Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  A girl from school had come from Dominica and her easy manner had disturbed him whenever he ran into her on the High Road. Girls knew something he didn’t. Had a deep secret or knowledge he lacked. Knew what to say. She’d been good-looking, plus she was said to be clever, so there was no way she was going to be interested in him. The last he’d heard, she had moved to Leeds.

  ‘Hello.’ The girl smiled, ‘I saw you looking at me.’ Her eyes were deeply brown, darker than her light brown skin.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I mean yes. You reminded me of someone.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He hoped she would not recognise him from when he saw her from the car. But she hardly would, from the speed they had gone. He wanted to apologise, explain how his granddad was foolish and had not intended her any harm. But she might not recall. It probably meant nothing to her. They were just another car on the road going too fast.

  A bulky man entered and called for a pint and crisps. The girl returned to serve behind the counter and the man told her he was from the north, had worked on barges on the canals.

  Torin and his mum had lived in a flat near a canal and he had been fascinated by the lock gates cutting the water’s flow. Slabs of light had glittered the surface and water had gushed through the slats until the level dropped on one side and they were equal. He had been a kid and balanced on the gates’ edges, crossing from one towpath to another. A man from one of the barges had shown him a map of canals snaking the length of England. When they moved to London they ended up near a canal, a good place in the summer, watching the dance of flies above the water and the occasional barge as it crawled towards the lock.

  The girl pushed three crates stacked on top of each other, scraping the floor.

  ‘I’ll give you hand.’ He rose.

  Bottles rattled and clinked as he pushed the crates into a corner behind the counter.

  ‘Thanks.’ The girl gave the crates a nudge with her foot to slide them in neatly.

  She returned to the counter, putting dirty glasses into a machine for washing. Its light hum curled around in the air. Two old men with sticks entered. They pushed themselves up onto bar-stools, ordered and chatted. Cattle. The weather. A politician coming to the town to open a new extension at the school. Torin wanted to catch the girl’s attention but she chatted to the men and they laughed, filling the bar with their shared jollity. A knot in his chest tightened. He had no hope of getting closer. But he hadn’t the money to keep drinking either. The old men left. She wiped the counter where they had been, looked up and smiled. She passed out of sight and in the few minutes of absence, he missed her.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she gasped, returning.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The cooler’s leaking. I need to find a switch. Where did Breen say it was?’ She went to the back of the bar. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She frowned, looking older, greyed and lost in thought.

  He rose and followed through a passageway to a room at the back. The chill inside nipped him. A light whiff of lager spiked the air. On the concrete floor, metal kegs and casks stood like soldiers. Apart from the runs of pipes, flexes and dials there was nothing else. A safe-room, he thought. With the valuable goods.

  ‘I need to turn off the water but I’ve looked everywhere.’

  He scanned the walls and looked behind the kegs. He pulled over a lone wooden kitchen chair to search behind the largest. Standing on it, he was face to face with a single dusty light bulb. Flexes tangled behind the containers. He climbed down. He didn’t really know what he was looking for.

  ‘Breen told me what to do but I was only half listening. God, he’ll be annoyed.’

  ‘I can’t see a tap.’ He peered by the kegs and casks.

  ‘I must find it. I don’t want to lose this job.’

  She leant against the wall. He followed the slim and easy line of her leg. A red bulbous lever stuck out at the base of the cooler, hidden by a jungle of flexes curling beneath.

  ‘This it?’ He bent down.

  ‘Must be, yes.’ She yanked the lever to the left so it lay against the wall. Her hair, springy and light, brushed his face. He smelt…what was it? Flowers like his mum used. Roses? Lavender. They stood. She relaxed her eyes into a smile and stretched an arm to his. Such little pressure on his forearm. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘I’d better get back out there. If anyone comes in and tells Breen there was no one tending the bar…’ she laughed. ‘But will you have a drink?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Behind the counter, she took a clean glass and poured.

  ‘Will you have one?’ he asked.

  ‘Daren’t. I’ve a good few hours left.’ She shook her head.

  Carrying his pint, she came to his table and sat. The upholstery was a wild pattern of red and purple diamonds and squares. She crossed her legs. His cheeks warmed. His hands were hot and in the way. If he sat apart, he could see her face.

  ‘The load is there since delivery and not a bit of help from himself or any of his lads. They’re useless, the lot of them. He has three in college. It’s what education does.’

  Her left hand lay on the table, a stumpy finger in the middle.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, unable to help himself.

  She moved her fingers.

  ‘One time in England, I was working on a fairground, well not working, helping out. We’d had a long day and I was tired. I sat down on the first thing I saw and wasn’t it a chair for the clown? It collapsed under me.’

  ‘It must have hurt.’

  ‘It did. But they got me to hospital. I don’t really think about it. It used to bother me because I couldn’t play the fiddle any more. I was learning from an old fella who said I could’ve made a name for myself. I lost it all and it was awful having tunes buzzin’ in me head and not being able to do anything with them. But it’s past. Would you like some music?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘If you do a selection, you get more.’ She dropped in coins. A sway of strings rose. ‘Sailing.’ Rod Stewart. The old guy should be put out of his misery, but Torin would endure the old dog if it meant he could stay.

  ‘We have it for the old fellas and Breen’s too bloody mean to get in new stuff.’

  Guitar notes and drums filled the empty hold of the panelled bar. Torin eased in the chair, stretching out his legs. She gathered glasses from the counter, running her cloth quickly over the top. He tried not to drink fast, to make it last. He could not hang out forever buying them. When she finished, she joined him.

  ‘Are you local?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not. But I’m around for a while.’ He shifted uncomfortably and stopped playing with the beer mats. When he looked up, her eyes flooded him. The line of her lips, her neck. The way she held herself so straight.

  ‘Visiting?’

  He nodded. He would not mention the site for fear of putting her off.

  ‘I feel I am. I started here a month ago. I wonder if I’ll ever settle,’ she said. ‘Once I was getting off the bus and a woman from up the street shouted out, where was I from? When I said Caulnamore she was white with fury.’

  ‘People aren’t friendly?’

  ‘The most are all right. It’s just…’ Her eyes were dark. She leaned over his table, her body slim and long, the line of her breasts rising. ‘It’d be good to have a change.’

  ‘But where’d you go?’

  ‘A place I’d feel I belonged. Moved around a lot when I was a kid, but maybe it’s time I moved on.’ She laughed, her mood lightening. ‘So where are you staying?’

  ‘The site.’ He nodded in its direction. ‘Travellers’ site. But I’m not one. I mean, not completely. It’s somewhere to live. But loads of people around. Kids. I don’t know where else to go.’

  ‘Down by the shore are a couple of old
houses. One of the old fellas who comes in said one of them has people in it.’.

  ‘Old houses?’

  ‘You can see them from the path, the other side of town if you head towards the shore.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  He stretched his hand to pick up his glass but it toppled. Beer spilled over the table, smearing the wood to a golden sheen. It ran, darkening his trousers the more he dabbed the damp patch.

  ‘Shit.’ He pulled back from the table.

  ‘I’ll get a cloth.’ She leapt towards the counter.

  He had screwed up right and proper. He was losing her. He’d better leave before he made a bigger fool of himself.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said as she returned, skimming the cloth over the table.

  ‘And you’re…?’ She looked up as she mopped a dry cloth over the wet patch under the table.

  ‘Torin.’

  ‘Caitlin. Call in again. I’ll make up for that drink.’ She crossed to the bar and squeezed the cloths in the little sink.

  He headed for the door. He had made an ass of himself, frightened her off big time. The chance had gone. For company she would have the old lags who stepped in for a pint in the middle of the day from out of the factory, or a few who might pass from the farm.

  6

  From where he lay in the broken-down house, the dark sky seemed so near he could cut it. Through the tear in the ragged corrugated roof, pin-pricks of stars shone as they had the last couple of nights. He did not know their names but the circular cloud swirling around must be the Milky Way. There could not be so many stars in London. If there were, he had never seen them. They kept themselves shut out. He stretched his legs. Shane and Pauley were still asleep. Their plastic bags bulged with clothes, trainers, and phones. He could not see how this ruin of a house had ever been lived in, for it was one large room, stone walls strangled with clods of cement which had two square gaps for windows, one partly boarded up with wire and rope. Piss and shit wafted. His neck was stiff from squeezing into himself to keep warm, to forget he was lying on the ground. He had to believe this was a good place to be. He wished he could talk to Marcus, but it had been hard to get a phone connection. The first time he tried after arriving, he had to dance around to get a signal, his phone plugged to his ear. Nothing was like he was used to.

  In the morning, a voice woke him.

  ‘You comin’ or what?’ Pauley stood thin as a wisp of grass, blond hair falling over his forehead.

  Torin turned blearily from the backyard of a dream.

  ‘You want to stay here?’ Shane asked. His bulkier frame blocked out what little light came from the window. Torin pulled himself out of his sleeping bag.

  ‘If it’s all right?’ he said.

  ‘What d’you say, Pauley? We let him?’ Shane said.

  ‘All right with me. If he wants to.’ Pauley smiled.

  ‘You gotta help get the oysters,’ Shane said.

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘We’ve to be on our way. Down early to get a good go at them.’

  ‘Won’t they know we’ve nicked them?’ Torin crawled out of his sleeping bag into the chill air.

  ‘No one could prove it.’ Shane pulled a dark blue sweatshirt over his head, black curls crumpling down. ‘No one’d know we did it if they don’t see.’

  ‘Okay. I’m with you.’

  Torin rose and dressed. Beyond the grimy window, the sky and fields ran into each other and the continuous cry of waves was disorientating. Birdsong rippled the air. He rubbed through grime on the glass. The bird had wings so big, they might’ve weighed down any chance of flight. The haze of green and boggy land stretched to the sea where, according to Pauley, oystercatchers and redshanks dived past midnight.

  They ran out to the fields of lumpen cows laying down. Way out, waves threw themselves against rocks, showers sprayed, cascaded. So much nature, he was made small by it. Pauley ran ahead, so fast he could have been a footballer. He was as quick as the lads on the track at White City. Torin used to hang around it near the hospital and the prison, when he and the others jibed each other about how they might end up in one or the other.

  Shane caught up, his eyes dark and sharp. Heavier built than Pauley, he could run as fast.

  ‘You came over with your mother?’ Shane asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ The sandy ground was falling apart. Wisps of stray grasses lingered. Being outside made him more aware of the inside of himself. It was empty, as though his outer part had fallen away.

  ‘She’s showing off her gossoon?’ Shane laughed.

  ‘She wanted to see her dad. And… other stuff.’ Torin shrugged.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean. Only a mate got knifed. This guy… he annoyed us.’

  ‘It was your fault?’

  ‘It was an accident. There was a crowd, so we’re all treated as suspects.’ He kicked a stone, skimming it through a whiff of dust.

  ‘But you didn’t do it?’

  ‘I was holding a knife for someone. There was a scrum. Pushing and shoving. No one knew what was going on.’

  ‘Is he dead then?’

  ‘He’s in hospital.’

  ‘That’s okay then.’

  ‘But I’m afraid the police might turn up.’

  Shane shook his head.

  ‘No one ever comes here. Why would they? There’s fuck-all going on.’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, we might catch sight of a rabbit. Catch one. Shoot it.’

  ‘Shoot?’

  ‘Only kidding.’ Shane danced delightedly, a taunting smile on his face. ‘See the holes?’ He pointed to pockets of dark in the ground. ‘In the evening they’re all over the place. And if I’d a gun…’ He raised his arms as though he held one, and did it so quickly it was frightening. ‘I’d give ’em one.’

  ‘Could you? Would you be able to get a gun?’ Torin asked. It seemed a simple task. An easy target.

  ‘Farmers have ’em, but I wouldn’t get the use. Too bloody strict. My uncle’d one years ago. A Webley and Scott used to lean against the dresser. It’d lovely engraving around the barrel but I’d never get it off him. He had it to shoot rabbits and I was with him once when he shot one. He put it in a pot and we ate it. Nice bit of lean meat and good quality too from them running about in the fields, but there’s an awful smell off it.’

  ‘What d’you do with it?’

  ‘Skin it. A good slit around the back and over the legs. If it’s young. Easy. Great taste. We used get a good bit of grub out of them. The jug’d be warm after collecting the blood for the black pudding afterwards, and what was no good was left for the dog.’

  Torin shivered. Blood had trickled from Harjit’s nostrils as he lay on the pavement outside the kebab shop. Flashes ran from the film they had seen: the gang planning a break-in. The rush and madness of a quick grab. A get-away in a sleek car. But nothing was as scary as standing in the alley with Harjit lying on the ground. The Velcro of his trainers undone. His belt slipping. The push and shove of the others, as a girl tried to get close, to wipe his face. Nothing made sense. His heart pounded as they waited for someone to do something.

  ‘My uncle gave me this when I was a kid.’ Shane pulled a leather string from round his neck, where a stub of dark fur hung. ‘Lucky charm,’ he laughed, pulling it around and stroking it. ‘From the first rabbit.’

  He strode ahead, catching up with Pauley by the side of the ditch, and crossed a small bridge of worn planks. He raised the barbed wire on the top of the fence to let Torin through. They ran onto dry, rough grass, sand flying from their shoes. At the shore they crept among boulders fat and squat as toads. To one side, silvery shards splintered against the slate cathedral of rock, a looming presence. Spray from waves rose like a curtain. Padraig’s Rock, Pauley said, after a fisherman clung to it for hours waiting to be rescued.

  Bl
ack fishing boats, worn-out and old, were beached. The glass around the deck of a larger one was smashed and only the wooden section surrounding the wheel was left, though collapsing. It had been out to sea before it was banged up there. It had been in the deepest waters, exploring, taking whatever the waves hurled. What would it be like living here with mostly the sea for company? He might go mad looking at the same fields, the same kind of sky overhead. Even the cows moved like old women, their low-slung hips wide and thin legs walking leisurely. Torin walked around a sleek red boat, larger than the others.

  ‘This is nice.’ He placed his palm flat against the side.

  ‘Some rich bugger’s,’ Shane said.

  ‘I’d love a boat like this. Think where you could go,’ Pauley said. ‘The Caribbean. The Med. Your own master. Free for whatever the mood takes you. Go anywhere.’

  ‘Let’s head this way,’ Shane said, taking the lead.

  They followed while the sky was a silvery blue, undecided what colour to be. It melted into a grey horizon. Waves slithered and birds screeched against the sky; with each step, the sand sucked in Torin. This early, fresh light hit and the expanse of sea was shiny as plastic. They ran to the end of the pier, whooping and shouting in the smash of cold air on their faces. He could have a good time here; if they used the tabs Pauley had stolen, the buzz would be even better and he could forget.

  ‘You gonna go in?’ Pauley asked.

  ‘It’ll be cold.’

  ‘No matter. It’s a gas. Even if we haven’t flashy surfboards like the lads up the coast, we can still enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Torin scanned the horizon.

  ‘Lads from Dublin. Like flies all over the place in the summer, slinking around in wet suits,’ Shane said.

  ‘They must think it’s the coast of California, the way they gather at weekends,’ Pauley said.

  ‘Come on. We’ve got this.’ Shane ran along the quay.

  He pulled off his clothes leaving on only his underpants and ran to the edge of the pier. His legs kicked in the air as he dived. His head bobbed. Torin took off his jeans and top. Swimming at the baths in Kentish Town had been good, the most sense of freedom in water he’d had. They all used to go swimming: five at the start, but two of the lads had moved up the country. Now only Marcus was left.