GYPSY (An Irish Story )
GYPSY
“Remember not to be late tonight, Tim, it's Christmas eve you know.”
The grey Mercedes pulled into the approach road to the shopping centre, and had to brake suddenly to avoid hitting a bunch of tough looking teenagers dawdling across the road. Tim's daddy pressed a button and the electric window rolled down. Without stopping he yelled ,
“Get off the road you useless louts!”
“Piss off, Grandad!! Come back here and say that, baldy!!”
One of them ran up to the car and jabbed a one-finger sign at Tim through the window. The boy almost spilled his can of coke down his new yellow bomber jacket in surprise. The window went back up and the car pulled away.
“What a disgusting display, probably those filthy gypsies from the halting site around the corner.. We'd be better off without that sort around here, hordes of children and no jobs, they neither work nor want, and I wouldnt trust any of them..... they all carry knives.”
Tim's dad went on and on. The boy had heard the same speech many times , and agreed with most of it.The car reached the end of the cul-de-sac approach road, and Tim made ready to get out.
“Don't be late, Tim, I wan't to pick you up and get home quick we've got guests coming for supper, you know.”
“I won't daddy, I'll leave as soon as the show's over.”
He was going to the pictures as usual on a Friday night. At least it was more fun than waiting alone at home for his parents to get back from the bridge club. And then he wasn't allowed to turn the television up loud in case the neghbours complained, and the heating had to be watched ..because we don't want to waste money heating the whole house when there's only you in, do we Tim, my man? And don't make any mess because it'll only be extra work for us to clean up, and do't forget we've got guests...... Yes, the pictures were a lot more fun.
The pcture was one Tim had been looking forward to. “Lost in Space”, about a U. S. astronaut who made a trip outside the Columbia shuttle, and couldn't get back because his jet pack thrusters failed. A thriller balancing a fate of choking or freezing in space, and whether or not the rescue mission could be launched in time from Cape Canaveral. In the end it was the Russians who saved the astronaut's life by diverting a Soyuz already aloft in orbit nearby. They managed to get oxygen into his lungs and hold him so that his own rescue craft could eventually grab him and take him back to earth. Tim was disappointed because the film broke down halfway through and they missed about fifteen minutes just at the most crucial point where the decision had to be made whether to launch from the Cape through the eye of a tornado.
The picture ended and the small crowd trooped out into the fresh chill of the winter's evening. Dad will be surprised that it's not me who's late this time , he thought, as the last stragglers disappeared into their cars and the cinema doors bolted behind him. Tim zipped up his jacket and watched his own breath on the frosty air and looked up at the stars above, wondering how it would feel to be alone in space...
“Oi, look it's that baldy one's kid from the posh car. See the yellow jacket? Let's show him who's useless. Let's have some laughs.”
Tim came back down to earth with a thump. He could vaguely see in the dark alley opposite a group of teenagers, pretty tough looking, watching him in the light of the floodlights in front of the closed cinema. Tim thought he'd better ignore them, and they might find some other amusement. But as their taunts and yells became more pointed and they began to realise that he was alone and there was no sign of his dad's car. Tim looked nervously around for help or for ways to run. But there was none. The only way out of the dead end was down past the alley with the gang of five, working up their courage with the clink of bottles.
“Let's get the little bastard, he's probably got money as well. His old man's late comin' for 'im and he can't get away. It's gonna be easy, you get 'is money first, Jacko, then Shanks and Twister can do what they like with them bottles.... “
Tim felt violently sick to his stomach. He wanted to run but the was no way out. He wanted to plead, but knew these people were out for blood. The five sauntered casually over the floodlit parking space in front of the cinema. They looked even more vicious in the light than they had sounded in the dark. The leader definitely looked half drunk, and the four others sniggered at Tim's well- dressed appearance, between threats of what they were about to do to him. Tears of fear spurted uncontrollably from his eyes as they closed on him. In all his ten years Tim had met no circumstance which could prepare him for this. Tim had never felt so utterly alone, mouth dry as dust so he could hardly swallow, and hands sweating He was absolutely terrified, and began to wet his own pants. The warmth on his cold legs on this frosty night was something he would remember all his life. He began to plead and shake, and he knew they would have no mercy. Jacko came closer holding a small knife in his right hand......
Suddenly from the alley another shadowy figure burst out and rushed at Tim. It looked like one of those awful gypsies , with longish staggly hair and smelling of smoke. In a flash the big gypsy placed himself between Tim and Jacko and roared in a voice to terrify a burglar's dog,
“Get away yeez pests or I'll split the skull o' yez,.... now leave the wee one alone, or ye'll feel me fists across yer faces!!”
“What, you again' us all? Come on then, you knacker, you can feel my bottle first,” snarled the leader of the pack as he lurched drunkenly two steps forward and stood next to Jacko. The big gypsy's hand went to his hip and whipped out the biggest knife Tim had ever seen.
“All right if it's that ye want! Liam! Muxer! Are ye right there?!”
From the alley another two huge gypsies sprang out, brandishing glittering blades.
“That we are. Michael, that we are!”
“Here, Jacko let's get the hell away before we get hurt,” slurred Shanks. Shanks was a man of action, not words, and he was running as fast as he could away from the floodlit cinema. Twister's nerve cracked, and he raced after Shanks. Only the leader and his sideman were left, now outnumbered by the gypsies.
“Ah, sure, he's not worth it , we don't want any trouble with our travelling friends, now do we?” sneered the pack leader, and the pair sauntered away into the dark, the footsteps quickening as they went.
The big gypsy breathed out heavily and relaxed his aggressive posture. He slipped the knife back into its sheath.
“Are ye all right lad?” he growled.
Tim was shaking and his pants were cold from the wet. He mumbled something incoherent through sobs of relief and fear and puzzlement and shame. Tim managed to blurt out something about his father being late due to the picture finishing early.
“Well then ye have ten minutes and more to wait on this cold night, and them fellers could come back. Why don't you come to our van and wait, and ye can dry off a wee bit?” he smiled.
Tim was not at all happy about going to the van with the gypsies but he certainly did not want to wait alone and face those thugs again. His father's words kept coming back to him... and God knows that was the biggest knife he'd ever seen. Dad was right. But his fear was a powerful motivator, and Tim decided to go with the gypsies. It was only a hundred yards to the vans in the halting site. With a grunt of farewell Liam and Muxer went off in the direction of a gloomy looking caravan some yards further down the path leaving Tim and the giant figure of Big Mick McMurtagh outside the rusting door of Mick's van.
“In ye go, so, me little fightin’ man,” he whispered with a throaty chuckle.
As the door closed behind him Tim's eyes adjusted to the brightness inside. There seemed to be tinsel everywhere, cheap tarnished tinsel, years old and reused many times. Tim could see pieces of sellotape, browned from years drying out, holding together the streams of golden and yellowing silver tinsel. Three or four young children rushed towards him in the narrow entrance alleyway, and Tim felt he was going to be pushed out of the door again. But they didn't push, they grabbed hold of his coat and pulled him into the middle of the caravan. A dozen questions were tossed at him all at once.
“Who's he, Da? What's he want? Jeysus, he looks posh, Mammy, look at the lovely yellow jacket on him! Where’d 'e come from?”
Tim tried to answer, but as soon as he started to reply, another load of questions was thrown at him. How? Why? Where? Tim was dizzy. Big Mick stepped over to the middle of his caravan and roared.
“Will yeez shut up, for God's sake, can't yeez see that the lad is frightened?!”
There wasn't another peep out of the children, and they stood around Tim staring in silence. Three seconds of staring like statues and then it was over, and as quickly as they had accosted him they were gone, disappearing like wild creatures amongst piles of toys and magazines and endless dented tins of fruit.
Tim looked around at the chaos. There seemed to be children everywhere, some standing on chairs shouting to others below the table. Some were watching television, but Tim could hardly hear the sound from the set and wondered how they could. The television was perched uncertainly on the edge of a small shelf obviously too small for it, and had to share its perch with piles of Ireland's Own and several tins of biscuits, overpiled with dried washing waiting to be ironed. Everything was in piles, and there was no room for any more at all, or so it seemed. Under the table the three smallest children were arguing and squabbling over pieces of chocolate.
“That's mine!”
“It isn't. Ye had the last piece, ye hoor.”
Big Mick roared out, “Watch yer tongue or I'll bate the head o' ye!” It seemed to have no effect for the three continued to bicker and clutch at chocolate which had already fallen on the floor many times.
“Is it yer mammy yer waitin for, child?” whispered a voice from the left.
Tim turned to face a large woman with untidy gray hair which could have benefited from a brush. Her face was weather beaten and the brown cheekbones merged into a ray pattern around her eyes where the creases had folded the flesh against itself from hours of squinting in sun and wind. Her eyes almost seemed to permanently suggest that everything was five-for-a-pound.
“What sort o' mammy and daddy would be goin' an' leavin' ye on this cold night? And ye with only that thin jacket on? Ye must be frozen,.... get yersel over to the fire.” And she nodded in the direction of the oil heater’s warm flame buzzing and fluttering in the corner.
Tim moved instinctively to the flame, like a frozen moth. He recovered his composure in irregular sobs and sighs, and wiped his eyes and nose on his new jacket. Daddy would be horrified if he saw me, he thought. After a couple of minutes his pants had dried so that the wet mark couldn't be seen, and Tim felt he could stop trying to hide it by crouching awkwardly.
“Will ye have a drop o' tae to warm ye, young feller?” again came the whisper of the gray-haired woman, who was obviously the mother of all these children. Tim gladly accepted the hot sweet tea, even though it was in a cracked cup with no handle. He had never tasted anything as satisfying in his young life. As he sipped, the life in the caravan began to etch itself on his memory. The children bickered constantly, but more out of propinquity than enmity. They shared all they had, while trying to mark out their own possessions for all to see. The mother whispered all the time, and had clearly given up trying to shout above the din. However, the voice of Big Mick, heard at crucial points in the never-ending tumult of young activity, was one the children had learned to take notice of. Although their father shouted threats at them, Tim noticed that he never actually carried out his bloodcurdling utterances, but seemed too busy himself sorting out the dented tins from the not-dented ones, and putting them into cardboard boxes marked 5 a £1 or 3 a £1, depending on dent-status. As Tim sipped the last of the tea, Big Mick looked at his watch and grunted,
“It's time I took you back to the cinema or your father will be worryin' himself.”
He stood up, bending his head of straggly hair to avoid banging into the metal ceiling of the van. He took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ash out the window,
“I'll only be a minute Sarah, and when I come back we'll start the kids to bed so Santy can come.”
“Aye,” she whispered,..... “Bye bye son.”
And Tim and the giant stepped out into the cold and the rusting door closed and you'd never even guess what was going on inside the darkened halting site, Tim thought as they stepped smartly up the path towards the cinema. The Mercedes was waiting, and the boy could see that his dad was annoyed because Tim was late.
“I'll let you go on alone from here, boy. You'll be all right, I'll watch out for ye till you reach the car.” Big Mick squeezed Tim's shoulder and pushed him gently through the small hedge and into the floodlit area in front of the cinema.
Tim's daddy saw him straight away and lowered the electric window, snapping
“I thought I told you not to be late, Tim!..Did you forget?! We've got guests. And haven't I warned you about the gypsies around here?!”
Tim got in the car without speaking, and glanced back at the big shadow in the hedge. The mercedes engine picked up speed and they drove off up the dead end.
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