cheekbones and an oval face. Her hair was still dark but Connie could see a few grey hairs and she had tired eyes. It alarmed her to see that her mother had lost weight. Her clothes positively hung on her. Gwen had married Connie’s father Jim Dixon in 1919 when she was only eighteen and bore him two children, Kenneth, now twenty-three, and Connie aged twenty-one. 1936 was an eventful year. First she’d had Pip, then soon after their father had died after a long illness, and Kenneth had left home abruptly. Her father’s illness had sapped them of all their money and because they were living in a tithed cottage, Gwen and Connie would have been homeless if Ga hadn’t come to the rescue. In exchange for housework, Gwen and Connie moved in with her in her small cottage in the same village. A couple of years later, and much to Connie’s surprise, Gwen had married Clifford Craig, a man she had thought was only a nodding acquaintance. Their union had produced Mandy now aged six and the exact image of her mother. Gwen held out her arms and, dropping her case on the mat, Connie went to her.
Behind her, a commanding voice boomed out of the sitting room. ‘Gwen? Is that Constance?’
Connie grinned and ignoring her great aunt’s calls, she deliberately stayed in her mother’s warm embrace for several more minutes. ‘It’s sooo good to see you, Mum.’
‘And you too,’ said Gwen. ‘Where’s Emmett? I half expected him to be with you.’
Connie shook her head. ‘I’m not with him anymore, Mum.’
Her mother looked concerned.
‘It’s all right,’ Connie said quickly. ‘It wasn’t very serious and we lost touch soon after VE Day.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gwen shaking her head sadly. ‘I thought he seemed like a good man.’
Connie couldn’t argue with that. She had wanted Emmett to get in touch again but it never happened. She had eventually written to his last known address only to have her letter returned to her unopened. Someone had written in the top left-hand corner, ‘Unknown at this address’. Connie had been upset, of course, but what could she do? She had cried. She had gone over and over their last date in her mind, Saturday night at the pictures followed by a fish and chip supper on a park bench, but there was nothing to say why he hadn’t contacted her again. Maybe his mother had taken a turn for the worse, or, perish the thought, maybe she had died. Connie had no idea where she lived so there was little point in fretting about it. ‘Well, it’s all over now,’ she said again.
‘If that’s you, Constance,’ Ga called imperiously, ‘come in here where I can see you.’
Gwen kissed her daughter and let her go, the two of them rolling their eyes in sympathetic unison.
‘Come on,’ her mother smiled, ‘or we’ll never hear the last of it.’
Connie advanced but her mother caught her arm. ‘Shoes.’
Connie bent to unlace her shoes. Pip watched her and Connie patted his side again.
‘You certainly fooled Mum,’ she whispered, ‘but you don’t fool me. We’ll go for a walk later, okay?’ Ignoring her, the dog yawned in a bored way and sauntered towards the kitchen where he flopped into his basket.
‘Hello Ga,’ Connie said cheerfully as she walked into the sitting room.
‘What took you so long?’ said Ga, feigning her disapproval. ‘And what were you whispering about out there?’
‘Mum was asking me about Emmett, that’s all,’ said Connie, ‘and I was explaining that it’s all off.’
Connie kissed her proffered cheek. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry,’ she said into Connie’s neck. ‘I didn’t really take to him.’
Olive Dixon was a formidable woman. She was solidly built with spade-like hands from working the small market garden, which brought in the lion’s share of the family income. Unlike most women of her age, her sunburnt face was relatively free of wrinkles and she wore her steel grey hair piled on the top of her head in a flat squashed bun.
‘What the devil have you done to your hair?’ she frowned.
‘Don’t you like it?’ said Connie.
‘Indeed I do not,’ said Ga. ‘With all those silly curls you look like something out of a Greek tragedy.’
Connie chose to ignore her. Usually when Olive said jump, everybody said, how high. Ever since Gwen and Connie had come to live with her after Jim Dixon died, she had quickly established herself as the undoubted head of the family. When Clifford and Gwen married in 1938, he had tried to exert his authority, but at a mere five feet, Olive towered over everybody by the sheer force of her personality. They had moved from Patching to Goring to make a completely new start but because Ga had bought the Belvedere Nurseries and the house they all lived in, Gwen and Clifford were expected to run everything, while she remained firmly in charge.
‘I’ll get the tea,’ said Gwen, leaving the room.
Ga was sitting at her beloved writing bureau and Connie noticed for the first time that her right leg was raised up on a pouf. Her knee was very swollen.
‘Ouch, that looks painful,’ said Connie reaching out.
‘Don’t touch it!’ Olive cried. ‘I’m waiting for Peninnah Cooper.’
Connie took in her breath. ‘The gypsies are here?’
‘They turned up about a week ago,’ said Olive. ‘Reuben parked the caravan down by the lay-by near the field.’
‘And Kez?’
Ga pursed her lips. ‘I never did understand why you wanted to hang around with that ignorant girl. Yes, she’s here too. She’s married now, with children.’
Connie was thrilled. She couldn’t wait to see her old childhood friend. Kez a wife and mother … Imagine that …
The gypsies had been a part of her life as far back as she could remember. When the family lived at Patching, they had turned up at different times of year to work in the fields.
The Roma like Kez and Peninnah had no time for other travellers like the fairground showman, the circus performer or the Irish tinkers, because they felt they had given them a bad name. The Roma were in a class of their own. Normally they didn’t even mix socially with Gorgias, a name they gave all house dwellers, which is what made Kez and Connie’s friendship all the more unusual. They had met as children during the short periods of time that Kez went to Connie’s school. Because Kezia’s parents always kept to the familiar patterns, Connie would wait in the lane in early May when the bluebells came out in profusion in the local woods. Kezia and her family would pick them by the basketful, tie them into bunches held together by the thick leaves and hawk them around Worthing. Connie was allowed to help with the picking and tying but her father drew the line at selling what God had given to the world for free. It was always a bad time when the season was over, but Kez would be back in the autumn to harvest in the local apple orchards.
Everything changed in 1938. Kezia’s mother had died, old before her time. Then there was that business with Kenneth, after which Connie’s mother married Clifford and they had moved to Goring.
‘Why is Pen coming?’ Connie asked.
‘She’s
