A Cry From Beyond (13 page)

“We may
extend if we decide to stay,” David said proudly as he showed me
around prior to setting off. “Go up into the roof; turn the area
into a master bedroom. It’s a great way of gaining extra space
without having to move. Pretty cost effective too. Everyone seems
to be doing it nowadays.”

Joining
us on the landing, Jenny was equally enthusiastic. “It’ll mean we
can move the bathroom upstairs into what is now the third bedroom,
and turn the second bedroom into a nursery.”

“The
present bathroom will be converted into a hobby room,” David said,
but Jenny had other ideas, maintaining it would become an extension
of the kitchen. David looked gutted.

“A case
of nice try but no cigar,” I said, giving him a sympathetic pat on
the back.

Jenny
glanced at her watch. “Better get our skates on if we’re going to
catch the fair before it gets overrun.”

David
nodded. “Yeah, right, mustn’t keep Madam Lee waiting. She might get
upset and turn us into toads!”

Jenny
rolled her eyes in mock dismay, and bundled him off towards the
stairs.

The fair
had made camp on the other side of the village, and comprised of
the usual dodgem car rides, over which Irish allegedly presided,
carousals, shooting galleries and cheap sideshows. A Penny Arcade
stood next to a large marquee whose white canvas had seen better
days. A poster near the marquee entrance advertised that a
high-wire act would perform later. Beyond the marquee loomed the
towering spectacle of the Big Wheel. The miserably cold weather
failed to affect trade. The place was humming. We paused at the
shooting gallery, where the prizes were cheap and cheerful, and the
gallery attendant vied for business with brash
enthusiasm.

“Get all
six ducks and win the prize of yer dreams,” he boomed, rubbing his
hands together like Fagin. A boy pushed in front of me to take up
the challenge, dispatching four of the ducks in quick succession.
He was rewarded with a cheap green water pistol which he bemoaned
saying he already had one. He stared at it like it was a wet rag.
His father intervened; demanding satisfaction, and the attendant
grudgingly swapped it for a toy-racing car.

Further
on, we witnessed a minor scuffle involving two youths, which was
quickly broken up by a burly fairground worker, who I’d later get
to know for all the wrong reasons, and who went by the name of
Coogan.

“I’m
thirsty,” Jenny said, spotting a heavily illuminated burger stand.
So we stopped off to buy hot drinks and cigarettes.

Nearby
rock n roll classics boomed from a set of old Marshall cabs
standing on a makeshift platform. Buddy Holly’s “That’ll be the
Day” was followed by Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman”. We approached
the dodgem arena where children yelled excitedly, chaperoned in
most instances by their parents. A small group of youths drinking
from beer cans looked on with subdued interest. We joined them on
the sidelines, where we sipped our recently purchased drinks from
plastic beakers, while searching the crowd for Irish.

Jenny
spotted him first and waved frantically in an attempt to gain his
attention. When he saw us he sauntered over. Unshaven and dressed
in faded old jeans, badly scuffed cowboy boots and a heavy black
workman’s coat, he more resembled yesteryear’s version of a night
club bouncer, than a fairground attendant.

“What’s
the crack?” he asked, greeting us in his own inimitable way,
managing at the same time to eye up a pretty blonde who rode solo
in one of the dodgem cars.

“We’ve
come to see Madam Lee,” Jenny volunteered, folding her arms against
the cold.

“Have you
now,” he said clearly unimpressed. “Each to their own, I suppose.
Personally I think it’s foolish to dabble in such
things.”

“What
harm can it do?” I asked innocently.

That made
him laugh aloud, a rare thing for Irish, but the laughter was laden
with mockery. Clamping a large calloused hand on my shoulder, he
said, “Let me tell you something gorgio. While it’s true that most
fortune tellers are charlatans, some are kosher. Not many I’ll
grant you, but there are a few out there who really do possess the
ability to “see.” Madam Lee is one of ‘em, make no mistake, and
she’s not to be taken lightly therefore. I don’t want to freak you
out, but there’s always a chance she’ll show you things you don’t
want to see.” He squeezed my shoulder, just a little bit too hard
for my liking, “Best of luck with her matey. That’s all I’m saying.
I’ll see you later.” He re-entered the dodgem arena, where he
promptly jumped aboard the dodgem car driven by the pretty blonde.
I watched him go, uncertain whether or not he was having a joke at
my expense.

“Is he
for real?” I asked, to which Jenny replied, “He never ever jokes
where his family is concerned. He may be the black sheep who
regularly goes off to do his own thing, but he is loyal as hell
when it comes to the Romany fraternity.”

As we
negotiated our way through the crowds, I mentioned the Press visit
I’d received and the information obtained as a result.

“The
suicide victim’s father still lives around here,” David said,
presently.

“He’s
someone to steer clear of,” Jenny advised. “He gets very touchy if
anyone dares to mention the cottage in his presence.”

“Bill
Willis is a bit of a local legend,” David elaborated. “He was a
bare-knuckle fighter in his younger days, and is related to Irish’s
crowd. Unlike the fair troop he and his family gave up life on the
road a long time ago to settle here in Ashley.” We passed the Big
Dipper upon which people screamed and shouted hysterically. “My
father said that in the olden days, Bill Willis used to take on all
comers, anyone who fancied their chances with him, including his
Romany relatives. Apparently, he took no prisoners. His nickname
was “ruileahfein”, which is Romany for madman. Legend has it he
once fought the late, great, Charlie Buckland, who was known as
“the king of the gypsies”. Buckland was a bare knuckle fighter, who
retired undefeated.”

“Did Bill
Willis ever try to avenge the loss,” I asked, reasoning that
Buckland was victorious in their contest.

“Willis
didn’t lose,” David said.

“So it
was a draw.”

“No one
knows. The two men fought away from public scrutiny over a private
argument that was female related. They emerged from the scrap
battered and bruised, but neither of them claimed victory out of
respect for the other.”

“That’s
quite a story,” I said.

We walked
at a leisurely pace, passing redundant fairground machinery,
enjoying the invigorating atmosphere. “When the fair came to town
back then it was quite an event,” David went on. “It still is, but
even more so then.”

“Does
Willis still participate in bare knuckle fighting?” I asked,
sidestepping a large muddy puddle.

David
gave a shake of the head. “Bill gave up the fighting game when he
became a house dweller, but he still shouldn’t be underestimated.
He might be older and wiser nowadays but don’t let that fool you;
he’ll still mix it with the best of them, and he is still referred
to by those in the know as “ruileahfein”.”

We passed
the Penny Arcade. The sudden clatter of cascading coins jangled
through the bitter cold air, followed by a whoop of delight from
the jackpot winner, and spontaneous cheering from his
friends.

Jenny
said, “You’ll find Madam Lee an interesting experience if nothing
else.”

“Cross
her palm with silver,” David said, “she’ll do her thing, predict
your future, and you’ll be a wiser man for it.” Luckily for David,
Jenny failed to pick up on the sarcastic edge to his
voice.

We passed
the horse carousal where children shrieked joyously, as the wooden
horses carried them on an endless cyclical journey to nowhere. We
stopped to watch the Wurlitzer, where faces flashed by, contorted
by excitement and sheer terror.

Then I
was being led over to three identical white tents standing next to
one another, each with an individually designed placard advertising
their wares. The first said Herbal Medicine, Step Inside, Cure your
Ills, next door’s proclaimed Reflexology: Only two pounds per
sitting. The placard hanging over the entrance to the final tent in
the row announced simply, Madam Lee, Palmist and Fortune-Teller.
David said, “Jenny and I will go first. It’ll give you a chance to
see what it’s all about. And don’t look so worried, Madam Lee
doesn’t bite, you know.” He grinned mischievously. “Not unless
there’s a full moon, that is.”

Jenny
gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, and accused him of being
disrespectful.

We
stepped inside the tent. An elderly woman sat in one corner. I
recognised her immediately, for she’d been out walking her dog on
the first occasion I’d passed through the village of Ashley. She
wore a shawl and headscarf, and was bent over a round table,
studying playing cards lying face up on its smooth wooden surface.
Her little terrier lay beneath the table, sleeping. I stayed by the
tent flap while David and Jenny joined her at the table, taking
seats opposite. The subdued lighting added atmosphere to the
occasion. Madam Lee’s age was indeterminable. A pronounced
curvature of the spine gave her an aged appearance, yet her bright
alert eyes were in complete contradiction.

I stole a
little closer, and saw that the cards on the table were tarot
cards. The clairvoyant began David and Jenny’s reading by
consulting an opaque crystal ball. But first she offered her hand
palm up, into which David placed loose change, thereby keeping with
Romany or Roma tradition, in crossing the palm of a clairvoyant’s
hand with silver.

Madam Lee
started confidently. In a low measured tone she informed Jenny that
during the coming year she would do well in her teaching career,
although she would leave her present post and move on to pastures
new.

“How
exciting,” Jenny enthused, glancing happily at David. Closing her
eyes in concentration, Madam Lee added that the move Jenny was to
make would follow a dramatic shift in her personal life. Jenny’s
expectant smile faded, replaced by a fleeting look of concern.
Appearing to choose her words carefully, the clairvoyant went on to
say that Jenny would live a full and varied life, and would be
happy in her chosen career.

“What
about my personal life,” Jenny asked. “You mentioned a dramatic
shift, what did you mean? Did you mean having children? Will I have
a baby?”

Madam Lee
side stepped the question. “I’m afraid the crystal is not clear
enough to be able to tell my dear,” was all she would say on the
subject. She hurriedly concluded the sitting by telling Jenny that
she would be blessed with good health, before moving on to David,
tentatively taking his hand in hers. As she studied his open palm
in conjunction with the crystal, she appeared to momentarily
stiffen in her seat. In a voice that faltered almost imperceptibly,
she announced that unfortunately the spirits had moved on, thereby
preventing her from continuing. She brought the reading to a
premature end, whilst coincidentally, the crystal mysteriously
clouded and faded to black.

David and
Jenny managed to hide their disappointment and thanked Madam Lee
for her time. David pressed more money into the clairvoyant’s hand
and received a faint smile for his trouble.

“You must
visit again,” she said, cordially. Jenny promised that they would.
“And we’ll bring along baby Sarah,” she said, having decided in her
own mind that the life change Madam Lee had foreseen meant the
arrival of off spring. Suddenly all eyes were on me.

“You
next,” David said as he and Jenny left the table and joined me at
the entrance to the tent. I reluctantly stepped into the hot seat
and followed David’s example, by crossing the gypsy’s palm with
silver and then waited for her to speak.

“Put
aside your scepticism,” she said intuitively, though not unkindly,
“or my success in seeing your future will be limited.”

I tried
my best to keep an open mind.

“That’s
better,” she said, as if, I thought, to create the impression she’d
read my thoughts. She took my hand in hers, just as she’d done with
David and made a brief study of my palm, tracing my heart and
lifeline with the tip of her forefinger; tickling my skin faintly
with her delicate touch. All part of the act, I told myself, just
like the moody stares, the colourful garb, and the gold earrings.
Even the low lighting supplied by an ornamental oil lamp was, I
thought, perfectly in keeping with what amounted to an intense
theatrical occasion.

The
clairvoyant closed her eyes and fell into a trancelike state, where
she remained for what seemed like a long time, but was in fact only
a few short seconds. Sound drifted in from outside. The excited
cries of children mixed with noisy adult banter. Somewhere in the
distance the sound of Elvis singing “Hound Dog” boomed out of the
fairground P.A system.

You ain’t
nothing but a---

Fake, I
thought of Madam Lee. Suddenly her eyes snapped open and she stared
at me so disparagingly, I felt as if I must’ve spoken the word
aloud. She continued to stare intently, as if attempting to bore
into my mind in order to seek out my innermost thoughts and
forgotten memories. The room was uncomfortably warm. I was
developing a headache. I began to lose focus. Madam Lee’s face swam
before me like thick oily liquid. Pressure bore down into my skull
and intensified. The headache worsened imperceptibly. Curiously, I
was gripped by a mental image of fingers probing around inside my
brain, displacing my thoughts, delving deep in search of those
buried memories, intent on plucking them from my
subconscious.