Gypsy Girl (9 page)

If you never learned to read and write, like travelling people back then, you had to remember your histories like this, as a story. Granny Kate had a good audience. My aunts and my sisters were squashed onto the green leather seats fitted in a U-shape at one end of the trailer. They’d come down to Gypsy’s Acre to help Sabrina get ready for her hen night. Even my two sisters who lived down south, Suzie and Sylvia, had arrived an hour or two ago. The only one missing was the bride-to-be herself. She was in the little bedroom behind me, going through a whole pile of dresses that she’d thrown onto Granny’s lace bedspread. She’d picked a dress for her hen party months ago, but now she said it wasn’t right. And the one I’d picked out for her was the wrong colour. She’d started cursing and yelling at me for not being a proper bridesmaid and choosing the right dress for her, so I’d left her in there to make her own mind up.

Everyone was in their best dresses. It looked like a bunch of celebrities had descended on Granny’s trailer. Bare, suntanned legs and high heels meant that you couldn’t walk anywhere without getting tripped up. And there was a war going on in the air between their perfume and the blackberries. We’d all heard Granny’s stories before, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was spellbound. Except me. I should’ve been squashed on the seats with them, laughing and enjoying myself like always. But something inside me had changed. Now all I could see in my mind was a pool of crimson blood. And all I could think about was a boy who lived in the big house not far from here. A house that might as well have been a million miles away, it was so different from our life here in this little trailer.

As Granny paused in her storytelling to add a pinch of something to the saucepan full of blackberries, Beryl took the opportunity to produce a box of biscuits.

“Snack break,” she announced, passing the box around.

“Don’t let me near them,” said Queenie, passing them straight to Sadie-May. “I’ll have something else. I’ll have cheese!” She waved at me. I was standing next to Granny in the little kitchen area. “Pass me one of those little Babybels, Sammy babe. No, just pass me the whole bag. Cheese is low-fat, isn’t it?”

“Oh my God, it isn’t, Queenie, it really isn’t,” said Star, through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Don’t do it, Sammy-Jo,” shouted Savannah. “Pass her an apple, quickly.”

I reached into a net bag hanging next to the little sink unit and tossed her an apple Granny had picked from the trees growing along the lane earlier.

“Hmmm. Thanks,” said Queenie, not very enthusiastically. Then she frowned at me. “What are you doing lurking over there?”

“Yes, come and sit down, we’ve hardly seen you,” said Sylvia, looking up from her sewing. She’s the practical one out of us – she can take up hems and alter the shape of any clothes we buy and don’t like. Now she was trying to finish an outfit for one of her little girls in time for Saturday.

“I’m fine here. I’m helping with the blackberries,” I said. And before Granny could deny this, I added quickly, “Anyway, shush, the story’s not finished yet.” I turned to Granny, anything to get away from Queenie and Beryl’s keen eyes. “Tell us what happened next.”

“Well – after Samson Absalom came Samson Shadrack Smith,” said Granny, stirring her potion. “His nickname was Mad Dog, so you can tell what his fighting style was like. He fought in tavern yards, his toe against the line drawn in the dust, his fists like sledgehammers – until the king sent for him…”

“Ha, can’t see that happening today,” said Star. She put on a posh voice. “‘Starlena Smith, international singing star, is invited to Buckingham Palace.’”

“You wouldn’t be allowed in wearing that dress,” said Beryl, eyeing Star’s micro skirt and her long, suntanned legs.

Granny banged her wooden spoon on the counter, silencing us. “Ah yes, but in them days being noticed by royalty could be a good thing or a bad thing. The king at the time was mad, you see, and sometimes he liked people and sometimes he’d have the same people clapped in irons for doing nothing. But our Samson went. He weren’t afraid of anything. Smiths are never afraid. And do you know what happened?”

“No, tell us, Granny!” chorused Sylvia and Suzie, who hadn’t heard Granny’s tales as often as we had since they’d moved away.

“Samson was showing off his strength by fighting all the king’s guards, one after the other, and beating ’em. But the king didn’t know that because he’d nodded off. Nodded off when one of the best fighters in the country was showing off his talents! That was rude, even if he was a king. Well, Samson Shadrack Mad Dog Smith weren’t standing for it. All the court people might tippy-toe round and try not to wake the king, but our Samson does the opposite. He goes over and claps his hands like thunder and wakes him up!

“Everybody thought he’d be swinging from a rope, but the king stares at our Samson, stares and stares, and the whole crowd goes as silent as the grave – until the king bursts out laughing. Samson were the king’s fighter from that day onwards. He got given lots of gold, too, and built himself a big house with his fight winnings, but he couldn’t stand all those doors and walls, and he soon returned to his vardo. It didn’t matter. Everyone loved him. He could talk to high and low, just like we can now. It didn’t matter who they were, we were Smiths, and everyone knew that we put the magic and excitement into their lives.”

Granny elbowed me out of her way, rummaged in a cupboard, pulled out a bottle and emptied the contents into the blackberries.

“Wow, that smells good and strong, Granny,” shouted Beryl. “Let’s have a taste.”

“No, not one sip till the wedding,” said Granny, firmly.

And then everyone was shouting for a sip of it, until Sabrina’s huffy voice blasted from the bedroom behind me. “Can’t you all shut up! You’re giving me a headache. It’s my special night, and none of you care!”

I knew how she felt. For the first time in my life, I wanted to get away from them all as well. But everyone just burst out laughing and shouted at Sabrina to stop being so miserable.

“Although maybe we should keep it down a bit,” said Queenie, the peacemaker.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I said. “Sabrina complained her Coco Pops were too loud this morning.” That got a laugh. Behind me the door rattled, as Sabrina had thrown something at it.

“Can we all shut up now?” said Beryl. “Let Granny finish. Who came next?”

Granny got that distant look again and licked her fingers where the juice had stained them deep purple. “That would be Fairground Sammy, who worked the booths and sideshows, fighting for prize money and winning against all comers. That was Victorian times. That’s when we travelled with the fairs.” Her eyes sparkled. “We were like a tidal wave, sweeping across the country, brightening up the world. Where would we be if we were all the same, eh? We breathe different air to other people, we make the most of everything. We know secrets that others don’t. We see things others don’t. It’s a wonder our footsteps don’t glow as we move around.”

“Tell that to the idiot next door,” said Sadie-May, suddenly. “When me and Savannah pulled into his lorry yard instead of the field by accident, he got some ugly man with a ponytail to come out and yell at us.”

“That’s right. Gave us dirty looks, and watched until we’d reversed and driven off,” agreed Savannah. “As if we’d want to go near their place.”

“Never mind. Just ignore people like that. Now let Granny finish,” said Queenie.

As the history of the Smiths carried on, I sneaked a look out of the window towards International Express. McCloud had threatened to have us moved, but nothing had happened yet. Queenie was right. We would just have to ignore him. I turned my back, but this left me staring out of the little kitchen window towards Langton House. I knew Gregory was back from the hospital because earlier I’d seen his father’s Audi come by with him in it. But that wasn’t enough for me. What I really wanted to do was go and see him for myself. I had to explain.

As me sisters and aunts listened and laughed and enjoyed themselves, I hugged my arms around myself, images of blood and hatred circling through my mind, Milo’s hate-filled face, McCloud’s cold eyes staring as if we were trash. And Gregory, bloodied and battered, because he’d come and checked up on me. Danger was closing in around me. In the end I turned from the window and tried to concentrate on Granny’s story. She was still talking about Fairground Sammy.

“… and when he died they burned his wagon as they always did in them days,” she was saying. “And thousands turned up to see his soul being set free to roam for ever.”

Beryl was nodding in approval. “They never burn wagons nowadays.”

“Too expensive.”

“Trust you to think of the money, Sadie-May.”

“But,” said Granny, giving them both a look to shut them up. “It didn’t take long for another Samson to come along. He was born on the day old Samson’s wagon was burned. Sammy Smith, the Gypsy King they called him. The first Smith to fight in a proper ring.”

She smiled to herself, remembering him. “He was handsome, a real pretty boy. The only time he stopped fighting was to go and fight in the war. But he came back to us. Even when the world became a dark place, it destroyed others but never the Smiths. Not while we’d got our Samsons. If the world ever ends, the Smiths will be the last ones standing.” She turned the stove off under the bubbling mixture in the saucepan. A bottle and a cork were standing ready. She was coming to the end of our history now. She glanced at me.

“And last of all was your daddy, Samson Smith. The first to win medals, and not bronze or silver, but gold! The world championships and Olympic glory were in his grasp. Samson Smith, King of the Gypsies, that’s what we embroidered on the back of his dressing gown. He would’ve been the best of them all…” She gave a sigh. “Until he got hurt.”

There were sighs from all around, and the shaking of heads.

“Poor Sam. It was a tragedy,” murmured Queenie.

They were right. I’ve seen videos of my father fighting. He would’ve been champion of the world, but he had a car crash, not something the other Samsons had to worry about. It injured his back, and he had pins in it, so it wasn’t safe for him to fight any more. That was why he ran the gym and taught others.

“We should add you on the end of the fighters,” said Beryl, suddenly, looking at me. “You’re the first female Samson.”

That made me smile for the first time that day. I’ve seen pictures, old and tattered and done in that sort of brown ink that they used to use, showing Fairground Sammy striking a pose. He looked like all the Smith fighters, with great, bulging biceps and a barrel chest and massive thighs. All I can say is that I might have inherited the skills, but I don’t look anything like the men fighters in the family. Thank the Lord on that one.

“And we mustn’t forget Bartley in America,” said Sadie-May. “He makes his living as a fighter. Everyone knows him.”

“He’s not a Samson,” said Granny, as she inspected her brew. “Anyway, he only fights on telly.”

Uncle Bartley had gone to America years ago. There’s a whole branch of the family tree over there now. He works on a TV programme that we all watch on satellite. It’s called
CAGED
.

“Quick, put it on,” said Star. “Let’s watch him. Last week’s show’s on catch-up.”

She loved Uncle Bartley. She loved reality shows like
Big Brother
and
Strictly Come Dancing
. And Bartley’s show was reality with fighting. There was a delay while everyone half stood up to see who was sitting on the remote. It was Beryl. She aimed and clicked, sorting through the recorded shows until she found
CAGED
. Granny Kate might talk about the old days, but she liked her satellite TV.

The picture changed to an MMA fight, the hexagonal cage holding a couple of rough-looking boys doing amateurish kicks. And then it cut to the presenters.

“There he is, there’s our Bartley,” said Queenie.

All my sisters leaned forward.

“Aw, look at him. Handsome.”

“I love Bartley.”

“Everyone loves our Bartley.”

“Outta the way, Star. Let us all see.”

He was the trainer on the programme. They would go and find street kids who were getting in trouble, and they’d teach them MMA skills. It means mixed martial arts, and you can use kick-boxing and tae kwon do and karate moves as well as wrestling and grappling. It might seem stupid to make rough kids even rougher, but they taught them discipline and survival skills as well. They taught them to respect others. They changed their lives. We all loved watching Uncle Bartley. He was a celebrity over there.

The camera cut to a close-up of his face. He was big and handsome, and wore his dark hair short and spiked. He’d got a couple of the fighters with him, and he was explaining some of the moves they’d be using that week. The boys looked like hard-as-nails street boys, but beside Bartley’s big frame and fists they looked puny.

“He still wants Sammy-Jo to go over,” said Star, enviously.

Bartley started asking me to go and stay with them last year. He’d seen me fighting at the gym, and he said he might be able to get me some work helping out with the training for the contestants.

All eyes turned to look at me.

“So are you going to go?” asked Queenie, with a glance at Beryl. Star, Savannah and Sadie-May gave one another sidelong looks as well. I had the feeling everyone had been talking about me, but hopefully not about Milo and Gregory. I’d warned Sabrina not to mention it to them, but I didn’t think she’d even heard me. I was banking on the fact that she only had thoughts for herself at the moment.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Bartley’s wife’s strict,” said Queenie. “She’d look after you. She’d stop you getting into trouble.” As if that would make my mind up! But she and Beryl liked that idea and nodded to each other. Strict was good.

“I wouldn’t get into trouble,” I said. “I don’t need anyone telling me what to do.”

They all exchanged a few more glances. They’d definitely been talking behind my back.

“Yes. But there’s lots of ways of getting into trouble,” said Beryl. “Like you forgetting you’re a Smith girl. Forgetting how we live. You might start to run wild.”