the potter, Daisy and Gonk

On the lane that twists its way past the Daffodil Lion, there is only one other building – a large Victorian farmhouse with a converted barn. The farm fell out of use in the 1930s, after the farmer died. He had four sons, but three were killed near Passchendaele and one was locked away in an asylum (nerves shredded by his experience in the trenches and the ‘therapy’ that followed).

The bodies of the three dead sons were never recovered, and some years after the war, the farmer travelled to Flanders to see the area where his sons had died. He was warned not to walk across the fields where they marched to their deaths because of the danger of unexploded munitions. But he did.

The battlefields were covered in massive hollows and humps, bomb craters and trenches softened by grass, nettles and ragwort. From the tower of the nearby church, the landscape looked as if it had been scraped at by giant badgers and moles. It was only when the farmer got into the middle of the field, and clambered down into a crater 50 feet deep, that he realised the power of the shells that had blown his sons apart.

The farmer who owned the land explained in broken English that, the previous year, he had tried to plough one of the flatter areas. But it was impossible because of the body parts and munitions that still lay beneath the surface. He showed his English counterpart the orange earth peppered with pale fragments of bone and chalk thrown up by the mines and shells, a pile of rusted grenades, shrapnel and rotting wooden boards.

Although the father of the three soldiers died three years after his visit to Flanders, his life as good as left him as he stood there, spinning slowly around searching each horizon for some reason why his boys had been taken away. But, of course, he found no reason, just that endless view, still stripped of hedges and trees and buildings and humanity. And as he trudged from the circle of flattened weeds, he did not leave death behind, but started his own slow march towards it.

The farmer returned home and continued to tend his herd, and on the outside seemed as taciturn as ever. But he’d been infected by what he’d seen, and was slowly eaten away from within. One frosty morning, having walked the cattle back to the far field after milking, the farmer told his wife that he felt tired and went for a lie down. She discovered him lying there, a few minutes after their normal time for lunch, cold as the pale of water she’d just pumped from the well. A ventricular irregularity was recorded as the cause of death. The doctor explained, ‘His brain was no longer sending the right messages to his heart.’ But the farmer’s wife didn’t need a physician to tell her that.

She drew the curtains as the doctor drove away. Soon the cattle were sold and, over time, the farmer’s wife lost touch with the farming community around her. The farm had a brief reprieve during the Second World War when its fields were cultivated for potatoes and carrots and the house became a home for land girls. But after they had gone, the building soon fell into ruin

People guessed the reclusive farmer’s wife had moved away or passed on to join her husband. Brambles covered the cow shed, old machinery rusted in the yard and the windows became cracked and cobwebbed. Passers by on their way to and from the Daffodil Lion sometimes said they saw ghostly figures appearing at the windows. But these reports were put down to the effects of drink and moonlight.

However, so many parishioners were adamant they had seen faces in the ruined farm house, eventually in the mid sixties (frightened by the prospect of parochial paganism) a vicar was sent from St Michael’s with a flask of holy water to exorcise the building. He discovered the farmer’s wife still living there. How she’d survived, no one knew. She was dried up like a dormant seed, buried deep in the soil of her solitude and sadness, her clothes wrapped hard and tight to her skin, and her skin wrapped the same way around her bones.

The church arranged food and help for the farmer’s wife and tried to persuade her to move to somewhere with electricity and a flushing toilet, where she could be cared for properly, but she refused to leave. She eventually passed away and was discovered by a church visitor collapsed on the lounge floor one Tuedsay surrounded by branches in front of a dead fire.

The undertaker just picked her up and carried her out under one arm, like a parcel of kindling. Her remaining son (the shell-shocked ‘survivor’) was never traced, having been swallowed by the system many years earlier. And eventually a nephew from Yeovil inherited the derelict buildings and the land.

The farm was sold with planning permission to Geoffrey Tennyson in 1972 when Municipal City Insurance (for whom Geoffrey had recently been made South West Sales Manager) relocated its offices from central London to Westing and renamed itself Provincial Life.

The farmhouse was completely modernised in a way that fitted Geoffrey’s new found managerial status (although the renovation was funded by money from his wife’s family). The barn was converted into a garage and the dried slurry on the front yard was dug away and covered in a deep layer of Berkshire flint.

Geoffrey knew the history of the building, but being a staunch church goer was untroubled by the talk of ghosts. Each night he said a short prayer for the family of the farmer who had lived in the farm before him (and the boys in his own Squadron who had been shot down during the Second World War). He imagined them all singing together in one vast heavenly choir, and lived contentedly in the farmhouse with his wife Elizabeth and his two girls, Beth and Rachel.

The girls attended the local school each day, and during weekends and holidays played in the cool room at the back of the house and the large paddock behind it, which was rented out as grazing for horses. After much clamouring from the two girls, Geoffrey and his wife bought a pony and a horse, which they would trot up and down the lane and through the woods and bridleways that stretched between them and the pub at the far end of the lane.

Each night, the girls would lie in bed dreaming of gymkhanas and point-to-point. They would sometimes be woken by cars and motorbikes passing to and from the Daffodil Lion, and lie watching pools of light pass across the walls. But they soon learned the distinctive sound of each engine and found the familiar tones of the passing traffic a comfort rather than a disturbance.

Eventually, the girls grew up and left for University - Beth for Oxford and Rachel for Exeter. But their parents were equally proud of them. Around the same time, Provincial Life (which had since become Westingshire Life) was taken over by a large Canadian Insurance group and Geoffrey, who had become UK Sales Director, was offered a very comfortable early retirement package, which his wife convinced him to take with little argument.

The company still let him park his Jaguar in the company car park each alternate Saturday when they went shopping to Westing. And he made a tidy profit on his shares following the takeover, which paid for a round the world trip that took him to Thailand, Australia and the Seychelles (when the furthest he’d ever been before was Belgium).

Geoff and his wife returned disorientated from their travels. And for the first time the house did seem haunted, haunted by the ghost of his former life - the girls, the ponies, the drive to work in his XJ6, the meetings, the long lunches on Thursday afternoons. He started to smell petrol and photocopiers, hear the laughter of men and children, and taste the Malt whisky and stilton mushrooms they’d served at the Old Bell. The sensations seemed so real he though he was going crazy.

He started trying to draw cartoons again, satirical sketches of popular figures (a talent which he’d had since a boy). But now he finally had the time, he no longer had the inclination. Besides, those so-called personalities - the poiliticians, the movie stars, the cricketers - no longer seemed worthy of caricature. And no one did proper cartoons anymore. Just scribbles.

He cancelled his subscription to Punch and fell into a deep depression. He missed his job. He missed the girls. He felt like he was wasting his time lounging around, when he could be going straight to heaven. And for the first time he asked himself, what if there wasn’t anything after death? What then was the point of any of it?

He went to see the vicar at St Michaels, who just listened and smiled as he poured tea, then offered him a part-time job as a verger. Soon summer came and with his duties at the church and the demands of the garden he settled grudgingly into a new routine, which was at once melancholy and yet strangely warm and satisfying.

And so Geoffrey and Elizabeth lived in peace, until that next spring when travellers broke down a rotten gate and moved into one of the fields at the end of the lane. And although he could not see or hear them on a regular basis, their presence nagged away at him, and he would walk down to peer over the hedge at their dilapidated buses and caravans. He rang the council and the police and the farmer who owned the field, but none of them seemed willing or able to take action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Little by little, everything began to annoy him – his wife singing hymns out of tune as she made the tea, the spider mites attacking his Wisteria, the stupidity of the parish council, the inane BBC comedies funded by his bloody licence fees.

One Thursday morning, he was in the garden checking if his cassock was dry. Some geriatric fool had splashed it with mud pulling away from St Michael’s the previous Sunday. He could swear he could still see the stain, even after Elizabeth had washed it twice. She said he was just imagining it, and it would look as good as new when it had dried. But when he checked his cassock, hanging on the line, he discovered hundreds of tiny grey flies covering the white tunic – a plague of them.

As Geoffrey brushed them angrily away, he was disturbed by a rustling sound behind him. He turned, and was slightly startled to see a man and a young girl right in the middle of his garden. The man was about thirty and unshaven, his unkempt, blonde hair knotted like some Rastafarian. He was dressed in Commando trousers and big boots, the tongues hanging out like thirsty dogs, and he was draped in a stretched and patched grey jumper that would not be fit to line a dog’s basket.

One hand held a ten-gallon drum of dirty, white plastic, and the other was grasped by a grubby little girl in a multi-coloured patchwork dress and a hand-knitted blue cardigan. The girl wore unlaced pale blue plimpsols, the torn toe of which she was digging into his lawn.

As Geoffrey eyed them up and down, his surprise rapidly gave way to anger.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he barked. “This is private property.”

The man smiled, his eyes twinkling deflector shields.

“We’re sorry to trouble you. Do you have an outside tap I could use to fill this?”

“No,” said Geoffrey, glaring at them.

“You do have,” said the man, eyes still smiling. He gestured to the tap on the wall. “It’s over there attached to that hose by your feet. Look, it will take me sixty seconds. Then I’ll be out of your way, and leave you in peace. I promise.”

Geoffrey felt his face start to twitch. The bloody cheek of it! These gypsies or travellers or whatever it was they called themselves, only had the freedom to grow their hair and roam about the place like bloody tramps, because of the missions he’d flown. Yes, he’d dropped bombs on Dresden. And if he hadn’t, they’d all be dressed in brown uniforms now speaking German. There wouldn’t be any ‘peace convoys’ invading other people’s property, and being so bloody cheeky, then. Oh, no. And sometimes he thought it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing!

Before he could share the thoughts frothing in his head, the little girl piped up.

“Please mister purple car. My dad needs the water for his vase.”

“It’s all right, Daisy. We’ll try at the pub.”

“Oh dad. I don’t want to walk all the way up there.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a piggy back.”

“No.” The girl sat down cross-legged on the lawn.

The man placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

“Come on Daisy, we need to go now and leave this gentleman to his washing.”

The girl shrugged his arm off.

“Not going,” she said.

Geoffrey sighed.

“Look,” he said gruffly. “If you need a little bit of water to go in a vase, you can have it. OK just this once, but in future…”

“Thank you, but it’s OK,” said the man. “We’ll trouble you no further. We can go to the pub.”

“Too far,” said the girl stubbornly, putting her elbows on her knees and lowering her head.

Geoffrey was exasperated by the girl’s wilful behaviour.

“Shouldn’t you be in school,” he snapped at her.

“Don’t go to school,” she said.

Geoffrey shook his head dismissively.

“Her mother teaches her,” said the man.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Geoffrey, sour-faced.

“No, she is a qualified primary teacher,” said the man. “She taught before we…well, before.”

The man’s eyes stopped twinkling, but Geoffrey didn’t notice. He was too busy picking flies from his cassock.

“Well it’s not on having hundreds of kids running wild all day,” said Geoffrey. “I was turning at the end of the lane there on Tuesday morning, where you camp or whatever you call it is, and one of them shot right across the front of the car like a rabbit. If I hadn’t had my wits about me…”

“I’m sorry about that,” said the man quietly. “But we don’t have hundreds of children.”

“May died,” said the little girl matter of factly.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” muttered Geoffrey.

“Leukaemia,” said the little girl.

Geoffrey stopped picking at flies, and turned slowly to face the man.

“Daisy!” said the man sharply. “I’m sorry, it’s her older sister. A couple of years ago. She likes to tell everyone.”

“Oh,” said Geoffrey. He turned to look at the man, with sudden sympathy. “How old was she?”

“She would have been nine this February.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Geoffrey. Then something strange happened. Suddenly, after all those months (years, in fact) he felt tears start to well up in his eyes. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

He turned away and patted his face on his cassock, but the tears wouldn’t stop. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. Pull yourself together,’ he told himself. But it was no good.

Geoffrey started to gather up the hose.

“Come on Daisy, time to go now,” said the man.

“No, no,” growled Geoffrey, his back still to the man. “Give me the drum.”

“It’s OK. I don’t need your sympathy,” said the man – not in a grudging way, just stating the fact.

“I know,” said Geoffrey. “But you do need my water. That’s’ what you came here for. It will only take me a minute, then you can be on your way. It will save you little girl the walk.”

“You’re very kind,” said the man, offering Geoffrey the white plastic drum. Geoffrey half turned to take it from the man, hiding the redness of his eyes.

He inserted the hose into the mouth of the drum and walked over to the wall and turned on the tap.

“Will a couple of vase-fulls do it?”

“If you can fill it up please,” said the man.

“You must have a lot of flowers.”

The man looked momentarily confused then laughed.

“Oh, no, no…I’m not filling vases, I’m making them. I’m a potter. The clay dries out fast on days like this.”

He gazed up at the sun.

“Oh, I see,” said Geoffrey. He turned the tap full on, and the water splattered noisily against the plastic. He looked up at the man. “I’m sorry I was a little gruff with you. It’s just…we enjoy it being so quiet here, and with the fence broken down and all the caravans, you think the worse sometimes. Are you all artists?”

“Some,” said the man, nodding. “I was a peripatetic art teacher. I travelled around the schools teaching three-dimensional arts, sculpture and pottery. But when May became ill I gave it up to spend time with her. And afterwards, they decided to reorganise their budgets and all the peripatetic posts were cut.”

Geoffrey nodded sympathetically as the water bubbled towards the top of the drum.

“So you chose a life on the open road instead?”

“No, we didn’t chose it. We’d spent all our money and were over-extended on the mortgage. And with neither of us working…”

“You could have had insurance against that.”

“Oh we did. But they wouldn’t pay out. Said we had become voluntarily unemployed. So, we lost the house.” The man shrugged. “We ended up sharing one room in a B and B, which was far from ideal. We had some friends who had a bus to sell and here we are.”

“Ah,” said Geoffrey. He reached out to turn off the hose.

“Which insurance company were you with…?”

“Have you had problems too?”

“On occasion.”

The man told him the name of his brokers. Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t one that Provincial Life usually dealt with. He reached down to lift the plastic drum. He could hardly shift it from the ground.

“Steady,” said the man hurrying over. “You’ll damage your back.”

“I’m OK,” said Geoffrey, red exploding across his face as he shuffled forward with the drum.

He put it down in front of the man, who lifted it up like it was a half-bag of shopping.

“Many thanks,” he said, as he made his way to the gate with short quick steps “I appreciate it.”

“Look, any time,” said Geoffrey. “If there’s anything you need. I mean, you in particular, not everyone. Well, unless there’s some emergency. But if you need more water for your pottery, there’s no need to go all the way to the pub. You know where the hose is.”

“That’s really good of you.” He turned to his daughter. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Geoffrey smiled at her.

“No problem, my dear. So, it’s a pottery lesson this afternoon?”

“We’re making a vase to go on May’s grave.”

“Daisy!” said the man.

“Well, I hope it turns out very well. In fact, I’m sure it will be wonderful. You’ve got a very clever father.”

The man nodded and gave a small wave. Then he took the girl by the hand, as Geoffrey held the gate open for them. Geoffrey watched them round the corner of the barn, and stood for a few moments listening to them crunch their way across the Berkshire flint until they reached the lane.

When he got inside, Elizabeth asked.

“Who was that you were talking to? It wasn’t the potato man was it? I had to throw half of the last sack away.”

“No, no,” said Geoffrey, as he walked into the hall. “It was just some one passing by.”

And he locked himself in the downstairs bathroom and wept.

What is happening to me, wondered Geoffrey? No one I know has died. His daughters were just a couple of hours drive away. Having the time of their lives, probably. But they were both sensible girls, thankfully. It was ridiculous to feel this loss. What was wrong with him? Maybe it was the start of dementia. The signs were there; the vivid and unexpected memories, the irrational depression, the feeling of being adrift without a bloody paddle.

He sighed and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt as if in just a few short months he had aged ten years - like time-lapse photography of rotting vegetables. Even as he stared at his reflection, the lines seemed to carve deeper into his face – creating a stranger; some elderly man who had nothing to do with him. He turned away disgusted with himself. He just had to fight it. A bit of stiffness in his legs he could face, even a heart problem, but losing his mind – he’d rather shoot himself.

There was a tapping at the door.

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey? Are you in there? Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course, I’m bloody all right,” he shouted. The anger in his voice shocked even himself. Elizabeth didn’t like anger. “Sorry…sorry, dear. You startled me. It’s these blasted piles.”

“Oh,” she said. “They must be very painful.” He could imagine her trying not to smirk. He could hear it in her voice. But on this occasion, it was a source of comfort rather than agitation.

“Yes, sorry. They are. Shouldn’t have shouted. Blasted things.”

“Do you want a hand with the ointment.”

“I’ll be OK. Thank you, dear. Thank you. Won’t be a minute now.”

Elizabeth, could tell of course, it wasn’t just the piles. After forty years, they could read each other’s minds. Maybe that was why they’d never really talked about these things. Didn’t have to, the way other people did. They knew each other well enough. Besides, there was nothing to say. It was just age. Nothing you could do about it. You just had to accept it.

To Geoffrey’s relief, over the next few days, he began to feel a bit better. He couldn’t say exactly what had changed. But something had. He began to get out and about more. He would drive to the town centre and look at the calligraphy pens and inks in the art shop, or the new music centres and washing machines in the electrical shop.

Sometimes he would indulge the young salesmen, patiently letting them explain the benefits of buying a bigger, more expensive fridge freezer (even though he had no intention of doing so). The language they used was different - the traditional politeness and restraint of his day, had been replaced by a more brash, insistent approach – but the sales technique, the psychology, was the same as ever (although he could never imagine why he’d need a freezer ‘big enough to hold a polar bear’). Still, they’d learn, as he had, to analyse the situation a bit quicker, think on their feet a bit more, and not waste their time on people like him. And he always left the shop with a wry smile.

On the way back from town, he would stop off at the new Homeworld hyperstore on the ring road. He would pop in for a tin of undercoat or a coat hook, and happily lose himself down the aisles for three hours. He was certain Elizabeth thought he must be having an affair (however ridiculous that notion was at his age), but there was little chance of romance blossoming among the glue guns and tap washers.

In truth, one rather handsome lady (in her late forties, he guessed) had smiled at him in the mower and strimmer department. She looked rather lost (as if recently divorced or widowed) unused to choosing between an electric hover or a self-propelling rotary.

He’d been tempted to sidle over and offer her assistance, a coffee over the Qualcast catalog in the Homeworld cafeteria, perhaps. But he’d only have made a fool of himself. In his prime, he’d had plenty of opportunity for all that nonsense, plenty. But he’d never let Elizabeth and the girls down, not once. So why, in God’s name, would he feel the need to now?

Some days, instead of going into town he would head for the village, for bread, milk, baking foil - whatever Elizabeth thought of to get him out of the house. By the most direct route, the village shop in Upper Longthorn was only five minutes away, but he would often head off at a tangent, or even in the opposite direction, meandering at random down this lane and that, increasing the journey time to half an hour.

On clear days he would sometimes pull in at the entrance to a field, and gaze across the valley at the farms and the woodland – the shapes made by the shadows of the trees, the ancient paths marked out by frost, the wind turbines slowly spinning on top of Gibbet Hill.

When it rained, he would just drive, as if the road were an irresistible river carrying him away. But he always turned the right direction at critical junctions, peering carefully out past the slapping windscreen wipers, ensuring that his journey took him safely home.

He’d never known it rain so much as it did that spring. But maybe he had just never noticed it before being cooped up in the office, or on the way somewhere, with his mind always on other things.

One particularly torrential morning, having cut-short his drive, Geoffrey was about half-a-mile from the entrance to the lane, when he saw a group of three people walking along the edge of the road. They caught his eye because one of them was wearing what he presumed was a fluorescent pink hat. It was only when he got nearer that he saw the hat was in fact hair, which stood up in spikes like that of an electrocuted clown. And he realised the people were from the travellers camp.

The people made no attempt to step onto the verge as they saw him coming, and in fact stepped into the middle of the road to skirt a huge puddle. He was tempted to drive right through the puddle and soak the buggers. But as he slowed down to glare at them, he saw that it was the potter and his daughter Daisy.

He braked rapidly, carefully drove around the puddle, pulled into the side of the road, and got out of the car to beckon them toward him. They must have recognised the car, he thought, as they were already jogging down the road.

The potter smiled as he neared him.

“Do you want a lift?” asked Geoffrey. The girl and the pink-haired clown lady were already clambering inside.

“Thanks,” said the potter chirpily, sliding into the front passenger seat. ”Hope we don’t make your car too wet.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Geoffrey, as he pulled away (although he was already thinking about what damage their dirty damp clothes might do to the seats, and how long the smell would linger).

He sniffed deliberately, feigning a cold. He could smell something like stale incense, only more pungent. It mingled with the familiar stench of poverty that the old ladies from the council houses carried with them into the church, and a more earthy aroma of mud and damp clothes, an almost animal smell like wet dogs.

“Not much of a morning to be out and about,” said Geoffrey.

“We were going to catch the bus into town, but it never came.”

“The Swallow line is not known for its reliability,” said Geoffrey.

He had never taken the bus himself, but he had met it enough times on his circuitous drives; either pootling along a lane at twenty mph or coming towards him at ninety on the wrong side of the road – never arriving anywhere at the right time.

“More like the lame duck line,” muttered the pink-haired lady in the back.

Geoffrey looked at her in the rear view mirror. Her pink spikes were now hanging like the leaves of an Aloe. Two long streaks of mascara ran down her face as if she was crying ink, and she was in the process of yawning. But beneath the hair and her weariness he could tell she was pretty like her daughter.

He indicated and turned into the lane.

“Shall I drop you by the gate to the field?”

“That would be great,” said the potter.

He pulled in on the verge and they all clambered out of the car.

“Cheers,” said the potter.

“Anytime,” said Geoffrey. “And if you ever need to fill up your water…”

“Cheers, pal, I might take you up on that later in the week.”

Sure enough, that Thursday the potter came and filled his white drum. He didn’t knock at the door and ask. But, he did wave in a cheery way, and mimed doffing a cap, as Geoffrey looked at him from the window of the utility room. Geoffrey waved back and smiled to himself. Not his kind of people, of course, but, pleasant enough in their own way.

Spring slowly became summer. The fields turned yellow with rape. The verges erupted in greens and pinks, and whites and blues. Across the valley the piglets sunbathed outside their rows of nissan huts, and once every few days the potter came and silently filled his white drum.

Then, one morning there was a knock at the door, and when Geoffrey opened it, the potter was stood there.

“Hello, how are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Geoffrey “very well, in fact.” He was looking forward to the return of the girls from Uni the following week. “Is there a problem with the hose? I’ve been spraying the leeks, so the nozzle may still be locked on the sprinkler setting.”

“No, no problem with that,” the potter looked slightly bashful. “I was wondering if you’d like to drop by for a cup of tea one afternoon this week, to the caravan, as a way of saying thank you, for the water and the lifts and everything.”

“You don’t have to do that,” said Geoffrey. “It was only the one lift, and the water’s no problem.”

“It was Daisy’s idea,” said the potter. “And don’t worry, we don’t bite …actually, the dogs might…No, I’m only kidding. You’ll be fine.”

“It’s very kind of you to ask, but really…”

“It’s just…well, we’ve got a little something for you, and I’d be happy to drop it round. But, Daisy and Gonk, wanted you to see where we live…”

“Gonk?”

“My wife – because of the hair.”

“I see,” said Geoffrey. He recalled the girls once having one of the stunted toys with strands of pink nylon sprouting from its head.

“Her real name’s Elspeth,” said the potter, “but she’s always hated it.”

Geoffrey though it was a lovely name. He’d known an Elspeth when he was in the RAF, before he’d married Elizabeth. He smiled fondly to himself. The potter grinned back, thinking that Geoffrey was amused by his wife’s nickname. In fact, Geoffrey couldn’t for the life of him imagine why any woman in their right mind would want to be likened to a hideous plastic troll. Maybe she wasn’t in her right mind, or maybe it was just another way to provoke a reaction. Probably, both.

“So would Thursday morning, at eleven suit you?”

“Yes, yes,” said Geoffrey, vaguely. He was still thinking of Elspeth, his Elspeth.

“Great, we’ll see you then then.”

“What, oh, right, yes…oh” said Geoffrey. He suddenly realised that he’d inadvertently agreed to visit the camp. “Wait…”

But the potter was already trudging away down the gravel drive and didn’t hear him.

He didn’t even know which their caravan was. And he had no desire whatsoever to visit it. But he supposed he had to now. It would be an education, at least. The vicar was always calling in at places like that. He was younger, of course, a different generation and a liberal to boot, too liberal, in Geoffrey’s view. But, he guessed, it was the Christian thing to do. And it would give him something to tell the girls when he picked them up at the weekend.

On Tuesday morning, Geoffrey decided to walk to the camp. It wasn’t far, and the day was warm (and he’d be happier knowing the car was locked up safely in the garage). He didn’t mention to Elizabeth where he was going. He just said he was off out for a stroll. She could tell her husband was up to something, but, as ever, she did not pry.

At the gate to the field, he paused. There was some kind of eviction notice, pinned to a nearby tree. Neither the council nor the traveller’s appeared to have acted upon it, so he decided not to waste any time on it either (and he hardly wanted any of them to catch him reading it, not if he was about to stride into their midst).

In the middle of the field was a collection of about six or seven buses and vans and caravans, arranged in a circle like a wagon train defending itself from Navajos. Although, bizarrely, the circle also included two tepees and what appeared to be a totem pole.

As Geoffrey approached the vehicles, he saw more wooden sculptures among the vehicles – eagles on nests of sawdust, a leaping dolphin and a half-finished Henry Moore-style figure, on which were perched two grubby children, who stared at him as he drew nearer.

Aside from the children, the camp seemed deserted, although a steaming kettle was suspended over a fire, suggested someone was at home.

Geoffrey cleared his throat nervously. “Hello there…which one is the, uhmmm…where do the potter and the lady with the pink hair live?”

One of the children, a small dark haired girl with big gold earrings, pointed at a brightly painted Leyland double decker.

“Thank you,” he said. He walked to the back of the bus, feeling like he was about to embark on some surreal day trip, when the potter appeared. He was shirtless and Geoffrey could see tattoos all the way up his wiry arms.

“You found us then.”

“Just about,” said Geoffrey, pausing.

“Come in,” said the potter.

“Geoffrey took a deep breath and followed him inside.

“You’ll have to excuse the clutter,” said the potter, as Geoffrey pushed his way through the curtain of patterned cloth that acted as a door. Geoffrey couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d walked in to find himself inside Dr Who’s tardis.

The downstairs of the bus had been converted into one open-plan living space beautifully decorated with antiques and paintings and pottery. There was a kitchen area with its own wood burning stove. All in all it was a beautifully warm, colourful and cosy home – like some delightful country cottage on wheels.

“Well, what a lovely place,” he murmured.

“We’re happy here,” said the potter. “Come up, Gonk and Daisy are waiting for you.”

Geoffrey followed the potter up spiral stairs to the upper area. It was dominated by an oak four poster with a hand-stitched quilt upon which silk swans flew above a stream of a million threads and sequins, all iridescent blues and greens.

On the bed sat Daisy nestled between the legs of Gonk, who wore a long skirt hitched up above the knees, and a vest with nothing beneath, so that he could not help but notice her nipples and full, rather sun-burned breasts. Her hair was now both green and pink and she smiled with the piercing eyes of a mad woman.

Geoffrey gave a small nod, and with a small cough, gazed around the room.

“What a lovely, lovely place,” he said. “I would never of thought…from the outside.” His voice trailed away. He suddenly felt rather out of place. But at that moment, Daisy jumped off the bed (causing the bus to shake slightly, setting off a gentle chinking of ornaments and chiming of bells). She scurried into a corner filled with large cushions, from which she retrieved a large vase.

The vase was a foot high, square in section. It was glazed in a fusion of blues and yellows, like molten daffodils.

“I made it,” she said.

Geoffrey, knelt down slowly and took the vase from her. It really was a quite stunning piece.

“Aren’t you clever,” he said. He smiled appreciatively at the potter, then stood up slowly and offered the vase to Gonk. “Maybe I better give it to your mum, she’ll keep it nice and safe for you.”

“It’s for you,” said Gonk.

“Oh no, I couldn’t. Really. It’s too much.”

“Don’t be daft,” said the potter. “We made it specially for you. Isn’t that right Daisy?”

“Yes,” said the little girl. She ran over to her father, and threw her arms around him with such conviction, that Geoffrey immediately felt the memory of his own daughter’s young limbs crushing his waist like hot pythons.

He set the vase carefully down on the edge of the bed, then started to reach in his pocket for his wallet.

“It’s a gift,” said the potter, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes of course,” said Geoffrey. He quickly picked up the vase. “It’s just so nice…I don’t see why I deserve this.”

“You don’t,” said Gonk, seriously. “But you can have it anyway.”

“Oh,” said Geoffrey.

Gonk suddenly laughed.

“It was a joke,” she said. “Just relax, and enjoy your vase.”

She took a tin from a small table beside the bed and pulled out a cigarette. She lit up and Geoffrey could smell the pungent aroma of what he guessed must be Marijuana.

He panicked slightly, and looked nervously back towards the stairs, as if half the Westingshire Constabulary were about to pile up them.

Gonk waved the cigarette at him.

“I guess you don’t, right?”

“Maybe, I should be going,” said Geoffrey.

“Don’t be silly. You’ve only just got here,” said the potter. He stepped over and put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Come on – bring your vase down and have some tea.”

“Mummy’s made you some cakes,” said Daisy.

Geoffrey glanced towards the stairs once again, then sighed.

“Of course,” he said. “That would be very kind.”

Walking home after three cakes and two large cups of spicy tea, Geoffrey felt slightly nauseous. But as he clutched the vase, he also felt suddenly happy. The sky seemed to be rushing past, faster than he was walking. And the rabbits, seemed to pause and grin at him, like something out of Beatrix potter, as they lolloped across the road.

The visit to the caravan must have unsettled him, he thought. But what unexpectedly delightful décor and what a beautiful vase! What colours! What a wonderful morning! He was looking forward to having lunch and telling Elizabeth all about it.

They put the vase in the kitchen, and filled it with wild flowers. Elizabeth also thought he should have paid some money for it. But as he explained to her (more than once) ‘they wouldn’t hear of it.’

The Saturday evening after Geoffrey had visited the campsite, he was wakened at three in the morning by the noise of rumbling engines and shouting from the lane. He opened the window to see the road blocked by a broken down Bedford van, which was being violently kicked by a man in a tatty green bomber jacket.

Geoffrey pulled on his dressing gown, slipped into his Wellingtons at the back door and took a torch out to the lane.

“Hello, hello, are you all right there?” he asked, He flicked the torchlight towards the man in the green jacket, who was looking under the bonnet of the Bedford.

The man turned to face him. He was unshaven and had the Ace of Spades tattooed clumsily between eyes full of blood.

“What does it fucking look like?" said the man.

Then he turned rudely away and shouted up the road towards a long line of shapes and dim lights (which Geoffrey presumed to be a convoy of similar vehicles).

"You cunts going to give me a push or what?"

A couple of dishevelled men skulked out of the shadows and half-heartedly put their backs to the Bedford's rear doors, and Geoffrey retreated back inside. He thought of calling the police. But what could he say? That a van had broken down outside his house and the driver was swearing at it. There was little crime in that. Besides the men in the van knew where he lived. They looked like the types that would happily put a brick through his greenhouse or set fire to the barn. And he was picking the girls up the next day, and he definitely didn’t want any kind of confrontation to spoil their summer.

For the next hour Geoffrey lay awake listening to the mens’ grumbling voices and engines growl down the lane. He wondered why they were driving that way. It crossed his mind that they might be travelling to the camp. He couldn’t believe it. They didn’t seem the types. However, the thought still nagged at him and, in the morning, he decided to drive down the lane just to check.

To his dismay, the verges were furrowed with tyre marks and when he reached the field, it was full of dilapidated vans. There seemed to be some kind of argument going on. He was going to go and check that the potter and his family were OK, but then thought better of it. There was little he could do to help, he had to leave to pick up the girls in twenty minutes and a man with tangled hair and tombstone teeth was giving him the evil eye. Best to get on his way and leave them to it he thought.

Over the next few days, the convoy was soon joined at the travellers camp by a couple of other groups of MOT-less vans and caravans, until in-all there were about forty vehicles in the field. The lady in the Spar at Upper Longthorn told him that there had been a fight at the Daffodil Lion. A group of the travellers had trailed mud and dogs into the bar, complained about the beer, and were rude to diners. The landlord had banned them, and they’d returned with iron bars and baseball bats and put him in hospital. They arrested one or two of the ringleaders, but no one wanted to give evidence and they were released on bail.

One morning, the girls discovered that the shed had been forced open. The new bikes Geoffrey had bought them were gone, as well as the lawn mower and various tools. Some of the tools were found scattered down the lane between his house and the camp. The police went to the camp, but had little luck in tracking down the other items.

One evening, soon after, Geoffrey was visited by a very senior policeman, who explained they were working on a ‘permanent solution to the problem’, and in the meantime gave him a crime number to quote on his household insurance.

The days went past and the permanent solution never materialised. The lady in the Spar at Upper Longthorn, said that almost every house between there and Fettlington had been attacked. St Michael’s had a medieval door stoved in with a sledge hammer and candlesticks, crosses and statues were taken. A man was stopped in the lane with a sawn-off shotgun in the boot and a woman was arrested trying to sell drugs outside Fettlington Junior School.

At that point, Geoffrey rang his sister, Judith, who lived in Dunster and asked if the girls might go and stay there for a couple of weeks, until the situation was sorted (as the police promised it shortly would be). Judith said she would gladly have the girls, but they were adamant they wanted to stay at home.

Geoffrey sometimes glimpsed the potter’s bus among the vans and trucks, as he hurried past the end of the lane in his car, but they never came to visit any more. He guessed they were either too embarrassed or intimidated by the behaviour of the new arrivals to show their faces. Or maybe they were showing solidarity with the new arrivals after he had reported that break-in to the police (although he couldn't really believe that they would have any sympathy for the scum who had come and destroyed their tranquil oasis).

Matters finally came to a head the Bank Holiday weekend, when the travellers held a huge rave that spilled into the fields surrounding Geoffrey’s house. He stood and watched young thugs roaring up and down the lane in their hot hatches, all with the same ubiquitous thud, thud, thud of ‘so called music’ pounding from their open windows. Eventually, so many cars arrived they turned the lane into one huge car park, completely trapping him in the house.

To his horror, Elizabeth told him on the Sunday morning that the girls had gone to ‘investigate’ the rave the previous evening and never returned. Having hurried towards the lane, he discovered a group of student types in sleeping bags in the open garage, and presumed they must be college friends of the girls. But they didn’t even know the girls, and when he asked them to leave, they just told him to ‘chill out’. He’d totally lost his temper then and threatened them with a garden fork. They all laughed mockingly at his tirade, but did grudgingly drag each other away down the lane (although not before one of the boys had quite belligerently peed against the wall of the house).

He called the police, who promised to send someone round to ‘watch over his premises’, but advised Geoffrey against going to look for the girls by himself or confronting anyone again.

“So I’m expected to be a prisoner in my own home?”

“For now,” said the officer. “Action will be taken as soon as the lane is clear.”

Three hours later a police constable turned up at the house. He looked younger than the girls and said that he was a ‘Special’. He joked that he was rather disappointed that he’d been asked to go on duty that weekend, as he was looking forward to the rave himself (and then seeing the look on Geoffrey’s face, explained that he was only joking, and had ‘better go and stay by the gate’.)

Early on Sunday evening, the girls came home. They were both dressed like gypsies and totally dishevelled. But when he shouted at Beth she just said, ‘not now dad, my head’s thumping.’ And when he rounded on Rachel for letting her get in that state, Elizabeth intervened and told him to go and check on Trevor.

“Who the hell is Trevor?” he asked.

“The nice young man from the police,” she said, and handed him a cup of tea and slices of cherry cake to take out to him.

Geoffrey went out muttering to himself, but cooled down as he chatted to Trevor, who let slip that as soon as the lane was clear of cars, they were going to send the SPG in.

“SPG?” asked Geoffrey.

Trevor mimed thumping an imaginary riot baton against his open palm.

“I’m not supposed to let on, sir. But take my word for it. They’ll sort those gypsy bastards out, good and proper.”

Geoffrey nodded. In normal circumstances, he would have not approved of a policeman swearing or advocating use of ‘unnecessary force’. However, on this occasion, he looked forward to Monday evening with relish.

It was, in fact, Tuesday evening, by the time the last of the cars had been cleared from the lane, leaving the ditches full of litter, like one long landfill site. But sure enough at just after ten, a line of police vans began to gather outside the house, and he let out a little cheer of relief.

As the night darkened around him, Geoffrey’s initial glee began to give way to dismay, as he watched the smiling, cropped-haired young policemen putting on their unmarked helmets, and laughing and joking as they tested the strength of their batons, and the weight of their shields. He started to feel a little concerned for the potter and his wife and daughter, although surely the police knew there were women and children down there.

He wondered if he should nip down the lane and ask to speak to whoever was in charge - offer to identify the half-dozen vehicles that had been at the camp initially, or at least the bus that the potter lived in. But he told himself to stop being such an interfering old fool. The police knew what they were doing. He guessed they would use the element of surprise and overwhelming force to go in and round-up the trouble makers. They’d probably been doing surveillance all these weeks, and knew exactly who they were after. The potter would be OK.

At just after midnight, Geoffrey counted about three or four hundred policeman marching down the lane in formation. They looked uncannily like news reels of Nazis marching through Paris. It was at once surreal and sickening, yet he also felt some of the excitement he’d felt while preparing for bombing raids - breath held, pulse racing, as the engines vibrated through the darkness.

The girls came outside to join him.

“What’s going on dad?”

“The police are just going to round up some of the trouble makers.”

“Facist pigs,” screamed Beth.

“Don’t like anyone having a good time, you bastards,” shouted Rachel.

“Girls, for God’s sake,” said Geoffrey. “Come inside, now. You’ll get us all arrested.”

“Wankers,” snarled Beth.

“Beth!” said Geoffrey. He didn’t even know his daughter knew that word. But when he looked at her, she was not the daughter he knew, just another student spoon fed on pop music and left-wing rubbish.

“Inside. Girls now.” He hollered and grabbed Beth roughly by the arm.

She immediately burst into tears and Rachel glowered at him.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

But they both went inside.

As he watched a group of policemen with dogs follow the ‘centurions’ down the road, he could hear the girls wailing in the kitchen – Beth showing Elizabeth the mark on her arm where he’d grabbed at her.

He sighed. What was he to do?

He stood by the gate for a long time, waiting for the girls to calm down, until a policeman came past and politely suggested that it was ‘best to stay inside.’ And he went back in.

He brushed his teeth and ignored the sound of music thumping belligerently from Beth’s room, just thankful that the girls had disappeared to their bedrooms. Then he slipped silently into bed beside Elizabeth and lay sleeping fitfully. After a couple of hours, he was woken by the sound of sirens. It sounded like a fleet of ambulances, but he supposed it must be police vans carting off the troublemakers. The sirens seemed to go on for an awful long time, and he was conscious that Elizabeth was awake beside him. But he said nothing, just prayed that it would soon all be over, and the area would once again return to peace.

At half-six, he got up and set off down the lane for the shop (partly to avoid the girls, and partly because, over the weekend, they’d run out of milk and bread, and he was damned if ‘those people’ were going to stop him enjoying a slice of toast and marmalade and a decent cup of tea for a third day running). As he approached the entrance to the field, the road was blocked by bollards, manned by three policemen wearing bullet proof jackets.

As he made to get out of the car, one of the policemen shouted at him. ‘Armed police.’

Instinctively, Geoffrey raised his arms, cowering slightly by the wing of his Citroen.

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t move,” said the policeman. With a mixture of shock and fear, he saw that another of the men had a gun trained on him.

Geoffrey froze as the third policeman came over and roughly frisked him.

“He’s clean,” said the policeman.

“What the hell’s going on?” said Geoffrey, lowering his arms.

“Just wait by the car please sir.”

The first policemen came over. He looked confused.

“How did you get through here sir?”

“I live at Malthouse farm, up the lane?”

“Ah, the old farmhouse up there, with the big garage?”

Geoffrey nodded.

The policeman looked relieved.

“I am sorry sir. We had a serious incident here last night. This area is supposed to be sealed off.”

“What happened?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that sir. If you can just turn the car round, we’ll contact you when it’s safe.”

Geoffrey sighed with irritation.

“I’ve been trapped in my house now with my family for the best part of four days. We’ve got no fresh food. I was told this would be sorted by Monday. In fact, I was told it would be dealt with months ago. Instead I’ve had to face weeks of…”

The policeman held up his hands.

“OK, OK Sir. Calm down now please. I’ll see what the situation is.”

The policeman spent ten minutes talking on his radio, while his colleagues stood and stared, expressionless, down the lane.

Eventually, the policeman returned to the car.

“OK sir, please drive slowly to the top of the lane and stop opposite the entrance to the field. They’ll be someone to meet you there and escort you through.”

“Yes, thank you, thank you very much.” He got back into the car and hurried off up the lane, worried that Elizabeth and the girls would start worrying where he had got to.

He reached the field, and pulled in behind a panda car on the verge opposite the gate, he couldn’t believe what he saw – it looked as if a plane had crash landed in the campsite. He got slowly out of the car and wandered over to the smashed gate in a state of shock. Every window in every vehicle was broken. Caravans had been tipped over.

Then he realised that the potter’s doudle decker bus was also on its side. Broken pottery and toys and ornaments were strewn around it, and Gonk's swan bedspread hung ripped from the remains of a wooden dolphin. A few travellers wandered aimlessly between the caravans or sat nursing injuries and smoking roll-ups around the smouldering embers of a fire. Geoffrey searched anxiously for the signs of the potter and his family among them. But they were nowhere to be seen.

A policeman came over from the panda car.

“You must be the gentleman from the farm house…”

Geoffrey nodded, gazing stunned at the scene.

“What happened here?”

“Bit of a mess isn’t it?” he smirked. “I’d watch where you’re standing.”

Geoffrey looked down at his feet. The dirt was puddled with oil and blood.

“What happened to the bus,” he pointed towards it. “There was a potter and his wife and a young girl…”

“Everyone’s been dealt with now sir. The last of this rabble will be on their way one way or another this afternoon, and then everything will be tidied up.”

“So unnecessary,” said Geoffrey, looking with disbelief at the shattered pottery.

“Don’t worry, sir. They won’t be troubling you again, I can assure you of that.”

“But what happened to the people who lived in the bus? He used to come and borrow water from me…with the little girl.” Geoffrey raised his voice. “He was a teacher for Christs’s sake. His other little girl had cancer. He made me a pot. He…”

The policeman looked bemused. He put a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder and started to steer him gently back towards the car.

“Don’t worry about all that sir. Nothing for you to get upset about. Everything’s been taken care of.”

“They would have been all right, wouldn’t they?” Geoffrey glanced back over his shoulder at the carnage in the field. ”I mean, the women and children would have been out of the way, before…before…”

“Don’t worry yourself, sir. We did what had to be done. And it’s over now,” he smiled reassuringly. “Come on, I’ll escort you to the main road. Then you can go and get your shopping, and leave us to it. OK, sir? Just leave it to us.”

All fiction on this site is © Copyright Roger Frederick 2005 All Rights Reserved