A Stolen Childhood (14 page)

Gary and I had set off straight after school that same Thursday, taking his car, rather than mine, so that I could do the navigating. Though both of us knew the big Groves estate we’d need to go through to get to the traveller site, neither of us knew it well enough to be confident about the complicated instructions we’d been given. It was a huge, sprawling estate, right on the edge of town and backing onto countryside and, once we were through it, assuming we’d found the right exit from it, we found ourselves driving gingerly along a long dirt road in the sunshine, our route flanked by the nodding heads of cow parsley and the last few bits of hawthorn blossom, and punctuated by enormous pot-holes. It seemed to go on for ever; at least a good couple of miles, right into what felt like the middle of nowhere, only wide enough for one car and with the odd bulge for passing. Luckily, we didn’t meet anyone coming the other way.

‘No danger of any local residents kicking off, at least,’ Gary observed, reading my thoughts as the track grew ever narrower, and the hedgerows began to be replaced by ranks of trees, their canopies of leaves now plunging us into deep shade. ‘Getting a bit spooky down here, isn’t it?’

I agreed with him, mightily glad I’d not come here on my own. Not that I intended admitting that. ‘Oh, you big wuss!’ I joked. Then, ‘Oh, look! I think we’re here. I can see a pair of gates ahead. Big gates – wasn’t that what he said?’

Gary slowed the car down and as we drew nearer, it seemed we were indeed there. We had to be – there was nowhere else to go. I was just about to say so when I almost jumped out of my car seat, if not my skin, as two enormous Alsatian dogs seemed to appear out of nowhere, leaping – no, more lunging – towards us, teeth bared.

‘Shit!’ squeaked Gary. ‘What the …?’

I was too scared to speak. It was only when I realised they were both on chains – one was attached to either gate-post – that I could gulp in air to breathe. Yes, we were in a car, but we both had our windows fully open – a teacher’s salary (even a teacher with a gold plaque on his office door) not generally lending itself to posh air-conditioned cars.

‘God,’ Gary said with feeling, as he made a lunge himself, for the ‘up’ window button. ‘Bloody things scared the life out of me! Thanks, Mr Giles,’ he muttered. ‘Brilliant directions. And you might have bothered to mention the two enormous bloody dogs!’

I was too nervous myself now to laugh at Gary’s obvious terror, and not knowing what to do, quite, we sat in the car and waited, while the dogs, straining at their chains, barked at the car.

We didn’t wait long. It would have been a miracle if anyone within half a mile hadn’t heard them, after all. And, sure enough, a huge hulk of a man with olive skin and with jet black hair appeared. He stared out over the gates at us – they were just under his head-height – then began undoing what I presumed was a giant bolt on the other side of the gates. ‘Park your car in that layby,’ he shouted above the dogs’ din. ‘Ya can’t bring that thing in here. Who is it yer wanting anyway?’

I glanced at Gary, who had wasted no time in slamming the car into reverse, as if he was starring in a cop movie. Which seemed a bit overly dramatic.

‘Granny and Mr Giles,’ I shouted back from my still-open window. ‘They’re expecting us.’

‘Get on with it, then,’ he yelled, as he began swinging one of the gates open. ‘Now hurry up before these dogs go fekking mad.’

It was a funny accent he had, I thought. Not quite Irish, but there was definitely a twang there; it was an accent I didn’t think I’d come across before. I helped Gary with instructions as he reversed the car back down the narrow track to the last passing space, and wondered it was something unique to different groups of travellers. As they kept themselves largely to themselves, it would stand to reason that something unique to them might have emerged.

Gary killed the engine and as I reached over to the back seat to grab my satchel, I realised that his hands were still gripping the wheel.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked, noticing that his face was pale as well now. ‘What’s wrong?’

He turned to face me. ‘Look, would you mind going in without me?’ he asked. ‘Only I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get past those dogs.’

‘They’re chained up.’

‘Yes, but on long chains.’

‘Yes, but I’m sure that man over there will take hold of them or something. He’s not going to just let them take chunks out of us, is he?’

I said it with more confidence than I actually felt, but, no, that was being silly. Of course he’d hold on to them. The last thing he’d want was a dangerous dogs charge against him. And what was I even
thinking
? Once they knew we weren’t trespassing – that we’d been given the okay – they’d probably leap up and lick us to death.

‘No, it’s not that,’ Gary explained, looking more traumatised than I think I’d ever seen him. ‘I really don’t think I’m going to be
able
to get past them. I have a phobia of dogs, Casey. I’m sorry – I should have thought, shouldn’t I? You’re right, I
am
a wuss. Sorry – why didn’t I
think
?’

It was obvious, too. It wasn’t
that
warm, yet his forehead was clammy. And he looked like he was on the verge of having a panic attack. Which we couldn’t have happen, out here, in the middle of nowhere.

‘No problem,’ I reassured him. ‘God, Gary, why
didn’t
you think? I could have brought Jim along. Or Kelly. She’d probably eat those brutes for breakfast, wouldn’t she?’ I was rewarded with a nod. ‘Look, are you
sure
you’ll be okay? Do my window up for starters.’ I rummaged in my bag. ‘And here’s half a bottle of water. I’ll be as quick as I can. And if I’m not back in half an hour, call the cavalry!’

Who knew? I thought, as I strode back to the gates – one now fully open – to find our burly host had indeed taken the brace of dogs in hand. Both were now panting, tails wagging, tongues lolling from the sides of their mouths. I stuck a hand out. ‘I’m Casey Watson from the school,’ I said, ‘And you are?’

The man wiped his free hand across the back of his jeans and roughly shook mine. ‘They call me Daniel. Daniel Shay. I’ll take you across to Paddy’s van now.’

He then pulled the gate to behind us, leaving the dogs back outside, where they immediately ran to the ends of their chains, and took up what was at least a now silent vigil scaring the bejesus out of poor Gary.

Daniel Shay led me through the site and I took in my surroundings. There were around 12 caravans, all arranged in a kind of rough semi-circle, some with little patches of neatly tended garden to the front of them, and some with awnings erected which seemed to serve as outdoor kitchen/dining areas. I could hear a stream running somewhere, and as I looked around, I noticed another area festooned with rows of laundry lines, some with clothes drying, and a building block that I guessed housed toilets or showers.

It was dog central, and I was glad Gary had stayed put in the car. There seemed to be a dog or two stationed outside almost every van, though none took more than a passing, and benign, interest as we passed them. The huge area we were walking across seemed to be filled with young children too, running around, semi-naked, or playing. One or two glanced at me but none seemed particularly interested either.

I spotted the Giles’s caravan right away. There were indeed lions guarding it and it was indeed blue and white. A cheerful blue, too. It was immaculate.

‘Granny and Paddy’s van, ma’am,’ Daniel said as he pointed. ‘They’ll see you coming, so there’s no need to knock.’ He left me then, and strode back across the site to where he’d come from, while I stared up at the windows and wondered what to do. True to Daniel’s words, I didn’t wonder for too long. Only a couple of moments later another giant of a man appeared, looking far too big to fit into a caravan.

‘Mrs Watson, is it?’ he called to me. ‘Away in, come on.’ He stepped back inside so that I could pass him. I edged inside to find an old lady sitting on a sofa – Granny Giles, I presumed. I smiled and said hello.

‘Sit yerself down,’ Mr Giles insisted, pointing towards an armchair. ‘My Morgan will be along in a minute to make us all some tea.’

I duly sat and looked around, somewhat dumbstruck. I didn’t know what I was expecting, as I’d never been inside a traveller’s caravan before, but this was just exquisite. A beautiful, spotless three-piece suite set on a carpet that was so pale it was almost white. Expensive-looking curtains that I was sure would have had to be custom-made. The kitchen I’d passed was just as beautiful; like something out of a high-end kitchen showroom, and the display cabinet that divided the two parts of the living area, was filled with delicate porcelain ornaments that were charming and reminded me of my childhood.

‘Admiring me china?’ the old lady said, her voice gravelly and give-away deep. She had obviously smoked heavily for many years.

‘Oh yes,’ I said, and meant it, as I’d recognised it immediately as probably being by one of the most famous Italian porcelain manufacturers of them all. I knew because my mum used to collect it while I was growing up, and make me dust it for her. Not a quick job at all. I was stunned to see so much of it in this one bijou caravan. ‘They’re beautiful. Is it all Capodimonte?’ I asked her.

‘Aye, it is,’ she said smiling broadly, as if I’d just passed some important test. ‘And rare pieces most of them, too. Cost an arm and a leg to replace them, it would.’ She glanced across proudly at her son. ‘My Patrick buys me a piece every birthday and Christmas.’

Mr Giles laughed at this, almost making the air vibrate. ‘Jesus, mother! If I had done that you’d surely have fekking hundreds of the bloody things!’

Granny Giles laughed as well, a warm, guttural, belly laugh, and I had rush of a warm feeling about this family. Just then a young boy of about seven burst through the door, making me fear for the delicate porcelain only inches from me. Did they blue-tack it all down I wondered? I would have.

The little boy – who looked to be around seven or eight, was wearing only a pair of shorts and had nothing on his feet. He was jumping about and had one hand firmly clutching the front of his shorts. ‘Oh, Granny, I need a piss,’ he said, in that same, slightly Irish accent. ‘Please let me use your lavvy, Granny,
please
, just this once.’

The old lady picked up an ornate walking stick from beside her seat and shook it at the lad. ‘How many times, boy? How many times do I hear your da’ shouting you in for a piss? Go on then, but it’s the last time, you hear? Or I’ll take my fekking stick to you.’

The boy grinned widely. ‘Thank you, Granny. Love you!’ he added, then quickly opened a door and disappeared through it.

I was confused. ‘Is that your grandson, too?’ I asked, wondering about the many children I’d seen here. Were some of them at the local primary? Who was educating them?

‘Not at all!’ she said. ‘But I’m Granny to one and all around here. It’s the way things are, is all. I’m 88, you know,’ she added, in that proud way elderly ladies did everywhere. ‘So I’ve earned me respect. Don’t barely have to lift a finger these days, I don’t.’

Neither did Mr Giles, it seemed, because Morgan herself joined us, moments later, and once the little boy had been shooed out, she greeted me demurely, then set about making tea, taking down bone-china cups and saucers and providing a plate of biscuits – no grabbing one out of the packet, like we did in school.

She was a lovely looking girl – more a young woman than a girl, actually – with her father’s dark eyes and the same full head of wavy hair. I was looking forward to learning more about her. Though that wouldn’t be happening today, it transpired, as no sooner had she put the tea down in front of her grandmother than she was shooed away herself, which, again – presumably because she’d won the battle to get herself installed at school and take her GCSEs – she seemed happy enough to do, while Mr Giles told me how it would be.

And how it would be meant extracting a number of promises. That I’d keep a close eye on her; that she wouldn’t be ‘running around, mixing with “gorgers”’ (which I later learned meant countrymen or non-gypsy); that though Mr Giles wasn’t pleased that she was doing exams in the first place, I’d make good and sure when she was with me that she didn’t waste her time, so that when she took them she’d ‘fekking pass them, as well!’

Then, having been able to reassure him on all points – as well as Granny, obviously – I was able to trot back with Mr Giles, out of the gate, to the layby in the lane – the dogs now strangely absent – where I half expected to find Gary sitting there either mauled to death or blowing into a paper bag.

‘I think I’ve just been sized up,’ I told him, once I’d checked his vital signs and found them fine. ‘Seriously.’

Just like I was now hopefully going to be doing with Kiara’s dad. Though I doubted he had much Capodimonte.

Chapter 11

Gary had had little difficulty tracking down Mr Bentley’s number – Kiara had his mobile listed as one of her emergency contacts when they had been routinely updated the previous term. It had then just been a case of my leaving a message on his voicemail, which was responded to within less than an hour of my leaving it. Yes, of course he’d be happy to meet me – Kiara had already told him all about me – and yes, of course, it would be fine for me to come and visit him at home, though he’d be more than happy to come into school, if that was easier. He’d also warned me that, while he was okay with me coming to him, he didn’t ‘live in a palace’.

Speaking to Mr Bentley on the phone told me little other than he seemed a quiet, possibly shy man – he’d sounded nervous, yes, but not excessively so. He’d been reasonably articulate, perfectly polite – what sort of a job might he have had before becoming long-term unemployed, I wondered? – and not remotely obstructive or defensive, all of which seemed to bode well.

Knowing what I already did about the family dynamic, it was hard not to form an impression in advance of what I might find when I met him in person. That he was held in pretty low regard by his ex wasn’t in question. That there was long-standing acrimony was something I’d learned early on, and there was nothing unusual about that.