Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  He rummaged through his grandad’s old CDs and slipped one in the player.

  ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’ She swayed as Sinatra washed over them. A sweep of hair fell from a slide at the back of her head. A cascading effect she used to say, for some blokes were worth dressing up for, especially the one who gave her the last cleaning job. He had been a good bloke. He had taken her to Great Yarmouth and she had been delighted, though she had only bothered with him, she had said, for comfort.

  She lay down and he pulled a blanket over. Too many nights like this since they arrived would not do her any good. But any time he mentioned staying in she argued she could not. She had to be out. Enjoying herself. She dozed until she pushed herself up from the bed, reached up to the sink and vomited, grasping the washing up bowl just in time. A spray of mucky dregs fell on the two bulging plastic bags she kept her underwear in.

  ‘God help us. My head’s spinning,’ she said.

  Torin grabbed an old cloth from the sink and knelt to wipe the bags. He steered her feet out of the line of them. He cleared the mess, slinging out the cloth in a black bag. If he could just get her to sleep. In bed, at least he knew where she was.

  ‘He said he had a good piece of land from his cousin who had the farm and could go back anytime. A few sheep and a dozen cows and a pig, or was it pigs, a dozen sheep and a ram? My head’s pounding like a hammer’s beatin’ on it.’ She sank back.

  In the dope of sleep, squirls of tiny purple veins ran on her calves. Near her ankle, a deep blue vein stuck out like the wire in an electric flex. Getting old was horrible. He did not want to end up worn out like her. He folded in her arms. Her skin was soft as a puppy and she looked as though she was praying. A tattoo a Puerto Rican guy had made, a strange flower of grey and blue petals with three thorns, showed on her slack upper arm. Her breath stank, full and deep, from the muddle of blankets.

  He pulled out his bed and lay down. It was cramped. He twisted and turned. If his mates in London knew about this, they’d laugh. They would laugh the way they did at films when they sat in the back rows stuffing themselves with crisps at late night showings. Or when they saw a stupid kids film in the afternoon just to get out of the rain. The way they used to before Harjit went. He could not see any of them laughing now. He could barely see himself enjoying anything again. Not films or food or good laughs. Harjit, so tall and clever with his dark blue turban. ‘Top Knot,’ Torin used to kid him when they all kicked a ball around the back of the flats.

  Harjit’s place was slightly bigger than his, but cramped because there were more of them. His mum and dad, three sisters and a younger brother. The girls had crowded around the door to see when Torin called to the flat one Saturday morning, collecting a game. Harjit’s mum was cooking something that smelt sweet and strange. The youngest girl had passed him. She looked about ten, with golden skin and lively dark eyes. Sometimes Harjit had to take her and the brother to school. She had gone into her room without speaking, but from there a song rose. Harjit told him later it was a Punjabi tale about a bird winging its way over the seas to find a warm land. It was a dopey song, he had said, from a film. The song unravelled on and on. Without Harjit. Stiff with a kind of grief, Torin was very still. He turned, pulling a blanket up. His mum was lightly snoring. Night could not last. Soon as it was morning, he would be off. These days would run to an end.

  Under the pillow his phone rang, muffled.

  ‘Marcus,’ he whispered, pulling it out.

  ‘How you, mate?’

  ‘How’re things?’ He pulled himself up to listen.

  ‘The cops’ve been round again. Asking questions.’

  ‘They won’t ever give up. What did they do?’

  ‘Took statements. From me and a couple of others. But it’s their job, right?’

  ‘Course. They’re bound to.’

  ‘Thought I’d keep you up to speed, but I gotta go. My charge is low.’ The call ended.

  All he could do was wait. But waiting was torture. One of the lads might say something. A stray word. A slip of conversation leading to someone else, leading to him. One person saying what they had seen. The shouts and cries, scuffles and jostling, fighting and pushing one another until it was too late. Too late for him to do more than run with a deadening numbness. Run while he could. Down the alley to the High Road, where cinema titles blazed and the windows of the chemists wept with rain, leaving Harjit behind.

  His mum stretched in a difficult patch of sleep. Her closed eyelids flickered.

  ‘Darling one,’ she whispered, like wind under the door.

  She should make the man bugger off, if one was pestering her. She had with others, uttering a few well-chosen words about a friend or a brother who was a boxer or who had a fleet of trucks.

  She sat up to the window, parted the curtains and stared into the distance, letting in a dim flow of light before the fabric fell together. She lay down on the bed again. In the quiet, her voice came, like the way she used to draw a brush through her hair in the mornings, or like a whimper, someone in pain or the wind flying.

  In the morning, he pushed away the edges of the scratchy blankets to find her face blotched from crying. The old man in his bed snored gollops of breath. He must have crept in when they were both sleeping.

  ‘What’s wrong? Torin asked. ‘Someone upset you?’

  ‘They did not. I’m all right.’

  A squall of blankets was heaped on her and the smell of drink came off her damp nightdress. The ribbons should have been tied in a bow, but instead hung down.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ he said.

  An empty bottle rolled from under the bed into the streak of light from the gap in the curtains. The gold Jamesons label gave her away. He picked up the bottle and slung it in the bin.

  ‘A wee drop only, to steady me.’ She stretched to grab it.

  ‘Get dressed. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘Better than what? I feel like an old sack of potatoes and no amount of dressing up will change it.’ She perched on the side of the bed, twirling a brush through her hair. Strands stood on end, dry and frizzy. Nothing affected her; or if it did, she was doing a good job of concealing it, pressing everything she felt back to the bone. He kept in his words, for if she shouted back, they would wake the old man.

  She pulled on a baggy tee-shirt. ‘Jesus. My old heart’s giving out.’ She clutched her left breast. ‘I feel a flutter.’

  ‘It must be the coffee. Palpitations.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marcus said his dad… Oh, never mind.’

  ‘Is something the matter with me?’

  ‘You were up in the night.’

  ‘Was I?’ she looked around as though searching for someone, ‘Must be being home. The strangeness.’

  ‘You were talking about someone.’

  ‘Probably a one I met who was blackguarding me.’ She grabbed a cardigan and swept it over her shoulders. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She tried to roll up her tights but her legs did not want to fit in.

  Home. He did not know where it was. Here? Or the cramped rooms and flats they had left behind? His mates were not caught. They were free in the streets, outside the arcades. Knocking around Dubai Mall for when the man who owned it slipped to the back of the shop and they could make off with a stash of those floaty scarves before running to the park for a smoke.

  ‘It was on my mind for years to come back. My old brain’s having a hard time taking it in.’ She edged off the side of the bed.

  ‘Don’t get up too soon, Eva. You said a doctor over told you not to overdo it.’ His grandfather shifted up from under the pile of blankets. He pulled a worn cardigan over his pyjamas, got up and put the kettle on to boil.

  ‘The scut. What does he know?’

  Out of the small window, the quiet sky was airy, a soft blue; branches cast deep, thick shadows.

/>   ‘Watch yourself, Eva, watch yourself!’ his grandad called.

  She slipped off the bed. He leant towards her, lying on the floor, a tipped heap, all arms and legs. Torin helped her up to the seat.

  ‘I’m fine. Fine out.’ She eased herself to sit and pushed a pillow behind her head.

  He could not hang around in a place where he hit his head on the high cupboards every time he stood up, where he had to balance walking from the cramped bed to the front door. Those two could look after each other. He wouldn’t have to sit in the smell of damp socks and tea cloths, or the sickly milk his mum had forgotten to put back in the fridge.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She stretched her arms after him.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’ Her face strained.

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘We could have a day together. Play Pontoon.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He pulled back.

  ‘Why not? We’d have a great time,’ she persisted, her face pinched with the pain of knowing the inevitable. ‘You want to watch yourself with these people. You don’t know anything about them. There’s a lot of wild people around. Remember it’s your friends who take you out but your family who carry you home.’

  He shut the door. Shut her behind. His grandad had her, and she him. They had each other and she had a father. His own had ghosted out of his life when he was so young he could barely recall him. He would not leave a kid when it was small. No way. He would stick around.

  He ran past the yellow trailer up near the road. The brother of the woman who lived in it was in prison. Its side was dented. Had the brother caused the damage? Torin passed the black Mercedes parked mid-way along the track, making it difficult to drive up into the main part of the site. An abandoned mattress sank with the weight of rain; the hood of a rusty old pram was bashed in. He passed a heap of metal: the insides of an oven, a bent gate, piping and a radiator. He could not see how they made a living from scrap. Or anything. But it did not matter. They were passing through. Heading for somewhere else. Somewhere better. He walked past a bone-thin terrier which kept circling the post it was tied to, a trail of a chain on the ground. A difficult dog he wondered, or dangerous? On scrubby land, two little girls yelped as they rode a small trike, balancing dangerously. Their silence when he passed told him he was a stranger. A girl walked towards him. She was not much older than Torin but her face was worn and grey-tinged. She carried a crying baby and she disappeared into the trailer with the rusty door, while he passed the field where the grass was scorched.

  5

  Puddles patterned with light splattered as he walked out of the site. The tracks of trailers were mucked up and someone had left an outside tap on. It dripped dark bullets of drops.

  Guns were worse. At least he hadn’t shot anyone. Not like Ace, Big Ian’s mate swapping fire-arms between flats. Storing them until they were wanted. He could have had a loan. Ace would ask Finer who had a cousin who… he couldn’t remember whether it was his dad or his uncle, but someone he knew had a stash buried in their garden. Bromley or Croydon. Somewhere like that. The blue roof of a trailer caught the sun, its edges angled hard against the sky. Being here was, well, he was getting used to it, he supposed. At least his mother was.

  He threaded between trailers and vans, following the gritty main path to the entrance where the metal gate swung. The ground was pocked with holes. Tarmac which had once been a driveway was torn.

  His mum didn’t get it. How the caravan was too small. How he was always tripping over her things. He had stood on her brush that morning. The other day he had knocked over her talcum powder. What did she need it for anyway? They didn’t have a bath. They didn’t have anything. Living there did him in. She did him in. He kept knocking against the cupboard doors when they were open. And he hated the way she came in late nearly every night. She showed herself up. Showed him up as well.

  The terrace of plain white houses was quiet. Too quiet. A man in a uniform—a Gard, a policeman—came out of a front door, looked up and down the street and got into a car. Torin stiffened. If there were trees to hide behind, he might be safe. But any minute the Gard would drive past, slow down, stop and recognise him and it would be over. He’d be slung in the back, driven to a police station, or whatever they called them here, and dumped in a cell.

  The car drove off the other way. It slid up the road and on as easily as a sigh. A lorry passed, and other cars. The morning broke open with traffic in both directions and he realised he was no one but a body walking along a street and no one cared.

  The Centre rose, stark and white. It had been a school, he was sure, because it had two double doors, high windows and looked crumbly and old. ‘Up Kerry’ was scrawled on the whitewash under the windows. He peered through one. Posters filled the walls like a kind of youth club, with a faint thud of rap. Two kids sprawled on armchairs, their faces blurry with light reflected from the sky. It was like looking into a puddle but it was him, Harjit, lounging at the end of a sofa. The way his lips curled and the half smile. His nose and the cut of his hair. Maybe he had recovered and was here. Just here. The boy rose and approached the window. The boy was white and wore a tee-shirt with an Irish football emblem. Torin kicked a stone. He was cracking up. He glanced into the room and the boy had gone.

  He pushed open the main door and slipped in. It was quiet, with a long notice board announcing classes in knitting, keep-fit and photography, and times for the next information session on preventing scrapie, whatever that was. In the classrooms, girls sat over computer screens. The dry air hummed.

  ‘Come in.’ A tall woman opened the door. Her dark blue trouser suit with a long jacket was like a man’s. He half-wondered: a woman police officer? Her sharply-cut blonde hair reminded him of a teacher who used to give him detentions for being late. ‘You’d like a session?’ The lines around her eyes were clearer as she leant towards him.

  She had caught him. He had wanted to know what was going on at home.

  ‘Fine. We’ve three free computers. Got your card?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Leisure Pass?’ She held the edge of a chair, between him and the rest of the room. He shook his head. ‘Forgotten it?’ she smiled.

  ‘I haven’t.’ He shuffled around in his pockets.

  ‘I’m sorry. You can’t use any of these until you have one.’ She motioned with her hand to the interior. ‘You have to apply to the Council and pay the deposit. Go up to the offices. You only need proof of address.’ She smiled.

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ It was easy for her. Everything was in its place.

  ‘We have to be sure you live here. Otherwise we wouldn’t know what might happen.’ She laughed lightly but her blue eyes were hard.

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, backing out the door, wanting to kick it.

  She knew. Knew all about him. Could see right through, how he did not live in a house, had hated school and teachers like her. She would have noticed his worn trainers, the hole in his sweater. She knew he didn’t belong. A tight ball of frustration sank in his chest. Shit. He did not ever want to see the woman again. But it would be easy to break in. He knew plenty of people who had. Nipping on the tops of roofs. Over garden fences in West Hampstead where stuff was worth taking. One boy had used a climbing frame and from it had gone onto a shed roof, dropping into a garden. Big Ian surely had. There wasn’t much he hadn’t tried. Slipping nicked iPods to his friends. Selling on drugs he got from a dealer in Bethnal Green. He had boasted about the guy’s cover of using a wheelchair and told them how he used to push himself up and down the High Road under the noses of the police. He was able to stash all kinds of gear in the chair.

  Big Ian had got away with stuff. Torin did not have the guts. There was good gear here, if he had the nerve. But if he nicked a computer he would be caught. Security numbers would give him away. He smiled nervously. Nicked just when he was trying to avoid this stuff
.

  He did not want to go back to the site. He did not want to go anywhere. Maybe Marcus had enrolled for the film-making and photography course. He had told Torin how he could make small films and set them up on sites. He could film their mates. Or make up stories about them, around the streets and down the market.

  A sign standing on the pavement announced: ‘Breen’s. Saloon Bar. Lounge. Homecooked Food.’ Larger than the other bars, it was not one his mum or grandad had mentioned. He went in. A couple of old lags stood at the end. On one of the upholstered seats an old man sat reading the paper. He looked like an old man, but he might have been an off-duty policeman. The old man steadied his glasses. Torin stared, as if to find some truth, and the old man coughed an old man’s throaty cough and a little terrier emerged from under the seat. Wagging its tail, it trotted in front of the old fella, gazing with dark eyes. The old man put down the paper and picked up the lead.

  ‘Good bye, my dear,’ he called, walking out.

  ‘Good bye. See you.’

  In front of the row of green and brown bottles, her face was the face he had seen before. His palms were warm. He had too many fingers and did not know where to put them. Out of the open-ness of the road and behind the counter, her hair was different. It sprang out, brash curls trying to escape, emphasising high cheekbones which gave her an elegance which frightened him. She looked like a girl who knew what to do. Who knew her own mind. Who might be cleverer than him. His chest tightened. He ordered a beer and waited at the counter for ages, trying to avoid her eyes, before taking his drink to a corner. Tucked out of the way at a table, he sipped. It was cool and nicely bitter. He held the glass tightly, hoping she might not notice him.

  She came from behind the bar. The way she moved, effortlessly clearing and sliding the cloth across the small wooden tables, stirred him. Her long legs were visible under the short skirt when she leant over. He had only had the pint but was cramped in his seat. He could not work out what she was doing there.