Tragedy at Two (9 page)

“Now, the Chargers are the number one team. General knowledge, first question: how many bones are there in the human face?”

Blank looks from the Chargers. “I know,” whispered Lois to Sheila. “Fourteen! It was on one of them kids’ yoghurt pots in the shop. . . .”

“No helpful hints, please!” said Ross, with a good-humoured laugh. He’d have to watch these two women, sensing at once a marital challenge of more importance than a few quiz questions.

The Chargers guessed a few wrong numbers, and had to give up. Ross said fourteen was the right answer and then moved on. Other questions were asked, and then it was the new recruits’ turn. “Have you decided on a name for your team?” asked Ross. “It is not at all necessary, just a bit of fun.”

There was a quick consultation, and then the tall gypsy, George, said firmly, “Yes. We are all agreed on the Didikye.”

Sam stood up and spluttered, shocked beyond words.

“Very good,” said Ross. This was the first time he had encountered this particular problem, but he prided himself on being able to handle all eventualities.

“Your question, then,” he went on rapidly, not looking at Sam, or anyone else but the Didikye. “And I must stress that these questions are taken strictly in the order they are printed out in my list. Now, can you tell me the popular name given to the massacre of Jews . . .” he hesitated, and continued, “and others in concentration camps during World War II?”

The entire bar seemed to be holding its breath. Lois felt Sheila’s hand slip into hers, and cleared her throat. “The Holocaust,” she said, “and the others massacred were mentally ill or disabled people, and gypsies.”

“Correct,” said Ross, and, exchanging an agonised look with his wife, passed on to the next team.

No more embarrassing questions emerged, but the subsequent jollity of the evening was strained. In the end, the scoring was reasonably even. The big surprise, of course, was how many questions the gypsies were able to answer. The village, as represented by most of those in the pub, had quite decided that they would be without education or knowledge of the wider world. Some dreaded the humiliation for Lois and Sheila, and others looked forward to revealing just what scum the gypsy tribe would prove to be.

The evening proceeded slowly. Every time a question was directed at George or Jal, Sam would begin to cough or shuffle his feet. He was joined by a chorus of coughing, clearing of throats, surreptitious stamping.

“Rough music,” whispered the vicar to his wife. Both had come in for the quiz and an evening of socialising with the locals. Father Keith had read books about village life, and knew all about stocks on the green, penitence stools, the burning of witches and summary eviction of undesirables by oaths and threats. He also knew about the banging of pots and pans outside their windows in the dead of night. “Rough music,” he repeated.

“Not these days, Keith, for goodness sake!” Marjorie replied.

“Don’t be too sure. It’s in the village bones,” he muttered, as the final round was announced.

Contrary to expectations, Lois, Sheila, George and Jal had not done so badly. They came sixth out of nine teams, largely owing to Lois’s addiction to television, and Sheila knowing everything there was to know about football, farming and the contents of the
Reader’s Digest
gardening book. Derek’s team was beaten into second place by a quartet of incomers from Blackberry Gardens, and prizes were duly distributed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Meade,” the tall gypsy said politely, and he and his friend returned to their corner seat. Lois and Sheila, flushed with relative success, subsided rapidly as they saw Sam, Alan and Derek bearing down on them.

“Home!” said Sam, and as Alan began to interrupt him, he grabbed Sheila’s arm, picked up her coat, and marched her out of the pub.

All eyes watched them go, and then conversation resumed. Alan asked if he could buy Derek and the others in their team a drink, and Derek said certainly not.
He
would buy the drinks, and congratulated Alan on being a really useful member. “Hope you’ll be a fixture with us, lad,” he said, and went to order at the bar.

“Don’t I get a drink?” Lois called after him.

Alan Stratford jumped up. “Please allow me to get this one,” he said with elaborate courtesy. “A brave lady, if ever I saw one. Such a shame Mum had to leave, but then we all know Dad, don’t we. What’ll you have?”

 

 

THE GYPSY MEN LEFT SOON AFTER, AND THE COMPANY RELAXED. Now they could talk freely, and much was said that had been better left unsaid. Lois tried to monitor what she could overhear, and decided opinion was not really divided. The overall consensus was that it would be better if that dirty lot kept to their camping ground. Bad enough that they were there, making a mess and not controlling their wild dogs and wild children. Certainly nobody wanted them invading the hallowed ground of the public bar.

There were frequent glances at Lois, who was coolly drinking her glass of white wine. Whispers were passed around that somebody would have to have a word with Mrs. Meade, and probably Sam Stratford was the man to do it. As for Derek, he sat in a cloud of misery. He had no idea what he should think or do, but just wished the Almighty had sent him a bad dose of flu that had kept him at home, safe in bed with a hot toddy.

GEORGE AND JAL WALKED IN SILENCE THROUGH THE VILLAGE, past the shop’s security light and the telephone box with its small group of kids loafing about outside.

“Evenin’ dids!” said one of the boys, and the others sniggered.

“Don’t answer!” hissed Jal. “You got us into enough trouble tonight.”

George didn’t answer, but just kept on walking at an even pace. Under the one solitary streetlamp in the village, Jal could see that he was smiling.

They were out of the village, almost back at the encampment when the attack came. There were at least half a dozen, armed with sticks and uttering war cries. George turned to face them, pushing Jal behind him.

“Stop!” he shouted, and something in his voice caused the posse to hesitate. George could see they all had stupid masks or balaclava hats pulled down over their faces.

The leader stepped forward, without a mask or hat, and George could swear that it was Sam Stratford, though there was no helpful moonlight and he could not see clearly.

“Too frit to fight?” the leader said. “Yeller! You’re not wanted in our village. We’ll give you three days to get out. If you’re not gone, we’ll give you a helping hand!” His followers muttered agreement, and chanted “Get out! Get out!”

George began to laugh. It was the worst thing he could have done, and the gang moved forward. During the uneven struggle, he heard Sam—he was sure it was Sam—say, “For God’s sake don’t kill ’em! Enough now. Bugger off, all of you!”

Jal was crouching on the road, shivering and muttering, and George helped him up. “Anything serious?” he asked.

“N-n-no,” stuttered Jal. “A f-f-f-ew bruises. Let’s get back.”

At the entrance to the encampment, a shadowy figure awaited them. “Athalia,” said George. “Bit of bother back there.” She said nothing, but held out her hand, then turned around and beckoned them to follow her. The door of her caravan banged shut, and at the same time all the lights in the site were extinguished. A heavy darkness hid them from sight, and there was no sound except the vicious barking of the bull terrier from the caravan in the wood.

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” SHEILA SAT ON A HARD CHAIR IN her kitchen, a mug of tea in her hand. Opposite was her son Alan, looking nervous.

“No business of yours,” Sam said. “Haven’t you got no home to go to?” he continued, glaring at his son.

“I’m not leaving until we sort this out. Mum was in tears when I got here. It was only a bit of a lark, Dad. Mrs. Meade started it, and Mum just went along. What harm was there in it?”

Sam sighed, and subsided on to the third chair. “Got a cup of tea goin’, gel,” he said to Sheila, and touched her hand gently. She bit her lip, put her other hand over his, and said, “O’ course there is. I’ll boil up the kettle.”

“Now, son,” Sam said quietly, “there might be no harm in it, but on the other hand there might be. Them two gyppos are working for John Thornbull, and according to him they do a good job. I don’t grudge them the work. But they’re not like us. Ain’t got the same morals, rules of hygiene, or food or mixin’ in. Some don’t speak our language. If it weren’t for that Alf Smith they would have been moved on long ago. It’s not a proper site, and if you go and see for yourself, you’ll see they’ve made a real mess of it. The kids don’t go to school much, an’ their dogs are out of control and vicious.”

“So if Alf lets them be, what can you do about it?” Sheila said.

“We can ignore them,” said Sam. “If we all ignore them, like we have done in the pub, they’ll stop coming in and move on eventually. Probably on the way to Appleby horse fair. They don’t stay nowhere for long. That’s part of their way of life. Not responsible for anything other than themselves. Don’t pay no taxes, don’t do anything for the villages they doss down in. You can see why folk don’t like them.”

“They fought in the war alongside the rest of us, didn’t they?” Alan said. “Never recognised for that. An’ thousands of ’em were exterminated by Hitler, nor none of the survivors got compensation like the rest. Ignored, as you recommend, Dad.”

Alan looked at his father, who was now shaking his head sadly. Time to give him a bit of support. “But they’re not saints, Mum,” he said. “They poach and thieve and set their dogs on anybody who goes near them. As it happens, I did go past there and thought I’d walk along the old footpath round the back of their camp. A couple of very nasty-looking characters advanced out of a decrepit old caravan, with a snarling bull terrier on a piece of rope.”

“What did they say?” Sam said, suddenly alert.

“It was what they did, not what they said,” Alan said. “They let that dog go, didn’t they. I ran for me life, and I could hear them laughing. Just as the brute was snapping at my heels, one of them whistled and it stopped dead. I kept running. That’s your saintly gypsies for you, Mum,” he added. He got up and put on his jacket. “Better get back,” he said, and waved to both as he left.

In the quiet kitchen Sam and Sheila sat in silence. Then Sheila took Sam’s hand again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you mean it for the best.”

He nodded. “Time for bed,” he said. “Not the best evening we’ve ever had in the pub.”

“Sorry,” repeated Sheila, and watched his retreating back.

“Oh,” she called after him, “and Sam, where
did
you go after we got home?”

 

 

GRAN WAS WAITING FOR DEREK AND LOIS TO COME HOME, wanting to know the result of the quiz. The moment they walked in she knew something was up. It was doubtful whether they would tell her, so she asked how the quiz went.

“The Chargers came second,” Lois said. “Derek was very good, answered a lot of questions. It was interesting.”

“Good. And how did Alan Stratford get on?”

“Useful,” said Derek.

“Nice chap now,” Lois added.

“Right,” said Gran. “Thanks for a really full description of quiz night in the village pub. I might as well be off to bed. There’s coffee in the pot on the Rayburn. Good night both.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Mum,” Lois said, sitting down heavily at the table. “You might as well hear it from us, as get a garbled version from the gossips.”

“Hear what?” Gran said.

“About the new team on the block,” Derek said, taking over. “The Didikye, they call themselves.”

“What!” Gran said.

“Team captain, Mrs. Lois Meade.”

“That’s enough, Derek,” Lois said, and gave her mother a fair and accurate account of what happened. She did not spare herself, and said she felt awful about Sheila getting into trouble with Sam.