The Girl in the Painted Caravan (9 page)

Daddy and Jack decided to move into the town, for a bit anyway, since the bombings seemed to be concentrated on the beach. While there, he met some French gypsies with whom he was able to
converse in the Romany language common to them. The Frenchmen knew that it was like a slaughterhouse on the beach and they offered to garrave (hide) them. But my father’s only desire was to
see the back of France now, for he had just about had enough. All he wanted was to see his home and his family again, and he was quite prepared to risk his life for that.

So it was back to the beaches, and there he had another strange meeting, this time with a man called Gadsby, whom he knew from Skegness. Gadsby was a performer – he used to high-dive from
the pier into a ring of flame on the water. My father couldn’t have asked for a more appropriately qualified friend than this and he made sure he stuck close by him. They finally managed to
get on a boat together and, as it happened, they weren’t more than a few hundred yards out to sea when it hit a mine and sank. Gadsby saved several men who couldn’t swim while my father
was dog-paddling his way back to the beach. He, Gadsby and most of the survivors managed to get aboard a second boat and, again, they had hardly got clear of the beach when they suffered a direct
hit from a German dive-bomber, the bomb going clean down the steamer’s funnel. Yet another scramble took place and once more Gadsby played a heroic part, saving more lives because of his
skill as a diver and swimmer.

By now, as can be imagined, it was like Bedlam at the beach, with hundreds of small ships arriving, more and more troops converging on Dunkirk from the battle lines and the Germans throwing in
every dive-bomber and fighter they had, pausing their ferocious onslaught only to refuel and rearm. Dozens of ships were being sunk and the survivors machine-gunned in the water as they tried to
get back to the beach.

In the midst of the chaos, Daddy got separated from his friends, but managed to get a place on board – of all the ridiculous vessels that were there in Dunkirk harbour – a paddle
boat normally used for pleasure trips between coastal resorts like Margate and Ramsgate. The
King George V
was not built for speed or for manoeuvrability, but it somehow managed to evade the
minefields and the German dive-bombers, and paddled, literally, its way back home.

One day in the NAAFI canteen, while queuing up for a meal, my father heard a welcome and familiar sound. One of the men on fatigues was mumbling away to himself, cursing miserably, as he
splashed out dollops of mashed potatoes. There was nothing unusual in that except that the man was cursing in Romany, which made my father smile.

‘Keker puker duver, chore,’ he said. (‘Don’t speak like that, boy.’) The man cheered up immediately, hardly able to believe his own ears, and could not wait until
he was able to join my father for a chat. The Romany boy’s name was Leo Cooper and he was one of those who had been called up, much against his will. He felt a tremendous resentment against
the army and was terribly homesick, finding it impossible to make friends among the gorgers. He poured out all his troubles to my father.

His young wife was expecting her first child and was unable to earn her keep. Most Romany women work for the full term of their pregnancy, but Leo’s wife was having a bad time and he
desperately wanted to get home to her. ‘I’ve got to jaw kerry,’ he kept repeating. (‘I’ve got to go home.’) Daddy warned him of the dangers of desertion, but Leo
was determined. He felt he just had to get back and take his wife somewhere where at least she would not be lonely and would have her relatives to care for her. But he had no intention of coming
back, even then, because he hated the disciplines of army life. He wanted to be free again.

In fact, Leo was better off than he thought and the job he had in the cookhouse was one which was much sought after. It was always warm, there was plenty to eat, and the cooks were excused from
all drills and guard duties.

The day after Leo’s chat with my father, they were a man short in the cookhouse. At the same time, by a strange coincidence, Daddy was enquiring whether there was a vacancy for a cook. He
always had a silver tongue and, when asked what his qualifications were, he told such a beautiful and mouth-watering tale that he not only got a job, they put him in charge!

Since he had never so much as boiled an egg in his whole life, this was something of a problem, and one that he hadn’t bargained for. He had not known, when he applied, that the NCO in
charge of the place was being posted to some other camp. Ever quick-witted, though, he realised that he could turn the situation to his advantage. Being in charge meant he didn’t actually
have to do any cooking, which is when he would have been in danger of being found out. All he had to do now was to convince the cooks that he knew what he was doing and he would be all right.

So he marched up and down the cookhouse as though he were the head chef at the Savoy or somewhere, barking at the youngest and most inexperienced of the men to start with.

‘What d’you think you’re doing, lad?’ was his favourite question. The young cook would then nervously launch into a long and detailed description, which was exactly what
my father wanted, as it enabled him to learn. All his close attention to the work was perceived as conscientious inspection by the chefs and he rapidly gained the respect of the men for what they
believed to be his astute supervision.

He realised, of course, that this might not wash with the older and more experienced men working there. He gave them a wide berth for a day or two until he managed to get out into the
surrounding fields and gather together a collection of vegetables and herbs used by Romany women in their cooking: onions, wild thyme, fennel, marjoram and garlic. Then, copying his wife, he
sprinkled a handful of herbs into this dish and that one, improving the flavour considerably. Since army cooking was very basic, any improvement was a huge success. The men enjoyed their food and
the cynical cooks developed a great respect for Daddy, who they thought had to be some kind of expert.

Learning fast, Daddy rapidly did become an expert – so far as army cooking was concerned anyway. As well as herbs and vegetables, he would gather mushrooms, which normally never figured on
any army menu, and these he reserved for the sergeants’ mess, where he became very popular indeed.

From this point onwards, his life in the army was pretty comfortable.

NINE

Keeping me out of mischief was obviously a major concern of the adults around me. Granny would often have first shift of the day, taking me with her to the bakery across the
road from the Red Lion. She would make her own bread and take it over to the baker, who’d put it in his oven. An hour or so later, she’d go back to collect it. I loved the smell in the
shop – freshly baked bread mixed with the sugary aroma of the cakes laid out on the counter. Granny would leave with a big basket of still-warm loaves and I’d be clutching a fresh cake
in my hand – the best way to keep me quiet.

I’d also be given odd jobs to do. I was probably more of a nuisance than I was worth, but the grownups cleverly managed to give me the impression that I was doing something really useful.
In Romany families, children are set to work at an early age, not in order to exploit them, but to give them a feeling of belonging in their society and as an introduction to the skills
they’ll need later for survival. Their contribution is quite useful, however. The men would be away working during the day and the women would go out hawking, going from door to door selling
clothes pegs and offering readings. In older days, the little boys would tend the horses, while girls were sewing, cleaning and preparing meals long before the age of ten.

The whole family is part of the Romany community and each family is a small community of its own. The children know when times are hard and money is scarce. They also know when things are going
well and share in the good times with their parents. In gorger houses, there are many different rooms with doors behind which family members often hide from each other. A secret is like a veil
which hides part of your personality. Wear enough veils and you will become unrecognisable. In this way, the members of a family can become strangers to one another.

There can be few secrets in a vardo. As a child, you hear all of the discussions about where and how your family will earn the next lot of money and, in this way, you eventually learn to plan
your own enterprises. You find out what things cost early on and what they can be sold for. Bargaining among the traders, you learn quite a bit. If you heard a gorger boy of about twelve, say, talk
to a Romany boy the same age, you would probably describe the Romany boy as being like a little adult, because he would be so sharp in some matters, especially anything to do with money. Even when
things are going well, the pressure is always on you to work harder, do better and put more money away for the future.

Sitting around outside the wagon, I’d watch as my uncle Nathan carved so expertly the clothes pegs which my mother and her sisters would later take out to their clients. The other men in
the family would join in, sitting on the steps of the vardo, bantering about who was the best and the quickest at carving, laughing and racing each other. Below the steps, a large canvas sheet
would catch the wood shavings and I’d watch mesmerised as they started to mount up. They used willow, which was shaved and then cut into lengths of four or five inches, which were then split
in half to make the peg. A pile of Colman’s mustard tins were stacked against the side of the vardo and these were cut into tiny strips and tacked onto the wood to make the joint of the peg.
Then the pegs were shaped and finished and it was my job to put them together into little bundles.

The women in the family actually made a really good living selling pegs. A hawking licence was not necessary if the goods being sold were homemade, so there was no conflict with the law or any
local authority. And often visits to the various houses led to hand-reading sessions, which were more lucrative than selling clothes pegs and a lot more interesting.

I was often left in the care of Shunty, my mother’s youngest sister, who also cleaned up the vardo and helped to prepare our meals. I’d look at her, with her long, dark, curly hair
worn over one eye like Veronica Lake, and hope that one day I’d be as beautiful. She had such an amazing manner about her and talked to me as if she was on the same level as me. It was her
magical gift for making people feel at ease that would take her on to become one of the most popular palm-readers in Skegness. So much so that she went on to work well into her seventies.

Shunty always worked hard and was very kind-hearted, but she had a tongue as sharp as a knife if she was crossed by anyone. She stood no nonsense from her older brothers, but her arch-enemy was
her cousin Frank Taylor, who lived nearby. A couple of years older than her, Frank was a snappy dresser, a handsome chap who always wore a big cheeky grin on his face. This didn’t impress
Shunty though. For some reason, it seemed as though they just hated each other on sight.

She claimed that he was always trying to annoy her and sparks would fly whenever they clashed in an argument, which was more often than not. Frank had his own vardo, which was parked next to
that of his brother Willy and sister-in-law Bubbles. He had a great affection for my grandmother and she, with the same affection, treated him like one of her own sons. In her wisdom, she obviously
saw a lot more than any of us did and I think she knew that before many years had passed the arch-enemies would be happily wed!

Although the war was on and the Butlins holiday camp had been taken over by the navy, I do remember us still going to Skegness as the amusement park stayed open. In 1943 the elders sat down and
held a meeting to discuss the coming season and Granny said, ‘We can’t leave some of you here; we all have to stick together. So if we go to Skegness, you’ve all got to
come.’ They readily agreed.

When entering Skegness at Easter, we would drive past the tulip fields – this area is called Little Holland. It was just like a patchwork quilt – a field of yellow, then a field of
red, then blue, then purple and white. All the colours of the rainbow, each side of the narrow roads, stretching out forever. At each side of the road were drainage ditches and more than once we
had seen cars that had been going too fast end up in one of them.

As we rode into Skegness, with the familiar sights of the beach and the sea, we felt as if we were coming home. The smell of the salt in the air made us feel alive again, awoke our senses and
raised the spirits of the family, as they realised they could get back into their routine again. We weren’t allowed on some of the beaches, though, due to the barbed wire and land mines.

Mummy told me years later that because Shunty, who was not yet fifteen, looked older than her age and was very good at the arts of palmistry and clairvoyance, Granny had decided that she could
start work that summer. However, Shunty got into trouble because she went out and bought a whoopee cushion, the child in her always present. It may have been a serious job she was undertaking, but
she was determined to have fun while doing it. She placed it on the client’s chair and mischievously waited for the loud fart when they sat on it. Luckily, she couldn’t get it to work
– she must have been sold a duff one – but Granny found it when she came to relieve Shunty and was more than a little angry. ‘We don’t do pranks in such a serious business,
child.’ Shunty was barred from giving readings for a whole month after that. She didn’t care, though; she was more upset that the cushion didn’t work than the fact that
she’d got into trouble for it.

Towards the end of the summer, my mother received a telegram to say that my father would be on leave from the army and would be in Skegness within two days. I was four and a half and I’d
been promised that my daddy would take me round and buy me ice creams when he got back. As any child of my age would be, I was very excited at this prospect and my best dress was laid out all ready
for his arrival.