Amberville 1959
The mid-afternoon stillness was barely ruffled by the sudden commotion of a dusty truck rattling down the main street of Amberville.
The dog lying by the door of the butcher shop dragged itself to its haunches and sleepily scratched behind an ear. Mr Lennox in the newsagency looked up briefly from his Pix magazine. At the Athena Cafe, Mr Spiros turned the gas on under his pan of oil ready to fry up sixpenny bags of chips for the soon-to-be-freed schoolchildren to eat as they made their way home from school.
Odette stretched her legs under her small desk tucked in a corner of the editorial room at the Clarion. She sighed. Another uneventful day. Her six months’ trial period had come and gone with no mention of the fact by Mr Fitzpatrick. She felt, however, that she had passed the grade for she was being given small stories to cover, most of which appeared in the newspaper.
Mr Fitz was beckoning to her. Odette grabbed her notebook and pencil and hurried to his small office. He squeezed back into his swivel chair.
‘Sit down, Odette,’ He pushed his glasses up on his forehead and shuffled some papers, pulling several towards him. Odette tensed as she recognised the story she had written about the Amberville musical and drama society. He skimmed the pages and cleared his throat. ‘Umm . . . this isn’t bad. I liked the tack you’ve taken.’
Odette relaxed.
‘However, it’s too long, too much piffle. Cut it by a third at least and bring it back to me. By the way, was it your idea to do it as a humorous piece?’
Odette nodded, biting her lip. ‘The musical society are a boring lot. They all take it so seriously, so I thought that was a better angle.’
The old newspaperman allowed himself a slight grin. ‘I don’t know that the society’s committee will be amused, but our readers will . . . and that’s the main thing. Good work, girl, we’ll make a reporter out of you yet.’
Odette floated from the editor’s office. The weeks of being a copy girl, making tea, running messages and being a dogsbody, struggling over her little stories for an editor who was fanatical about grammar, punctuation and spelling, were paying off. Then finally the day had come when three paragraphs she had written appeared in the paper just as she had written them — unaltered. Since then she had had several small stories printed and was given regular little sections to write. One week she was asked to write ‘Your Week by the Stars’ because the syndicated column had not arrived from Sydney.
‘I can’t do that, I don’t know anything about horoscopes and forecasts and astrology stuff,’ she protested.
‘Make it up. Give everybody a good week. Tell them they’re coming into money. The newsagent’s having a hard time, help him sell a bunch of lottery tickets.’
Odette’s name had never appeared on any of her articles, and she knew her first by-line would signal that at last she had made it.
Odette loved every moment of her time at the Clarion. Mr Fitz could be an irascible boss at times, but she was fond of him for she realised he was taking a great deal of interest in her. He ran his mini-empire with two reporters, a photographer, compositor and printer.
Mrs Dorothy ‘Dottie’ Jackson wrote the women’s news. She was nearing sixty and despite her tough manner was regarded as a good old stick. She knew everyone in town and up and down the valley, and seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of every skeleton in every family’s closet. She favoured good suits, frilly blouses and sensible shoes, and always looked rather formally dressed. This contrasted with her habit of rolling her own cigarettes which she coughed over constantly.
Tony James, the news reporter, was young and aiming for the city, regarding his time on the Clarion as a tedious paying of dues. He’d come from an even smaller provincial paper and, like Odette, found Amberville stifling. Tony was crazy about football, cars and girls. He pinned up colour pictures from American magazines of movie starlets, along with buxom models from Pix and Man magazines. The pictures were getting a bit flyblown, faded and curling at the edges, but he insisted on keeping them above his typewriter as ‘there aren’t any good sorts to look at in Amberville’.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Odette.
Tony had the grace to squirm. ‘Well, I don’t mean you, you’re different, you’re . . . one of us.’
Odette accepted this as a compliment and listened with good-natured patience to Tony’s endless tirade about the parochialism of Amberville’s population and the pokiness of the Clarion’s offices.
She, however, was starry-eyed and loved the smell of printers’ ink and hot metal in the composing room, the sound of the rattly old Wharfdale printing press and chaotic disorder of the editorial office.
Thursday afternoons after the print run was finished and the paperboys were out delivering all over town on their bicycles, Mr Fitz would open a couple of bottles of beer and, if he was in the mood, hold forth, regaling them with stories of his days as a young reporter in Fleet Street.
Tony would whisper to Odette, ‘Jeez, here we go again’, but Odette enjoyed his stories and dreamed that one day she might get a real cadetship on an important newspaper. However, she recognised that the Clarion met a valuable need in the rural community, and the sessions where Mr Fitz ripped her stories apart, although gruelling, were teaching her lessons that would be invaluable later.
‘Why did you start off with this sentence? Is that going to make anyone want to read on? No! You’ve got to grab the reader in that opening line and paragraph. And you always forget to answer one of the basic Ws, which are . . . ?’
‘Who, what, when, where and why,’ she’d answer meekly.
‘Back you go, girl. Do it over.’
And Odette would take her copy, covered in Fitz’s elaborate blue pencil marks and, bashing away with two fingers on the ancient Remington, rewrite it yet again. With increasing frequency her little pieces appeared in the paper and she pointed them out proudly to Aunt Harriet.
‘Why don’t you get your name on the stories like those other two who work there?’ her aunt would demand. ‘Really, I can’t see that this job is going to get you anywhere, Odette. And from what I gather, newspaper people are not the most savoury people.’
‘What do you mean, Aunt Harriet?’
‘No class, dear. Always boozing down at the pub, I’m told. It’s beyond me why you want to work there. Still, it is a job and I suppose that’s something.’
Odette kept quiet. Dorothy Jackson had a great deal of class, though it was true the men did spend time at the two pubs in town. Mr Fitz maintained he got more news leads over a schooner than from any other source.
Her aunt did not share Odette’s love of reading or writing. Aunt Harriet subscribed to The Lady magazine which arrived months after its publication in England. She patiently waited for the day when Odette would get a good office job and settle down, because a young woman simply did not make a living writing.
When her small article about the intrigues and petty power plays of the musical and drama society appeared, for once Odette was grateful she had yet to earn her by-line. Aunt Harriet was a devoted member and no one suspected that her young niece, sitting quietly in the darkened rear of the school auditorium, was responsible for the stinging review and story which appeared in the Clarion. Had Aunt Harriet known the viper was in her nest, she would never have been able to appear at the local theatre again.
At breakfast, Aunt Harriet had almost choked on her toast spread with Robertson’s Fine Cut Marmalade. ‘Odette, you must find out who was responsible for this scurrilous piece. It makes us out to be such fools.’
‘It was done humorously, Aunt Harriet. I mean, all those farmers’ wives dressed as sheep . . .’ Odette could barely keep from laughing.
‘It was a rural satire, Odette. Some sophisticated people appreciated it, but obviously it was too subtle for moronic newspaper people.’
‘Obviously, Aunt Harriet. Well, I have to get down to that den of banal and obtuse morons. See you tonight.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Odette, it doesn’t suit you.’ But she was criticising the space Odette had occupied.
The relationship between Odette and her aunt was generally friendly, but distant. In the years they had been together, it had added an extra dimension to Harriet’s life, despite her frequent complaints about the extra cost, work and responsibility.
For Odette, no one could ever fill the huge and gaping hole in her life left when her parents had been killed. She was grateful to Aunt Harriet and knew that her gruff manner and fussiness often masked a desperate need for affection. It made Odette feel guilty at times. It was hard for either of them to express any sort of warmth or affection towards each other. Odette suspected that if she was to give her aunt a warm hug and a kiss, much as the older woman would want this, such an action would be greeted with a brisk, no-nonsense rebuff.
She knew her aunt cared about her and in her own way loved her, but she showed it by deed not word — the piece of cake, cup and saucer and milk jug left on the table neatly covered by a cloth when Odette came in late from working at the paper, the finely knitted if plain jumpers, her clothes always starched and fastidiously pressed despite Odette’s offer to do her own laundry.
Her aunt took her on Sunday drives and small trips to nearby places of interest. Sometimes, driving in her two-year-old FE Holden, Harriet would reminisce, her hands in leather driving gloves fingering the steering wheel as she talked of her youthful days. It revealed a side of Harriet that Odette found somewhat sad.
Harriet had been a very bright student and had her parents been wealthier she would have gone to university. Instead, she began work in the local bank and was soon moved to a bigger branch. Although a woman couldn’t aspire to be bank manager, Harriet knew she was destined for bigger things. An important job in a city bank loomed. However, the death of her elderly mother had meant she’d had to return home to care for her invalid father.
‘I wish you’d known your grandfather. He was a lovely man, with a great dry sense of humour. Your father inherited a bit of that, I’d say. Of course, I have no regrets about giving up my career to look after Father; your dad couldn’t do it, what with his own life and family. It was my duty and I can hold my head high and look God in the eye, Odette, for I cared for my parents and made their lives comfortable and happy until the day they died.’
Odette made conciliatory noises about the virtue and nobleness of Harriet’s fine sense of duty, but in her heart she wondered if Harriet had done the right thing. Had Harriet’s father ever felt a pang of guilt? Knowing she’d given up her chance of a good career and maybe meeting a man better suited to her than the locals of a small town to nurse an old man? Maybe he might have been happier knowing his daughter was leading a fulfilled and contented life even if it had meant seeing her less.
Odette felt uncomfortable as she sensed that implicit in Aunt Harriet’s words was a hint that Odette should be aware of her familial obligations.
Odette pushed thoughts of Aunt Harriet to one side as she rode her bicycle to the rear of the Clarion’s office. She pushed her bike into a corner of the yard and ran her fingers through her windswept curls. She walked through the noisy composing room and waved to Mac, the compositor, busy at his clattering linotype churning out hundreds of lead slugs of copy. She didn’t stop to talk today as she was running late and it wasn’t easy talking to Mac as he never stopped setting type and the old machines operated at speech-defying decibels.
Settled at her desk, Odette pulled papers and notebook from her school satchel, which she used as a briefcase, then hurried to make the morning brew of tea so it would be ready when the rest of the staff straggled into work. It was taken for granted this was her task, but Odette rationalised she wanted tea as much as anyone. Tony James maintained that Odette ‘ran on cups of tea like a car runs on petrol’.
The editor was the last to arrive and nodding blearily to the calls of ‘Morning, Mr Fitz’, he headed for his cubicle.
‘Been on the turps last night, I’d say,’ whispered Tony to Odette.
‘He’ll start to steady down and focus after three cups of my tea,’ laughed Odette.
‘I’m off to the courthouse to see what riveting cases are lined up for next week. See ya.’ Yanking his jacket off the back of his chair, Tony departed.
By his second cup of strong black tea, Mr Fitz was functioning. ‘Odette, get Mac up here. Then come back in an hour, I might have a story for you.’
Odette was busy cutting articles out of the city newspapers for their reference library when the now restored editor rapped on the glass of his partition and beckoned her to come in to him. Odette leapt to her feet, then reached for her notebook and pencil. She’d been told off for not taking notes when he talked.
He was curt and to the point. ‘I want you to get down to the river and talk to the mob camped there. Locals are in an uproar about them. Some sort of confrontation might take place. Get both sides of the story.’
‘Er . . . what is the story, Mr Fitzpatrick?’
‘Gypsies, girl. They drift in every couple of years. Find out what you can. Take Horrie to do some pictures. He’s a big bloke, so they won’t try anything if he’s about.’
‘Gypsies aren’t dangerous.’
‘Is that so? Ask the locals who’ve had stuff snitched and been conned. Get the whole picture — where they come from, where they go, who they are, and so on.’
‘How big a story will this be?’ she asked cautiously.
‘As big as it needs to be. Off you go,’ he growled.
As she dashed from the office calling for Horrie the photographer, his expression softened. He jumped on her hard at times, but he knew she had a gift she hadn’t begun to suspect. Her writing style wasn’t superficial, she had a knack for description, and she talked to people in a way that somehow got them to reveal more than they really intended. She was still too soft and sensitive, but she would go far, and he hoped his initial guidance would set her on the right track.
Odette debated about going to the blacksmiths and finding Zac and talking to him first, but as Horrie drove his Holden station wagon from under the drooping trees which lined the centre of the main street, she changed her mind.
While Zac had stayed on working in town these past months, the rest of the gypsies had moved away. She hadn’t realised they had returned to their camp at the river.
‘Know anything about the gypsies, Horrie?’ she asked.
‘Nothing good. I reckon we’d better pull in before we get too close and go on foot. If you turn your back they’ll strip your car in minutes. I’ve been caught before.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, it was about two years ago. Pretty girl was hitchhiking, so I stopped and she asked directions. She leaned in the car window, wearing a low cut blouse, you know, flirting like. Offered to read my palm and so on. While I was talking to her, some blokes took half the gear in the back of the car and a couple of hubcaps.’
Odette laughed at the bulky tough-looking photographer who was as gentle as a kitten most of the time. ‘Serves you right for flirting, Horrie. Thought you’d got lucky, did you?’
‘Yeah,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘Funny thing, though, she did read my palm and a lot of what she said has happened.’
He pulled the car off the road by a thicket of trees, locked it, and slung his camera bag over his shoulder, following Odette through the bush to the track along the river. Rounding a bend they came upon the haphazard and colourful gypsy camp. Dogs began barking and ran towards them, followed by a band of small children.
Horrie stopped and started shouting, ‘Get them bloody dogs away’.
‘They’re okay, Horrie. Delia, Noyla, Mateo . . . hello there.’ Odette waved and went to greet the women and man coming towards them.
‘You know these people?’ asked a puzzled Horrie.
Odette was embraced and the children skipped about her. Quickly Odette explained this was not a social visit. ‘The paper sent me. This is Horrie, he’s a photographer. Has there been some trouble?’
The adults glanced at each other. ‘Odette, you are a friend. This could be difficult for you. We have trusted you, we don’t want our stories and pictures printed in a newspaper.’
Odette rested her hand on Delia’s arm. ‘Please trust me. I am your friend. Horrie, would you wait here, I’ll just go and talk to them for a minute.’
Horrie dropped his heavy bag to the ground and stood with arms folded. Odette walked into the camp with her friends, though she sensed their reluctance at her being there officially.
‘Does Zac know you are here?’
‘No. I wanted to see him first, but thought I’d come and see what the problem was . . . I didn’t know if there were townspeople here, or if you needed help or something. What’s going on?’
Everything about the camp appeared normal, though Odette noticed there were no men about save for old Mateo, and no horses or any of the big old American cars they liked to drive.
The gypsies exchanged glances before speaking. ‘Odette, if we talk you must write what you know to be true and not be influenced by the anger and prejudices of townies who know little outside their own small world.’
‘I always write the truth.’
‘But sometimes truth can be shaped and coloured to give a different picture,’ said Noyla gently.
‘And sometimes the facts are never simply black and white . . . you must observe the greys, Odette. Come, take some coffee with us and we’ll ask the queen if we can talk to you.’
‘Would it be all right if Horrie joins us? Do you think he could take some pictures?’
‘Don’t rush, Odette. Some of us don’t like our photograph being taken. The old people believe it steals the soul. If the queen agrees, we shall say yes.’
Odette signalled to Horrie to join them as Noyla went to the queen’s small wooden caravan which was still pulled by a horse, unlike some of the other caravans which were more modern and towed by motorcars. Horrie ambled over and sat uncomfortably a little distance away on the running board of a Buick.
After some discussion, Cerina emerged with Noyla and Mateo. She took Odette’s hands in hers and greeted her warmly. ‘You are our friend. We shall talk with you. Maybe it is time townspeople were educated a little better about our customs and why we live as we do. You have learned a little from Zac, but there are many superstitions about us which cause friction.’
The queen sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, her voluminous, colourful skirt spread around her. The bracelets on her arms tinkled as she adjusted the folds on her skirt. She wore soft satin slippers with jewelled clasps, and a kerchief flecked with silver sequins was knotted over her dark, greying hair which was pulled back in a thick coil.
Horrie coughed slightly.
‘This is Horace, the photographer. He is itching to take a picture of you,’ smiled Odette. ‘You have such a wonderful face. Would you mind?’
Cerina broke into a huge grin. The lines in her face were etched deeply around her eyes and mouth, but her beauty hadn’t dimmed with the years. ‘Ah . . . you have learned you gain more with honey than you do with vinegar. Seeing as you ask so prettily . . .’ She waved a hand graciously towards Horrie who wasted no time in preparing his camera and swinging into action with professional smoothness, shooting with his bulky Speed Graphic.
The other women, several children, a fat puppy and old Mateo formed a semicircle around Odette on the grass. She flipped open her notebook and asked, ‘Why do you wander as nomads? Wouldn’t it be easier to settle in one place?’
‘We are a lost people, we still seek the land of our ancestors. But life is a search, child. We are all seeking that elusive eternal resting place where there is tranquillity, beauty and peace. Some find it in death. Often in life, the trappings of ambition, greed and confusion cloud the purity of the simple life. Of course we all need shelter and food and warmth and love, but that does not necessarily come with lavish material things. Our needs are simple, but maybe our methods are misconstrued.’
‘Why don’t people like you? Why do the townspeople here want you to move away?’
‘There are those who distrust and decry what they do not understand. And we have been known to “borrow” possessions and, some believe, cast spells. Fortune-telling is the gift of prophecy which is perhaps no more sinister than fairy tales and myths. Deep down, I think most people envy us our freedom. To follow the sunrise and rainbows is a joyous way to live.’
The queen began to explain to Odette some of their beliefs and customs. How the gypsy kings and queens are chosen, the ritual involved at their crowning and the ceremony which takes place at their death when all the gypsies gather in one place.
‘We have many customs and talents which must remain our secrets,’ she added.
‘Where do gypsies come from?’ asked Odette.
‘Ah, now we must look back into the mists of time. It is not so much a question of where we began but where we are going. The old people tell, and they have been told by the generations that went before them, of how we are descended from an ancient Hindu tribe but chased from our lands in the ninth century. Gypsies came to Australia on the First Fleet and have been arriving here quietly ever since. We keep to ourselves when allowed and that is how we like it.’
Horrie hovered, photographing the whole group, but most often he found his viewfinder filled with the powerful face of Cerina the queen. With a clack he slid the metal magazine from the back of his camera, swiftly replacing it with new film.
‘To get back to the troubles here,’ continued the queen, ‘to be specific, the present problem in this town has to do with the sale of some horses. We gypsies have always been horse traders, for the horse has taken us on our travels, been a means of barter and a necessity to the early warriors. We have an understanding of the creatures which is to our advantage.’
Mateo lifted a quizzical eye brow. ‘Not always to others.’ He took up the story. ‘We are entertainers, we are sellers, and so we often use tricks of the trade to assist in dealings.’
‘Like when the girls divert a driver and the men relieve him of his possessions,’ said Odette.
‘It is not thievery. We always leave something in exchange, if it is only imparting a little vision and wisdom . . . for those that care to listen and heed it. In the matter of the horses, several were sold here. Fine, sprightly, energetic animals when sold. However, it seems, they . . . tired . . . within a day. They are still good horses, and good for the price paid. If the buyer thought he was getting more . . .’ Mateo lifted up his arms and shoulders in a philosophical shrug.
It was Zac who later explained to Odette. ‘To make a horse frisky when being sold they might put stinging nettle under his tail; or rattle stones in a bucket at him for a day or more, then just the sight of the pail will send him into a frenzy. Rosemary is crushed and spread in his mouth to make his breath fresh. And there are countless herb mixtures that can be fed to an ailing horse to make it breathe easy and appear bright-eyed with health.’
‘But isn’t that dishonest?’
‘No promises are made or given. What do you say — let the buyer beware, yes?’
Odette continued to question Mateo. ‘So, whoever bought your horses wanted their money back?’
‘We never discovered what he wanted. He resold the horses at an excessive price and when the new owner came and complained to him, he blamed us. Omitting to add he had paid us very little. He drank heavily in the hotel, began raging about being cheated, and coerced a group of other drinkers into coming here. They began shouting abuse. It was unpleasant. Cerina sent them away, though they are threatening to return and run us out of town.’
‘What did you say to them, Cerina?’
She twisted her hands in a rolling motion. ‘I merely told them misfortune would befall them if they stepped any closer.’ Her face was expressionless as she said this, but Noyla stifled a giggle.
‘They looked quite frightened even though they were drunk,’ she said. ‘I think they thought Cerina was going to cast a spell on the spot and turn them into stone or something.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘We are leaving at sunrise in any case, so . . .’ Again came the expressive lift of the shoulders and hands.
‘We shall see you again, Odette.’ The queen rose and laid her hand on top of Odette’s russet curls. Odette lowered her head, feeling sad, somehow knowing it would be a long time before she saw her gypsy friends again.
They left quietly, Odette embracing Noyla and Delia. Horrie was silent as they walked back to the car, but as he slung his camera bag into the boot he remarked, ‘Funny mob, but kinda interesting. The women are good sorts.’
Odette smiled but didn’t reply. She realised that, despite Horrie’s casual remark, the gypsies, especially the queen, had made quite an impression. They were not the dirty, meddlesome, dishonest troupe he had been expecting. Instead, he’d learned about a proud people determined to preserve heritage and beliefs that had been passed down through centuries.
That evening Odette waited for Zac to finish work at the blacksmiths and walked with him to the small house where he had rented a room.
‘I will wash and change before joining the others at the camp,’ he said.
‘Do you miss not being on the road with the family? Don’t you feel cooped up staying in a small room?’ asked Odette.
‘I do. But occasionally we have to conform to suit our needs. I once stayed in a town with my mother for over a year. I went to school every day. It was the longest I’d been at school in one stretch.’
‘Why did you choose to stay here? There must be better places.’
‘I don’t like big towns; I like working with horses and I’m a good smithy’s assistant; the family come through here regularly and . . . you are here.’
Odette blushed. ‘Don’t tease me.’
He took her hand and swung it as they walked. ‘So, tell me, what did the girl reporter do today?’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
Odette told him of her conversation with the queen and the issue of the horses.
‘It’s true some of the horse traders can be devils . . . but they would never sell a horse that was unwell or dangerous. That Hoskins fellow who bought them tried to resell them at an inflated price. He’s the one who should be punched in the nose.’
‘He’s threatening to run your people out of town.’
‘Booze talking. He’s a coward. But, Odette, for your story you should talk to everyone, not just us.’
‘Oh, I intend to. I just wanted to talk to you too.’
‘That’s good.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Come and eat with us, and I’ll sing some songs around the fire.’
‘All right, I will. I’ll tell Aunt Harriet I’m working on my story. Which I am.’
It turned out to be a joyful evening for Odette. One of music and laughter and stories. Seated on blankets and rugs on the ground around a big campfire, they had eaten a delicious stew. Watching the children falling asleep in the arms of mothers and aunties, being cuddled, loved and sung to, made her miss the warmth and affection of a family.
Zac reached out and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t look so sad, Odette. I can tell you are missing your parents and the life you once had. One day you will have a family of your own.’
She looked at him with her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You always seem to know what I’m thinking.’
Zac picked up his guitar and started to sing the song she loved so much — ‘Without Love’. The group around the campfire quietened to listen to Zac sing. The fire sparked, the light danced across their faces as they rocked and hummed along. The ring of small caravans and cars formed a protective barrier against the dark bush.
Before Zac had finished, a sudden commotion broke out in the darkness behind them. Dogs began barking and voices were raised. Striding towards them came Dave Hoskins, the man who’d bought the horses. Several men followed close behind.
Hoskins raised his fist. ‘All right, you mongrels. Get the bloody hell outta here. Now. Pack up and piss off. We don’t want you crooks and thieves in our town.’
Zac scrambled to his feet and was swiftly joined by Mateo and two of the other men. They faced the intruders, all of whom were obviously drunk.
‘Take it easy, Hoskins,’ said Zac carefully. ‘These people have done you no harm and they are moving on at daybreak.’
‘No harm! You call selling a man a bunch of broken down old nags no harm?’
‘They were not nags and you know it. And if they were, why did you sell them to your mate at double the price?’ asked Zac. He spoke calmly, but his eyes were cold and his fists were clenched.
Hoskins stepped forward. ‘You bloody bastard. Step over here and I’ll sort you out.’
Zac took a step towards him, as did the other gypsies. Standing in the firelight, their shirt sleeves rolled up over muscled arms, their braces stretched over powerful chests, their strong faces glaring defiantly, they looked formidable.
A man behind Hoskins stepped beside him and nudged him. ‘Just get the money back and let’s get outta here.’
‘No fear. I’m not scared of these filthy wogs.’
He staggered slightly and made a lunge towards Zac, not seeing a sleeping child. He tripped and nearly fell. Angrily he lashed out with his boot. The young boy woke up and started to cry. Instantly Zac dashed forward and threw a hard left hook at Hoskins’s jaw.
Confused by the cry of the child and a woman rushing to scoop the boy up, Hoskins didn’t see Zac coming. His knees buckled. The other men rushed in and the camp became a confused mass of women and children shouting and scrambling for safety, with men bashing it out with flying fists, grunts, moans and the sound of knuckles on bone.
It was over in minutes. The drunken town workers were no match for the fit and sober gypsies. They took to their heels, yelling abuse over their shoulders as they limped away with bleeding faces.
Zac and Mateo watched them leave. ‘They might be back with more friends or weapons. I think you’d better make a move now,’ warned Zac.
‘Come with us, Zac.’
‘No. I am not ready to leave Amberville. Odette, come along. I’ll take you home.’
Odette pulled on her cardigan, said a hurried farewell, and followed Zac to one of the cars.
‘I’ll drive you back. Well, you have a little more to add to your story, eh?’
‘My knees are shaking.’
He reached over and patted her legs. ‘You’re always safe with me.’
Zac brought the old car to a stop outside Aunt Harriet’s where the light at the front door shone brightly.
‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks, Zac. It was a wonderful evening . . . till the end.’
‘Don’t let it upset you. We get used to being harassed. But promise me one thing, Odette . . . always write from the heart and tell the truth. There will be two versions of what happened tonight.’
‘I will. Goodnight, Zac.’
‘Goodnight, sweet bird.’
He leaned across and tilted her face towards him, kissing her lightly on the lips. Odette didn’t move. The touch of his lips had caught her unawares. She lifted her face to his to kiss him again, but Zac leaned across her and opened the car door. ‘Your aunt will be worried. It’s getting late.’
Odette stepped reluctantly from the car, smiled at Zac and waved as he drove off. Thinking about the confrontation between the gypsies and the louts, and also the touch of Zac’s lips, she found that her knees had started to shake again.
Her aunt was listening to the radio in the kitchen. ‘Odette? Where have you been? It’s nearly ten o’clock! Your dinner is in the oven, but it’s probably ruined.’
The next morning the town was buzzing with news of the fight. The popular version was that Hoskins and his mates went to ask for their money back over the sale of some bad horses and had been attacked by all the gypsies. Some said even the women had rushed at them.
Odette interviewed Hoskins, who was nursing a broken nose and split eye outside the pub. She listened as he told of being assaulted, unaware she’d been there and knew the real story. ‘Murderous bloody bunch,’ he concluded.
She talked to the local police sergeant who said he knew nothing at all about the fracas and admitted he’d never had any trouble from the gypsies before. Wise country policeman that he was, the sergeant only ever admitted knowing what it was best to know.
‘Aw, occasionally people complain about being “held up” on the road or something. But most people laugh about it.’
She talked to the local councillors, some of whom had tried to prohibit the gypsies from camping in the vicinity of the town but without success. With some gentle probing, the crusty mayor even admitted that he thought the gypsy lifestyle sounded romantic and that, yes, he wouldn’t mind trying it. ‘If the missus would let me off the hook for a bit,’ he chuckled.
Odette had her story. She told of the history and folklore of the gypsies, what had really happened the night of the fight, and how Hoskins had resold the horses which, strangely enough, had all escaped from their yard and hadn’t been seen since.
The following Friday morning she opened the Clarion and there, spread across the double page in the centre of the newspaper, was her story and Horrie’s photographs. TALES FROM THE GYPSY QUEEN — FACTS BEHIND THE MYTHS was the bold headline.
Underneath in smaller type that to Odette seemed as large as Mount Everest, were the words By Odette Barber.
From one of the pictures Zac’s handsome face smiled out at her.