Gypsy Boy (15 page)

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Authors: Mikey Walsh

BOOK: Gypsy Boy
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My mother and Aunt Minnie.
They moved around the car park, calling my name softly. Then my mother spotted me. She leaned over me, tutting. ‘Let’s have a look.’
She lifted my head and the pain made me hiss. A lump of blood sprang out, catching her neck. She smacked it off as if it was a mosquito.
‘Minnie, come here,’ she said. ‘Hold his chin a minute, will you?’
My mother pulled at my lips and I screamed through my teeth, which remained firmly embedded.
They each grabbed one of my arms. As I rose to my
feet, Aunt Minnie tried to brush me down. ‘Oh, his lovely clothes, Bettie – look.’
‘Never mind his clothes. Let’s get back and get his mouth open.’
We walked back, the two women blanketing me with their bodies.
‘Your father’s gone to the pub with Uncle Jaybus,’ my mother said. ‘You’ve no need to worry.’
Back at the trailer, they lowered me to the ground, next to the outside tap. Then they started to manoeuvre my lips, slapping at each other’s hands and arguing as if they were trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.
After a few minutes of no progress, my mother stopped. ‘Get me the tin out of the cupboard,’ she said.
Aunt Minnie dashed off into the trailer to search for my mother’s magic tin. I wasn’t sure that her usual rub with a slug or piece of bloody meat would work on this. She wiped her red palms across the chest of her sweater and looked at me, pondering, while we both listened to Aunt Minnie, slamming cupboards and swearing to herself.
My mother scanned the concrete and handed me an old dustpan brush. ‘Take this and squeeze on it when it’s really bad, all right?’
I nodded, gripping it with both hands and trying to focus on anything other than the terrible pain. I stared into my mother’s eyes, inches from my own: black and shiny as boiled tar. She focused on the wound, frowning and then with one, big yank, she freed my teeth.
Aunt Minnie arrived with the tin and as my mother began to rummage through it, Aunt Minnie pulled a cigarette box from her cleavage, took out a cigarette and lit it.
She took several drags and then tossed it away, before crouching down to make some butterfly stitches from band-aid and tape as my mother dabbed at the wound with antiseptic and cotton wool.
It took several weeks for my face to heal, but if I hoped that first challenge would be a one-off, or that my father might give up on making me fight, then I was soon to discover I was sadly mistaken.
We kept on moving locations, and everywhere we went there were challengers. Boys my age were seldom interested in being friends. Every camp seemed to have at least one group of over-confident young bucks with a point to prove and I would have to fight whoever came to my door.
I never won. This infuriated my father, who would take it upon himself, after every losing match, to kick me while I was down, and then head off to take on my challengers, their fathers and anyone else who cared to join in.
Soon I was living in dread of confrontation, with challengers, or with my father. Once we were back from work, I tried to stay out of his way. And every evening, when Uncle Matthew came back to his trailer from the lorry park, I would head off to the one place I felt welcome: Kenny’s trailer.
Take Me With You
If you really want to infuriate a Gypsy man, and land yourself in a major fight, call him gay. The term is often used as an insult in the non-Gypsy world, but to Gypsy men, who pride themselves on being red-blooded males, there can be no bigger put-down.
I got used to my father calling me a poof as a sign of his contempt. He laughed, spat and screamed a dictionary of ‘homo’ terms at me a hundred times a day. And before I had turned ten years old, Frankie had begun doing it too. To hear her laugh as she spoke those words drove a stake into my heart and a rift between us.
The rift had first started during an argument over a can of Coke. Not content with calling me a poof, she had laughed and called me Joseph. It wasn’t because Joseph was gay; no one knew that he was. Frankie called me Joseph because he was a big, fat, ugly, moody, morbid, unmarried man who ate raw meat and to be like him would be any boy’s worst nightmare. What she didn’t know was that she was comparing me to the man who had caused me so much suffering. Incensed, I had stabbed her in the hand with a pencil and after that she called me Joseph whenever she wanted to get at me.
I can’t remember when I first realised that I really was gay. In some ways the knowledge had always been there,
deep inside me. But of course I tried to deny it to myself, desperate not to be the one thing that would totally destroy me as a Gypsy. But as I approached puberty, I couldn’t pretend to myself any more. It wasn’t anything to do with what my uncle had done to me, but knowing that he too was attracted to the same sex left me feeling even more cursed. I lived every day, hating myself for being a freak among Gypsies. I knew I must never, ever let my family know. Although my father called me a poof every day, if he thought it was true, rather than just the worst insult he could think of, he would go ballistic and would, almost certainly, kill me.
So I kept it to myself, hating myself, hating what I was, trapped by it and terrified of somehow being found out.
By the time I was twelve I was battered by the nightmare of puberty. Body hair sprouted, my wisdom teeth appeared, and for several months my voice persistently changed mid-sentence, plunging an octave, from Kate Bush sound-alike to Barry White. Kenny found it very amusing, teasing me at every available moment. But I gave as good as I got, reminding him that he was a rather haggard twenty-six.
As the year wore on and we travelled from one site to another, most of the time I rode in Kenny’s truck with him. It was a relief for me to be out of my father’s sight and with someone who seemed to genuinely like me. We laughed and bantered, and he played me his collection of country music tapes, and in my sad and lonely young heart I fell in love with him. I convinced myself that he might love me too and often imagined us running away together. But of course, I didn’t dare speak of this to Kenny.
Once I had turned twelve my father began teaching me
to drive, so that I could be the chauffeur for him and the other men every pub night. I got plenty of practice, since pub night was every night, but I was happy to do it because that way I got to spend the evenings with the older men and, more importantly, with Kenny. It was far better than staying at home where I had become a sitting duck for other Gypsy boys to come and beat the shit out of me. With no men around there was no one to stop them, once I was out cold. At least if I was challenged in the pub, my father and the other men would be there to see a fair fight, and to stop it if need be.
The men often managed to find a ‘Gypsy friendly’ pub that would provide an after-hours lock-in. I would be kept waiting, sitting quietly alongside them, chewing on the straw of a pint of orange squash till two or three in the morning.
One Friday night my father ordered that I stayed at the camp to fill the tar barrels and load them onto the back of the lorry. It was midnight before I finally crashed into bed, only to wake at two to hear my father’s truck rumble onto the campsite and the sound of ten drunken men wailing out one of their favourite Elvis ballads. Frankie, on the opposite bunk, muttered ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake’ and buried her head beneath her pillow.
The truck rumbled like a tank across the gravel, before coming to a halt in front of our trailer, its headlights left on full beam. The men poured out, and for the next half hour they took turns lurching in front of the truck to claim the spotlight and slur a drunken song. I sat up and watched them through a crack in the blind. I chuckled to myself as Kenny stumbled in front of the headlamps for his turn.
He always sang the same old Jim Reeves song, an ode
to his lost wife. ‘Put your sweet lips, a little closer to the phone, let’s pretend, we’re together, all alone.’ He sang it both word- and pitch-perfect and his voice cracking as he struggled through the final bars.
Finally the men said their goodnights, and one by one they vanished into the darkness.
Only Kenny, my father and Uncle Matthew were left.
‘Goodnight then all,’ said my father, stumbling towards his trailer. He struggled pathetically with the zip of the awning and once inside I could see him falling about in desperation, trying to find the door handle of the trailer. After a couple of minutes he gave up.
‘Bettie!’
No answer. He pounded at the door like Fred Flintstone.
‘
Bettie
!’
Suddenly there was a loud splash and the crash of smashing crockery. He had tripped and fallen into Henry-Joe and Jimmy’s old bathwater, taking half a table of crockery with him.
‘
Open the fffukinnn dooare
!’
The door was flung open and he finally disappeared from sight.
Now only Kenny was left outside. I slipped on some shoes and went out.
The night was humid and sticky and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol hung in the air. I opened the car door, reaching inside to turn off the beams, which were still on. For weeks I had been longing to tell Kenny how I felt. Now it seemed my opportunity had come. The walls of my stomach felt as though they were being torn apart. I needed to tell him how wonderful he was, how I would never leave
him, hurt him or break his heart. I would plead with him to save me, and take me away from my father. But would he listen? Would he feel the same way? Or would he be shocked, and tell my father.
Either way, I had to take the risk.
He was leaning against the side of the truck, vomiting.
‘You all right?’ I asked.
‘Mikey Boy!’
He wobbled upright, putting his arm around my shoulders.
Just then, a loud crash came from Uncle Matthew and Aunt Nancy’s trailer, followed by screams and the chorus of their newly woken children joining in.
Uncle Matthew was known as a henpecked man, but when he got drunk he was transformed into a raving madman. His reputation, post ten pints, for being a foul-mouthed, wife-beating, destructive Mr Hyde was a colossal joke amongst the men.
But Aunt Nancy wasn’t averse to throwing the odd punch herself. Living next to them was never dull. Not a week would go by without at least one trailer-rocking fight between the two of them, followed by the smashing of anything in the trailer that could make a sound. The fights usually finished with the both of them bursting out the trailer door, rolling about on the plot, and clawing at each other until a big enough group of us could tear the two of them apart.
The two of us watched from a safe distance as Matthew fell from the trailer, quickly followed by flying plates, cups and a Nintendo, which bounced off of his cowering shoulders.
‘I’m going over,’ said Kenny, obviously worried that his boss was about to be murdered by his wife.
I grabbed him by the arm. ‘Don’t, Kenny, leave them to it.’
‘I gotta see if he’s all right.
I’m coming, Matt
,’ he bellowed, lurching towards their caravan.
My mother opened the window behind me and leaned out, her pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I was helping Kenny, Mum, but he’s gone to Uncle Matthew’s.’
My mother paused and stared at me. Then she turned inside. ‘Frank, get up. Kenny’s going to get himself killed.’ She turned back to me. ‘Mikey, go to bed before he gets out of this trailer and finds you.’
I leaped back to the trailer and into my bed. I watched through the blinds as Uncle Matthew dragged Kenny onto the plot and kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. ‘You fucking (kick) Gorgia-bred (kick) bastard!’
Kenny rolled across the concrete, pleading for mercy. ‘You’re my friend, Matt, I love you mate, please!’
My father stepped out in his jeans and braces.
‘Frank! Help me! Please!’ Kenny called.
But my father watched in silence, smoke from his cigarette curling around his pitiless face, as Matthew continued to punish Kenny for interfering. Kenny was weeping uncontrollably and screaming for help. It was terrible to see him.
Eventually Matthew stopped. ‘Get up, go home, pack up your stuff and get out of my sight.’
Kenny squirmed on the ground holding his guts. ‘You’re all I got, Matt. Please don’t make me go away.’
Matthew grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him
from the plot. Kenny turned back to Matthew, holding out his arms. Matthew picked up a rock and threw it at him. It bounced off his brow and knocked him to the ground.
‘Fuck off!’
My father walked over and passed Matthew a cigarette. They muttered quietly, watching Kenny disappear, sobbing, into the night.
I felt sick with grief. I watched from the window, crying and praying that he would return and take me with him. I grabbed my coat and boots. I had to find him before he left without me.
The other men from the camp arrived outside, wanting to know what had happened. As questions flew and he started to sober up, Mr Hyde exorcised himself from Matthew’s body and he began to weep with guilt for what he had done. He set off to Kenny’s caravan at a run, calling over his shoulder, ‘I got to get him back, Frank.’
My father and the others dived into the truck once again, charging off into the darkness, to search the roads and fields for the missing dossa.
I crept out of the plot and into the dark.
The first place to look was the most obvious. Kenny’s small trailer was parked in the gas bottle storage yard, a mile down the lane from the rest of us. When I got there the main gates were locked, so I ran to the sturdiest part of the fence, clambered over and fell face first into a burnt orange sea of empty canisters glistening in the darkness.
Across the yard was Kenny’s trailer. A faint light came from inside and I could see a shadow, moving. I began to battle through the army of bottles, heaving them out of my way until I got clear and ran towards Kenny’s door.
At that moment he appeared in the doorway. His face was frozen, like a man possessed. He shoved past me, picking up two new gas bottles and taking them inside with him.
‘What are you doing?’ I said desperately.
‘Go away.’
He shoved past me again, and collected another two bottles. He carried them in, shutting the door and locking it behind him. A fearful hiss screamed from inside and in that moment I understood.
He was going to kill himself.
I leaped at the locked door, tearing it from its rusty hinges and stood, gasping for breath, in the doorway. Kenny was sobbing, matches in his hand and all four gas bottles on full blast.
‘
Get out!
’ he wailed, throwing a chair at me.
‘
I won’t
,’ I shouted, taking hold of the chair and sitting on it.
He leaped at me, grabbed me by the hair and threw me from the doorway. In desperation, I climbed to my feet, leaping back inside.
The air had become thick and poisonous with gas and his face changed shapes through the distorted atmosphere. This time I made sure he couldn’t get rid of me; I wrapped myself around the central leg of his table.
He threw the matches to the floor. ‘Mikey, I don’t want to hurt you, get out.’
I tightened my grip as he grabbed at my legs. ‘No,’ I screamed.
He pulled me from the table, and started dragging me across the floor. I grabbed at the base of a cupboard and he stamped on my hand. I screamed out in pain, and rushed
back to the table, this time hanging on to it with my whole strength.
‘Mikey,’ he cried. ‘Get out. Please.’
He leaned down to pick up the matches.
‘I’ll do it with you in here,
I swear to fucking god I will
!’
As he took several matches from the box, I clamped my eyes shut, tensing my whole body in fear.
‘Kenny, please! I love you! I fucking love you! I can’t live without you. You’re the only thing that has ever made me feel happy in my entire life. I can’t let you die and leave me here. Please, Kenny, if you have to do this, I need to go with you. I love you.’
Twenty seconds later I opened my eyes. The gas was still screaming wildly, and Kenny had slumped to the floor in a heap, weeping uncontrollably.

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