CHAPTER 9
I didn’t sleep that well, as there was music until very late in the morning. I couldn’t call it ‘early’ as it had passed beyond that. We were still up and out by eight o’clock, though, and after Loz had inspected my injuries, I dressed, in the longer skirt this time. I went to fill the kettle, but she stopped me.

“Time for a little lesson in manners, love. Don’t worry, you’ve done nothing wrong! It is just that we have a few ways of doing things you need to learn. Grab three mugs for us”

Other traders had set up around the field, and she led the way to one of them, a food trader with some folding chairs and tables in front. A rather round man with a moon-like face and shaved head was stirring something in a large pot, and I could smell all sorts of tasty things, starting with bacon. Loz caught the way I perked up.

“Sorry, love, but not yet. Hiya, Fester!”

“Morning, Loz! Who’s this with you?”

“One of Badger’s lot. She’s not been well, so she can’t have any more than a small bacon roll and some toms on toast. That do you, Debbie?”

I caught the wink, before she turned back to the round man.

“Me and him, love, we’ll have the full Welsh, but no seaweed, OK? Oh, and can you do us three teas? Lazybones is on his way over”

The tea came from a huge enamelled pot, and we took the mugs over to one of the tables to await our food, just as Ken dropped into one of the chairs.

“Got it ordered, duck?”

“Yeah, love. Letting Deb have a little bit of roughage today. Sloppy stuff with it, so it should be fine. Things are healing really well. Should be settled down in three weeks or so, but I don’t want to rush it. Fester’s doing the usual. Deb?”

“Yeah?”

“I said manners, and it is, sort of. Etiquette, if you see what I mean. We are all in the same business, us, Fester, the rest of the traders here. Someone has a problem, we muck in together. Might be a broken trailer hitch, could be a broken table leg. We could cook our own brekky, but Fester needs trade, just like we do, and besides, if we are sitting here eating it brings other punters over. And it saves on the washing up”

Ken was nodding.

“Exactly, girl, but there’s more. Obs are the thing, obligations. Show somebody an open heart when they need it, and they will likely do the same to you, or to somebody else that needs it. Might not be yourself, but it changes things a little bit for the better, and this stuff travels in circles. Help a stranger one day, and you increase the chances of a stranger doing the same for you”

I looked at each of them in turn.

“Is that how it is with me?”

Ken reached across for his wife’s hand.

“Sort of, duck, but not exactly. Not any more. You grow on people. Besides, after what was said last night, well, you need us. Ah: that’s our food ready, I think”

Conversation closed down as we ate, and Ken slipped me half a sausage, as a treat. I was getting rather tired of a diet that seemed to consist almost entirely of liquid, but it was helping. I didn’t want to think what passing a firm stool would involve, but I didn’t have to, as I could remember in far too much detail. Benny’s complaint on my first night in hell, that he was still bleeding, would never leave my nightmares.

Plates handed back to Fester, we set out our stock once more, the kettle going on this time, as both of my new carers drank tea almost constantly. The heat of the mug in my hands was welcome in the slight chill of the morning, but it did mean frequent visits to the toilets, which were tents hiding a wooden plank with a hole cut in and what Loz called an Elsan bucket underneath. The paper was in boxes marked ‘Izal medicated’, and the stuff was another reason I was glad not to be passing solids.

Trade was brisk after about ten thirty, the emergence of a warm sun delivering a small surge in sales of sunglasses and slogan vests. Several of the men were walking around stripped to the waist, or wearing one of the sleeveless denim jackets covered in little badges, but there were a sizeable number still wrapped up in clothes that looked more than a little lived-in, even to the extent of keeping their knitted hats on. Tattoos were everywhere, some better than others, and small knots of people were gathering on the grass, chatting, drinking or working their way through a Fester breakfast.

As we moved into the afternoon, I was being kept busy, breaking open boxes and setting out the sunglasses that were selling so well, when there was a squeal from the other side of the stand.

“We forgot!”

Ken was chuckling as he handed over the two knives, each in a pouch stamped with the owner’s name, as Sam shouted about it being magic and Rosie laughed at her brother before turning to Ken.

“Can Debbie come and play with us? Then there’s dizzy sticks! We’re doing the umpiring!”

“You want to go and have some fun, duck?”

“What’s dizzy sticks?”

“You’ll like it, but don’t compete yourself. Back for tea, please. Either of you two got a watch?”

Samwise held up his arm to show something far too big for his arm, on a woven leather strap pulled as tight as possible, and Ken nodded.

“Back for four, please. It’ll get busy after that, and I need my best worker, so treat her gently”

That afternoon became a benchmark in my life, as we simply lived as children for a few hours. There was much running and screaming, dodging around big men, a few of whom seemed to be drunk, staring at all sorts of motorcycles, all of which Sam described in excessive detail, before we ended up at the far end of the field marked out by a small stream with a simple bridge over it to allow access to farm vehicles. We were each carrying a long stick, which served us as swords to cut down stands of nettles or sorrel. Sam found another that was more to his taste, then started snapping his old one into shorter lengths before flopping down on the ground and producing his new knife. Rosie squealed again.

“Pooh sticks!”

Both of them started whittling at the lengths of wood, leaving them pointed at each end, before they pulled off their shoes. Rosie was still excited, and pointed at my own sandals.

“Get them off, Debbie! Pooh sticks, but we got to get them back to do it again”

“What’s Pooh sticks?”

Sam’s mouth was hanging open in surprise, but Rosie slapped him to close it.

“Pick one of the new sticks, Deb, then come onto the bridge!”

The game was simple: we each dropped a stick into the water on the upstream side of the bridge, before dashing to the other edge to see which one emerged first. One of us would then run along the bank, step into the water, which was only about a foot deep, and recover the tokens, and repeat. No prizes, nothing except a score kept by Rosie, but something of my childhood was returned to me.

In the end, we started out back to the big tent with our shoes in our hands, muddy feet gradually wiped clean(ish) by the grass, arriving just in time for the promised dizzy sticks.

I loved it. Our job, as umpires, was to hold a string and judge which man had made it across the finish line before the others in his heat. We also had to watch a competitor each, counting how many times he had complied with the essential part of the race, the dizzy stick.

Three broom shanks had been set into the ground so that their tips were about three feet high. Each man had to run forward to one of them, grasp the end with one hand and bring his forehead down to touch it, before scuttling sideways around it five times. The ensuing race for the line was what brought the belly laughs, as the rapid spinning served to distort perceptions, balance and any sense of direction in ways that were quite wonderful to watch. Seeing a six-foot man who was running his hardest for the line and facing in exactly the right direction, while actually moving sideways, left me in another sort of stitches.

Racing over, Sam held up his arm.

“Time, Debbie!”

“Thanks, Sam!”

I gave him a hug, which brought an “Eeeewwww!” but no recoil, then offered the same to Rosie, who squeezed me back, whispering into my ear.

“No bad people here, Debbie. Safe place”

Releasing me, she grinned and raised her voice.

“Live band on tonight, Debs! You dancing?”

‘Safe place’, she had said. I was having fun, real fun, for the first time I could remember since those days in the dunes. What other answer could I give?

“Yeah!”

The stall was indeed busy, so much so that we ate our meal, a sort of Irish stew, in relay fashion so that there was always an adult available to deal with punters, although I realised I was being allowed more and more into the sales process. We kept at it until about nine in the evening, as the music pounded out across the field and the flow of custom slowed to a trickle. Eventually, Ken sighed and rose to his feet.

“Right, girls: time to get cleared away and then it’s party time. Was it a good afternoon, Debbie? Oh, Loz: look at that grin! Right, then. Soonest started, soonest boogying”

That brought a playful slap from Lorraine.

“Soonest you can get outside some ale, you mean! Come on, then”

Stock packed away, Loz threw me the skirt from the night before, along with a paper bag.

“Ken’s put something in there for you, love”

It turned out to be two items, the first being a denim vest, only a little two large. Sewn over the left breast was a strip of leather, which he had stamped with the name ‘Debbie’. There was also a wrist band, similarly marked ‘Deb Petrie’. I found tears welling up, but Lorraine took my chin in her hand, kissing my forehead.

“No tears tonight, love. Going to put some mascara on you. The name is there to make you real, and our bit so nobody can forget whose girl you are. If the papers are sniffing around, we need some misdirection. That OK with you?”

No need to answer. We finished getting ready, and stepped out of the tent to find a smiling Ken awaiting us. He looked at his two presents for a few seconds before smiling more broadly still and hugging me tightly.

“Time for some fun, girls!”

I could already hear the band, who were very loud, and once again the deeper-toned sounds were thumping away in my stomach. We went by way of the bar, pewter tankards filled with beer, then found some space at a table already occupied by Ratty and Gandalf. I didn’t recognise the songs blasting out, but I could feel that new urge to move to them. Gandalf waved to his children, who came racing from the crowd of dancers to grab my hands and pull me with them, as their father waved to the band.

They finished their song, looked at each other for a few seconds, and then the familiar riff kicked in, the singer snarling into his microphone.

“Girl! You really got me now! You got me so I can’t sleep at night!”

So many things were ‘wrong’ that night, from the volume of the music to the fact that those entrusted with my care were eventually more than a little drunk, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and put my head back, and I danced until I was exhausted, in that safe place.