The Squatters’ Hut
The weeks went by and John’s illness got no better. Eventually, the doctor came out to visit him and soon after another man came and told us they had a place with running water where we could go. Worried about John, me mam and Ellen agreed.
“I don’t know so much,” me dad said. “A squatters’ hut on an old army camp? I just don’t know, my Vie. First our two go to that school and now you wants us living in a squatters’ hut.”
“Give over, Len,” me mam scoffed. “You’re never game for nothing. Let’s give it a try, eh?”
“Fine. Only if I don’t like it we shift on.”
We packed up to leave and head for the camp, me and our Alfie singing all the while, “No more school, no more school!” We were over the moon and as our wagon passed by the school we waved it goodbye. Mam didn’t hear us, or we would’ve been quickly corrected.
After about two and a half miles we pulled into the camp gates to see a man waiting for us and before we could say much at all we were allocated a squatters’ hut. Me poor old dad looked about him and shook his head in dismay.
“What have I come to?” he asked himself.
“It’s only till John is back on his feet,” said me mam with a gleam in her eye that allowed no argument. “You knows he ain’t well.”
“Neither will I be, having to live here,” Dad replied.
The huts were big barn-like buildings with a tin roof, two bedrooms and a front room with a big wood-burning stove right in the middle of it. Ellen and John had the hut next door to us, so we were all together at least. The only one who took to that hut was me mam, who straight away set about sorting the beds and tables and chairs how she liked them. John didn’t care overmuch, for he felt so ill.
As they were sorting themselves out, me and our Alfie stayed outside, looking around our new home. I felt a sudden whack on me arm as Alfie spotted something. I turned to look and could’ve dropped dead from surprise. There in our sights was that ginger-headed boy from the school, standing with his mates.
Alfie smiled in a way that promised mischief. “I’m gonna like this place,” he told me. “Ain’t you, Maggie?”
I looked at the shock on their faces as they spotted us and had to laugh. “Yeah, I’m gonna love it here.”
We were stunned that they could be living here, same as us. They ran away suddenly, sprinting through the camp. We called out to Robert and Little Jess and took off after them, ignoring our mam calling us back. We were set on a fight, finally having the chance to get back at those boys for the weeks of torment. We’d been hit and spat on and now the culprits were right in our hands, outside of the school, and no teacher was around to stop them from getting back all they had dished out.
We found them in an old deserted hut, their eyes blazing something fierce. We pulled up short, knowing that they meant to beat us, but we four had been brought up rough and ready. Alfie threw the first punch and me and Robert strode fearlessly in after. We threw ourselves into the scrap, fighting viciously with the gang of boys. I was in me element for they never expected a gal like me to fight with them, but they soon realised I was ready to stick up for meself. It didn’t take long for Little Jess to run back to me mam, scared of all the fighting, but by then we had the upper hand against the town boys.
The boys ran off and we knew we would be in trouble when me mam and dad found out, so we headed back to our hut like three little sheep.
“You’ve been fighting,” accused me dad.
“No we ain’t!” I said. Me plaits were hanging loose and there was blood on Alfie’s nose but I swore our innocence. Before he could get the story out of us a gang of men and women came galloping over, shouting and swearing.
“Your bloody bastards have beaten up my boy,” shouted one big mush.
“Oh, have they then?” asked me dad.
“Yeah they have! We don’t want you Gypsies staying on this camp, so pack up and get going!”
“And you’re the man who’s going to make us, is you?” me dad said, straightening up.
“I don’t want any thieving Gypos living here,” said the man.
“Hang on, my Len.” Me mam looked me dad in the eye. “Don’t you get fighting, we’ve only just got here.” No sooner had she said that than the women started shouting at her, screaming about their children and how we had hit them. Me mam puffed out her chest and told the women how we’d been treated at that school.
“My children have done nothing to yours,” said one woman.
“Right. Alfie, Maggie, come here,” ordered me mam. We didn’t dare disobey. She pointed at the woman who’d spoke. “And now you, missus, you fetch your lot here and we’ll soon sort this out.”
“And I’ll knock your bloody heads off,” hollered me dad, “coming over here, calling me and mine names!”
I turned to Alfie with tears in me eyes. “Oh, Alfie, what’ve we done?”
“Shut your gab and stop crying,” he scolded me. “You ain’t no baby.”
Soon about nine children were fetched to our hut, though not all of them had been in the fight. Me mam ordered us to tell the truth about what we’d gone through at the school, but they said we were telling lies. Their families stayed loyal to them and got noisy about it until one little gal spoke up.
“They have too been doing it,” she said. “Everyone knows and joins in, hitting them in school and in the playground. You can ask Miss.”
“The teacher?” asked one mum.
“Yes, she’ll tell you.”
The parents turned on them then, the big mush glaring down at his boy like thunder. “What have you lot got to say for yourselves, then?”
“We don’t like them,” said the ginger boy. “We don’t want them dirty Gypsies in our school.”
His father went to hit him but me dad called for him to wait. “Alfie, come here and get your shirt off,” said me dad.
“What are you doing now?” asked the mush.
“Your boy wants to fight my boy, but they can’t fight fair in that school. Let them fight fairly here, we’ll be the judge of it, and afterwards you and me can get at it, mister, and I’ll show you what a ‘Gypsy man’ can do.”
I was very proud of my brother. He seemed much smaller than the other boy but he took his shirt off and stood fearlessly, like a grown man. “Come on then,” he said, squaring up to the bigger boy. The boy ran off, refusing to fight.
“You and me then,” said me dad, ripping his shirt off and squaring his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” said the boy’s father. “I won’t fight, but I will give that boy a beating he won’t forget in a hurry. I’ll be at the school on Monday morning and I’ll speak to those two teachers.”
“Mister,” warned me mam, “I didn’t born and bring up my children to be kicked and punched by the likes of you lot and I’ll stand for no more of it. Every day I’ve had to drag these two to that school, and all because of your bastards.”
“It won’t happen again,” they said. “I’ll promise you both.”
♦
After everyone had left, me dad threatening to make the whole camp ring if we returned with another mark on us, our parents argued for a while whether we should pack up and leave as soon as possible.
“I shan’t let the likes of they people drive me out, Len,” said me mam. Bless her, she really wanted to stay in her hut, but me dad couldn’t see it. He finally agreed, but we knew we hadn’t had a good start in that place.
Alfie was strutting around like a fighting cock, saying the big boy was frit to take him on. I really do think he found his confidence that day. He’d never been afraid of much, but having me dad’s full back-up for his decision to stand up for himself made a real difference. He felt like a man.
After that, life at the school changed for the better. We still stayed in the corner but were left alone to chatter to each other and never took any notice of the lessons. We did pick up the words of the chanting and singing that the children did every day, our enjoyment of songs and rhymes peeking through, and we learned all the times tables by rote before we even realised it.
Me dad had still not taken to the squatters’ hut, and as the weeks went by he grew more and more unhappy staying in one place. In fact, me mam was the only one of us who liked it, for she had running water and a place to call her own. We were glad when ragging time came round as it gave me dad and John the chance to get out into all the nearby towns and villages.
During ragging time we would buy all manner of things from the house-dwellers to make use of or sell on elsewhere. Me dad and John would go out on a trolley they had bought, dropping rag-bills advertising for rags and woollens we could re-sell, as well as for bones, rabbit-skins and all manner of metals – iron, brass, copper, zinc, aluminium and gun-metal – for they sold well in the towns.
Despite school, we would still go out with Dad to drop the rag-bills through the house-dwellers’ doors, singing the rhyme that made up our advertisement. We didn’t know who had made up the rhyme for us, but many Traveller families had copies and variations of it. We had them printed in many colours – pink, yellow, red, blue and green – as we lost many of the bills once they had been pushed through the doors. Our rag-bill read:
50 TONS OF RAGS WANTED
We Will Call Back In Two Hours
The above, with, most respectful feeling,
Begs to inform you what he deals in.
He’s not come your purse to try,
Yourself shall sell, and he to buy.
I buy old stockings,
Trousers, vests and jackets,
So please look up your useless lumber
Which long may you have left to slumber.
Dusty rags, sacking and old bags,
Car batteries, pewter and old brass,
Old stew pans, boilers and copper kettles,
Pewter spoons and other metals,
I buy old iron, cast or wrought,
And pay the money when it’s bought,
So over your dwelling give a glance,
You’ll never have a better chance.
My price is good, my weight is just
And, more, I never ask for trust.
So please look up an extra handful
And for the same I will be thankful.
However small your stock, I’ll have it.
Please return this circular when called for.
Thank you.
We were often asked by house-dwellers where the rhyme came from, but it had been in our hands for so long that where it had come from was lost. One tale was that a Romani man had made it up and a house-dweller had written it down into English from the Romani’s own chib. This sounded reasonable to me, for I had grown up with the rhymes and songs made up by Travellers and knew we had that creativity in us.
We collected all that the house-dwellers sold us in rag-bags. Sorting the rag-bags was always exciting for us children because we could find all manner of things we could use, such as toys and clothes and the like. I always checked the pockets of the clothes we had been sold and would often find money, pocket knives, watches and jewellery that hadn’t been cleaned out. My crafty old dad would take it from me, though, thanking me for looking through the pockets for him, and like a dope I would fall for it every time.
Each year me mam would holler at us to keep out of the rag-bags, saying we’d be lousy with nits and fleas and then we’d know it. “Lenard,” she would sigh, “talks to these children, for gawd’s sake.”
Me dad would holler at us for me mam’s benefit, “Get out of they rag-bags, you lot, I shan’t tell you again!” before leaning in to whisper to me, “Have you found anything good, Maggie?”
“Shan’t tell you,” I would sing. “You just hollered at me.”
“Come on, my baby, tell your old dad what you found.”
“Only a shet-knife*, Dad,” I’d say back, knowing he’d be pleased.
≡ Pocket knife.
Me dad loved the old shet-knives that flicked open and closed. He had dozens and would give them as presents to other Traveller men whom he had a deep feeling for. Many men and women did this with small trinkets like knives and jewellery and I knew some men who kept me dad’s gift with them for the rest of their lives and would take it to their graves as a charm for the friendship they’d had in life.