Blue Flowers Part 3

I could still see that ten-year-old boy. Dark hair, blue eyes, the colouring of his Irish, gypsy ancestry. I imagine he had a lot of success with the ladies. My Ruth would have seen straight through him. ‘Out for himself that one. Bags of charm when he needs to use it but completely self centred,’ I could imagine her saying.

I’m not sure how he ever stayed part of the gang. He wasn’t like the rest of us from good working class families. His family were travellers, had spent their time moving from one end of the country to the other, making a living in not the most honest of ways. His mother died when he was nine and he’d been sent to live with his gran on our estate.

‘Old Mrs Simpson’s going to have a hard job bringing up that lad if he’s anything like his father. She did all she could to stop her Marie from marrying him but she wouldn’t listen and from what I’ve heard regretted every minute of her marriage. And that lad Keith’s gone wild. Too much of the gypsy in him. We’ll have to make sure our Neil stays away.’ I’d overheard this conversation of my parents soon after Keith had arrived and it had made me extremely curious. I told the rest of the gang and we decided we’d ask him to join us. I suppose it was the air of mystery, of adventure that seemed to cling to him that made us ask him, plus the knowledge that our parents wouldn’t approve.

His initial scoffing, ‘What do I want to be playin around with a bunch of eejits? Better things to do with me time,’ made us even more keen. He made a big show of not wanting to be with us but he was lonely and saw us as the best of the worst. He came along to the shed one day and that was it; he was one of us.

He turned round and looked at me, that same, slightly supercilious expression.

‘It is Keith isn’t it?’ I knew he’d recognised me but he was quick to hide it, a look of puzzlement on his face now.

‘It is Keith, but I’m not sure I know you.’ The slight, rough Irish twang had disappeared and a very pleasant, soft Irish brogue had replaced it. He’d always been a good mimic.

‘Keith Branson, I’m….’

‘No! Don’t tell me,’ a look of recognition on his face. ‘It’s Rob. Rob from the old Beechwood Estate. That brings back a lot of memories!’

‘It’s Neil. Neil Patterson.’

Once again the puzzled look. ‘Of course, Neil!’ He grabbed my hand and shook it hard. ‘Well I never. Who’d have thought we’d meet up here? You in this business then?’ Looking at me as though I was part of the catering staff. He didn’t give me time to answer. He looked at his watch; ‘I’m not being picked up for another half an hour, have you got time for a drink?’ I’d come this far along memory lane and as much as I wanted I couldn’t turn back now.

I'd met Keith at the bottom of our road, ‘Where’s this gang of yours then, I haven’t got anything else to do so I’ll come along, see if I want to join.’ I’d shrugged my shoulders and led the way. The rest of them were waiting in the shed.

‘You joining our gang Keith?’ Bob asked.

‘Might, if I’ve got nothing better to do.’ Bob shifted up giving him some space to sit. It was raining so we had no choice but to stay in the shed.

‘Brought anything with you to eat? We usually have a picnic here if it’s too wet to go out.’ Keith shrugged.

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve got plenty to share.’ I felt somehow responsible for him as I’d brought him along.

‘What sort of things do yous do?’

‘We have lots of adventures. Neil comes up with these brilliant ideas. Last week we found a really old truck, at the back of that wrecked house on Grange Road. It had no wheels or glass in the windows but it looked like one of those American jeeps that you see on the films. Neil said we could be American soldiers fighting the bad guys. We thought we might try and get into the house next time but they’ve put a big fence all the way round it. Someone must have said they’d seen some kids there.’ This was Jo, the youngest, and my biggest fan.

‘Bet I could get in there,’ Keith’s expression had changed from disdainful to interested. ‘Me da showed me ways of getting into places. Nothing can keep him out when he wants to get in. Some of those old houses have got all sorts of good stuff, me da would know where to sell it!’

I didn’t like the way the conversation was going, I didn’t want to do anything criminal but I could see that he’d got the attention of the others.

‘Where is your dad? He’s not with you at your gran’s is he.’

A swift painful look shot across his face.

‘He’s had to go travelling again, can’t stop in one place for long but the social get onto him if I don’t go to school. He’ll be back to collect me soon once they’ve forgotten about me. Then I’ll be back home in the caravan going wherever we please.’

 I knew this wasn’t true. A load of gypsies had camped out on some waste ground once and the kids had come to our school. They were there for about a month before they were moved on. Kept themselves to themselves mostly. The rest of the gang seemed to have forgotten this. I didn’t say anything, let him believe his dad was coming back if he wanted to.

‘Have you travelled all over the country?’ Bob said in an awed voice.

‘Pretty much. Even went to France once with me Ma and Da.’

‘Where’s your mum now?’ Bob, not the most intelligent of us.

‘Dead!’

I suppose it was that simple statement that made us put up with him.

‘I’ve only been as far as Rhyl, we stayed in a caravan on a site. I bet it’s better travelling round in one!’ I’d said trying to make things easier for him.

‘You bet!’

That was it, he was in or gang and for the next few months was one of us.