiosk. A spit of rain fell on his neck. He could do with more than a cup of tea: the sandwiches and biscuits she packed had been eaten hours ago. ‘Two teas please.’

  His mum had spread out on the seat when he returned, her handbag beside her.

  ‘I’ve been doing nothing but I’m killed waiting. Travelling’s tiring,’ she said.

  ‘Here. Try this.’ He offered a cup.

  ‘A dog of a journey.’ She took a swig and wiped her lips, ‘I’d forgotten how long it was, getting the boat. But I liked it, even if it was crowded. I love the wind on my face and to watch the trail of foam behind, as we speed forward. The first time, on my way to England, I was exhilarated. But I suppose I was excited by the great escape.’ She laughed. ‘I wonder have we anything to eat with it? Any biscuits left?’ She searched her bag. ‘Here we are.’ Wrapping coiled off, revealing two custard creams. He took both and flipped them into his mouth.

  ‘Ah, you greedy boy! I never taught you manners like that.’

  ‘Haaaa,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘I’ll see if I can get you a bar of chocolate.’

  He pulled up his hood and crossed to the vending machine. A young couple sat on a bench, back-packs piled beside them, their heads leaning together. They were older than him but not much older. And free. The machine was broken. He kicked it, hoping a slab of chocolate might appear down the chute. His toe hurt as he walked back.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘This is the last stretch. Let the last road be the hardest. We’ll have a great feed when we arrive.’

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘I should hope Dad’ll have something for us. A nice fry-up, or a piece of bacon at least. Dad always liked bacon and cabbage. And white sauce.’

  His stomach turned. He would have to fit in with his grandad as well as her. The sign ahead said, ‘Buses to Sligo, Galway and Belfast’. Under the cities in large letters ran a trickle of smaller towns he had never heard of. He wondered who would be going to them, as no one else was around. Too early for anyone with sense. He pulled up his collar. Splits between the panels of metal roofing let in the grey sky. His mum had never been to this town they were heading for. She probably did not know where it was.

  ‘What time is it?’ She fidgeted.

  He checked his watch. ‘Twenty past six.’

  A siren streaked the air, hard and cold as an iron rod. His chest was tight. He shuddered and pulled his jacket close, as though it could shield him. Beyond the open doors of the garage a white police car flashed past.

  ‘Not long, then. Soon be on our way. It’ll be lovely. I’ll be agog at the villages we pass, taking a good look.’

  ‘Will your father meet us?’

  She shook her head. ‘Hardly. He’s been only a couple of weeks on the site. The place around is strange to him. We’ll have to seek him out. I reckon he’ll have changed a wee bit. He’d a voice on him like the groan of wind up a chimney when I spoke to him on the telephone. All the years gone and me not laying an eye on him. The years crept up on me. And him travelling for a long time all over the place, Scotland and the north of Ireland. I barely knew where he’d landed.’

  His phone said ‘Thurs.’ His mates would be down at the post office cashing their cheques. Off to the snooker hall. Or maybe not. Keeping low. The cement at his feet had a track of ridges. Rain pooled in little dips. Some sorry bugger laid it, he thought. Even if this was a crap place, it was better to be here than London. He was lucky to have cut out of it. Being questioned by the police was more than enough.

  ‘I’d say we’re in it together. Leaving that business behind,’ she said.

  ‘Yep. I know.’

  She smiled, her lips moist and the skin around her eyes crinkly so she looked girlish. She hadn’t a clue. At least they had got away. If he had stayed, even if they had been the other side of London, he might have been sniffed out, either by Big Ian or the police. Or both. There was nowhere decent they could have gone. An old geezer his mum knew might have given them a room, while Big Ian or one of his mates from that night loped around the estate, seeking him out, sneaking around the stairwells, cadging snippets of info from kids by the bins. Big Ian might have given them fags or spliffs and, eager to please, they might have told. It could have meant being dead meat. He hated having to agree with his mum, but she was right. Distance was best. Sunk into a place no one would think of. It was better to live.

  ‘The one safe place I know,’ she said.

  Right. So safe there’s no one around. But he couldn’t complain.

  ‘We’ll be far from the police. We couldn’t have made a stand against them in London. You might’ve ended up in one of those prisons.’

  ‘Remand Centres.’

  ‘Look at what happens to the young fellas in them. Dangerous places. They commit suicide.’

  ‘They don’t.’ He leaned against the back of the shelter.

  She had traced a whisper of his fear. He did not know where he might have ended up if he stayed. All he could do was wait. Marc
us would let him know what was going on, and whatever it was would go on without him.

  In the shadowy early light, a uniformed man appeared. A siren shrieked in the distance. Torin stiffened. They had caught up. Travelling had been no escape. He held his breath. His mum had not noticed but he would have to tell her. She had done her best but it was not enough. They would have him and soon he would have to ’fess up. The whole story would be out and beyond him.

  ‘And don’t breathe a word to the old man. There’s no need to worry him.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He had carried phones and laptops across London for good money. He had lifted a crate of memory sticks and mother-boards for a man who said he could put together a computer, but this weight was worse. He was stifled. Laden. Throttled by what he must say and what he must not. He was carrying a secret like a storm inside him.

  The man in uniform headed for the wall opposite. It was a mistake. He should have stopped, nabbed him, got out the handcuffs. His mum’s jaunt would be over. The man bent down. A clang and clatter. The wall was not a wall: metal panels slid up, revealing a wide sweep of road rolling past. Traffic swirled along, hugging the curve. New light blasted out. A morning opened. Gulls cried like kids from a playground. Torin was dizzy with relief. As the man returned and passed towards the kiosk, his badge was visible, with ‘O’Regan’s Security Service’ picked out in green.

  ‘Hello there, Pat. Have you a cup of tea?’ the Security called. The kiosk man turned to his urn and blasted down a shot of boiling water.

  ‘Waiting,’ his mum said. ‘Always waiting. For a decent flat. A job with a nice woman who wasn’t asking too much from me in the way of cleaning her house. The right man to turn up… I reckon me father did all right and wasn’t short of a bit of money. He made a pile of money out of the poor people in the Troubles. Burnt-out cars in the middle of the night. Having to leave their homes in a rush. So many perishing or shot.’ She smoothed out her coat, its length flapping around her legs. ‘It was a kind of death not seeing him for so long. I wouldn’t want you to do that, and me not to see hide nor hair of you.’ She elbowed his ribs.

  ‘No, mum. Course not.’

  A long white bus drove slowly into the garage and parked in a lane. The driver descended and lifted a cover at the back of the coach, revealing the engine, blackened with grease. Torin had not thought the engine for so large a vehicle was at the back. It was odd. Back to front.

  ‘It’s the one.’ She pointed to a larger coach pulling into Bay 12. ‘Ireland-wide’ was written along the side.

  A young couple came out of the ticket hall and in minutes a small queue formed. The driver nipped down from his seat and opened a compartment at the side of the coach.

  ‘On time,’ his mum said and rose, pulling a bag across her body, another dangling from her shoulder while she tugged a large suitcase. Torin was sure the tiny wheels would break under the weight. She walked ahead, stilettos clattering over the scrawl of the coach park until one caught in a gap of the paving. ‘I shouldn’t have worn these. I just wanted to look nice. I wonder should I change?’

  ‘They’re all right. You’ll only be sitting. Come on.’

  The driver took their bags, including the one of hers with rusty locks which she had insisted on using, claiming it had sentimental value as she had used it when she first came over. He slung them into the depths of the baggage area along the side, stood back and wiped his forehead.

  ‘Ready for the off?’

  ‘I am,’ she said, checking her shoulder bag as though it might run away.

  ‘A time since you were this way?’

  ‘A big long while.’

  ‘Where you heading to?’

  ‘Caulnamore. My father’s landed there.’

  ‘Ah well, you’ve good cause to be travelling to it. We’ll be off soon as I’ve this crowd seated.’ He nodded towards the people gathering. She rummaged in her bag, producing the tickets with a flourish. ‘Grand. Hop in. Have a good journey. And have you sandwiches packed?’ he asked with a light laugh.

  ‘I have,’ she lied. ‘Ready for anything, me.’ She patted her shopping bag and climbed up the steps.

  Torin followed along the aisle to a pair of free seats. She slipped in first. When everyone was settled the engine started. Beyond the bus station, car lanes were clogging. The morning was waking up. He leaned back. His mum dozed, her hands clasped in her lap like an obedient child.

  2

  A yellowed picture of the Sacred Heart looked down from the wall of the trailer. Another, made of shiny sweet wrappers, showed the Holy Family. Mary was in bright blue, Jesus in silver, but Joseph had the best of all, in tones of brown and gold. His grandad had put up a lot of pictures. Men with serious moustaches who were old politicians. The Pope and the young American president who got shot. Torin leaned against the wall opposite and used a pen-knife to flick out caked mud from the ridges in the sole of his trainer. He held onto the cooker and tried to stand without knocking up against the bags of dirty washing.

  A whiff of boiled spuds and cabbage from last night hung in the air, along with the heavy, sweet smell of Guinness from used cans. The trailer had the smallest fridge he had ever seen, the size of a speaker, and his bed was the fold-out sofa running the length of the window. In the week since arriving, he had got used to the tricks which allowed one thing to become another. But he was caught, with little room to stand up.

  ‘Shit.’ Blood beaded over the pale skin of his finger. He fell to the sofa, licked his finger and ran it the length of his trousers, spreading a dark stain.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ his mum called. She leaned forward to view herself, smoothing on face cream.

  ‘D’you see any one we used to know, when you were on the roads, Dad?’ she asked. She splashed perfume behind her ears. A little bottle stood on the window sill, along with a broken mirror and packaging from hair dye with ‘Honey Blonde’ in gold letters.

  ‘I did not. How would I? I was far away. After your mother died, I hadn’t it in me to be amongst them and wanted to go my own way. I only understand the call of the road. The only thing I know like my own self.’

  ‘I know how it is. I’m barely able to keep up with the living or the dead, myself. Did you see my lipstick, Torin?’ She searched the cushions on the sofa bed.

  ‘No,’ he said. She had spent a good bit of the evening getting ready.

  ‘Did you see it, Dad?’ She turned to his grandad.

  ‘I didn’t notice a thing. Why d’you think I’d want it?’

  ‘Where did I put it? “Fiesta” is me best.’ She rose in a whirl, knocking against a pair of shoes sticking out from under the bed. ‘There’s not a bit of room in this damned trailer.’ She gave them a good kick.

  A hard object jabbed Torin. He pulled out the lipstick from under him. Her stuff was littered all over.

  ‘How’d it get there?’ She grabbed it, swiping a gash of red across her lips, as if she had kissed blood. ‘I look better already. I may feel like a load of bones, but I look better.’

  She moved her head from side to side in the mirror. He saw Harjit, his dirtied face in the shadows as he lay on the ground. A scuffle as the others shifted near and pushed away when they saw Harjit.

  ‘Make yourself a sandwich, lad. Your mother and I’d a fry-up earlier,’ his grandad said. He sat at the table flicking through the sports pages. ‘We must feed you plenty, for you’re a big fella, tall as a tree, the way my own father was. You put a strange name on the lad, whatever else you did, Eva.’

  ‘But I gave him your name, Diarmid, for his middle, so he’ll not forget who he is or the people he’s come from.’

  ‘Good girl. It’s grand to have a strain of our people in him. But I reckon he’ll know himself soon enough, whatever you called him. He’ll make his own way, no doubt. The same as yourself. You did well to find me. I’ve been here barel
y a month. I was days coming down from the north. I loved it there, the rich green fields. But cold sometimes, with a wind nipping off your nose.’

  ‘I never went there.’

  ‘You did not, for you were all the time in England. But you did right to come over and bring the young fella. Does he have any learning?’ He shovelled four teaspoons of sugar into his mug.

  ‘He has plenty. A real scholar, not like the riffraff you might see around, for I sent him to school over. I wasn’t going to have any son of mine not able to read or write.’

  ‘Of course. He needs them. Not to be like myself, leaning over a paper trying to make out the letters.’

  Torin buttered a slice of bread, sinking a slab of cheese on top with ketchup. If they could only stop talking. They didn’t know the half of it. Big Ian out to get him for weeks. It was all over his face. Big bastard had cussed his mum too many times. ‘Slutty gypsy’ cut. Most of what Big Ian had was only his own bulky self. Bulging eyes and fat lips. He was getting a double chin which stubble couldn’t hide. In the alley, someone had pushed. Big Ian’s knife slipped. The silver blade on the ground, a nice clean red and white handle. Torin had always wanted one. He leant forward, just to catch Big Ian. Scare him with a flick of the wrist. A graze or scratch. Or cut a sliver of skin to leave a tiny scar. A nice reminder. Nothing too dangerous. But Big Ian shifted and Harjit had got in the way.

  Torin pushed back on the seat and tucked in his legs. His mum’s blue dress shuddered on a metal hanger.

  ‘I’d say he’s like…’ his grandad said.

  ‘Myself?’ his mum asked.

  ‘How can I say, for I haven’t seen the other side of him. But he’s a light in his eye like yours.’

  Torin could not recall his dad and whether he had straight or curly hair. He did not know if his eyes were brown, or blue like his grandad’s. His mum had said he was tall and well built; a good size for a builder, with a strength bringing him to London from the west of Scotland.

  She eased the dress side to side over her hips, sleeking it down, the newly-blonde hair about her shoulders. She was wide-eyed, with arching brows. The cheeks he’d kissed as a small boy used to be fresh and light with the faintest of powder, not caked with tan make-up smeared on every morning.