Blackberry Bill

by Ned Reardon

  The gypsy noticed the boy’s interest and asked, ‘Like the boats do you?’

  The boy smiled wishfully. ‘I dream about having my own boat one day, Tom,’ he replied, his gaze expanding far beyond the reed beds of the floodplain. ‘I’d sail her out on the big blue sea to America. Then back to Africa. And then all the way to Australia as well.’

  The gypsy grinned slyly. ‘I know where there’s one,’ he claimed, hoping to please the boy.

  The boy’s ears pricked up and his eyes glowed jubilantly.

  ‘Lying there just for the taking it is, up at the head of the creek. Granted, it’s got a hole or two in it. But I reckon with a decent bit of wood from down oddzee’s yard and a good lick of paint, we can get her fixed up all right. I can promise you that. I’ll take you up to see it later, if you like.’

  The boy was ecstatic and felt as though he might imminently burst into a million bubbles of pure happiness. Overjoyed by the gypsy’s pledge and relaxing his grip on the fishing rod, he leant over and appreciatively cuddled the man with such warmth and emotion like he would have his own father. And in that tender, tearful moment he thought perhaps he should never return home again.

  The boy’s simple display of affection had deeply touched the gypsy’s heart. ‘Now there’s an idea,’ he proposed, pulling himself together. ‘Maybe when we get her all shipshape and seaworthy, we can do some proper angling out there,’ he said, pointing way beyond the Swale towards the North Sea. His rod then began to shudder and bow with tension. ‘Hold up boy,’ he chuckled. ‘I think we’ve finally hooked one!’

  Chapter 22

  They’d spent the whole afternoon fishing from off the coal jetty. The boy had never felt this happy in his entire life. He and the gypsy were becoming better and better friends. Between the pair of them they had managed to catch a full hand of dabs which they’d gutted and cleaned and were now frying in the pan. Before they sat down to eat them, the boy asked, beseechingly, if he could stay for a further night.

  ‘Please yourself young’n but you’ll have to sling yourself under the vardo tonight because I need my bed. Never got much kip the night before on account of you being ill an all.’

  The boy expressed some doubt, thinking that this meant perhaps he was going to have to sleep rough on the bare ground.

  The man emitted a slight titter. ‘Don’t look so worried boy, you’ll be snuggled up nicely in the old hammock…You never know, maybe the badgers will come and say hello.’

  During the meal, the boy’s focus was continually drawn to the black and white photograph hanging over the fireplace. ‘She seems like a nice, kind lady.’ he commented, whilst at the same time trying to imagine his own late mother’s persona.

  ‘Who does?’ asked the hungry man, busily devouring his heap of steaming hot fish.

  ‘Your mother, in the photograph.’

  The gypsy looked up at the picture as well and ceased chewing his food for a moment. ‘Aye, the best.’ he remarked, whilst inadvertently spraying tiny bits of fish over the table. ‘She learned me everyfink I needed to know about life… I loved those years with her, out on the open road with old Toby pulling us.’

  ‘Old Toby?’

  ‘Our horse. Clever old gry him. Crafty too. Wouldn’t pull us up an hill until we’d fed him an apple!’

  The boy smiled, much amused.

  ‘She was a wise ole bird, my ma. She told me once that the most wonderful thing we possess, save our freedom, is our freedom to roam…And I ain’t never forgotten it. Didn’t do much travelling in the winters though. Instead, we used to find us a cushti atchin tan somewhere and scratch a living out of the scrap metal. And when times were really hard I knew how to cadge a few smokes out of the gorgers and how to make a few bob, selling the lucky heather.’

  The boy listened attentively, fascinated to learn about some of the Romany ways.

  ‘Ah, but the summer times were better boy.’ Continued the gypsy, smiling nostalgically. ‘It were all picking. We must have worked a hundred farms or more, me an ole ma. All over the southern counties we roamed, as free as the wind and with nothing to our name except the good times ahead of us…She learned me how to skin a bunny and how to bake an hedgehog in the clay.’

  The boy grimaced in disgust at the thought of eating such a thing.

  ‘Aye, it were cushti boy! Don’t know what you’ve missed…Anyway, the point is I now know how to cook lots of different things, apple pie an all. And how to properly clean my nashers afterwards. We use the cold ashes, out of the yog. Here, dik at this set o’grinders.’ He said, before expanding his jaw wide open and exposing all of his teeth. ‘Just like rows of pearls, ain’t they boy?’

  Chapter 23

  It was a perfect evening for a casual stroll upstream along the elevated hillocks, hugging the incoming tide gently rising and hardly noticeable. Low above the horizon thinning cloud cradled the blood-red fireball of the setting sun. The boy gazed up in awe at the evening sky. The effect was almost frightening like Dante’s inferno risen from hell. Save an occasional swarm of midges accompanied by one or two bothersome mosquitoes, everywhere was calm. Wildlife silent but watchful. Dykes, ditches and ponds stagnant and the great reed bed dormant and motionless. A sluggish peace had settled upon the marshes.

  About a half hour into their ramble, after climbing over the last stile, they came by the travellers’ settlement. Unlike the potdigger’s home, these gypsies lived in the more modern aluminium caravans shaped like half-moons, about twenty in all. Parked up beside some of them were their trucks fully laden with scrap metal. Jam-packed and piled high with bits of old iron girder, broken car parts and wheel hubs, clapped out radio sets, copper water boilers, clothes mangles and odd pieces of steel and loose wiring. On the ground there were indiscriminate scorch marks of recent fires and scattered here and there were empty propane gas bottles, busted bicycle frames, inoperative kid’s toys and several defunct vehicle tyres. An air of poverty hovered over the encampment. Yet, if one was to observe more closely there was wealth too, stealth and undisclosed.

  The gypsies went about their business oblivious to the strangers in their midst. Slowly passing by the boy concentrated on all the commotion. The Romany men were stood around in small groups, smoking cigarettes and arguing amongst themselves. Their shawled womenfolk gathering in the washing or attending to their babies. There were a couple of black and white cob horses, their manes long and wild, grazing in an open central area tethered to metal stakes hammered into the ground. A few younger members of the community with mucky faces were happily leading round a patchy brown and white pony, whilst other excited children ran to and fro with their pet dogs loose, playing games with sticks and kicking litter.

  When the man and the boy had all but passed by, the gypsies’ hounds suddenly got wind of them and began barking wildly. An elderly Romany woman then happened to register who the man was on the hillock. Soon after there followed a great fuss with the mothers crossing themselves and calling out to their children and husbands, summoning them home and locking their caravan doors as if they were in the shadow of the devil himself.

  The boy peered up at his friend and tried to figure out exactly what it was that the gypsies were so afraid of. Not a moment ago the whole site was literally a hive of activity. Now, save for the canine’s growling, it was as silent and still as the rest of the marsh. However, the more spirited men among the clan remained out in the open and stood defiantly beside their property. Some of them had drawn their daggers, subtly threatening and gawping up at the maverick with hatred in their hearts. Nevertheless, they sought no trouble from their banished compatriot and were satisfied just to see him on his way.

  Ignoring the travellers’ contempt they continued on towards the floodgates located up at the head of the creek near where the houseboats were permanently moored. They strolled by the tall asbestos sheds where the big con
crete pipes were manufactured and along by Mr Bacon’s lemonade factory, lying in the great shadow of the gaswork’s gasometer. Just beyond the water barrier, lying flat on the silvery mud, was the little boat which the man had mentioned earlier at the coal jetty. The boy leapt with joy and almost begged the man to hasten his stride along the paper mill’s steam pipes upon which they were now treading. He’d noticed that the gypsy was never in a hurry. Everything he did was done slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

  Suddenly their progress was thwarted by some mysterious object, lumpy and ragged, lying wedged between the pipes.

  ‘Hang about, who have we here then?’ sniggered the gypsy, surprised to discover an old codger who was fast asleep, purring contentedly. Discarded next to him were a couple of empty cider bottles.

  The boy had recognised the guy’s long white beard. ‘It’s the tramp from the village…I don’t think the poor old man has anywhere to live.’

  Many a cold, dark winter had come and gone since Rodger the dodger had first joined that league of gentlemen of the road. They stared down pityingly at the sad bundle of old rags and wondered what cruel tragedy had befallen him all those years ago.

  ‘We better not disturb him then,’ suggested the gypsy, taking great care not to wake him as he stepped over his bulky frame. When the boy did likewise he noticed his cockle-hearted friend slip a few pound notes into the old chap’s coat pocket.

  As they crossed over the floodgates and approached the mini dock the boy’s heart sank with disappointment. The vessel seemed in such a dilapidated state, its paintwork almost peeled away. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry, ‘Oh Tom,’ he sighed. It saddened him deeply and put him in mind of an injured soldier returned from the wars, broken and all but done in. On closer inspection he also discovered the mast to be partly missing and the holes that the man had spoken of were a lot worse than he’d imagined.

  The gypsy began to kick and poke and pull on the craft. ‘Well, she’s sound enough up at this pointed end.’ he declared. ‘Shouldn’t be too bad a job getting her done up… What do you reckon?’

  The boy wasn’t entirely convinced and was inclined to think it beyond repair. Studying it further he found it impossible to emulate the man’s optimism and sighed once more.

  Sensing the boy’s negativity the man then said, ‘Cheer up young’n, we’ll soon have her fixed up. It ain’t that bad… I’ll take you down the timber yard next week and then maybe we can make a start.’

  Staring at it, the boy slowly began to come round to the idea. ‘Can we really, Tom?’

  ‘Of course we will,’ promised the jovial gypsy. ‘Once upon a time this must have been the finest boat anywhere on the creek and mark my words she can be that again!’

  Again the boy felt the need to express his love and adoration for this man who’d already twice saved his life. He latched onto his side and squeezed him as tight as he could. ‘Thank you Tom, you’re the best friend anyone could ever have.’

  Chapter 24

  The boy’s bed for the night turned out to be nothing more complex than a small canvas sheet, suspended directly beneath the vardo’s wooden floor by short lengths of rope fastened at each of the corners. At first, before he’d got used to the idea, he felt much like a fruit bat hanging in the dark. However, he had to admit that in addition to the soft feather pillow and the thick cozy blanket the man had lent him it was perfectly snug. He wasn’t that bothered about the fact that he was now sleeping outside. Or about the loud rasping noise coming from above. Having only ever slept in the boy’s dormitory he was used to the sounds of snoring. In any case he wasn’t the least bit tired. Right now his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the little boat and was excited at the prospect of restoring it. But his faith in the man’s ability to achieve this objective remained doubtful and as things stood it was more a case of hope than confidence.

  Suddenly the boy cried out in pain, ‘Aargh!’

  The thud from under the floor had jolted the man up out of his sleep and then wondering what all the kerfuffle was about he shouted down to his young guest. ‘You all right, boy?’

  The boy was still wincing in pain. He’d felt something beneath the tarpaulin prod his lower back causing him to wallop his head on the underside of the caravan.

  Following a short spell of uncertainty the man repeated his question.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ replied the boy.

  ‘What do you mean you think so, what have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, I just accidently banged my head…but I don’t think it’s bleeding.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right now.’ He was nursing a small bump which had formed on his forehead.

  ‘Be careful under there.’

  ‘I will, goodnight.’

  ‘Aye lad, go to sleep now.’

  A short while later, when he was sure that the man had nodded off again, he squeezed his head out through the gap at the edge of his bed. Beyond the tarpaulin he could see quite clearly bathed in the moonlight a beautiful red vixen. The guilty party, he presumed. He also thought it might be the same fox he’d been shown earlier. She was foraging around for scraps of food. Scratching the ground and sniffing the air she suddenly picked up the boy’s scent and came closer to investigate.

  ‘Hello Mrs Fox,’ he whispered, staring into its glassy eyes which glowed like hot coals. ‘And how are you this fine evening?’

  The slightly nervous animal padded a few steps in reverse before it turned about completely and raced off empty bellied in the direction of its den.

  Chapter 25

  The following morning, at around nine o’clock, Mrs Saffron decided to ring the boy up at his friend’s house, Christopher Crispin’s. Bearing in mind the jackdaw’s sudden decline in its general wellbeing, she’d thought it best to tell him to come home straight away. However, when Mr Crispin said he hadn’t seen the boy for some weeks, Mrs Saffron almost dropped the telephone receiver in distress. ‘Are you quite certain?’ she asked, extremely alarmed. ‘He assured us both that he was staying with your son and it was all arranged.’

  Whilst remaining on the line, the undertaker called out for young Christopher just to make sure that he hadn’t got it wrong.

  ‘No papa,’ confirmed the apple of his father’s eye. ‘I haven’t seen Tommy since last week at school when he borrowed my compass and magnifying glass,’ he said, before adding rather sulkingly, ‘And he hasn’t given them back to me yet!’

  Having overheard their conversation, Mrs Saffron suddenly felt faint and was forced to sit down. ‘Umm, ok then Mr Crispin, I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all… But is there a problem then, Mrs Saffron?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve obviously got it all muddled up. He must have meant one of his other friends,’ she returned, very much doubting her own supposition. ‘But please, if either of you do happen to see him, would you ask him to come home straight away?’

  ‘Yes of course we will, Mrs Saffron.’

  ‘Well cheerio then, Mr Crispin.’ She replaced the telephone receiver temporarily before picking it up again and dialing 999.

  Chapter 26

  About twenty minutes after Mrs Saffron had telephoned the emergency services, a blue Ford Anglia patrol car pulled up sharply at the curbside directly outside of Greenporch. Two uniformed officers stepped out of the police vehicle and greeted the anxious woman already waiting for them at the front gate. Trying his best to calm his frantic wife, Mr Saffron promptly ushered them all inside.

  ‘Now then madam,’ began the ruddy-faced sergeant, ‘could you please give us a brief description of the missing child. A recent snapshot would be helpful.’ The younger constable pulled out his notebook and pencil from his top pocket and stood ready to jot down all of the particular
s. The tearful women, holding a crumpled handkerchief up to her face, then proceeded to explain about her telephone call earlier to Mr Crispin.

  ‘So in actual fact then, the boy’s been absent since early Saturday morning. Is that correct?’

  Rather sheepishly, the boy’s legal guardians both nodded in confirmation.

  The sergeant then added, reassuringly, ‘That’s assuming of course that he hadn’t changed his mind and went to stay with another of his friends instead. Which I might add usually turns out to be the case.’

  Mrs Saffron blew her nose and dried her eyes. ‘After I’d called you I sent the twins, that’s Veronica and Daisy – our eldest, round to check on his other friends. Nugger, Ernie and Johnny. They’re all the same age as Tommy and live just over there on the estate… neither of the boys have laid eyes on him. And sometimes he plays with Jimmy up in the coal yard but I’ve already phoned his mum.’

  ‘With respect, missus,’ explained the younger policeman, ‘we’ll still require their addresses, just to be on the safe side. They may well have spun the girls a bit of a yarn, boys being boys.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed, Mrs Saffron in submission. ‘Oh, I’m such a fool, I should have made sure!’ She kept on repeating this over and over again. Chastising herself for foolishly allowing the boy to pull the wool over her eyes.

  ‘You see, sergeant,’ interposed her husband, handing the policeman one of the boy’s school photographs. ‘We’ve never had occasion to doubt his integrity. As far as we were aware, Tommy was meant to be staying up at the undertaker’s place.’