Gypsy Stock

I wished I lived in a caravan,
with a horse to drive, like a pedlar-man.
Where he comes from nobody knows,
nor where he goes to, but on he goes.

His caravan has windows; two,
with a chimney of tin that the smoke comes through.
He has a wife and a baby; brown,
and they go riding from town to town.

Chairs to mend and delf to sell;
he clashes the basins like a bell.
Trays, baskets, ranged in order,
plates, wit the alphabet round the boarder.

The roads are brown and the sea is green,
but his house is just like a bathing machine.
The world is round but he can ride,
rumble and splash to the other side.

With the pedlar-man I should like to roam,
and write a book when I get home.
All the people would read my book,
just like the Travels of Captain Cook

traditional, anon.

This is a favourite rhyme of my Nana Lena. We are descendant from Gypsy stock; not modern travelers, or trailer dwellers, moved on from field to field, but the kind who wintered-up and set out fairgrounds in spring and summer. I guess that makes my family "carnie folk". Oh boy, those stories of hers - each grandchild trying to out elbow the other, in an attempt to doze peacefully on the comfiest bosom. We would settle like vultures, hungry for her stories.

"Now, children," she would begin, eyes twinkling with mischievous memory, "I want to tell you about the time..."

We would live such startling adventures on rainy afternoons. Now I am grown, my children ask me what it was like in a world with only three television channels; so alien is my youth to them. And when they ask, I think of how full my imagination was with stories from my grandmother.

"Hey, Mum?" I asked one recent Sunday dinner, peeling veggies at the sink of my childhood home. "What was that film we watched years ago, with a naughty little girl in it. The one where they had to chase elephants through Yorkshire?"

She furrowed her brow in thought, before laughing. "That wasn't a film; that was one of Nana Lena's stories!"

Like an elderly version of Pippi Longstocking, all of these adventures were real. Sad to say, but I realised there and then, my Nana Lena was getting on in years; 93 of them as I write. What if these stories died when she did? That would be tragic. My Nana is prosaic about most things, and I shouldn't think a little thing like dying would be of such great concern to her, but the loss of those stories would be. I made up my mind to see her and ask her to remind me of all the little details, so when I have grandchildren of my own I can pass them on.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I go to see her the following week. We sit down with tea and ginger biscuits, and I resist the urge to nestle on her lap, being much taller and heavier at the age of thirty-five than I was at just five.

"How come there were elephants in Barnesly?" I ask as I dunk my biscuit in the thick, sweet tea.

"Every summer, before the war, Mr_____'s Circus would come to town. He'd stay for a week, and because he was 'one of us', we let him keep the animals in the old cellar at Uncle Bob's."

"Nan, " I say, with the cynicism of age. "You can't fit an elephant in a cellar."

"Don't be daft!" she scolded with a wink, "Uncle Bob had a huge car show room; we were the best in the North, because they weren't all over the roads like they are today. We had some lovely Bugattis in at the time, and I was the number one helper when the lads had to go out wheeling and dealing."

I should mention at this point, my Nana Lena was one of 13 siblings, all of whom were what was then considered "entrepreneurs". Even when the World War II did come, anyone who knew the Browns, could get petrol, hams, stockings, coloured paint, fresh eggs, hats, etc, etc,

"Well," she bent closer a little more conspiratorially, "Uncle Bob left me alone in the show room and this fine gentleman appeared wanting to try out the sports car. But I couldn't let him take it without a passenger and I couldn't close up the show room, or Uncle Bob would be vexed. I thought I'd show him my stockings to sell him the car - legs like Betty Grable, I had. Anyway, I start her up, hitch-up my skirt to my knickers and rev up the accelerator. He likes that! I rev it some more, and I can see him thinking if I have this car, I can get a hundred pairs of legs like that inside it with me. I should of stopped revving the engine; but I wanted to take his money and shake it in the lads faces when they got back, so I just kept letting the car roar like a lion. I didn't know it, but down stairs in the cellars, the elephant had drawn the same simile, and Mr _______ himself came bursting in through the show room door, "Stop it, stop it, crazy lady!" he said, and the spell was broken. Maybe the buyer would have stayed if he hadn't heard the ungodly crashing and banging of panicking jumbo shaking the very show room to its foundations. Either way, I lost the sale, and Uncle Bob and the lads returned just in time to help the Circus hands settle the beast. I didn't get any thanks for my sales innovation; just a clip around the ear hole."

I realise I've been listening with my mouth slightly open, and the soggy end of my biscuit has long fallen into my tea cup.

"I'll pop the kettle on and we'll have a fresh brew, then you can ask me some more questions if you like!" Nana Lena is so obviously cheered at having an audience, she shimmies into the kitchen and hums as tune.

"Hey, what was that dance hall story you used to tell us about, when you were courting Granddad?" her actions prompt my memory to ask.

"Oh, no! You couldn't get Tony on a dance-floor! Uncle Bob kept a Boarding House on the sea-front in Blackpool during the war - the forces were a good source of income in those days, you know? Aye, we set up a boarding house and took in the Royal Air Force lads. It was a funny system with rationing, but we got along fine. Mary and Hazel, my sisters, and me, we would go to the Tower Ballroom on a Saturday Night. Oh, we didn't like those Manchester Girls! They would travel on the train when they finished in the factories and come for the best pickings of the men on a weekend. We were ready for them though. While they were dancing we drank their drinks and then when the they got more drinks we'd steal their fellas. We would make sure they were lads who weren't from amongst our boarders, then we'd tell them we were from Manchester and make them walk us to the station. They gave us chocolate, or what ever they could for a kiss, then we'd sneak out the back of the station when they'd gone and take our loot back to the boarding house. Sometimes we would have to get off at the points because the lads would want to wave us off, but that wasn't too bad unless the real Manchester girls spotted you."

"Nan! You're terrible. What did Granddad Tony think to all this?"

"All the lads were homesick, and scared of training up to go to war. I could have looked like the back-end of a donkey, and I still got them all reaching out to me before they went off to where-ever they were posted. Nothing sexy like, you understand? Most wanted to write to you and have you write back: a lass back in Blighty to think on when things were grim. Tony was different. He never spoke two words to me, never went out at night, looking for company. He sat writing to his mother and father in Wales. Uncle Bob used to chase the other lads off us and threaten them with getting kicked out of our digs, if they were forward. None of them wanted that! Ours was the one place they could get massive meals, a big portion of meat an fresh vegetables. Oh, they all wanted to stay, alright. Must of taken some conviction for Tony to come over to me, whilst Uncle Bob was there, and say, "Lena, I start my war tomorrow, but I'm coming back right here when I'm done, and I am going to marry you." I don't even remember him waiting for an answer. Well, I suppose it was more of a statement than a question. I thought no more of it, but Uncle Bob did - he wasn't surprised at all, when a few years later a Welshman came through the door looking for his fiance."

I find myself tearing. I know the rest of this story: how they married, built up a life in Blackpool, laying money away on a house, instead of on the road. How my Gypsy heritage became just that: heritage, not daily fact. How I never met this wonderful man, because he died when my mother was only 16 years old. I look up at my Nana Lena; her eyes are misting too.

"That's enough story telling for today," she announces, patting my hand. "Next time you come, I can tell you all about the police-man who stopped my bicycle at Squires Gate, because it wasn't road-worthy. He insisted on walking me home with a 5 shilling fine - good job he didn't see all the Black Market meat in the covered basket."

Nana Lena has lead an amazing life; the Yorkshire Pilgrim come home to settle in a Lancashire town. Every time I see a trailer, a caravan, or even a VW camper, I can't help but feel the itchy feet of nostalgic genetics.

(1,711 words)