1995
WE ARE WATER.
That summer afternoon, as dragonflies hovered above them, the boys played in the long grass while Mum painted the words in big letters on the side of Royale.
‘There,’ she said, stepping back.
‘We. Are. Water,’ the older boy read aloud.
‘That’s right. We are.’
‘No I’m not.’ He touched his own bare arm; it didn’t feel like water.
The woman smiled at her young sons, green paint on her hands, and laid the paintbrush down on the can. ‘We are made of water,’ she said. ‘Like water we go everywhere. However much they hold us back, we still flow.’
The boy nodded, though he didn’t really understand. His attention had already moved on; a big hairy caterpillar was crawling up his brother’s leg.
‘Nothing can stop our flow,’ said the man called Deva, squatting near the boys on the grass and blowing a cloud of white smoke out through his nose. ‘We are water. We are elemental. We seep through the cracks.’
‘Right,’ said the woman, smiling at Deva. ‘Elemental.’
He grinned back. The boy watched them, wondering if Mum preferred Deva to them now. They had only met Deva for the first time two days ago when they had arrived on the site. Deva had looked at Mum, perched behind the wheel of their Land Rover, smiled and said, ‘You can park it next to me if you like.’ He had pointed at a big bus, windows covered in fading curtains; the sign on the front of it read: Heaven.
At the back of the bus there was an enormous bed, big enough for loads and loads of people to sleep in. The boys had been allowed to sit on it while Deva and Mum had manoeuvred Royale back and forth into place, putting bricks under her to keep her steady.
Now Mum is in that bed with Deva, and the boys are alone in the caravan. But the wind comforts them, rocking Royale on its axle in the dark.
‘Royale rocks, Royale rolls
Royale carries the royal three.
Royale rolls, Royale rocks
Across the wide and empty sea.’
The two boys chant the words in unison.
It’s a caravan though, really, not a boat. They know that.
It’s just a rhyme Mum made up, but for the two small boys, it has magical power. She got the name Royale from the badge on the front, fixed between the two grab handles. The royal three is the boys and Mum; not Deva. He’s not one of them. Never will be. Hope not, anyway.
Royale. Mum loved the sound of it so much, she always calls their caravan that. Royale is my ark in which I am queen, and you are my princes. Together, we are Royalty, roaming Albion under the protection of the White Goddess.
The two children are alone in bed in Royale, but their mother is just a few yards away even if she is with him, and the familiar buffeting reassures them that everything is OK. They are in the right place, in the top bunk, snuggled warm under heavy blankets and coats that smell of sheep and cigarettes, chanting the rhyme like it’s a spell to protect them. There is a stove, made from an old gas bottle, fed with wood pillaged from skips and copses, and it keeps them warm enough, even in winter.
This is home. When they stay with their gran in her brick house with carpets, banisters and a bathtub, it seems too solid, too stable, too orderly. They can’t sleep there. The quiet of the place is sinister. It’s as if the silence there is full of monsters and demons, ready to pounce.
It’s noisier here, but that’s what they’re used to. Noisier than most places they’ve stopped. Outside, they hear men shout and argue. On a windy night like this the dogs are restless, barking. The trees creak, still heavy with fluttering leaves.
But wherever they park up, by the side of a road, like here, or off in some field or wood, they know that here within Royale it’s always safe and cosy, rocking in the breeze. They’re never anywhere for very long. People in suits and uniforms always come and move them along, but nothing bad can happen in Royale.
So they are both lulled to sleep in the gentle rocking, arms around each other.
They wake only briefly when the caravan is filled with un-expected light and warmth and the stink of hot petrol. And now the shouting around them is louder than it has ever been.
‘Fire!’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fucking fire.’
Royale is burning. Their castle is vanishing. And in the abrupt blare of brightness, the two boys cry out, holding on to one another, heads peeping above the blankets, suddenly afraid. But only for a little while.
It is how the fireman finds them, arms still around each other; two pale bodies under burnt black bedding. It is a sight he will never recover from.