by WR Armstrong
“What about Irish?” I ventured.
“There’s no way he’d ever agree,” David said, “I get the impression Madam Lee gives him the creeps.”
“Are you saying Irish is afraid of an old woman?” I asked.
“She’s not just any old woman,” Jenny said. “She’s special. And she doesn’t like clan members who prove to be disloyal. Irish falls into that category by virtue of the fact he is a maverick. She sees him as a traitor and a taker.”
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Irish told me as much. As a child he was one of her favourites. But then he left. That was bad enough, but the fact that he returned and now comes and goes at the drop of a hat and is allowed to get away with it irks her. Irish knows this and tends to keep his distance out of respect.”
“Then it appears we’re stuck with Rick and H,” I said.
“They’ll behave themselves,” David assured. “Think about it; they know almost as much about what’s happened as we do. There’s no way they would scoff.”
Jenny remained doubtful.
“Had you anyone else in mind?” I asked her.
She thought hard for a moment before finally shaking her head in defeat.
“You win,” she said. “But if those two spoil things, I’ll hold you both personally responsible.”
David was silent.
“It’s cool, Jenny,” I said, trying my best to reassure.
2.
Later that day I drove over to Ashley and the gypsy encampment. As I passed through the village, light spots of rain speckled the windscreen, gradually obscuring the outside view. I switched on the windscreen wipers. Lennon, occupying the passenger seat beside me seemed mesmerised by them. The Romany troop was holed up in a muddy field, opposite to where the funfair was erected. Approaching the site I considered how to play it, deciding in the end to take things as they came.
As I brought the car to a halt, I noticed an overhead banner that announced in big bold lettering, ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR. Beneath were printed the italicised words, See the Clowns, the Trapeze, High wire walkers, Acrobats and Jugglers. Experience the Ride of a Lifetime on the Big Dipper. Don’t wait, don’t Hesitate, Step Inside!
So that’s what I did. Having left Lennon in the car, I chose to ignore the “CLOSED” sign on the five bar gate which said, Next Open at 5pm, and trudged across ground made boggy from a night of heavy rain, whilst wishing I’d worn footwear more befitting the conditions. Eventually I came to a second gate, just beyond which was the Romany encampment. Stepping through, I immediately felt like an unwelcome intruder. At that point I very nearly turned back, for suspicious glances met me wherever I looked. I suddenly felt very edgy and very alone. Leaving Lennon in the car had been a wise move I realised. Dogs roamed the area freely. Some of them looked pretty mean.
Two brawny men, one with his sleeves rolled up revealing heavily tattooed arms, broke off from carrying out maintenance work on the horse carousal to observe my progress. One was rugged faced and bore a striking resemblance to that great champeen of the ring, Rocky Marciana. His friend, although shorter, was no less intimidating. Nearby an old man with straggly grey hair stopped changing a wheel on a pony trap to frown pointedly in my direction. Trying to ignore the off putting looks I continued walking, pausing once or twice to get my bearings.
An array of fairground equipment surrounded me, much of which was covered by protective tarpaulin sheeting. In the near distance, Piebald horses were tethered to a fence near the Merry-go-round. They fed contentedly from nosebags. Two young children groomed them, while in the background an older boy threw sticks for a couple of Lurchers to chase. More curious looks came my way, this time from a group of men carrying out mechanical work on an old truck.
Walking between two tents, mindful of the guide ropes, the first of the gypsy caravans came into view. The smell of wood smoke and cooking meat drifted through the air. A moment later, I had entered the heart of the Romany settlement.
Vans in pristine condition were grouped closely together, taking up perhaps half an acre of pastureland. They comprised of both old and modern designs, many being the traditional bowed variety. I needed directions to Madam Lee’s van and looked around for a friendly face, but friendly faces seemed to be out of season here. Quite suddenly, someone shouted me from behind and I turned to see a man approaching, looking none too friendly. Tall and lean with curly black hair and olive skin, he was dressed in tweed trousers, a waistcoat and jacket. He carried a heavy looking monkey wrench. I was looking at one of the men who had dealt so efficiently with the troublesome youths the last time I’d visited the fair, the same man who’d been forced to defend himself at The Ship on Halloween night.
Two old hags stopped peeling potatoes and watched avidly as the scene unfolded. The man kicked up clods of mud as he approached, as well as a bantam hen that made the mistake of crossing his path. Quite suddenly, he was standing right in front of me, demanding to know what my business was there. Across the way, two teenage girls stopped grooming a skewbald horse in order to watch, with the prettier one of the two goading him to do his worst.
“Bust him up Coogan,” she yelled. “Show him who’s boss!” She and her friend burst out laughing.
Somewhere behind me a dog barked. I gave Coogan my name and explained the reason for my visit. He looked unimpressed. “This is private land and you’re trespassing,” he warned. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you off?”
By now a small crowd encircled us, pinning me in, denying me a means of escape. And then the crowd parted, creating an aisle through which an old woman walked with the aid of a stick. She spoke harshly to Coogan in a foreign tongue. At first he seemed resentful at having his authority openly challenged, but quickly calmed down. When he spoke he was respectful. It appeared the old woman ranked highly in the community. She issued instructions. He nodded his head to say he understood and then walked off through the mud towards a caravan in the far corner of the field. The crowd lost interest and disbanded, leaving me to reflect on my lucky escape. An elderly gent with hair the colour of fresh fallen snow was suddenly at my shoulder, telling me I was a fool for coming here and that I would be wise to leave before Coogan returned.
“Where has he gone?” I asked.
“To talk to Kiomi,” the old man replied. I assumed he was referring to Madam Lee and decided to take my chances and stay, feeling rather like a courtier waiting to be summoned before Royalty. Something ran across my foot. I jumped back in surprise. It was a rabbit no less. I looked across the way, as another figure approached. Relief flooded through me. It was Irish. But my relief was short lived. He looked furious.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded to know.
I told him. He shook his head scornfully.
“Fucking eejit!” he snapped. “Don’t expect me to come to your aid when Coogan busts your head open.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m fucking serious. Gorgios are not welcome on Romany turf. You’re a fool for coming here. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get your arse kicked my friend.”
And off he marched leaving me to my own devices.
I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one. My hands trembled. I debated whether or not to leave. In the end the decision was made for me, as Coogan re-emerged from the caravan and waved me over. Here goes I thought, as I started off with Irish’s harsh words ringing in my ears. This is where Coogan produces the shotgun that blows my stupid head off!
But when I reached the van, he simply jumped down off the steps leading up to the brightly painted door and jerked a thumb, inviting me to enter. Feeling numb with fear I climbed the three wooden steps, opened the door, which creaked loudly on its hinges, and climbed aboard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Inside the caravan, Madam Lee sat reading a paperback novel with her terrier dog curled up contentedly by her side. The animal paid me scant attention
, merely casting a disinterested look before returning to sleep. As for Madam Lee, having acknowledged me with a fleeting glance, she stood and walked over to a bookcase and placed the book she’d been reading onto a shelf. While she did this, I took in my surroundings.
The caravan was beautifully decorated, spotlessly clean and extremely comfortable. Heated by Calor Gas it was decorated in creams and rich browns, with simple, yet tasteful furnishings. Exotic lace nets lent the van privacy from the outside world, which were complimented by bobble fringed curtains. Brass ornaments and polished silver ones graced the shelves, together with fine Wedgewood figurines and Royal Crown Derby crockery.
One section of the van was given to the kitchen area, being equipped with a camp stove, microwave and refrigerator. Above, suspended from ceiling hooks were brass and copper saucepans and kettles. A door led off from the main quarters, beyond which I assumed was the bedroom and bathroom. There was no television, only an old transistor radio that presently played the Shapiro classic, “Walking back to Happiness”, on low volume. Incense hung in the air like the scent of summer flowers.
Without speaking, Madam Lee returned to her seat and turned off the radio. As she did this her dog stirred, which prompted her to lay a hand on its back as if to reassure it.
She closed her eyes momentarily and inhaled deeply. Then she addressed me, “I’m afraid I don’t have much time to give you, Mr O’Shea,” she said straight to the point. “I nap during the afternoon. I need my strength for the evening. I’m sure you understand. What is it you wish to talk to me about?”
“The reading you did for me, for one,” I said, “or rather what you refused to tell me about it.”
She stared blankly. “What of it?”
“You saw something. You kept what you saw to yourself. I have come here to ask you to let me into the secret.”
She regarded me dispassionately. Through the netted window, I glimpsed sight of Coogan standing outside. He was talking to another man. He looked towards the caravan. His friend turned, frowning deeply.
“Your friends,” Madam Lee said, pulling me back to the present, changing the subject, “visit me every year. Yet only one of them accepts what I say as truth.” She smiled whimsically. “Sad don’t you think that they keep up the pretence?”
“It doesn’t stop you taking money from them.” I pointed out.
If Madam Lee was offended by the remark she didn’t show it. “What else can I do,” she asked with a vague wave of the hand. “Every year they come and always leave me happy. I tell them what I see and what I see is the truth. I never lie. I don’t make it up. I’m not being dishonest. What I tell them I believe. Whether or not they both choose to accept is not my business. I know David doesn’t believe because I sense these things, just as I sense you are here today because, despite yourself, you do believe. Events are overtaking you that force you to.”
I didn’t bother arguing, because there didn’t seem to be any point. I was fast coming to the conclusion that I was in the presence of someone with an ability to see beyond the accepted norm. High Bank had brought me to this point—or rather, the secret it held, had. If not that, then I was crazier than a rat in a trap. Either way, I had little to lose. A series of unexplainable incidents had forced my hand. They’d altered my perspective forever.
“My powers are not infallible,” Madam Lee was saying. “That is not to say I get things wrong. I really don’t think I do. However, occasionally the images are unclear, being too vague to distinguish properly. The palm of a hand, a crystal, or tarot cards, whatever the medium uses to connect this existence with the one beyond, is not a perfect communicator. When I look into the palm of a hand for example, I don’t see picture slides, a motion film. I see confusion. Distorted images, muffled sounds lost in a field of white noise.”
I was reminded of the unpleasant experience I’d suffered at the folly, more particularly the tormented voices I’d heard, sounding very much as if they belonged to some other dimension.
“Sometimes the voices come and go too quickly for me to grasp,” the clairvoyant continued, “And sometimes they’re too vague to clarify. It’s my job to make sense of the confusion. Decipher the meaning of the signs shown to me. If I’m unsure, I say nothing. If what I see is bad and can’t be changed, I say nothing.”
“And if it can be changed,” I asked, “what then?”
“I try to help it along,” she said.
As with Jenny’s father, I thought. Madam Lee had seen the train accident, somehow grasped the fact that it was arranged for him to be on that train, realised his destiny was not a foregone conclusion and could be altered and had tried to “help it along”. The way the explanation was articulated, both impressed and troubled me.
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Coogan. He asked if everything was all right. Madam Lee said it was and reluctantly, he went away. I was invited to sit. “Coogan is Romany Chal,” said the clairvoyant. “He is proud and protective of his family. Occasionally, he can be over zealous.”
Her words did little to reassure me. In my eyes Coogan was simply a young thug out to prove his masculinity. Madam Lee stared through the window overlooking the encampment, ever thoughtful. The netting made the outside world seem filmy and vague. Figures moved to and fro like shadows. I wondered if Madam Lee’s insight into the hereafter was similarly defined.
I said, “You refused to tell me what you’d seen written in my palm. Does that mean my fate is a foregone conclusion?”
She glanced at her dog. As if on cue, the animal opened its big brown eyes and looked up at the medium as if responding to an unspoken communication. They were like conspirators, I thought. The dog went back to sleep. Madam Lee invited me to sit next to her and extended a frail hand. I placed mine against it and she turned my hand palm up. Using her forefinger she traced the heart line and lifeline. Then she closed her eyes in concentration. Her breathing grew shallow. She reopened her eyes. They were unseeing. She was plainly in some kind of trance. She wore the exact same vacant look Pixie had worn. A faint moan escaped her. She frowned, muttering to herself now, as if in conversation with an invisible entity. And then she spoke directly to me, informing me of what she had seen, namely a house that in her words was “mochadi, mulo”, meaning, polluted by spirits, and which had witnessed brutal acts of violence and consequently soaked up the atmosphere created. A terrible secret lay somewhere within its structure, she said, though what it was she was unable to say, for the images she saw were confused and faded like a photograph left too long in bright sunlight. She was, however, certain of one thing. That following inevitable confrontation and violence, those she described as “the lost ones”, would finally be allowed to rest.
“Here lies an ongoing tragedy whose final chapter will unfold, witnessed by an outsider,” she said in conclusion, “who is also a link in the dreadful chain of events, a catalyst through which those events draw strength and gather momentum.”
She fell silent. Her breathing deepened. Her eyes became focused.
She said, “The outcome of it all depends on you, for you are the catalyst of which I speak.”
“But if I were to leave,” I said, “with the intention of never returning?”
“You will be drawn back yet again,” she replied simply.
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling suddenly confused, immediately recalling Norris’ claims that I knew the cottage far better than I let on. “I don’t ever recall being drawn back to High Bank. Do you mean London, when I came back from London after the auction? But I returned of my own accord. Nothing drew me back.”
“You are chosen because you too are gifted,” she said ignoring me.
“Are you suggesting I’ve visited High Bank on some other occasion?” I persisted. “If you are, you’re very much mistaken.”
She let out an exhausted sigh and then said, “If you don’t mind, I am tired. You must leave me to rest. Sometimes, the gift takes its toll.”
I pulled l
oose change from my pocket, but she refused payment.
“All I require is your respect,” she said simply.
Before leaving, I broached the subject of holding a séance at High Bank.
“And you would like me to conduct it,” she said intuitively. She gazed out of the window, considering. “It is many years since I’ve taken on such an engagement. I have only ever agreed to participate when I thought it absolutely necessary.” She paused and then, very quietly she said, “I think perhaps it is necessary on this occasion.”
I thanked her and a time was arranged.
Stepping out into the cold winter air, I was met by Irish.
“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked, straight to the point.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“Then you can count yourself extremely fortunate.”
He looked at me with apparent disdain, shook his head, and then walked off. I turned my head to see Coogan approaching from the opposite direction. I offered him a half hearted wave, a “thanks for not beating my brains out and have a nice day”, wave. Then I set about retracing my steps back through the camp, passing the traditional Westmorland Star and Reading vans lining the way, before finally reaching my car, where I was met by the sight of Lennon, sitting behind the steering wheel like a chauffeur. He barked in welcome when he saw me trudging across the muddy field. Driving back to the village, my meeting with Madam Lee seemed like a blur.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They began to arrive as daylight faded and a storm front threatened. David and Jenny were the first. David was pretty chilled about the occasion. Jenny on the other hand, openly admitted to being extremely anxious.
“It’ll be all right,” I said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze. “We’re all responsible adults. No one’s going to do anything stupid.”
“It’s not us I’m concerned about,” she said. “It’s what Madam Lee will make contact with that bothers me.”