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  She turned, and pursed her smeared, cupid’s bow lips.

  ‘I would, duckie, but I can’t find ‘em.’ At the reception desk Freddy Carlton swayed, a large cigar in his mouth, holding his open wallet. Tulip leaned on his arm.

  ‘Give me some too, Freddy, I want to make a bet on the boxers, ohhh, Freddy, who’s a booful boy!’

  ‘I say, Bunny, are we splitting this or what, it’s jolly expensive, ya know … Bunny?’

  Bunny waved as he slithered down the wall, and Freddy handed over all he had and tossed the empty wallet over his shoulder.

  Evelyne caught David’s hand as he led her back to his car. He stopped, holding her at arm’s length.

  ‘What a lovely creature you are.’

  Evelyne’s heart was pounding. He pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands, and gently kissed her. She moaned with pleasure, and he kissed her neck, her ear. Then he whispered.

  ‘Where are you staying? Back at the house?’

  She touched his silky hair, said she was in a small hotel. He caught her in his arms, swung her round.

  ‘We’ll go back to the house later, would you like that, my lovely?’

  Choked with tears, all Evelyne could do was nod in agreement. She felt as if she would explode with happiness. David tooted the horn.

  ‘To the fair, to the fair.’

  The car roared off, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the clear night air.

  Chapter 7

  Freedom Stubbs sat in the back of the covered wagon as it jolted its way to the match. He sat quietly, bandaging his right hand, intent on getting the bandages tight the way he liked them. His left fist would be done by Kaulo Woods. Kaulo sat opposite Freedom and looked out of the canvas flap of the wagon, then turned to Freedom.

  ‘I kair’d a lot of wongar acoi, I chopped my vardo for another, maybe I’ll dock’d to rardi? (I made a deal of money here, I exchanged my van for another, let’s hope I do it tonight.)

  Kaulo leant over and began to bandage Freedom’s left hand. He shot a slanted look up at Freedom who was leaning back against the side of the wagon, his eyes closed. He looked as if he was going for a moonlight stroll rather than a heavy fight. His breathing was as regular as if he was sleeping. Kaulo could weigh the big hand, Freedom was so relaxed, letting Kaulo bandage between his fingers and across the knuckles.

  Freedom looked at the small, skinny, elderly man hunched on his left, smiled at him, nodded and rested his head again on the side of the jolting wagon. The old man finished the bandaging, picked up his fiddle and began to play, singing softly.

  Can you rokka Romany, Can you play the bosh, Can you jal adrey the staripen, Can you chin the cosh …

  . Freedom clenched his fists, nodded to Kaulo that all was fine, all the while tapping his foot to the rhythm of the old gypsy’s fiddle.

  Two other fighters were further up the wagon, their hands, like Freedom’s, bandaged and ready. They were smaller in build, dark and swarthy, and they sat hunched on the benches facing each other. Freedom always sat apart. He stood apart from them anyway, because he was six foot four. This was tall for anyone - never mind a Romany - but then it was known that his blood wasn’t pure. Freedom was a half-caste. His mother, Romalla, was the daughter of a Romany king, and Freedom’s birth had brought shame to the family. His mother was dishonoured, an outcast, and she had been forced to join another, non-elitist, Romany camp. Her father had refused to have anything to do with her and hadn’t spoken to her since, nor had any member of her family.

  Romalla was a catch to have in any camp. She was not only a princess of pure blood, but she carried the powers with her. That made her a valuable asset as a money-earner. Freedom had inherited her powers, but he didn’t use them; it wasn’t done for a male Romany to read hands. However, he had proved to be of royal blood even though half-caste, and was accepted by the lower ranks as a prince. This made him acceptable, and he roamed from camp to camp, even as a child, taken into many families and treated with respect. The stigma of the words posh ta posh - bastard - having no effect on him, at least outwardly.

  Romalla was rumoured to have had many lovers, and who Freedom’s blood father was no one ever discovered. Or if anyone knew they kept quiet, not wanting to earn Freedom’s tippoty, or wrath. He was both respected and feared, and although still only twenty-four it was likely that he would become a clan leader. Romalla had died three summers ago of a heart attack. The news was brought to Freedom by a courier carrying the charred back wheel of her caravan, all her goods having been burnt with her body. The wheel was proof she had gone and it was handed to him to roll his fortune further. Romalla had died without revealing who Freedom’s father had been. All she had ever said was that he was a ‘lion of a man’ and one she was proud to have bedded, always implying that the man had been her choice, and one she knew would dishonour her.

  Freedom was now becoming famous as a heavyweight boxer and had already made a lot of money for the travellers. The wagon entered the field where the fair was being held and the big tent for the boxing match had already been erected. A beautiful young girl was sitting on a low wall at the entrance. As the wagon rumbled through she jumped down and ran to it, directing the horses to the space allocated for the wagon. It was the best place near the exit; the best was always reserved for Freedom.

  When the wagon was in position, Rawnie pulled back the canvas flap. She was a stunning Romany dukkerin, and she would make good money at the side shows tonight. She was decked out in all her finery, her red silk shawl wrapped around her head, her hair in two long braids down to her waist. There were gold studs in her ears with loops of gold coins dangling from them. She wore rings and bangles, and even a ruby stud on the side of her nose. Coal dust enhanced the blackness of her slanting eyes, and she would bite her full lips until they shone as red as the ruby in her nose.

  She jumped aboard the wagon, pulling behind her a heavy wooden box of food and drink for the men. She always served Freedom first, she was his manushi, and although all the men were after her she had eyes only for Freedom. As the men ate the cooked rabbit with chunks of bread and steaming, sweet tea, Mr Beshaley came aboard.

  Mr Beshaley was dressed in a smart suit with a waistcoat; it was only the scarf around his neck in place of a collar and tie that made him look different from a well-dressed city gent. He wore a gold fob watch on a chain, gold cuff links, and a gold looped earring in his right ear. His once jet-black hair was now iron-grey, but straight, not a wave in sight.

  All the Romany men’s hair was black, even Freedom’s, coal-black and shining. They all had the same dark, tilted eyes with strange black pupils, high cheekbones and full, wide lips. Freedom differed only in his size. In every other way he looked like a pure-blood Romany.

  Mr Beshaley seated himself on the bench. He opened his leather wallet and took out a wad of notes for the betting. Although he himself would not be allowed to place bets as Freedom’s manager, there were many of the clan around the match who would place bets for the team. First Beshaley turned to the two fighters at the front of the wagon and discussed their impending fights with them, how they thought they would fare, even asked outright if they would win or lose. Joe shrugged, he felt that the miner pitted against him being that much heavier might sway the odds, but he wasn’t going to get himself badly hurt, because he had another bout coming up the following Saturday at a fair in Glamorgan. Beshaley nodded, so they would place bets on the miner for that bout. He turned to the second, a young boy, and asked him what his chances were. Then he told them to go out and get some fresh air into their lungs. It added to the cash flow, because on their walk about the site they would keep their eyes and ears open and report back to the guv’nor. Occasionally they would also feed back bits of gossip for Rawnie to use; it was pointless using her powers in a place like this, it was too much effort.

  Freedom stayed behind and listened to Beshaley, and the meeting became serious. Freedom could be up against it as his was the main event. Beshaley talk
ed in detail about his opponent’s moves in previous bouts. The man was a good stone heavier than Freedom and a dirty fighter who butted with his head. Hammer also had a habit of not shaving before an event and would get his opponent into stranglehold and rub his thick stubble hard into the man’s eyes. The referee they had for this fight would probably give way to the miner and not break up the holds as he should. There were many miners in the audience to support their man, and the referee was also a collier. Three trams of miners had arrived from Llanerch Colliery and they were already drunk and causing havoc. Beshaley knew it was going to be one hell of a night.

  Freedom gave no hint of how he was thinking or feeling. Beshaley drew neat little diagrams and made Hammer Thomas sound more and more like a nightmare. He certainly sounded so to Rawnie who sat silently listening and watching Freedom with her dark heavy eyes. Her heart reached out to him. She wanted to sit close, tucked in the crook of his arm the way they did when they were travelling.

  ‘Now the last bout I watched Hammer close, he gave some heavy hits, using a kind of weaving style, half round body blows. Hammer goes for body punches rather than the face, he’s a good five inches shorter than you, lad, so he can hurt, you’ll have to try and take him fast.’

  Out of Beshaley’s pocket came a crumpled scrap of paper, and he read out a doctor’s report that said Hammer had been badly cut over his left eye, the skin was still very tender …

  ‘Go for the left eye, Freedom, get him blinded by his own blood, then try and bring him down before the fourth. You’ll have nearly a hundred riding on you, lad, so do your best.’

  Beshaley stood up and straightened his checked waistcoat. His own face showed he had been in the ring many times, his nose was flattened, and he had a scar across his left eye. He touched it for a moment and laughed, showing cigar-stained teeth, then he stepped down.

  Freedom had said not a word. He clenched his huge fists and leaned back against the canvas with a sigh. Sometimes, Rawnie thought, looking at his handsome face, he doesn’t even know I exist. At that precise moment Freedom turned to her and smiled, his whole face softened and a twinkle came into his big, dark eyes, and he winked … as if he knew what she was thinking.

  It was expected they would marry, she was already nineteen and he was twenty-four, but he had never brought the subject up. They walked together often, but he had never made a serious approach to her. Once, just once, he had kissed her and she would have given herself to him, but he had turned her pressing body from him with that enigmatic smile of his, and then given her bottom a hard smack.

  Rawnie knew that Freedom had been with women, all the old’uns told her so - often told her with toothless nudges and winks that it was better to have a man who knew what was what before they were joined for life to a wife.

  Rawnie would wait. She knew she was beautiful, had known it from the days when she was just a little dosha. When they found out she had the powers handed down to her from her grandmother, she had become important in the camp and was now the main dukkerin (fortune-teller), and the palefaces came to her regularly with their pieces of gold. The strange thing for Rawnie was that, although she could read the hands of others, she couldn’t foretell her own destiny. But she knew what she wanted - simply Freedom.

  In the wagon, Freedom got up, but he had to crouch so as not to hit his head, then he jumped to the ground. He stretched his huge frame like an animal and then turned to help Rawnie down the wooden step. She felt the rough bandages and wanted to kiss his hands, but he was already walking off towards the big tent.

  Crowds were gathering and a number of gypsy vans had pulled in to sell their wares. There were artificial flowers made of wood chippings, fern baskets, bottles with wooden crosses built inside, sets of doll’s furniture, pegs, heather brooms and rush whips, bouquets of reed flowers, all made by the old women of the camps. Some wandered around with their heavy baskets calling out their wares, while others sold directly from outside their wagons.

  Freedom walked among them and they tipped their caps and wished him luck. They had all placed their hardearned pennies on the prince and Freedom knew it. He picked up a couple of tiny doshas and gave them a kiss and a pat on the head. He was waved at by members of many different clans, and he gave them his flashing smile before he disappeared into the tent to prepare for the match.

  Rawnie was set up in a small booth, and already had clients waiting in line. She always had one of the lads standing by in case anyone got troublesome, but she was tough and capable of looking after herself. Rarely did she tell anyone the truth, because sometimes she saw such sadness and heartbreak in people’s hands she knew it was best not to say. They only ever wanted to hear good fortune was coming their way and that they were lucky.

  But this was not the case with her own people. They always wanted the truth. And if she saw sadness, loss or great pain she told them so and they would be ready to face it, but then her people were different from these palefaces. The palefaces always wanted happiness ahead and Rawnie didn’t look on what she told them as lies: she contended they were no more than the white lies the palefaces would tell a sick relative, ‘Oh, my, you look better today’, knowing they were drawing their last breath.

  The crowds were getting thicker, and above the clamour could be heard the voices of a group of Romany girls singing. The singing was very seductive, whether it was due to the witchery of their slant-eyed glances or the strange, slow body movements, turning their hands with all the clinking bracelets slowly in the air. Groups of boys stood around with gaping mouths, nudging each other. The gypsy girls were sexy all right. They would lay their hats on the ground while they danced for the crowds, and as coins chinked against each other their dancing would get wilder and wilder, like a tarantella with no accompaniment but their seductive chanting. The lamps threw shadows and caught the colours of the kerchiefs, yellow or bright red, the brilliantly coloured skirts, necklaces, gold chains and red beads; the girls were magical, captivating, their swarthy skins even darker in the lamplight, their eyes flashing, eyes that belonged only to the Romany.

  Few among the crowds ever detected anything but fairground atmosphere at the gypsy gatherings. They missed the undercurrent of arrogance, or apartness. The gypsies were a naturally hostile group, it was inherent in them all and made them completely unapproachable. But years of concealing their true feelings just to earn enough to live, to eat, gave the Romany eyes a strange blankness. Tonight they appeared to want nothing more than to delight the gathering crowd, but this was their work.

  From the top of the hill the fair looked more like a circus, the big tent for the boxing in the middle with the booths and caravans lined up in a circle around it. Lights twinkled and there was music playing. There were many vehicles and two open-topped buses parked in the field. David’s car bounced and rocked over the churned-up grass. He hauled the brake on and a loud cheer rose up from the tent. He looked over, swore, and was out, running towards the entrance. Evelyne fumbled with the catch on the door and ran after him. He shouted for her to hurry, the rest had already gone inside. Evelyne had never been to a fair in her whole life, she would have liked to stop and look at the booths and the gypsy wares but David didn’t hesitate. Another roar went up, then cheers. David turned and held out his hand for her, paid the entrance fees and pulled her inside.

  The place was packed. Some people were sitting on tiered benches around the ring which was six feet off the ground and had a bright canvas around it to hide the wooden stilts. Others milled around and some even sat on other people’s shoulders. Big, bright torches lit the whole area and smoke drifted up into the tent top. It was stiflingly hot, and the air was thick with smoke from cigarettes and cigars as well as from the torches. Scuffles were breaking out, fists flying, and the noise was deafening. Car horns sounded, whistles blew - the whole place was in an uproar. A man in an unbelievably loud checked suit, holding a loud hailer, stood in the centre of the ring. Behind him men were taking bets, money was being passed over heads
, under arms, and two men sitting on ladders at a blackboard constantly wiped and wrote up new rows of figures in chalk.

  David elbowed his way forward, and Evelyne lost her grip on his hand twice and had to push her way to his side. Her hat was knocked off and she had to scrabble for it. The daisies were looking a little ragged now, but she crammed the hat back on her head. David caught sight of Freddy and the others huddled up close to the ringside. A fight was breaking out as people at the back couldn’t see over the heads of the people standing on the front benches.

  David eventually fought his way through to the group. How on earth Freddy had managed to capture half a bench was beyond Evelyne, but David sprang up on to it and helped her up, flinging his arm around her waist. ‘Can you see? We’re just in time.’

  Evelyne almost fell over, but a small man behind her propped her up, and then toppled over himself as he tried to retrieve the cloth cap he had dropped. A woman hit him with her handbag and called him a dirty little bugger. He countered this with a furious glare and lewd remark about her bum being too big for his liking anyway.

  The check-suited man’s face looked ready to burst, the sweat running down his cheeks, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the main event of the evening!’

  This was greeted by a roar of approval, and he had to wait for it to die down before he could speak again.

  ‘In the right corner, Hammer …’

  Hammer paraded around the ring, bowing, waving, kissing his huge, gloved hands, and eventually went to his corner where three burly men stood with towels and a large bucket. A small milking stool was placed in the corner for Hammer to sit on, but he refused, and stood pulling at the ropes which provoked more cheering and yelling.

  There was obviously some problem getting Hammer’s opponent into the ring. Fists were flying at the other side of the tent, men were being hauled off each other, and the screams of the man in the checked suit through his loud hailer were accompanied by howls from the crowd.