grin. “I think I owe you one for saving my life.”
How could I possibly refuse? At last I would see the inside of a gypsy wagon.
14
I t was just as I had imagined the inside of a gypsy wagon to be. “What a wonderful home you have!”
I was seated on a buttercup-yellow three-legged stool. Jimmy was sitting on another that was painted a dark green. In front of him, an old kettle boiled merrily atop what I gathered was called a “queenie” stove.
The upper half of the wagon door was wide open, affording a spectacular view of open fields and woodland. I could hear the cry of birds and the rustle of the wind through the trees and, frankly, couldn’t think of anything more romantic than living life in one of these beauties.
“It’s all so neat and compact,” I enthused. “Where do you sleep?”
Jimmy pointed to the rear of the wagon. Beneath a casement window and atop a bow-fronted glass cabinet was a neat bed reminding me of a berth at sea.
It was definitely cozy. The actual living area couldn’t be larger than a prison cell—but thanks to an abundance of cut-glass beveled mirrors on all three sides, it didn’t feel remotely claustrophobic.
I caught sight of my reflection, feeling decidedly out of place with my shoulder-length hair, jeans, and light sweater. A long flowing gypsy skirt, peasant top, and shawl, with my hair tumbling to my waist, seemed far more fitting.
Every surface was painted in two-tone greens and yellows with delicate grape and apple motifs except for the bowed ceiling, which depicted a pastoral river scene. There were masses of scrollwork covered in gold leaf.
A display cabinet was filled with Royal Crown Derby china.
There were a few photographs framed in silver plate. I gestured to one. A young couple smiled at the camera, arm in arm. The man was unmistakably a younger Jimmy with his ribbon-threaded braid. “Is that you?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s very beautiful. Was that your wife?”
“Yes, but she wasn’t the love of my life.” Jimmy pulled a tattered photograph of a woman from his shirt pocket and passed it to me. “She was.”
The “she” couldn’t have been more than sixteen and was sitting on the step of what looked like this very wagon. The woman was stunning and reminded me of Bizet’s Carmen from a poster the Gipping Bards bought on eBay to promote one of their more ambitious productions.
“What happened to her?”
“Gypsies and gorgers can’t be together,” Jimmy said sadly. “Ever.”
“That’s ridiculous in this day and age,” I said. “Do you know where she is? Can you find her?”
“I’m not sure she’d want that. It’s too late.”
“Rubbish!” I cried. “You should follow your heart.”
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. “You are young. What do you know about love?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “But enough to know that outdated customs and traditions would never hold me back from someone I truly loved.”
“Some of our customs can only be broken by death,” Jimmy said quietly, but before I could press him further, there was a shrill whistle as the kettle came to a boil.
Jimmy took a tin tea caddy down from a rack of shelves set into the wall above the stove. He added three heaped spoonfuls—one per person and one for the pot—of real tea leaves into a Brown Betty teapot and poured on the boiling water. Given the amount and different brands of tea I consumed every day on my travels, I considered myself a tea connoisseur and had high hopes for this cuppa.
I was glad to see a packet of my favorite chocolate digestives join two mugs and a bowl of sugar on the pull-out table between us. These days I seemed to survive on a diet of tea, biscuits, and cake.
Jimmy leaned over to his right and opened a small fridge to retrieve a pint of milk. “These wagons are collector’s items nowadays.” Clearly our conversation about love and longing was over, but not for me. The thought of being reunited with the love
How could I possibly refuse? At last I would see the inside of a gypsy wagon.
14
I t was just as I had imagined the inside of a gypsy wagon to be. “What a wonderful home you have!”
I was seated on a buttercup-yellow three-legged stool. Jimmy was sitting on another that was painted a dark green. In front of him, an old kettle boiled merrily atop what I gathered was called a “queenie” stove.
The upper half of the wagon door was wide open, affording a spectacular view of open fields and woodland. I could hear the cry of birds and the rustle of the wind through the trees and, frankly, couldn’t think of anything more romantic than living life in one of these beauties.
“It’s all so neat and compact,” I enthused. “Where do you sleep?”
Jimmy pointed to the rear of the wagon. Beneath a casement window and atop a bow-fronted glass cabinet was a neat bed reminding me of a berth at sea.
It was definitely cozy. The actual living area couldn’t be larger than a prison cell—but thanks to an abundance of cut-glass beveled mirrors on all three sides, it didn’t feel remotely claustrophobic.
I caught sight of my reflection, feeling decidedly out of place with my shoulder-length hair, jeans, and light sweater. A long flowing gypsy skirt, peasant top, and shawl, with my hair tumbling to my waist, seemed far more fitting.
Every surface was painted in two-tone greens and yellows with delicate grape and apple motifs except for the bowed ceiling, which depicted a pastoral river scene. There were masses of scrollwork covered in gold leaf.
A display cabinet was filled with Royal Crown Derby china.
There were a few photographs framed in silver plate. I gestured to one. A young couple smiled at the camera, arm in arm. The man was unmistakably a younger Jimmy with his ribbon-threaded braid. “Is that you?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s very beautiful. Was that your wife?”
“Yes, but she wasn’t the love of my life.” Jimmy pulled a tattered photograph of a woman from his shirt pocket and passed it to me. “She was.”
The “she” couldn’t have been more than sixteen and was sitting on the step of what looked like this very wagon. The woman was stunning and reminded me of Bizet’s Carmen from a poster the Gipping Bards bought on eBay to promote one of their more ambitious productions.
“What happened to her?”
“Gypsies and gorgers can’t be together,” Jimmy said sadly. “Ever.”
“That’s ridiculous in this day and age,” I said. “Do you know where she is? Can you find her?”
“I’m not sure she’d want that. It’s too late.”
“Rubbish!” I cried. “You should follow your heart.”
Jimmy raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. “You are young. What do you know about love?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “But enough to know that outdated customs and traditions would never hold me back from someone I truly loved.”
“Some of our customs can only be broken by death,” Jimmy said quietly, but before I could press him further, there was a shrill whistle as the kettle came to a boil.
Jimmy took a tin tea caddy down from a rack of shelves set into the wall above the stove. He added three heaped spoonfuls—one per person and one for the pot—of real tea leaves into a Brown Betty teapot and poured on the boiling water. Given the amount and different brands of tea I consumed every day on my travels, I considered myself a tea connoisseur and had high hopes for this cuppa.
I was glad to see a packet of my favorite chocolate digestives join two mugs and a bowl of sugar on the pull-out table between us. These days I seemed to survive on a diet of tea, biscuits, and cake.
Jimmy leaned over to his right and opened a small fridge to retrieve a pint of milk. “These wagons are collector’s items nowadays.” Clearly our conversation about love and longing was over, but not for me. The thought of being reunited with the love
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