CHAPTER 24
“Up you get, Duck! Time to get rolling!”

The beginning of March, and my bag was already packed, along with my bedroll, stowed in the van. I found the bathroom empty, to no great surprise, so I pulled my nighty off for a quick wash of the various bits Ken referred to as “Face, fork and pits”, as well as doing my teeth.

I could see one more hair on my chest, next to my left nipple, but it was small and downy rather than coarse and ugly. Ugly it was, but it wasn’t too big, and there wouldn’t be anyone about to see it, so I swallowed my magic pills and set to work with flannel, soap and brush, ready to bid ‘so long’ to the house.

A Monday morning, windy and wet, our route to the East, for a market in Loughborough, our stock this time jumpers, hats, scarves and plastic flowers. Ken was sanguine.

“Easter coming up, duck, and we can’t carry fresh daffs and that, so we take this stuff, and now you see how we don’t even have to go as far as Gretna to get folk to buy utter shite!”

Lorraine was driving just then, and after the three of us had laughed together, she got straight to the point.

“Music, serf! Now!”

I remembered Ken’s half-singing the month before, so we crossed the Midlands to the beat of Led Zep Two, rambling on. Grins all round as we left what I now felt was the claustrophobic embrace of the house. It had been wonderful for a while, warm and safe, but I felt I was better suited to Ken’s world of living in the gaps left by the straights, so we did indeed ramble on, trailer loaded as high as was safe and the Commer’s engine running sweetly.

My hair was far longer now, long enough to tie back, and the training bras I was now wearing daily gave just enough of a hint to declare my sex to strangers. I felt released, not just from that hellhole in Runcorn but from all the odd little patterns of the straight world.

Ramble on.

I kept the tapes going, switching from Zep to Steeleye, through some Floyd and Cream, Kinks and Curved Air, Moodies and Small Faces. Once more, it was just the three of us, the world set aside all the warmth we needed coming from within.

I remembered that thought early on the Saturday morning, as we shared the big bed in the frame tent at a rally in Essex called ‘The Frozen Flitch’ and the Spring showed itself more than a little reluctant to introduce itself to an expectant public. It wasn’t the best of rallies, because the main event was based on a pub rather than a marquee, which meant that kiddies had to stay outside.

My parents, as I thought of them more and more, stayed with me, so our rally became even more of a family affair, sharing some cans of beer and a couple of bottles of wine over the weekend, which was nice, but nowhere near as welcome as the tea and hot chocolate we kept brewing for ourselves as we punted out piles of West German national service army surplus boots and our own army’s ponchos-cum-shelter-quarters.

“They fasten together in pairs, duck. You use a couple of sticks for tent poles, and two ponchos make a two-man tent”

I looked at a passing rallygoer, water running off what Ken described as half a tent.

“Really?”

“Really”

“And it works?”

“Um, no. Not really. To be honest, it’s rubbish, but they work as raincoats, as long as you’re not riding a bike in them. They turn into a sail, then”

“So why do people buy them?”

“Two reasons, duck. First one is that too many people head for rallies thinking it won’t rain. Second is camouflage”

“From what?”

“No, duck. Anything that looks a bit military, it gets buyers. It’s a boy thing. So you wouldn’t understand”

He paused, head cocked, his smile turning to puzzlement.

“Why the tears, Deb?”

No words could explain, so I just hugged him until my eyes were back under control, asking myself yet again why I couldn’t have been given the two of them from the beginning of my life.

The band on the Saturday night was loud enough for us to enjoy it from outside the pub, sharing the warmth of a brazier with a couple of the host club who had drawn gate duty, one side of my body toasty warm while the other chilled. The music was good, the act apparently one of the up-and-coming groups from the Southend pub rock scene, but they could have been dreadful for all I cared, because I was home.

Our route continued along through Kent and Sussex over the next few weeks, topping up our stock in Ashford and Crawley before another rally outside Bognor Regis, this one with a marquee. I got to dance at that one, and all the time I was smiling inside, not just from the music and the movement but in anticipation of where our route was headed. Westward bound, the land beyond the Severn calling, until finally we were over the bridge, past Swansea, and Sam was shouting my name.

Four years of circling the country, four winters in Cannock with Carol and Peter, four summers with Rosie and Sam. Four years of pills and blood samples, muttered conversations between Carol and Loz, and the sting of the needle.

My breasts first showed themselves a little after my thirteenth birthday, which we spent at the Trot in the Bog near Weston Super Mare, Fester surprising me by producing a cake, with candles, god knows how. It wasn’t actually my birthday, but it was the closest weekend, and I was able to share slices with my parents, my best friends, their father, and a fat man with a twinkle in his eyes and grease down his apron. That became a ritual each year, as I grew into my body while it fitted itself to my soul.

I was watching myself obsessively from then on, and I assume other girls do the same, comparing their figures to those of girls their age, sometimes coming away disappointed, other times feeling smug.

Always, though, it was back to the Farmyard Fumble, with a stop at Nigel’s on the way, his reaction mirroring that of Fester.

“Bugger me, Debbie, and aren’t you growing up in all the right ways!”

In any other community, I would have felt another meaning behind his words, the weight of Charlie’s lust almost matching that of his body on me, but all I felt from Nigel, Gandalf, Fester, all the others, was appreciation and shared joy in the fact that my body was finally doing its job. There is a fine line between recognising that a child will grow up blessed in form and face, and desiring the child because of that good luck. I never felt the latter from anyone on the scene, and given my background I am sure I would have spotted it. One afternoon, as we rolled up the west coast of Cumberland towards Carlisle, I asked Ken about that, directly. To my surprise, it was Lorraine who snorted.

“Little story, love. Not saying what happened was right, but it’s how things are. Was a lad, years ago, kiddy fiddler. When someone had a go at him, he claimed to be the sergeant at arms of an MC. Frightened people off, he did”

“What happened, Mam?”

Ken took over.

“The patches in question found out, and had a word with him”

“And?”

“Coppers found him in a shallow grave near Colchester”

Lorraine added, “And Luton, and Ipswich. Lesson, love: don’t piss off an MC”

I shuddered at that one, wondering whether I could ever accept that sort of summary ‘justice’ while at the same time visualising something like that being applied to Charlie and Don, and I had a burst of inspiration.

“Dad?”

“Yes, duck?”

“Could we see if we can find out where the Parsons are buried?”

“The Parsons? They the ones who ran that place in Runcorn?”

“Yes. I think I’d like to visit them”

Lorraine laughed so hard she snorted up some of the tea she was drinking, which meant that it was a good job Ken was driving at the time.

“Listen to our little girl, love! Deb: do you want to leave them some flowers, or water whatever’s there?”

My grin was all the answer she needed, so I set Steeleye’s ‘Now We Are Six’ playing and settled back in the warmth of our rambling home. A circuit through Scotland awaited us, and then a windswept beach in Northumberland. It was at the Border Reiver, as we ran back south, that the word came. A patch from the local MC wandered past the stall, smiled at Ken and murmured, “Horse sends his best. They are in the place off Ivy Street, the eastern end. How much for that lighter?”