“Beware of the birds in the sky”, but I don’t understand …’
Rawnie coughed again, her body shaking, her bangles tinkling and jangling. ‘Ye’ll know when they come, I can’t say when, but they’re big, big birds.’
Rawnie did not finish telling Evelyne what she could see, could not tell her that when the birds flew over Evelyne’s head they would take everything from her, all that she loved. Evelyne would have persisted, but the caravan door was flung open by Edward. He demanded that Evelyne come with him, the fair was closing and they were going to have chicken cooked over a real fire.
All the men from the fairground had gathered around the wagons and a fire had been built in the centre. Behind them the Ferris wheel was still lit up, but the organ that piped out the music was silent. A fiddler was sitting on a beer crate, tuning up.
‘Well, gel, it’s a night to celebrate, is it not, we’re all brothers here, and we’re going to put on some entertainment for you.’
Evelyne could see Edward and Alex, their shoes and socks discarded, running like wild things round and round the caravan. The fiddler started playing and the girls began to dance and sing.
Rawnie sat at her caravan door, tapping her foot and clapping to the music. Evelyne sat with a, group of women who were peeling potatoes for a big pot of stew. She knew the last train would have gone by now. There was nothing she could do or say — Freedom was standing drinking with a group of his brothers and had no intention of leaving.
Evelyne wished the night would end. They had eaten, and the men were getting drunker and drunker. The girls still danced and the fiddler still played, and the fire had been constantly fed so that it still blazed. The two boys were curled up beside three other children on a large straw mattress dragged from one of the wagons, their arms wrapped around each other in exhausted sleep. Rawnie beckoned Evelyne to her caravan and pointed to a bed she had made up. Evelyne was as tired as her sons so she didn’t refuse.
‘He looks happy, a happy mun, will you see?’
Evelyne looked out of the door. Freedom was the centre of attention. Someone had given him a bandanna, which he had tied around his head, and he was roaring with laughter. He was well drunk, and they were trying to pull him to the fireside to dance. He made excuses about his bad leg, but they would not hear and he gave in to the young girls that pulled him. The fiddler began a new tune and they all watched as Freedom stood, straightbacked, heels together, slowly lifting his hands above his head. He began to clap, short, sharp slaps, then clicked his heels, and there was no sign of his limp. The alcohol and the atmosphere made him unaware of the pain in his leg, and he danced to his heart’s content, soon joined by three other men.
At one point Jesse looked over to where Evelyne sat with Rawnie and gave her a cold stare. She was an outsider tonight, not her children nor her husband, but she was and she knew it. She got up and went to lie on the bed. The heavy, oily perfume that Freedom had always worn swamped her, but this time it was Rawnie’s perfume, it was oil from her hair on the pillows.
Evelyne fell into a deep sleep, and when she woke it was fully dark, the blackness lit only by a warm, glowing light from the fire. No candles, no blinking lights from the fairground, nothing but the fire.
The voice was beautiful, clear, singing such a sweet, sad song, and she lay back on the pillows and listened. There was-no fiddle this time, but a guitar being played well.
Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen Can you chin the cosh …
The singing lulled her, the voice deep and soft. She felt the caravan rock slightly as Rawnie moved, and she opened her eyes.
Rawnie gestured for Evelyne to come to the door, and she crept forward. She wanted to weep — the singer was Freedom, and he was playing the guitar. She had never heard him sing like this, had not known he could play. ‘Oh, Rawnie, sometimes he is like a stranger.’ I’ve never seen him play, heard him sing … he does it so well.’
Rawnie patted the step for Evelyne to sit beside her. She too was moved by Freedom. That wondrous face, singing with his eyes closed, his whole body seeming to shimmer in the firelight. All the people around him were hushed. His voice rose and fell, emotional but clear, with such ease that it reached their souls.
‘I loved that mun, but you know, I loved him so.’
Evelyne was touched by the dying woman, and she slipped her arm around the wasted shoulders. She did know, perhaps she always had. ‘He loved you too, Rawnie, he would have hanged for you.’
Rawnie’s gnarled hand reached out, gripped Evelyne’s chin, and she looked into her face. ‘So would every mun around the fire. It were not love fer me, gel, but honour. Gringos don’t understand, cannot understand our ways, our love of the stars, the air, the land … But we can hate, and we believe in revenge, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. This is our way, our law.’
Evelyne bit her lip. Rawnie knew revenge, hadn’t she slit every one of those boys’ throats? Or had it been Jesse? As if Rawnie had read her mind, she gave a chuckle. ‘It were me, gel, me used the knife. Now I’ll tell yer what yer man is singing.’
She whispered the meaning of the song to Evelyne. Freedom was asking if they understood the Romany tongue, asking if they could hold their own in a ilay-chingarpeni, an argument or a fight; he was asking if they could play the fiddle, if they were men enough to fight the music, to hear a prison sentence and do their bit without flinching: last of all the song was asking if they were qualified to earn their living as gypsies. If they could not in one way or another chin the cosh, they would never be successful on the road.
Evelyne clung to Rawnie. Now she could see her boys, the two little brothers, standing naked by the fire, hand in hand, looking at their father, their eyes fixed as though hypnotized by him. An elder knelt down beside them, and she saw the knife. Rawnie gripped her tightly so she could not move. The sick woman had more strength than Evelyne had given her credit for.
‘Let him make their blood our blood, their father’s blood, it is right, they are Romany.’
Neither child made a murmur as his thumb was cut, and the blood kissed by their father. Then they were wrapped in blankets and taken back to sleep on the mattress. Evelyne now knew that Freedom had planned this — not necessarily with Jesse and Rawnie — but she remembered that bank holidays were their big days for fairs right across England. He had known all along that some of his people would be at Brighton — his brothers as he called them. She returned to Rawnie’s bed.
When the morning came, Rawnie gave each child a golden sovereign. They kissed her, eager to get on to the train, not to get away, but just because it was a train. Their night’s initiation had had no obvious after-effects, and Freedom was preparing to leave. ‘I’ll come again to you, sister, we won’t be parted as long again.’
Rawnie touched his face, tracing it with her fingers; it was still handsome, even with his battle scars. She traced his lips, and then stood at her caravan door to wave their farewell. Rawnie knew she would never see him again, she would be dead within months.
‘Well, gel, it looks like our brother’s come back into the fold, eh?’
Rawnie smiled. Jesse had never had the powers, he couldn’t read what was in the air. The woman still had Freedom, and she was stronger than they were.
The train journey home was as exciting for the brothers as the one to Brighton, and they wanted to go back again as soon as they got to London.
‘We’re going home, and you’ve got to go to school tomorrow.’
Eddie started sulking, and had to be dragged along to the tram stop. He wanted to go back to the fair, he didn’t want to go to school. Evelyne slapped him hard, pushed him ahead of her up the tram stairs.
‘You’ll go to school, my lad, and what’s more you’ll get that scholarship or you’ll end up on a fairground with no education and no place else to go. Now get up these stairs this instant.’
Evelyne received a mask-like glare from Edward, and he stomped up the stairs to the top deck. Alex, close behind him, slipped his hand into his brother’s, and they went to the very front seats.
Evelyne and Freedom sat at the back, looking at the busy traffic below as they headed across London. Evelyne took out the doll for Mrs Harris’ youngest, and checked that she had all their things. She looked up sharply when she heard two small voices singing from the front seats,
Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen Can you chin the cosh …
Freedom smiled and nodded to his sons, slipped an arm around her shoulders.
‘Well, gel, looks like we gotta pair of gyppos up front.’
