But they shared what they had.

'We were so low on luck at that time that your father would go off walking for miles and find a farm to steal a chicken. He would be crawling on his stomach trying to catch one and break its neck before the others started making a racket. He'd come back exhausted and dishevelled with one, sometimes two, chickens. I would quickly pluck them and boil them with whatever vegetables the gypsies had given us. I wrapped the feathers in newspaper and hid them in the bottom of the bin. Your brother was about two then, maybe three. He would sit round the big camp fire with them and eat hedgehog. I'd say to your father “He's eating Hedgehog!” And he would say “It's good. It'll do him no harm.” It didn't do him any harm.

We lived on that camp for three years. 1960 to '63 I think. Your father was away with the navy a lot and I was waiting for him in the caravan with your brother. At first the gypsies would share a little. They weren't sure of us yet. But they said at the beginning, the first time they saw me 'Ah, you're a Romany.' I didn't even know what a bloody Romany was. But I looked like one so...

So, we had nothing. The snow was up to here.'

Mum points to a place near her chest that on anyone else would be their waist.

'Your father had gone looking for work like he did every day. Walking, walking. I was playing with your brother when this delivery arrived. Two huge tea chests. You know how big a tea chest is?'

I nod, light a cigarette.

'Well, they are from your grandmother, from your dad's mum. She has had them shipped to us all the way from the Maldives. Huge. I open the first one and it is full, full to the brim with loose tea leaves! And I'm thinking What the bloody hell...? Then I read the note on the top. It says Search through the leaves. I start sifting through them. There are two rings for Dad and I, with that stone they have there, you know? It's black with engraving on it? Anyway. Silver bands. Lovely. And then I'm pulling out money. Loose notes. Notes! I couldn't believe it. I opened the second chest and this one is filled up, right up to the brim with tins. Tinned everything you can imagine. A whole chicken in a tin. Even tinned butter. A ham. Spam. I filled the cupboards. I cooked a proper meal. And that day your father came home and he had found some work. Doing night shifts in a bakery. When I showed him what his mother had sent he just sat down and cried.'

I go and make us some coffee and light another cigarette.

'There was another woman on the site who wasn't a gypsy. Pat. She didn't have their mentality. Her husband beat her up. She was so beautiful. I would see her pulled in to the caravan, shouting, it was horrible. When he drank you know. Then they would come out the next day, she with a black eye and they would be all happy, normal. She couldn't have children. She wanted one so much. He got another woman pregnant and gave her money so Pat could raise the child. Pat didn't mind that he did that. She was so happy. But it has a sad ending. I'll tell you later.'

'What was he like?' I ask.

'He was the loveliest man. Really lovely.'

'But he beat his wife up.'

'Yes, when he drank. It was terrible. Pat taught me a lot. She would explain what was going on. I was so young and so bewildered by everything in England. You should have seen their funerals. So elegant. Everyone in black. They would build this room where the body would lie for a week. So much money would be spent. Then they would get roaring drunk and fight and destroy each others caravans. I would lock myself in. The next day they would be out there helping each other to rebuild things, fix things. Everything fine again. I said to Pat, “Why do they do it?” She said, “Its how they are. That's how they let out steam.” It was the same with the weddings. They buy the couple a new caravan, all in cash, always cash, they fill it with everything they need. And the best. Crown Derby. Then after the wedding, when they had been drinking for hours around the fire Pat would say, “Time to lock yourself in.” And I'd watch through the window as they destroyed the new caravan, tore it apart. Broke everything. The next day, yes, a new caravan, new things. Everything fine again.'

I sit there picturing it. The immediacy of their lives. I notice a shaft of light falling over the red carpet.

'I did some jobs with them. They took me on some jobs to make a little money. One was billing. We'd have all these flyers to deliver door to door. Pat and I would travel somewhere quite far away and deliver to a few streets then Pat would shove the rest, huge piles of flyers in to a bin and say “Fuck this for a lark, let's go to the pub.” We had to deliver a few so some people would show up for the sales.'

Mum laughs, head thrown back.

'And tatering, that was the other job. Potato picking. The first time I went I left your brother with one of the gypsy women. They showed me how to hold the basket between my thighs and follow behind the tractor. As the potatoes were turned over and up out of the soil we would gather them. We would all end up with tater legs. You know? Bow legged from the basket. Afterwards we went to a supermarket and the people sneered at us. They whispered; “Bloody Gypo's”. I said “I'm not a bloody Gypo!” And Zack, he was funny, he would say “No! She's a Romany!” We would be covered in mud from the field. When we got back the woman told me your brother had run away. I grabbed her top, “What do you mean he's run away? He's three!” I saw the river, the train track, I was going mad. “You haven't been looking for him?” I raged. She was cowering. Zack, he used to make this sucking noise with his mouth, a lot of them did it, it meant “hey” or “yes” or “no”. He made this noise “choos” and nodded towards the underneath of the caravan. “I spot a little chavi,” he said. Chavi is Romany for boy.'

I think a bit about how we've appropriated that word and made it something bad. Chav. Chavs.

'Your brother had been hiding. I said to him, “Why? What happened?” He told me she had shouted at him. She probably shouted at all the kids but your brother wasn't used to that. You know he was a little king. I told Zack I wasn't going tatering again. I couldn't leave your brother. He said we could just take him with us. I wasn't sure, you know, with tractors and all, but he said it was fine. He said, “Pack him a bag of toys.” We made him an area by the van and Zack dug him some ground to play with. He had his little tractor and some spades, toy ones. At lunch we had sandwiches and a flask of tea. To your brother this was a big picnic. So much fun. They all loved him. One day the farmer asked if he could take your brother on the tractor with him. Oh, can you imagine. For a little boy it was so exciting. He sat on the farmers lap and held the wheel and believed he was driving. All the time he would say to me, “Mum. We goin' tatering' today?” He sounded like them too.'

The shaft of light through the window is bright now, making me squint, warming my face. I close my eyes and see an orange glow. I can feel this pressure I've been carrying around for weeks lift a little from my chest. 

'They had these ferocious dogs. Guard dogs really. They were terrifying. Your brother would curl up on the floor with them. Ha! Even the dogs bloody knew! One of the women used to come and see me for a coffee. She would always say “Got a little whiskey to put in it?” I usually had a baby bottle of something. I didn't really drink then. I'd pour it in. She'd say, “Just tell me if you don't have any, I can always bring some.” She would read my hand. I was so confused in those days. I would be watching her thinking How can she see anything in my hand? What is she doing? She would nod and mutter and one time she said, “Ah your chavi is going to be ill. But its okay, just a bad cold.” So of course then your brother gets flu. He was so unwell. They queued outside the caravan with baskets of fruit. Baskets! With beautiful ribbons tied around them. “He'll be okay,” they'd say.

Your father too, he got very ill with this flu and the men all came. So many men came through that caravan that day. All with a bottle of some concoction, brandy and whiskey and lemon and so forth. Your father was taken aback. They never stayed. They would just come and say, “Drink it. I want the bottle back.” It was their way of making sure he took his medicine. They never took thank you's. They never made a fuss. In and out. Your father was paralytic by the time they were finished with him.'

I watch mum light a cigarette and inhale, her head tilted to one side and up to the sky, lost in thought. 'What about Pat and the baby?' I ask.

'Oh that was such a sad story', she says.