‘Cup of tea, son?’
‘Please.’ The old woman grinned at him again.
‘Scared of me, son? People are. People say it’s because of me teeth. They say I should get new ones, but the price of these things is ridiculous. Besides, these have done me well enough over the years. I can still chew me meat with them, so there you are.’
So there he was. ‘Yes,’ he managed to reply.
‘You a friend of our Robbie’s? Robbie’s not got many friends, has he?’ She was watching the kettle as it began to steam. She moved to the tiny sink next to the stove and rinsed three cups in a thin trickle of water from the faucet. ‘Bit of a loner like. Gypsies have to be, haven’t they, son? Not much else open to them. Still, I wish the townies — no offence to yourself, son — would stop bothering us.’ She glared at him for a moment, so that the point was not lost on him. ‘It’s a respectable life that we lead. Ancient, too. Goes back before towns was even invented. You look it up in your library, son. Gypsies has been here since the country itself.’ She chuckled. It was, Sandy realised, a matronly sound rather than a wicked one. He could talk.
‘My mother’s supposed to be a witch,’ he said. He wondered why he had said that. Perhaps, he thought, to show that he understood.
‘Is she now? Oh yes, I seem to remember being told about the town’s witch. Ah yes. Cause of bad luck, wasn’t she?’
‘She’s not really a witch.’
‘Gracious me, of course she’s not. Witches never existed, except in people’s minds. All there was in the olden days was women and some men who believed in herbal cures and in folklore and in the wish to fly. Witches? We’re all witches in one way or another. Witches was the invention of mankind, son. We’re all witches beneath the skin.’ Her words sounded wise to Sandy. She poured boiling water into a battered teapot. He wanted suddenly to be her friend.
‘My name’s Sandy,’ he said. She smiled and nodded. His eyes were mesmerised by the loose fold of material pinned behind her with a large safety pin.
‘You’re wondering about me arm, Sandy,’ she said, her back still towards him. He was stunned. It was as if she had really read his mind. He remained silent and she turned towards him and chuckled again. ‘Course you are.’ Then she went to the open door. Sandy noticed that it was growing dark outside, though it was only two o’clock. Clouds were gathering for a storm. The drought was about to break. ‘Robbie!’ shouted the old woman, ‘Tea’s up!’ The dog barked keenly as Robbie sprinted to the caravan. There were specks of water on his shoulders as he entered, stooping.
‘That’s the rain on,’ he said. ‘Looks like a heavy one, though.’
Sandy began, almost instantly, to hear the raindrops on the roof, like sharp raps against a drum. Carsden had a fine pipe band, but they would have been hard-pressed to play the tune that was soon dancing on the caravan’s skintight roof. They sipped the tea around the small table, Sandy’s knees rubbing uncomfortably against those of the woman. They listened to the rain as if it were music.
‘That’s summer over,’ said Kitty. She winked at the boy. There was a trace of matter in one of her eyes. Sandy wondered if the eye, like her arm, was useless.
‘You could be right, Kitty,’ said Robbie. ‘I was telling Sandy that I’ve noticed a cold air this past few days.’
‘A cold air?’ Kitty stared hard at her nephew. ‘Cold air nothing. Look at you. You’ve been drinking too much and not eating a thing. You’re dying of the wrong diet, Robbie. She’s to blame. You should come back here where you belong.’
‘What about Rian? She belongs here too.’ Robbie, having said this, supped his tea and kept his eyes on the table. There was a silence, broken only by the heavy battering of the rain upon the roof.
‘Leave her to her ruin,’ said Kitty, her mouth brushing the edge of her chipped cup.
‘I can’t do that, Kitty.’
There was a pause, the most excruciating silence Sandy had ever heard. The air seemed tense with thunder. The rain was easing.
‘Don’t I bloody know it!’ exploded the old woman. She glanced at Sandy and calmed down. ‘Sorry, son. You shouldn’t have to listen to this. It’s the same every time Robbie conies back.’ She chuckled hollowly. ‘Will I make you something to eat?’ She rose from the table. Sandy looked at Robbie, who was staring out of the rain-daubed window.
‘Any smokes, Kitty?’
She rummaged in the pocket of her dress and threw a small pack of tobacco, a thin roll of papers and a box of matches on to the table.
‘Ya,’ said Robbie. The threat of thunder eased, Sandy remembered that rain comes after thunder, not before it. He was sweating. The air was still and thick. The rain would freshen everything. It was great to walk about after rain. He hoped he could escape soon.
‘Sandy here fancies Rian,’ said Robbie casually as he rolled a cigarette. Sandy was startled by his friend’s cruelty.
‘Is that surprising?’ muttered Kitty. She turned towards them. ‘Remember what I said about witches, Sandy? I take it all back. Witches do exist, and that bitch is one of them. Steer clear of her. That’s my advice and always has been.’
‘Full of the milk of human kindness, that’s my Aunt Kitty.’ Robbie lit his cigarette and winked at Sandy. Kitty shuffled over from the stove. Her hand snaked out viciously and she slapped Robbie so hard that the cigarette flew out of his mouth and into Sandy’s lap. Sandy picked it up quickly and held it. There was a long, staring silence before the woman shuffled back to her stove. Robbie held out his hand for the cigarette. He puffed on it until it seemed to ignite from nothing.
‘That girl is nothing but trouble and you know it.’
Sandy wondered if this were an act for his benefit. It did not seem like one. So was Rian lying to him then? Was she more than she seemed? Who could he trust to tell him the truth? The answer was simple — no one.
The sun broke through the fine sheen of rain. Sandy stared at the small window. Dirt was now visible on the inside of the glass. The faint smell of soup touched his nostrils and pushed further back the tang of mothballs. It was a good smell; rich like the soup his grandmother had made, vegetables thick with a hint of stock. His stomach felt suddenly empty, though he had eaten not two hours before. The pot was soon steaming. Two plates were placed on the table, either side of the small television, then two slices of thin white bread, and two discoloured spoons. Sandy warily examined the spoon before him. He knew that it would taste of metal and the thought made him shiver.
‘Put out that roll-up while you eat.’ It was a soft command.
Robbie flicked the butt out of the window.
‘Satisfied?’ he said. Kitty ignored him. She served the soup and squeezed in beside Sandy again. He felt his leg tingle as hers touched it. He drew it away awkwardly, and felt his other leg brushing against Robbie.
‘Are you still at school, Sandy?’ asked Kitty.
‘Just until Christmas.’ He drank the soup without letting the spoon enter his mouth. Kitty was studying him.
‘And you’ve sat your exams then?’
He nodded. ‘I got the results this morning.’
‘You never told me that,’ said Robbie, taking big gulps of soup.
‘You never asked.’
‘Were the results good?’ asked Kitty. Sandy nodded. ‘Tour mum must be pleased, eh?’