The Girl in the Painted Caravan (19 page)

That book was a turning point for me. From then on, it felt as if my reading improved by leaps and bounds. By now the twins were about five and I started trying to teach them to read. Nathan was
too proud to ask me or accept help but, much as I had done, he went about learning on his own.

My newly acquired skill with words became known eventually and I was frequently asked to write letters for other Romanies. Before long, I knew the typical Romany letter off by heart. It went
like this: ‘Dear [whoever it was], I hope you are well, as this leaves us all well at present. Mummy and Daddy send love to yours. Hope So and so and So and so are keeping well [this could be
a long list of So and sos]. How are the children? We are at [wherever they were going] next week. Where are you?’

My spelling was still awful and I used to write ‘dear’ as ‘der’, but the letter would be read at the other end by someone semi-literate, like myself, so I suppose it made
no difference. Even today, I receive letters that are virtually identical and give practically no news at all. All the important news is saved up until the next time we all get together to have a
good old crease.

Having always wanted to be able to read and write, now that I could, I felt as though new doors had opened in my life and I could do anything I put my mind to.

I started to take an interest in astrology at this time. A gorger woman called Mary, who was married to a fairground worker, had studied it and was only too happy to give me the benefit of her
knowledge. In return, Mummy would give her ten shillings now and then, as well as advice about her problems. I loved those sessions with Mary and couldn’t get enough. Astrology isn’t
something you can learn quickly, but I was becoming quite cunning at finding people who were interested in it. The female librarian was my ally, telling me who had taken out books on the subject
– if I knew them, I’d ask them about it. I also used to hang around that section of the library for hours, watching for someone to take out an astrology book. I managed to befriend one
or two.

I tried to put what I was learning into practice, watching people to assess their characters, and therefore their star signs. I’d then ask them their date of birth to see if I was
right.

One night there was a loud banging on the door of the vardo. My father was busy putting on a smart suit and tie, as he’d been invited by a travelling family to go to a wedding reception at
a nearby hotel. The son of a man he knew was getting married; I think the family were carpet hawkers. Mummy opened up, revealing a smartly dressed Siddy Roper on the steps.

‘Evening, Laura. Hey, Eddie,’ called Siddy, ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘I can’t bring someone who hasn’t been invited,’ my father protested.

‘Ah, they won’t mind. What’s one more person at a big bash like that?’

‘Siddy, I can’t take you,’ Daddy said.

Ten minutes later, as Siddy cheerfully persisted, Daddy realised he couldn’t actually stop him from tagging along and gave up.

It wasn’t so long ago that Siddy had received some very bad news: his father had died. He was distraught and didn’t know what to do, so he started running, right out of Bedworth and
into the country. He just kept on running until he came to some cows in a field. He wanted to get rid of his frustration and anger, so he went into the field and started punching one of the cows.
He told my parents that he couldn’t stop and carried on until the poor beast fell to the grass dead. He felt terrible remorse afterwards and every time he had a few drinks he would go on
about it until people were fed up with hearing the same story. That was Siddy. A well-meaning man, but with a confused violence inside him.

As the two men were heading out of the door, my mother caught my father’s arm and held him back. ‘Don’t go to the reception,’ she whispered urgently. ‘You know
Siddy will drink to much and say or do the wrong thing. Take him to the pub instead.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Daddy said.

He was back two hours later, shaking as he told us what had happened. At the reception, the bridegroom had accidently knocked Siddy’s drink out of his hand and Siddy immediately punched
the poor boy, who fell backwards, hitting his head on the brass footrest around the bottom of the bar.

The fall killed him stone dead.

Afraid that the family would take immediate revenge, my father and another travelling man grabbed Siddy and ran him to the nearest door, hoping to get him out of the way before the groom’s
family realised what had happened. They hid Siddy in the back of the other man’s van, covered him with some tarpaulin and told him not to move.

‘I told you he’d be trouble, but this is bloody unbelievable,’ my mother said, aghast.

‘That’s all very well, but what do I do?’ Daddy interrupted.

‘Your only option is to get him to go to the police and let them deal with it,’ Mummy answered. ‘They’ll probably lock him up and throw the key away, but at least he will
be safe in their hands. I blame you! If you hadn’t taken him, all would be well.’

The next morning my father and the owner of the van drove to Coventry, making sure they weren’t followed, and put Siddy on a train to Birmingham. They gave him some money and told him to
stay with some of his family. They agreed he would phone the pub each night and they’d keep him posted on what was happening. Mummy and Mrs Roper went a couple of evenings, so that Mrs Roper
could speak to her husband. She was a very quiet woman and I think she needed my mother’s support.

Eventually, Siddy sent his brother over to fetch his family, after the bride and groom’s families had gone. But it didn’t end there. The story we were told was that although Siddy
was reunited with his wife and children, every time they looked out of the vardo window, one of the poor dead boy’s family would be standing there. They never approached Siddy, but he was
followed everywere and at night there would be knocking at the windows, although whoever it was remained in the shadows. He knew people were waiting for him and he went to pieces. We heard he ended
up in an asylum, where he died.

Not long after Siddy killed the bridegroom, my father’s businesses in Coventry went downhill because by now he was allowing too many other people to handle his money. My mother and I
agreed that it was probably due to his neglect, as he was having such a good time out and about that he wasn’t taking care of business. He still hadn’t learned his lesson, and by now
Mummy was sure he often had other things – or other women, I should say – on his mind.

TWENTY

‘Why should we stay here being miserable? You go off all day, God knows where. You’re in the pub all night. It’s no life for me and the children,’ Mummy
told my father.

I was outside the vardo, so didn’t hear his mumbled reply. I did hear Mummy shout, ‘You won’t go to Skegness? Well, I’m not staying here, and now you’ve lost your
precious shop, you’ve no excuse. I’m giving you two choices: Skegness or Rhyl in the morning!’

We’d been in Bedworth for four years, and for my mother that had been a long, miserable time. God gives us all a gift, whether we are singers or clairvoyants, and he expects us to use it.
But for most of the year she had no chance to use her gift. Moreover, before she married she’d been her own person, earning her own money doing what she loved. She hated the fact that now she
had to ask my father for money to buy food and clothes.

Some travellers who had recently arrived at the fair told us that they had just come from the seaside town of Rhyl in North Wales. My mother quickly asked, ‘Have they got palmists in
Rhyl?’

‘No,’ they replied. ‘We didn’t see any.’

Knowing that my father would never take us back to our people, she decided Rhyl would be the next best thing.

Sure enough, the day after she laid down the law to my father, we packed up and hit the road. By now we’d sold the bus and vardo and replaced them with a much bigger vardo with room for us
all. My mother made herself comfortable in the car and said, ‘Before we go to Rhyl, we’re going to the Epsom races.’

Daddy pulled the car to the side of the road, turned the engine off and got out. He stomped round to the passenger window, leaned through and said, ‘Now, do we carry on to Rhyl or Epsom?
Just let me know, I’m only the driver.’

As he puffed away on a cigarette, I realised my mother had the upper hand and my father was nervous, and something clicked in my mind. She had caught him out with another woman. I’d had
suspicions for a while now, but the pieces had only just fallen into place. When I was older, she confirmed this was true, and it wasn’t the first time.

‘I fancy a flutter,’ Mummy said. ‘Let’s go.’

We made good progress that day and went to bed with the radio on, as usual. The next day we were up and ready to go at 6.30 a.m. As we drove, my mother pointed out the different trees and we
passed a large field of lavender, a beautiful hazy purple, the heavenly smell drifting into the car. I was eager to arrive, as I’d never been to a racecourse before.

Unbeknown to any of us, my mother had arranged to meet up with some travellers she knew, and they had fixed for her to open up for palm-readings. She took us off to find them, leaving my father
to set up the vardo for business. I hardly remember what the adults said when they got together – I was too busy keeping an eye on the twins, who were running around, while also taking in the
atmosphere and the crowds. Bookies were shouting the odds, waving their arms, and little groups were huddled together checking the form and sharing their knowledge of the runners. The whole place
was buzzing with excitement and anticipation.

Eventually, Mummy shepherded us together and took us back to the vardo. Once inside, she said to my father with a worried look on her face, ‘Big Sam is here, and his cousins’.
I’d heard my mother speak of them before. Big Sam was big trouble wherever he went. He and his pals went around in a gang and were known to have stolen lead from church roofs and even mugged
people. Travellers sharing a stopping ground with him knew not to leave anything valuable outside their wagons day or night, as it would walk.

A voice came over the tannoy announcing that the first race was due to start. Mummy called to my father, ‘I want you to place these twenty-five pounds on Never Say Die to win.’

‘That’s too much, Laura,’ Daddy said, and tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant. He went off shaking his head. The horse was being ridden by eighteen-year-old Lester
Piggott, who had never won at this course before.

Mummy, Nathan and I listened to the race, hearts beating. We shouted out as the commentator announced that Never Say Die was the winner! ‘I knew it!’ shouted Mummy. ‘Six
hundred and twenty-five pounds and my stake back!’

That was a large sum in 1954. My father turned up two hours later, pale-faced, head down. ‘You never put the bet on, did you?’ Mummy said. He shook his head apologetically. I felt
like punching him, but Mummy sat in silence for a moment, then just said, ‘Bring my next client, Eva.’

That evening, when all the races had finished, my father took our two chromium-plated water cans and headed off to find a tap to fill them. When he returned an hour later, his face was bloodied
but he was holding onto the cans for dear life. He told us Big Sam had tried to buy them from him, but he knew he couldn’t sell them – they were a wedding present and very precious to
my mother. Big Sam had then tried to take them by force. Luckily for my father, some men standing nearby had intervened and taken my father off to the hospitality tent, out of harm’s way.
They’d bought him a large whisky to steady his nerves after his ordeal. If it wasn’t for the whisky inside him, my mother would have made him drive off the course there and then.

The journey to Rhyl was magical. The countryside was green and lush, with open fields of mustard, like yellow carpets, then fields of green crops and newly ploughed brown earth ready for
planting. We saw lambs jumping in fields (and would open the windows and shout, ‘Mint sauce!’) and drove through lovely little villages. I wondered who lived in the pretty cottages, and
tried to see into shop windows and decipher pub signs. We passed old stone churches, which I’d read were built in straight lines across the country, and I wondered how this could be possible.
I tried to imagine the old fences and gates being built around fields. My favourites were the old farmhouses, surrounded by barns and outhouses. Every scene was new, and everything fired my
imagination.

My happy mood would only be broken from time to time by my father announcing, ‘We’re low on petrol, keep your eyes open for a garage.’

When we arrived in Rhyl, we found the amusement park, which was owned by Mr Twigdon, who was from a very famous fairground family. We found the whole family to be very nice. Mrs Twigdon and my
mother hit it off immediately. They had two sons who helped to run the park, John and Clive. The twins were now six, Nathan was twelve and I was fifteen.

My mother opened her palmistry booth and my father took a hoopla stall and a darts stall. Mr Twigdon gave Nathan the job of driving a miniature tram for children, which had a track that went all
the way round the park. It was his first job and he was damned good at it. Even then, he could take a car engine to bits and put it back again. It was a piece of cake for him.

My jobs were looking after the twins, keeping the vardo clean and shopping and cooking, so we had plenty to keep us all busy. Both my mother and I, though, agreed that Rhyl wasn’t our kind
of place, as lovely as it was. I longed for her to have what I knew she wanted so desperately, and that was to be back with our Romany family, living the life we loved.

Each day I would take the twins along the seafront, where there was a Follies show. It was always exactly the same show day after day, but it kept the twins quiet. They’d laugh and clap at
the same moments every day and eventually they would shout out some of the lines before the actors could – much to the annoyance of the audience. Anne and Eddie were very good together,
playing games and keeping each other occupied, but this did sometimes lead to mischief.