‘Got a match?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I lit one and held it to her cigarette. Above the flame disappearing into the cigarette’s end she watched with me her dark eyes.
‘Got any money?’
‘Not much.’
She continued her regard with a cynical twist to her lips. She took the cigarette from her mouth. Smoke flowed over her lower lip and clouded the air before her face.
‘Cross my hand with silver, dearie. I’ve got something to tell you.’
There were a lot of people about. I knew many of them. I had been born at this place. I had come back for their annual show.
‘Luta, the living head . . .’
‘Luta, the living head . . .’
Someone behind me said, ‘Fancy paying a bob to see that. There’s a mug born every day.’
The girl with him said, ‘Let’s go in.’
‘All right,’ he said.
The gipsy had taken me by the hand. Her hand was long and wrapped itself round my hand. It was a lovely colour. It was like honey from box-trees. Her nails were long, too. But there was no dirt under them. They were painted red. They were like little red flowers on the end of stems.
I felt silly. It was nice her holding my hand but there were a lot of people about. I said, ‘What the hell . . .’
She said: ‘Come into the tent. Come on.’
She was pretty. She had savage black eyes and a swarthy skin. She had a red silk scarf around her head. She was dressed in bright colours. I felt I wanted to go into the tent. But everybody would have known about it. I’d never have heard the end of it.
I noticed a cove standing near. I knew this cove by sight. He owned all the land about the place. He used to sell blocks to farmers, then when times were tough he’d close on them and sell the land again. He made a hell of a lot of money this way till the law or something stopped him. He charged seven per cent interest. He had a lot of horses entered for the show. He always won because the judges owed him money. Everybody owed him money. A cobber of mine owed him money. He owed him a hell of a lot of money. He owed him two thousand quid. My cobber said to me: ‘When I’m eighty I’ll just about own the hen-house.’
I said to this gipsy: ‘That fat cove over there is lousy with dough.’
‘Is that so,’ she said. She said it like how Greta Garbo would have said it.
She looked at him. She let go my hand and went over to him. I hung around.
She rested her hand on the lapel of his coat. She smiled and looked into his eyes and said: ‘I see love for you. . . . Love.’
Her voice was soft and smooth like the scarf round her head. If one could have seen her voice it would have been a dark colour. It would have been dark red, her voice. It would have been the colour of that sort of rose that always smells the nicest. It make me take breaths. I wished she had spoken to me like that. But everybody owed this cove money. I only had ten bob.
This fat cove—Mr Foster was his name—smiled down at her as if she were a little kid that had just finished reciting ‘I saw a Brownie yesterday’. He was full of benevolence. He had a cigar in his mouth and he took it out and held it in his hand. He patted her on the shoulder with his hand and said, ‘Excellent, my dear. Excellent.’
The ash from his cigar fell off and landed where she curved out at the back. Mr Foster was sorry this happened. He said so. He hung his walking stick across his arm and dusted her with his hand. He kept on dusting her. His smile sort of became fixed like. The gipsy smiled, too. She let him keep on dusting her. But her smile was different to his. It knew everything.
She said: ‘I can tell you something. Something hidden from you. I can see into the future.’
He laughed so that those around could hear him and know that he was just amused and nothing else. He poked the dirt with his walking stick. He stopped laughing. He said: ‘Go on. I’m interested.’
He was interested all right.
‘Cross my hand with silver,’ she said.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘What you have in your pocket,’ she said.
He took out a handful of coins but held on to them.
‘You must let me hold them,’ she said.
‘Oh, no!’ he said. He laughed as if the whole thing were a joke. But she kept on looking at him. Right through his laugh she looked softly at him. He stopped laughing and glanced round him. He arranged his mouth.
‘Then I can’t tell you,’ she said firmly. ‘There is a bad god hovering over you. Rest the coins in my hand for a moment.’
‘A bad god!’ he exclaimed trying to appear amused. ‘Well, well.’ He weighed the coins in his hand. ‘You will give them back?’
‘Of course.’
He placed the money in her hand. She held both arms at fall length before her. She closed her eyes.
‘I see success for you. Success. Have you a note on you?’ She ended quickly as if she had just discovered something.
‘A note?’ he queried, his brow puckered. ‘Why . . . what do you want a note for?’
‘Quick,’ she exclaimed. ‘Rest it in my other hand. Quick. I must have contact. I have a vision. The spirit is on me.’ She spoke expressionlessly as if she were in a trance.
He drew a pound note from his pocket and looked at her uncertainly. He fidgeted.
‘Quick,’ she continued. ‘I can see a profitable investment. Quick. . . . The spirit is going.’
He placed the note hurriedly in her hand.
She held her arms rigid a moment. . . . ‘You will make a lot of money,’ she said.
She opened her eyes. She thrust the pound note down the neck of her blouse and dropped the silver into a little bag she carried at her belt. She turned and walked away from him.
His face slowly reddened. He strode after her. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, his voice hard with anger.
She turned and looked at him with sudden, concentrated fury. ‘Stop accosting me or I will call the police,’ she said, just loud enough to be overheard.
Some people turned. Mr Foster kept on striding. He passed her and lost himself in the crowd.
The gipsy stood near me and watched him go.
‘He’s gone,’ I said.
She looked at me. She looked hard at me as if she wanted to find out something. She smiled and said, ‘Well, you put me on to him. Come into the tent for a minute.’ She said things with her eyes.
Well, a bloke didn’t get a chance like that every day. I followed her to the tent as if I was going to pass it. I kept looking back. I was born at that place. When I got to the tent I slipped in quick. It looked as if I was going to pass the tent up to where I slipped in.
She just stood there smiling, facing me. My heart was going. I was shaking a bit. I put my arms around her and she moved till she was against me. When I was kissing her she slipped her hand into my pocket and whipped out my ten bob. She slipped back quick, then, and shoved it down south.
‘What are you comin’ at?’ I said. I wasn’t a mug like Foster. She’d started something now. I made a grab at her. I was going to throw her to get that ten bob. ‘Come on,’ I said.
She said, quickly: ‘Im going to scream. I’ll scream and swear you assaulted me. I’m going to scream now. I’ll scream. . . .’
She opened her mouth.
Hell! I didn’t wait to go out the front. I went out under the back of the tent. Did I go out under the back of that tent! Christ! I had the wind up.
I went round the other side of the ground. I was spitting chips. God, I was dry! I lay down on the grass.
I got up after and went over to the cows. My cobber was over there. He was sitting down with his back against the wheel of a dray, chewing grass stems. He looked sick.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘I just saw Foster,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get off the farm.’
‘What! Has he closed on you?’ I said.
‘He’s going to,’ he said.
‘And what about all the work you put into it,’ I said. ‘What about the sheds and that?’
‘I lose the lot,’ he said.
‘What do you know about that,’ I said. I was cut up about it. ‘Cripes!’ I said.
‘Foster was wild,’ my cobber said, ‘because I wouldn’t meet that bill last month. He said it was dishonest to fail to meet one’s obligations. He said he needed the money. He’s had some serious losses lately, he reckons.’
‘What!’ I cried. ‘Serious! . . . Hell!’
‘Let’s forget it,’ said my cobber, rising. ‘You’ve got ten bob you told me a while ago. We’ll go round and have a drink.’