Cowgill said smoothly.
“Could we talk about the gypsies?” Lois said. “If all these anonymous notes are blaming that lot camped in Alf Smith’s wood, I suppose you’re going to do something about it?”
“Of course we must, Lois,” he said. “But if you could give us any help on that, we’d be most grateful. Perhaps drop in and see Athalia Lee again? She’s a good soul, and nothing that goes on in their encampment escapes her notice.”
“What d’you mean, go and see her again ?” Lois snapped.
Cowgill answered obliquely, annoying Lois even more. “I am good at my job, Lois, just as you are at yours. Now, I must be going.” He turned to Josie. “I’ll do my best to keep you up to date with how we are proceeding,” he said. “And any help you can give your mother will also be most welcome.”
He negotiated the narrow stairs with admirable agility, and was gone almost immediately.
“He’s quite nice really, Mum,” Josie said thoughtlessly.
FOURTEEN
ATHALIA LEE WAS WASHING CLOTHES IN A TUB OF RAINWATER at the back of her caravan. She was happiest without four walls around her, and along with the others preferred to sit outside round a fire, eating and drinking and telling stories. Skinning rabbits, plucking chickens, chopping vegetables, all were best done outside in the open air and the sun, or in the bender tent when it rained. She stuck to the old ways of housekeeping, washing and rinsing her clothes in rainwater collected for the purpose, never using tap water to wash the children’s hair, or her own, and loving the silky shine of it when it dried in the sun. Not that there was any alternative in the old days, or even now. They had no available tap water, except on designated sites, which were much disliked by many true gypsies. Running streams and springs were good water, and the traditional camping places located accordingly.
Lois rounded the corner of the caravan and smiled. It was like a painting. Athalia with her hair screwed into a knot at the back of her head, her brown arms bare in the task of washing, scrubbing and squeezing. Her long skirt was splashed with water, and her old shoes muddy from the ground around the tub. Her eyes were bright when she saw Lois.
“So you come back, did ya? That’s the girl. Come and help me lay out these clothes to dry and then we’ll have a cup of tea. You liked my tea, I recall.”
The clothes were spread out on bushes round the camp, and then Athalia and Lois sat in rickety chairs on the scrubby grass outside the caravan, holding mugs of steaming tea.
Lois was painfully aware of suspicious eyes on her from the gypsies who passed. A small group of children stood and stared, unashamed. Athalia clapped her hands and said something in their own language, and they flew away like startled sparrows.
“So you come to ask me some questions,” Athalia said comfortably. “I reckon you didn’t want my recipe for stew. It was your daughter’s man who was killed, wasn’t it.” These were statements, not questions, and Lois nodded. This was a woman after her own heart. Straight to the point and no messing about.
“You know what they’re saying in the village, then,” she said, looking Athalia in the eye. “Them as don’t like gypsies are blaming one of your lot. Meself, I’m not so sure. But I do know that nobody in Farnden is going to speak up for you if it comes out that it could’ve been one of your men.”
“So why are you any different?”
“I’m not interested in whether the bloke what killed Rob was black, white or rainbow coloured. Nor whether he was a yobbo, an Irish traveller or a gypsy. All I want to know, and pretty damn quickly, is what coward attacked a man on a dark, lonely road for no reason.”
“Might not have been a he,” Athalia said, shooing away a skinny cat twining around her ankles. “Could’ve been a woman. An’ there must’ve been a reason.”
Lois stared at her. She’d not once thought of a woman.
“Could we talk about the gypsies?” Lois said. “If all these anonymous notes are blaming that lot camped in Alf Smith’s wood, I suppose you’re going to do something about it?”
“Of course we must, Lois,” he said. “But if you could give us any help on that, we’d be most grateful. Perhaps drop in and see Athalia Lee again? She’s a good soul, and nothing that goes on in their encampment escapes her notice.”
“What d’you mean, go and see her again ?” Lois snapped.
Cowgill answered obliquely, annoying Lois even more. “I am good at my job, Lois, just as you are at yours. Now, I must be going.” He turned to Josie. “I’ll do my best to keep you up to date with how we are proceeding,” he said. “And any help you can give your mother will also be most welcome.”
He negotiated the narrow stairs with admirable agility, and was gone almost immediately.
“He’s quite nice really, Mum,” Josie said thoughtlessly.
FOURTEEN
ATHALIA LEE WAS WASHING CLOTHES IN A TUB OF RAINWATER at the back of her caravan. She was happiest without four walls around her, and along with the others preferred to sit outside round a fire, eating and drinking and telling stories. Skinning rabbits, plucking chickens, chopping vegetables, all were best done outside in the open air and the sun, or in the bender tent when it rained. She stuck to the old ways of housekeeping, washing and rinsing her clothes in rainwater collected for the purpose, never using tap water to wash the children’s hair, or her own, and loving the silky shine of it when it dried in the sun. Not that there was any alternative in the old days, or even now. They had no available tap water, except on designated sites, which were much disliked by many true gypsies. Running streams and springs were good water, and the traditional camping places located accordingly.
Lois rounded the corner of the caravan and smiled. It was like a painting. Athalia with her hair screwed into a knot at the back of her head, her brown arms bare in the task of washing, scrubbing and squeezing. Her long skirt was splashed with water, and her old shoes muddy from the ground around the tub. Her eyes were bright when she saw Lois.
“So you come back, did ya? That’s the girl. Come and help me lay out these clothes to dry and then we’ll have a cup of tea. You liked my tea, I recall.”
The clothes were spread out on bushes round the camp, and then Athalia and Lois sat in rickety chairs on the scrubby grass outside the caravan, holding mugs of steaming tea.
Lois was painfully aware of suspicious eyes on her from the gypsies who passed. A small group of children stood and stared, unashamed. Athalia clapped her hands and said something in their own language, and they flew away like startled sparrows.
“So you come to ask me some questions,” Athalia said comfortably. “I reckon you didn’t want my recipe for stew. It was your daughter’s man who was killed, wasn’t it.” These were statements, not questions, and Lois nodded. This was a woman after her own heart. Straight to the point and no messing about.
“You know what they’re saying in the village, then,” she said, looking Athalia in the eye. “Them as don’t like gypsies are blaming one of your lot. Meself, I’m not so sure. But I do know that nobody in Farnden is going to speak up for you if it comes out that it could’ve been one of your men.”
“So why are you any different?”
“I’m not interested in whether the bloke what killed Rob was black, white or rainbow coloured. Nor whether he was a yobbo, an Irish traveller or a gypsy. All I want to know, and pretty damn quickly, is what coward attacked a man on a dark, lonely road for no reason.”
“Might not have been a he,” Athalia said, shooing away a skinny cat twining around her ankles. “Could’ve been a woman. An’ there must’ve been a reason.”
Lois stared at her. She’d not once thought of a woman.
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