12/08/2020
My grandfather was a Gypsy, amongst other things, and led a life so rich as to be worthy of documenting in a biography. A task still awaiting my attention.
I’ve often joked that I’m very interested in Gypsies but wouldn’t necessarily want to meet one. But this all came into sharp focus recently when I had the pleasure of meeting two of them.
I’d gone up to the allotment to lay some woodchips around my raised beds as paths for me to stand on, and to keep the weeds at bay. We’d had a Facebook message from the allotment tribal chief to say that there was a big pile of these woodchips at the bottom of the allotment slope, close to the road, and that they were free for anybody to take. For most people this would be sufficient encouragement, but to me it still felt like stealing as I shovelled the chips into my wheelbarrow. I’ve always had this ‘headmaster syndrome’ where I constantly expect a senior teacher to emerge from behind a bush, demanding to know what I’m up to.
So, when I heard a vehicle turn into the allotment gate and pull up right beside me, I was certain that, rightly or wrongly, I was just about to be taken to task over the wood chips.
In fact, an Irishman jumped out of the van, approached me and said “Hi, I’m Irish – from Tipperary” as though this would lend credence to his authenticity. “I’ve been looking for Terry, but he doesn’t seem to be about. You’ll have to tell him I stopped by.” Needless to say, there is nobody called Terry who runs an allotment. “So, maybe you should have a look at what I’ve got in the back of the van”. It’s quite a smart, grey, Transit-type van. It looks quite new. In the back of the van are two large, sealed boxes containing diesel generators and three chain saws, still with plastic protection around the chain. These are clearly stolen goods. This is a bit of a new one on me.
The man from Tipperary goes on. “The boss has said we’ve got to go back to Ireland today and we’ll be dropping the van off in Bristol so he says just get rid of the stuff – he doesn’t really care how, so you can have one for free.”
I look perplexed. “Free?”
“Well, the price of a good drink anyway”.
While I’m listening to the blarney, the second man has slipped out of the van, noticed that the boot of my car is open (since I’d just taken my spade out of it), and is busy loading one of the generators into it.
Well, this is not what I had had in mind, so I rushed over, complaining that I didn’t know them, didn’t know what this was (motioning to the box) and I didn’t want anything to do with it. The second man was already making his way over from the van with a chainsaw for me. So, I began to manhandle the generator box out of my car. It was enormously heavy, and it looked for all the world that I wasn’t going to manage it; it seemed as if it would fall to the ground. The two men looked alarmed and rushed to retrieve it and get it back to their van.
“Why do you want to give this stuff away?” I asked the first man. But the second man was returning, and they assumed their roles of Good Gypsy – Bad Gypsy. “Well, of course we’re not giving it away” he fumed, “What are you? A child? When did you last get something for nothing?” At this point I was guiltily looking at the pile of wood chips but said nothing.
“It would be a couple of hundred” said the Bad Gypsy. So, I shrugged my shoulders and went about my business loading up the wheelbarrow whilst they manoeuvred their van to leave the allotment – the Bad Gypsy continuing to advise me of my many shortcomings from the driver’s window. In a moment’s recklessness, just as the van reached the gate, I mouthed “Fuck Off” to the driver. The van stopped and the Bad Gypsy asked, “Did you say something?”
I was pretty certain that this needless and uncharacteristic gesture was going to earn me a beating, but I put down my wheelbarrow and said, as firmly as I could, “On your way”. And by some miracle they decided to call it a day. Phew!
I was quite shaken by this encounter. I hadn’t had the wit to take their registration number, and, in any case, I didn’t have my mobile ‘phone with me. But I felt I wanted to report what I’d seen to the Police.
This didn’t merit a 999 call and it took me a few moments, when back at home, to determine that the lesser emergency number is 101. When I dialled that, the introductory message made clear that calls made to this number still have to be pretty urgent and I was urged to report minor problems to the Police website.
The Police website is not easy to navigate and none of their suggested scenarios applied to my recent experience. I gave up and had my lunch. Still racked with guilt I thought I should try again, and this time found a route through the maze where you can report what you want to without having to adopt one of their categories. I told the Police what had happened in the hope that it might help them in foiling the Irish plot. Eight hours later they said, “Thank you. We’ve passed your comments to our local intelligence team.”
Happily, I am married to an amateur Detective Inspector, and she is very good at finding out what’s going on in our community via social media. Irish tinkers, it seemed, had set up camp in Wantage behind the sports centre and many of the townsfolk had been harassed by these people who were trying to sell diesel generators.
And I, myself, later discovered in Facebook that the travellers had now moved on to Black Bourton (between Carterton and Clanfield in West Oxfordshire), were stopping cars on the road and were jumping on their bonnets (???!!)
Now that I think about it, I should have known that these guys weren’t Gypsies, not Romany Gypsies anyway. If they had been they would have recognized my direct descent from King of the Gypsies, Sidney Gregory, and laid out sacking for me to pass over as I purloined my woodchips.
Then again, maybe they did see the bare-knuckle fighter in me when they decided not to beat me up. Or was it just that their risk analysis took in the silver spade on top of the wheelbarrow?
We’ll never know.