Have at it.
Jean and I each have one handle of the cart, although he holds his side a little higher and I have to bend awkwardly to stop our equipment spilling out. Sebastian will have to check its wheels tomorrow, before we set off. We’ve come to this, that a cart is more important than any car we had before, in France.
My arms are aching but there’s a crowd in front of us, struggling to get past the mud-bath of the entrance into the field. Jose, never one to patiently wait his turn, elbows through, scouting for the best site still available, one near the edge. This caravan isn’t as bad as some I’ve been with but there are still times when trouble flares - when food gets stolen and a fight ensues or someone takes offence at someone else’s customs – and spills over, spreading quicker than a watchperson can respond to. Being on the edge of the site gives us a chance to retreat if we need to.
“Pull up on the right,” mutters Jean. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours. “You’re going to get us stuck.”
“I’m trying. You need to take more of the weight,” I say.
The field is a mess of mud and half-trampled grass, a staging point which has never been prepared properly. Ireland – all of it, North and South, united at last – closed its borders, even though the smugglers had never recognised the border, anyhow, moving their cargo as they wanted to. Since then, and the ending of any EU money to support the countries that are not in drought, they’ve tried to close us off from the land and hope that enough of us die over the winter.
“Julia! Jean!” Jose waves the red and yellow rag that’s all he has left of his Spanish flag. Even though he’s not French, he’s been with us since we set off from Canet. We liked him then and we like him more now. He steered us through France, to the coast where we were taken across the water to an Ireland we had never planned for and, since then, north to this field where we’ll be safe for another night at least.
Jean changes direction without telling me, heading for Jose, and in the process nearly wrenches my arm from its shoulder. I curse but help to force the cart forwards. Maman joins us, her hand on the top of our equipment to hold it in place.
“This way!” Amelia stands to the left of Jose, marking out our ground. Her glares and don’t-mess-with-me attitude make sure others stay clear. The English and Italians, our often-neighbours, don’t take Amelia on but establish their own base instead, either side of ours, and we all settle into place.
Jose, as ever, has found a good spot: well away from the latrines – a walk is always preferable to the stink – and with a half-dug pit that will let us get the fire going quickly. It never matters that we come in late; he has an unerring ability to find the right place. He’s even made sure to secure a pitch just across from the homestead we passed. Jose knows I was scoping it out and he’s right that I’ll want to go back over: there’s a chance of getting to the ragged vegetable patch I spotted.
But that’s for after dark, hopefully when the storm has already hit. For now, we get down to our duties. After two years on the road, it’s like clockwork. Mama heaves it stockpot off the cart and fills it with water collected during a vicious rainstorm earlier. One thing we don’t lack, at least, is water, and I’m thankful for that mercy; I remember the thirst in France, how thoughts of glugging water the way I used to, cold and clean from a bottle, used to wake me at night.
Jose expertly skins a rabbit. Without him, we’d starve even more than we do. He takes to woodland or lost farmland and hunts on his own while the caravan trudges on, joining us later with whatever he has caught. Rabbits, birds, the crows, fish.
Jean and I pitch the tent in silence, taking care to ensure the lines are tight and taut. As we work, Sebastian takes his place at the front of the camp, staring down anyone who might try to take our food. In France, he was the biggest person I knew, with the broadest shoulders. Now he’s thinner, his muscles spare, but he still looks threatening enough to keep our space safe.
Maman adds some half-mouldy vegetables and then, carefully, drops grain into the water, each handful precious. That makes my breath catch. Once, we were a family who gave food to the charities for refugees. Papa used to say it was a terrible thing to have no home and no food. Then the drought reached us and we relied on those donating, instead. I remember Papa telling Jean to hand over a last bag of food to a family with two babies in arms. He said we’d get more the next day, even though the market was a good five miles away and we’d have to walk. His voice, so sure everything would be okay, that the bad times would pass. He believed, right to the end, that things would get better, that there was an end of the road for us where we would settle and be safe. The thoughts become too big: soon this land, too, will run out and I don’t have my father’s hope.
Jean and I each have one handle of the cart, although he holds his side a little higher and I have to bend awkwardly to stop our equipment spilling out. Sebastian will have to check its wheels tomorrow, before we set off. We’ve come to this, that a cart is more important than any car we had before, in France.
My arms are aching but there’s a crowd in front of us, struggling to get past the mud-bath of the entrance into the field. Jose, never one to patiently wait his turn, elbows through, scouting for the best site still available, one near the edge. This caravan isn’t as bad as some I’ve been with but there are still times when trouble flares - when food gets stolen and a fight ensues or someone takes offence at someone else’s customs – and spills over, spreading quicker than a watchperson can respond to. Being on the edge of the site gives us a chance to retreat if we need to.
“Pull up on the right,” mutters Jean. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours. “You’re going to get us stuck.”
“I’m trying. You need to take more of the weight,” I say.
The field is a mess of mud and half-trampled grass, a staging point which has never been prepared properly. Ireland – all of it, North and South, united at last – closed its borders, even though the smugglers had never recognised the border, anyhow, moving their cargo as they wanted to. Since then, and the ending of any EU money to support the countries that are not in drought, they’ve tried to close us off from the land and hope that enough of us die over the winter.
“Julia! Jean!” Jose waves the red and yellow rag that’s all he has left of his Spanish flag. Even though he’s not French, he’s been with us since we set off from Canet. We liked him then and we like him more now. He steered us through France, to the coast where we were taken across the water to an Ireland we had never planned for and, since then, north to this field where we’ll be safe for another night at least.
Jean changes direction without telling me, heading for Jose, and in the process nearly wrenches my arm from its shoulder. I curse but help to force the cart forwards. Maman joins us, her hand on the top of our equipment to hold it in place.
“This way!” Amelia stands to the left of Jose, marking out our ground. Her glares and don’t-mess-with-me attitude make sure others stay clear. The English and Italians, our often-neighbours, don’t take Amelia on but establish their own base instead, either side of ours, and we all settle into place.
Jose, as ever, has found a good spot: well away from the latrines – a walk is always preferable to the stink – and with a half-dug pit that will let us get the fire going quickly. It never matters that we come in late; he has an unerring ability to find the right place. He’s even made sure to secure a pitch just across from the homestead we passed. Jose knows I was scoping it out and he’s right that I’ll want to go back over: there’s a chance of getting to the ragged vegetable patch I spotted.
But that’s for after dark, hopefully when the storm has already hit. For now, we get down to our duties. After two years on the road, it’s like clockwork. Mama heaves it stockpot off the cart and fills it with water collected during a vicious rainstorm earlier. One thing we don’t lack, at least, is water, and I’m thankful for that mercy; I remember the thirst in France, how thoughts of glugging water the way I used to, cold and clean from a bottle, used to wake me at night.
Jose expertly skins a rabbit. Without him, we’d starve even more than we do. He takes to woodland or lost farmland and hunts on his own while the caravan trudges on, joining us later with whatever he has caught. Rabbits, birds, the crows, fish.
Jean and I pitch the tent in silence, taking care to ensure the lines are tight and taut. As we work, Sebastian takes his place at the front of the camp, staring down anyone who might try to take our food. In France, he was the biggest person I knew, with the broadest shoulders. Now he’s thinner, his muscles spare, but he still looks threatening enough to keep our space safe.
Maman adds some half-mouldy vegetables and then, carefully, drops grain into the water, each handful precious. That makes my breath catch. Once, we were a family who gave food to the charities for refugees. Papa used to say it was a terrible thing to have no home and no food. Then the drought reached us and we relied on those donating, instead. I remember Papa telling Jean to hand over a last bag of food to a family with two babies in arms. He said we’d get more the next day, even though the market was a good five miles away and we’d have to walk. His voice, so sure everything would be okay, that the bad times would pass. He believed, right to the end, that things would get better, that there was an end of the road for us where we would settle and be safe. The thoughts become too big: soon this land, too, will run out and I don’t have my father’s hope.
) As time goes on she becomes closer to herself and a lot of the distance falls away.
