anything other than Freda’s satisfaction in her family’s position within the gypsy community; it was obviously very important to her.
Halimena had been sitting in her chair at the entrance to the tent still weaving cabbage nets to sell as she listened to the two girls’ conversation. Raising her head, she glanced across at her granddaughter. ‘The Locks are as old a tribe as the Buckleys and others. Don’t forget that.’
‘I know.’
Freda’s voice carried a note of indignation but Pearl felt the words had not really been intended for Freda but meant as a message to her. She caught Halimena’s eye; the old woman might be shrunken and wrinkled, but there was something in the round hard eyes that was strong and vital, something she couldn’t put a name to but which filled her with trepidation.
As the sun went down, with blue smoke from the fires curling into the darkening sky, the noise within the camp began to decrease. Younger children were put to bed and the dogs, well fed with scraps from the evening meal, settled down with bones to gnaw under the caravans. Horses which had been having kicking matches or baring their teeth at each other now stood docilely munching at the thick sweet grass at the edge of the camp, and the men sitting by the campfires had something stronger than tea in their mugs. It was the time for pleasure.
Hitherto, confined to the caravan, Pearl had only heard the sound of music and laughter and seen the figures whirling and dancing in the shadows as the twilight had thickened. Now she was part of it. Songs were sung in a soft chant, with violins and mouth organs and the spoons accompanying the dancers, as well as one or two piano accordions. She couldn’t understand what was being sung, it was all in the gypsies’ own language, but it was beautiful. Beautiful and so haunting, at times it caused a physical ache in her chest. She sat quietly beside Corinda and Mackensie as Madora and Freda and the three boys joined in the dancing, even though Freda kept calling to her until spoken to sharply by her grandmother, still sitting at the mouth to the tent behind them.
It was just after this that Corinda said softly, ‘It is our way to have a time together after the work of the day, Pearl. Stories are told and songs are sung and passed on from generation to generation. It’s important our history is kept alive for our children and our children’s children. We have been part of the countryside and lived in harmony with the land for hundreds of years, but the new towns are taking what was once ours. It makes some of our old folk angry and bitter.’
There was a snort behind them but Corinda ignored her mother-in-law and went on, ‘Some of our community are suspicious and wary of non-gypsies because of this. They don’t accept that the only thing we can do to protect our way of life is to adapt to what is happening.’
There was a rustle as Halimena stood up and said something in her sharp voice, to which Mackensie replied, just as sharply. At this Halimena disappeared into the caravan, banging the door behind her. Pearl looked at Corinda but Freda’s mother continued to stare into the flames, her work-roughened hands clasped round her knees and her stance pensive.
Nothing more was said, but shortly after this Corinda called the children and they all went their separate ways, Mackensie and Corinda and the boys into the tent, and Madora and Freda and Pearl into the caravan where Halimena was already stretched out on her narrow bed, apparently asleep.
But Halimena was not asleep. She lay completely still and silent until she was sure the three girls were no longer awake, and then rose, pushing her feet into her boots and pulling her shawl around her shoulders.
It was only Rex, lying outside the entrance to the tent wherein slept his master, who raised his head as Halimena closed the caravan door. When the old woman sat down on the last wooden step he closed his eyes again.
The night was
Halimena had been sitting in her chair at the entrance to the tent still weaving cabbage nets to sell as she listened to the two girls’ conversation. Raising her head, she glanced across at her granddaughter. ‘The Locks are as old a tribe as the Buckleys and others. Don’t forget that.’
‘I know.’
Freda’s voice carried a note of indignation but Pearl felt the words had not really been intended for Freda but meant as a message to her. She caught Halimena’s eye; the old woman might be shrunken and wrinkled, but there was something in the round hard eyes that was strong and vital, something she couldn’t put a name to but which filled her with trepidation.
As the sun went down, with blue smoke from the fires curling into the darkening sky, the noise within the camp began to decrease. Younger children were put to bed and the dogs, well fed with scraps from the evening meal, settled down with bones to gnaw under the caravans. Horses which had been having kicking matches or baring their teeth at each other now stood docilely munching at the thick sweet grass at the edge of the camp, and the men sitting by the campfires had something stronger than tea in their mugs. It was the time for pleasure.
Hitherto, confined to the caravan, Pearl had only heard the sound of music and laughter and seen the figures whirling and dancing in the shadows as the twilight had thickened. Now she was part of it. Songs were sung in a soft chant, with violins and mouth organs and the spoons accompanying the dancers, as well as one or two piano accordions. She couldn’t understand what was being sung, it was all in the gypsies’ own language, but it was beautiful. Beautiful and so haunting, at times it caused a physical ache in her chest. She sat quietly beside Corinda and Mackensie as Madora and Freda and the three boys joined in the dancing, even though Freda kept calling to her until spoken to sharply by her grandmother, still sitting at the mouth to the tent behind them.
It was just after this that Corinda said softly, ‘It is our way to have a time together after the work of the day, Pearl. Stories are told and songs are sung and passed on from generation to generation. It’s important our history is kept alive for our children and our children’s children. We have been part of the countryside and lived in harmony with the land for hundreds of years, but the new towns are taking what was once ours. It makes some of our old folk angry and bitter.’
There was a snort behind them but Corinda ignored her mother-in-law and went on, ‘Some of our community are suspicious and wary of non-gypsies because of this. They don’t accept that the only thing we can do to protect our way of life is to adapt to what is happening.’
There was a rustle as Halimena stood up and said something in her sharp voice, to which Mackensie replied, just as sharply. At this Halimena disappeared into the caravan, banging the door behind her. Pearl looked at Corinda but Freda’s mother continued to stare into the flames, her work-roughened hands clasped round her knees and her stance pensive.
Nothing more was said, but shortly after this Corinda called the children and they all went their separate ways, Mackensie and Corinda and the boys into the tent, and Madora and Freda and Pearl into the caravan where Halimena was already stretched out on her narrow bed, apparently asleep.
But Halimena was not asleep. She lay completely still and silent until she was sure the three girls were no longer awake, and then rose, pushing her feet into her boots and pulling her shawl around her shoulders.
It was only Rex, lying outside the entrance to the tent wherein slept his master, who raised his head as Halimena closed the caravan door. When the old woman sat down on the last wooden step he closed his eyes again.
The night was
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