But he couldn’t stop us singing. Even when I was bruised and sore and crying inside, I could turn out a fine tune from between fat lips and chipped teeth.
They reckoned I had the finest singing voice of all the traveller women around – and I knew more songs than anyone else. Everyone said so. They said if a record company man happened upon us or if I ever went on that New Faces programme I could be a pop star, me; not that Mackie would ever allow it, of course. But just saying. They reckoned I was good enough.
Me favourite back then, before you were born, was a song about the changing ways, written by a country fella. ‘Thirty Foot Trailer’, it was called. When I sang that song, they all listened. They said I could bring a tear to the eye of any traveller with a heart beating in their chest. Even your Dad. The song reminded him of distant memories, or maybe even memories based on them few photographs he had seen of his ancestors in their plush trailers; made up memories, or memories passed down the Wisdom line.
He had this catalogue that got passed round the sites too, that had trailers like the Palladin or the Eccles in it. Or the gleaming Westmorland Star. Great beautiful beasts with stainless steel Morecambe strips and git big bold headlamps. And there was the insides, with their formica lining and hand-stitched coverings made by Cobdale or Avro or Carlight or any of them companies.
And so I sang that song.
And it would be around about then the women would be blubbing into their hankies and the travelling men would be clearing their throats and rubbing their eyes free of the dust that they pretended they had in them.
They never knew though. They never knew how singing kept us going. Kept me alive through the darkest time. It was all I had besides the kids because even your Dad, even Mac Wisdom knew that to silence us would be to go against the travelling ways.
*
The path narrows to nearly nothing then leads to a small blind bank that hides whatever lies beyond it. Weeds and grasses tug and scratch at us as we push our way through the density of the woodland.
I help pull Maria up the bank by one clammy hand, our feet slipping on the dirt that is dried and compacted from the hot season. The light is changing as the branches stir overhead, redirecting the beams of sunshine so that they probe the ground like searchlights.
As she gets close I can see there are burrs stuck to her top and there’s a small twig in her hair that looks like it was placed there deliberately, as an accessory.
And I’m sweating cobs. Proper minging.
Here I say, wait a minute, and pull off the round sticky burrs from her, their bristles clinging to her denim.
It’s like velcro innit, she says.
Aye. Actually, that’s where they got the idea from. For Velcro, I mean.
Really?
Aye, I reckon. I think I read that somewhere. Nature beat us to most things.
It’s hot an all, isn’t it.
Without thinking I say, I’m taking me top off, then I peel off my T-shirt. I catch Maria stealing a glance at me torso and I’m embarrassed to be half naked near a girl. But it’s too late. I can hardly put it back on straight away. Anyway, it’s nice to let me pits breathe again. I’m just glad I remembered to use plenty of roll-on this morning before I set off. If I hadn’t I’d be proper humming by now.
Is it far?
What?
Where you’re taking us.
No. We’re here.
I lead Maria ower the crest of the bank and there it is, the best of the best. A special place. My mental escape. My fortress of solitude.
I’m double-chuffed to see that it is still here, and, better than that, it is almost exactly as it has been in my head for them five long years that I was locked up, only more so. More vivid. Sharper. And more overgrown, because it’s August and the weeds and wild grasses are running riot.
Seeing it before us like this somehow amplifies everything about it, even the silence. It makes it more magical. A sensory overload.
The green cathedral is a clearing that looks how I reckon a theatre stage must look, all plush and silent and about half a football pitch in size, with a big cliff face backdrop behind it. And on the stage there are bumps and mounds of grass and a thick carpet of ferns, five or six foot deep in places, and all the mounds are linked by the well-worn tracks and trails of badgers, foxes and snot-dragging snails, and over to one side there’s a damp marshy patch with reeds round it. Nooks and cracks and tiny caves go into the rock at different angles and different heights and there’s a trickling of water running down the rock, a tiny tinkling waterfall from the sky that I remember used to become a torrent during the wetter months. It’s reduced to one long thin wire of water now though.
There’s boulders too, scattered about. A couple of them are the size of cars and there’s moss on them and the grass is licking up their sides.
And there’s more Balsam, more perfume, all the plants and grass and mosses locked together in this one secret corner of the woods, closed off at one side by the rock face and at the other by the little bank of earth that drops downhill back into the woods, towards where we parked up. There’s only the sky above and the earth below, and me and Maria stood here on it now catching our breaths, the pollen sitting on our lungs like summat wonderful.
The peppery smell of wild garlic hangs thick and heavy too. The air tastes good enough to chop up and eat.
Wow, says Maria so quietly that the word is just the faintest of mumbles falling from her bottom lip. I look at her and see there are tiny beads of perspiration on her like little diamonds.
Innit, I say.
I’ve brought a bag with us that’s got some kets and some apples in it and some fancy bottled water that I took from the van’s fridge and twenty Benson and all, and I say howay follow me, and head over to a raised bit of ground that’s squeezed in close up against the rock face, just where it dips in a bit, to form a sort of dead-end corridor right where the sunshine meets the shadows.
It’s amazing this place, she says. Proper magical. How did you find it?
I used to come here all the time when I was younger. Before everything. I’ve slept here.
Honest?
Oh aye. Loads.
Camping?
Aye, kind of. Not with a tent or owt like that though.
With what then.
I’d just bivvy down.
How do you mean like.
I shrug.
You know – just make a little shelter. Or crawl into one of these little spaces in the rocks.
She nods.
Aren’t you bothered about spiders and that?
Spiders? I crack a smile. Nor. They’re the least of me worries, spiders. Mind, there’s deer about here and an all. They’re dead timid, deer. You can’t get anywhere near them – not unless you’re silent as a mouse and you stay down wind from them. This was years ago, but I bet they’re still about. Them or their kids. Or their kids’ kids. Fawns, they call them. Baby deer. See them narrow little paths?
I point to the tracks that criss-cross the clearing.
Aye.
Some of them are badger runs. And others’ll be deer tracks. I bet if you go and look at some of them lower branches you’ll find the odd brown hair hanging off them.
How do you know?
I saw some other branches on the way in where all the lower leaves had been chewed at. Nibbled away. That’ll have been deer an all, that.
Maria nods at us. It’s like she’s actually interested in what I’m saying. Because it’s all new to her. For a moment she looks like a little bairn being told a bed-time story. It’s like no-one has ever told her owt like this before.
So who did you used to come here with?
I shrug.
By mesel.
Did you not have any marrers with you though John-John?
I shake me head.
So you stopped here yoursel?
Yeah, loads.
How come?
Because it was better than being on the site.
You didn’t get scared then?
Of what?
Of owt. The dark. Or ghosts and that.
I smile.
Na. Nee ghosts ever bothered me. And even if they did I doubt they’d be as scary as me Dad when he were pissed up and on the rampage.
I shift the bag from one hand to the other. Then Maria says, my Dad’s a pisshead an all.
Is he?
So I’ve been told. On the gear an all.
What, a smackhead, like?
Maria shrugs.
Aye, mebbe. I dinnar. He got clean, then became a pisshead, then he got back on the gear. Last I heard he was inside.
I don’t say owt.
Aren’t you going to ask us what for, she says.
What’s he in for?
She shrugs again, but it’s just the one shoulder this time.
Same as you: getting caught.
She doesn’t smile as she says this. She looks down and frowns, then snatches at a blade of grass and busies herself splitting it lengthways with her fingernail.
We sit down side by side at the top of the incline, just in the entrance to the man-sized crack that leads into the rock. From up here we can survey all of the clearing and still get the sun, or if it’s too hot we can just lean back into the stone for a bit of shade if we want. Best of both worlds.
I point this out to Maria, then I get out the water, the apples and the bag of kets. I’ve got Rolos and Haribos and mini coke bottles. Cherry laces an all. Loads of kets.
Do you want one?
I reckon I’ll have an apple.
I pass Maria an apple and take one for mesel. I polish mine on me kecks and we bite into them and sit for a minute, chewing and crunching. They’re proper juicy. Sweet an all. Just right. We’ve both got juice dripping down our chins. We chat for a bit about nowt. Where I live, how little Coughdrop is getting on. All that.
Then I hear this noise, a rapid, woody tapping sound. Maria flinches.
What’s that? I think someone’s coming.
Nor, I say. You can relax. That’s just a woodpecker, that.
What do you mean?
I mean it’s a woodpecker. You know, one of them birds that pecks the wood.
She looks at us blankly.
How do you know though?
I’d recognise a woodpecker a mile off, me, I say.
We sit in silence again, chewing our apples.
I didn’t think places like this existed, she finally says. It’s like paradise or summat.
Aye, I agree.
Cos like wherever I gan there’s people and bairns and buses and concrete and music and pissheads and smackheads and people dealing and people chorring and people fighting. And they’re all bloody hassling us all the time. But there’s none of that here.
I could probably find some dog shite for you, if you like.
She nudges her shoulder against mine and pushes her sunglasses on top of her head.
You know what I mean though.
Aye. Aye, I do.
It’s like when you took us up that hill the other day and showed us the county from a whole new angle. Everything looked smaller and simpler from up there. But when you’re actually down there on the estate, it’s like it’s all you know, and mebbes all you’re ever gonna know, and there’s nee escape from it or the people you hang round with or live next to or find yoursel related to.
Aye, I say. Tell us about it.
Because like they always want summat from you, or they always drag you into summat or they always fuck you ower. So you might as well just lower your expectations and go along with it. Because if you don’t sometimes it all just gets too messed up and too complicated.
Complicated how like?
Maria sighs and looks away. Squints across the clearing with snake eyes.
I dunno. People and that. They complicate things. Everything. You.
Me? I say, thinking what the bloody bollards have I got to do with it?
Aye, in a way.
How do I complicate things?
You just do. In ways you wouldn’t even know.
Tell us.
No.
Why not?
I like you John-John and I like being with you. But at the moment I feel like shite. Just ignore us.
That’s the hangover, that.
It’s not just the hangover. It’s everything. It’s my life that’s shite. My life and everything in it, so I think I just want to sit with you here in the sunshine and mebbe not think about owt for a bit, because if I do, I’ll just end up spoiling our day out. Is that alright?
I nod.
Aye, I say. Here – do you want a tab?
Aye. Gan on then.
I pass her the packet, she pulls one out and sparks up. I do the same.
The thing is John-John – and divvent take this the wrong way – you’re proper weird.
How’s that, like?
You’re just different to the lads I’d normally knock about with but I mean that as a compliment.
The lads up at the Nook, I say as I touch my cheek and remember last night.
Aye, Maria says. Like, because even though you’ve been inside and all that, right away I could tell you weren’t like them. You’re not a wanker for starters. And you see things different too. Like, nee-one has ever brought us to the countryside before. And if they did they’d have to chor a car or summat to do it because they wouldn’t even have the money for the bus fare. And nee-one knows all this stuff about plants and birds and bloody Velcro and all that shite either. Because even though you hardly say owt, when you do, you put it different to everyone else. Not just because you talk a bit funny either, but the way you see things as well.
I smile at her, feel her shoulder against mine again, tap ash into the dirt.
But like I say, she goes, life is complicated.
True.
You make mistakes and that. Or you’re born into a mess. Or you fall for the wrong people.
Aye.
And there’s always someone trying to fuck with your shit.
Aye.
Aye well. You know.
I’m not quite sure what Maria’s getting at. I don’t know whether she’s on about me being a traveller and that, or if she’s on about someone else, so I keep quiet and smoke me tab and sip some water and hoy the apple core across the clearing and into the gently swaying ferns, then clear my throat.
I suppose what I’m saying is Johnny, my life is a mess and I don’t want to make it any more complicated than it already is. I don’t need to create any more trouble.
What trouble?
Any trouble. It just seems to follow us around. There’s always summat going wrong.
Aye, I say. Well me an all. Trouble follows us like flies round shite.
So you understand?
No, I think. Not really. But I don’t say that. Instead I say: Aye, well, mebbes like.
Good she says. Because I just don’t want any more aggro in my life, you know what I mean? I feel bloody knackered and I’m only young.
Aye, I say, wondering exactly what type of bother it is that she’s been having. Me an all, I say. I’ve had enough trouble to last us ten lifetimes.
Me mates think I’m mad for meeting up with you, you know.
I shrug and smile.
Mebbes you are.
She laughs.
But, I say, I’m glad you did.
Good, I’m glad that’s out of the way, she says, then she leans into us and starts kissing us, and as she does she slips her tongue in and the way she lets it wander around in me mouth has me cock hard in an instant. Instant hard-on. I feel all hot and gozzy.
Do you reckon there’s anyone about, she says.
Nor. Nee-one ever comes up here. It’s too far out the way.
Good she says then stands up and peels off her trackie bottoms and knickers in one go.
All I can see is her fanny. It’s the first one I’ve ever seen up close and I’m blinded by it. I can’t look anywhere but ri
ght at her clopper. It’s like a magnet for me eyes or summat.
It’s not as hairy as some of the ones I saw in those auld porn mags that used to get passed around inside. Instead she’s got this little line of hair that goes down to between her legs, all neat and trimmed and that.
Her arse is round and white and beautiful like the moon. It looks bigger now it’s not hidden under clothes. Bigger and rounder. It looks so smooth and new and alien that it makes us dizzy to look at it. Dizzy and scared and hot and gozzy. I’ve not done owt like this before.
She sits down, then lies back in the grass, in the shade of the rock. I turn and lean over her, and as I do me face casts a shadow across hers. We start kissing again, our tongues wandering, then wrestling, then she properly pulls us on top of her and without thinking about it me hand works its way to between her legs. The flesh feels soft and smooth down there. Different. Then my fingers are finding their way inside her and I’m surprised how easy they slip in.
The way it feels makes us think of animals for some reason. Dead animals that I’ve just caught. Rabbits and that, and the way they used to feel when you’d skin them, when they were still warm and steaming. When the flesh was so full of life it was a thousand different colours, and your fingers would find their way between the pelt and sinew. It’s not that different to this. Flesh and warmth. Hot meat.
I kiss Maria’s lovely smooth neck and I gan down to the top of her tits which are wobbling a bit and look dead nice the way they’re sat there sort of spread out on her, rather than all pushed up and trapped in a bra, but she pushes me head down even further so that I’m moving past her belly. Then my mouth is on her fanny and it’s warm and wet. She tastes hot and salty and better than any dead bloody rabbit, I’ll tell you that much for nowt, and I divvent know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway.
I get me hands around the top of her thighs and I lick as she adjusts herself on my tongue. She’s not complaining and it feels double cush so I carry on like this for a while. Maria is lying there dead still and me hard-on is digging into the ground and starting to ache but then she starts moaning. At first she’s so quiet I can hardly hear her, but suddenly she sparks into life like a house that’s just been turned on after a power cut and she lets out this much bigger moan – massive it is – as her legs close around me head until I’m wearing her like a nosebag. It’s hard to tell because it goes proper dark and quiet. Then there’s a tightening in her, and her fingers are in my hair and pulling at it, and me nose is more or less up her clopper an all, then she does this big shudder and lets out a long moan that comes from somewhere deep inside, a place that I reckon only sex can unlock.
Pig Iron Page 18