Aye?
Aye, nods Ned.
I’ve always been more of a facilitator you know? An organiser, like.
How do you mean?
I used to line up men for your Dad to bray.
Honest?
Me head starts reeling. I draw on me tab to try and stay calm.
Aye. Mind, there was more to it than that. It meant a lot of organising. And it meant putting up the cash, driving him places, taking bets, then getting him out of there if things came on top. We went all over the place, me and your Dad. I suppose you could say I was his...manager.
I nod, feeling weird to be hearing all this stuff about me Dad. Because if this gadgie knew me Dad then he knew what happened to him an all. So I say nowt.
Then like he’s reading me mind Ned says, Aye and we heard about what happened. How things turned out, like.
I don’t say owt.
There’s nee secrets in our world. But mebbes you knew that already.
I still say nowt.
Crying shame all that business, says the auld fella. But he always was a wild one, was Mac. Lost his marbles by all accounts. Proper tapped. All that fighting…well, it messed with his wiring. Turned him funny. Couldn’t work out right from wrong, that was his problem. Just a shame you bairns had to bear the brunt of it. But then you know all about that.
Aye.
We sit in silence for a moment.
I’m speechless. There’s a thousand things I could say, but nothing will come out. The auld fella breaks the silence.
When did you get out son?
I stare at what’s left of me tea and swill it around for a bit.
Not long back.
And you’re getting by alright?
Aye. Right enough.
But what about them twats tonight.
I shrug, drain me mug. What about them?
Didn’t look too friendly.
They’re just a bunch of knobheads them lot, that’s all. Local lads.
Had many other fights recently? says Ned.
No. That’s not my thing.
What about inside?
Sometimes. Here what’s with all these questions, like?
We just remember what happened son, that’s all. Lots of us do. And we know it weren’t your fault. Your Dad had gone bad and there was nowt me or you or any of us could do about it.
I look down at the ground, dig the toe of my boot into the soil.
And your Mam.
What about her?
Keeping well is she?
I keep glegging at the ground, keep digging at the soil. Me eyes have gone misty. I cannot hardly even see the toe of me boot.
How should I know, I mumble. Anyroad, what about youse.
What about us?
What family do youse belong to?
You’re dead right son – here we are asking you all these questions and I’ve not even introduced mesel properly.
The auld gadgie extends a gnarled hand.
I’m blinking away the wetness in me eyes. I’m not going to bloody blub in front of these two. I’ve not cried in yonks and I’m not about to bloody start now.
I shake his hand.
I’m Barker, he says. And that there’s Edward. Ned for short. We’re Lovells.
Lovells?
Aye.
In me head I can hear bells ringing. Big bloody bells of whatsit. Familiarity. As loud and clear as the cathedral bells.
Your name sounds familiar to us.
Aye.
The gadgie – Barker – turns away and flicks the dregs of his tea out into the night and nee one says owt for a while. We just sit there in the darkness on plastic chairs. Then summat occurs to us.
So was me Dad as good as they say he was – at fighting, like?
Barker nods.
Aye, I reckon he was. At one time I had him as the best knuckle man of all the gypsies. And everyone knows the best of the gypsies is the best in the land. That right, Ned.
Definitely.
Ned here’s on the way up himsel.
Aye?
Aye, says Ned. They say I’m the best man in the North on the cobbles. Fought me way through the counties and not lost yet.
’Sright, nods Barker.
What about the south? I say.
Soon enough. They’re all jessies down there anyway.
We sit for a bit then I say, I’m not into fighting me.
Well, that’s understandable considering, says auld Barker. But sometimes violence chooses you. Sometimes there’s nee choice in the matter. Especially when you’re on the outside of life.
Aye well, I say. I’m sick of being chosen. I’ve seen enough violence to last us a lifetime. Inside and out. I’ve never started nowt either. It’s always others. I’m sick of it.
That’s understandable, says the auld timer. Your Mac was a one off. For better and for worse. And anyways, what happened happened. It’s in the past now.
I grunt, thinking it’s easy for you to say. It’s not you that’s stuck living round here, with his bloody name and his bloody genes, seeing his face every time you look in the bloody mirror, worrying that you’re going to end up half-mad and doing the type of things he did. That’s why I could never have kids, me. I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk putting them in the same position I was.
Here, I say. They say he was never the same after he took a tannin down in Wales or summat, I say. Did you know him then?
There’s a tiny glance between Barker Lovell and his son, then he reaches for another tab, sparks it and exhales. He says nowt for a bit. Then he says Aye, as I recall I did. But it’s getting late isn’t it, and me and him’s still got work to do.
I take this as a sign to leave. We all stand up. Barker is small and lean, like me. Ned towers ower the both of us.
I’ll tell you this though young John-John, the auld man says. It took courage to take on them numpties tonight, and it took courage to be raised by a man like Mac Wisdom, not knowing whether you’re coming or going. Can’t have been easy. No. Can’t have been easy. You just remember this though – you’re stronger than you think you are. We saw you. You never took a step back. You’ve got this far in life, and you’ll go further still.
Aye, nods Ned. Here, how old are you anyway?
I screw me face up.
Twenty or thereabouts,
Barker Lovell whistles.
Or thereabouts? says Ned.
Aye.
You don’t sound too sure son.
I shrug.
How come?
I dinnar when me birthday is, do I.
How’s that?
Nee-one ever telt us.
Not even on your birthdays and that.
I shrug. Me Dad reckoned it was not an occasion to be celebrating.
Aye, but still, says Lovell. You’re young, and that’s what counts. Nineteen, twenty, what’s a year or two when you’re young. I’ll tell you summat else, I’ve seen many fighting lads and though there’s nowt on you, you’ve got what it takes. Of that much I’m certain. You’re only little, but that just means you’re harder to knock down. Size doesn’t matter on the cobbles. What matters is you’ve got that solid concrete thing inside of you; that thing that can never be destroyed. You’ve got the true guts of a traveller. You’ve got courage, man. Your Dad had it before he went cuckoo. Ned here’s got it. And you’ve got it an all. You’re tough as pig iron, lad. You could go all the way on the circuit if you wanted to.
Ned grunts in agreement.
I dig the toe of me boot into the ground again and gan, I’m not arsed about that like.
Aye, well. We’re just saying like. A hunnerd quid is nowt. That could just be the start of it for a young lad like you. And it’s not about the money anyway is it? It’s about being the best of the best. It’s about pulling yoursel up from nowt and becoming fucking royalty. You’ve got the fire in your blood and with a bit of work we could get you up there, right up at the top. Who wouldn’t want to be King of the Gypsies?
>
Aye, nods Ned. Me Dad’s right.
Ta I say, standing. And ta for helping us out with them lads, like. And nee offence, but I’ve seen what being King does to you: fug all. I reckon I need to get gannin now.
They both shake me hand.
We’re around. Come find us if you need owt. Or let us know when you change your mind.
I won’t.
You might.
I won’t.
*
They knew him out there in them hamlets. Outsiders were noticed, especially when big, wild-haired travellers like Mac and Eddie Wisdom, or Pete Dimes, or Simey, or any of them lot, would stand up and formally issue friendly challenges to entire pubs. It was your Uncle Eddie that usually did the talking.
“Now, my brother here is not only the best bare knuckle man in the county, but the best in the whole of Britain. Traveller or not, you might have heard of him and if you haven’t you soon will. His name is Jim Smith and I have a hundred quid for any man that will fight him. If you lose, I’ll only take twenty-five and one large round of beer off you. Now. Who wants a sporting go with a living legend?”
There was no shortage of takers out in the villages. Hard men. Hopeful men, men that worked the quarries and pits. Men who drove cement mixers or laid tarmac, or lads without work happy to take a battering if it meant getting a week’s worth of groceries in. Drunk, fearless men. Men who still spoke in the Pitmatic tongue, that language of the old coal fields.
And when there was a taker they’d do it the old way, like gentlemen, and they’d remove their jackets and they’d step outside, with half the pub following them. Your Dad liked to go easier on these pitmen and farm labourers with big hearts but no technique.
He’d let them get a few punches in; just enough to give them a bit of confidence in front of the villagers that they had spent their entire lives amongst. Just enough to avoid total humiliation when he panelled them good and proper.
And then, when your Dad was warmed up he’d thump them hard enough to put them on the floor. Just enough to rattle them. Put a dent in them. Something to remember him by. Just enough for them to hand over twenty-five quid, which he’d then use to buy them a pint – and one for their missus to keep her quiet too. And another.
And so it went: a round of drinks for everyone. On and on.
And afterwards, after Mac had spent his winnings, and they’d all shaken hands and sung songs, and the locals had laughed along with their new gypsy friends, he’d wake curled up on a bench in a dark pub, or in a static caravan or the back of a strange car. He was always ready for another pint to straighten him out before he made it back to me and Bobby and our Charmaine, and their nappies and their screaming, and the same unchanging view across the barren paddock, the trees in the distance forming a fence against an outside world I rarely got to see for mesel.
*
She’s well late. Double late.
I’ve been sat in the market place on the steps of the statue of the fella riding the horse, watching the town hall clock on my Jack Jones for bloody ages. It’s not even funny.
I’ve already done me morning round, cleaned out the van, gone home, walked Coughdrop, given him a wrestle and a bit of nosebag, then got mesel changed into my best togs, driven back into town, parked up, and got to the statue by twenty to.
And now it’s twenty past and there’s no sign of her.
It’s busy. Saturday busy, like. People everywhere, making us nervous.
The outdoor market is on and the smell of a hog roast fills the air. Smoke and flesh and that. Animal fat and stuffing. They must have been roasting pigs in this square for a thousand year or so.
And the statue of the fella on the horse. That’s been here a fair while an all. The story goes that the man who sculpted it said that it was a perfect representation of a horse like, and if anyone could find fault with it, he’d have to kill himsel from the shame. Of course it was only a matter of time before some clever wee shite found summat. Turns out it was a blind man who gave it the once over with his hands and declared that the horse had nee tongue. So then this sculptor gadgie – an Italian by all accounts – stayed true to his word, and went straight off to kill himsel, which he did quite successfully. Daft bugger.
I look up at the horse above us now, and it’s a sort of rain-based coppery green, and I see that it does have a tongue after all, and probably always did, and reckon that mebbe that story is a load of bollards. A whatsit – aye. An urban myth. Shite, basically.
Everyone’s out doing their shopping and I’m thinking how when I used to come here as a kid it was a lot different. There was nee McDonalds or Subways to eat at back then, only Bimbi’s fish restaurant and Greggs the bakers. The indoor market stayed the same though. It’s still selling videos about steam rallies and pick and mix kets, plucked game birds, fishing gear and dried veggie shite from the hippy food stall. Nuts and seeds and that.
But the big change is they’ve built a whole new street since I went inside, and they’ve filled it with coffee shops with Italian sounding names, and stationers and clothes shops, and they’ve tagged on a shopping centre down one end too. It’s mental. I gan away and it’s a multi storey car park, and when I come back it’s “a whole new shopping experience for the new millennium”. The first time I saw it when I came in to town for me probation meeting I had to rub me eyes and do a double take. It was like it had landed from outer space or summat.
Because nowt stops still. That’s what I’m starting to learn. Nowt stops still. Nee-one’ll wait for you.
Some things will never change though. Not the good bits anyroad, like the cathedral and the castle up on the hill and the way the river loops and snakes round them both, built to protect those on the inside from them on the outside.
I’m still daydreaming and thinking about all this shite when someone flops down beside us going soz I’m late I’m proper rough, and it’s her, Maria, and though she does look pretty hungover and puffy round the eyes she looks alright to me. Denim jacket, sunnies and her hair down. She’s drinking an Irn-Bru and sucking on a tailor made.
It’s alright, I say.
You been here long?
Nor, just got here, I lie. I thought mebbe you’d not make it though.
I said I would, didn’t I.
I thought mebbe you’d forget.
She seems nervous or distracted. She sort of keeps looking round, her eyes darting all ower the place, everywhere except to me, but mebbe that’s just the hangover. Finally she looks my way.
Here – you’ve not got your usual army clothes on.
Aye.
How come?
I dinnar. I just fancied a change, like.
You look…different. More normal and that.
Ta.
She draws on her tab and sips from her bottle. I reach for my baccy pouch.
I feel dead rough me, she says again.
How come?
I’ve been up most of the night. Ended up at a house party. Proper fucked.
Where at?
On the estate. Where else?
Whose party was it?
Just some lad.
What lad?
Nee-one you’d know.
I might do.
Why, jealous are you?
She smiles at this. I blush. Turn into a proper plum.
Nor.
So where you taking us?
I thought mebbes we could go to the pitchers, I say.
What’s on?
I dinnar.
Maria sighs.
I divvent really fancy the pitchers today John-John, she says. It’s too nice a day and I’m too fucked to sit in the dark with a bunch of kids hoying popcorn about.
I’m sort of relieved she’s said this because I didn’t really fancy the pitchers either. I’ve seen fillums but I’ve not been in a cinema before so I wouldn’t know what to do when we got there. How it all works and that.
Then Maria goes, I reckon I just need some fresh air. Can you take us somewhere
quiet? Away from all these people?
Of course.
Any ideas?
Aye. I know just the place.
Have you got the van?
Aye.
Mint. Where?
It’s on a meter just up at Palace Green.
Let’s get out of here then John-John, before I gip.
*
Your Dad ran the site with an iron rod.
He decided who came and who went. If anyone was daft enough to come poking round in the night they had to get past him.
And there were rules. There had to be when you lived like we did, out here, away from the estates and the roads and the ways of the house dwellers.
We’ve always had our own ways son, you know that. The old ways. Tried and tested ways.
They were simple rules, like how only familiar family names were allowed, or if you were a traveller passing through, you had to be vouched for. Fighting with weapons was not allowed either. Weapons only brought wounds and holes and hospital visits, and hospital visits brought the polis calling. And so did the storage of chorred goods. Stolen stuff. Stick it down in them there woods if you have to. Hide it. Bury it if needs be, but keep it away from the vans and the kiddies.
There was the animals to protect too. Our Charmaine’s earliest memory was of falling asleep to the sound of the riderless Skewbald cob stallion galloping around the paddock next to the site, its hooves vibrating through the soil and up into the van, the snorting of its nostrils amplified in the stillness of the blue night.
Stealing from another traveller was worst of all. No. Definitely not. Mac wouldn’t have it. Because if you couldn’t trust your own, you couldn’t sleep at night.
This only happened the once that I can recall, back in the mid 70s, when a lone visiting traveller from Cumbria who was doing some road-laying work around the town did get himsel caught inside a van belonging to Mac’s cousin Jim Brazil. Filling his pockets, he was.
Punishment was instant – your Dad broke both his arms. Just laid him out there on the grass and stamped him. Stamped him hard in front of everyone. He only stopped screaming after he had fainted from the pain. Snapped his arms like bloody kindling, he did.
Then he picked him up, all floppy he was like a rag doll, and a couple of the kiddies were crying, then your Dad and Jim Brazil drove him through town and dumped him on a bench outside the hospital.
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