Gypsies

Was it so long ago? Have places, times and things changed so dramatically, that it beggars the imagination to even bring it to mind? When I was eight years old, our family moved back to the misty-moisty-mornings of the English countryside, having spent what, to me, was a lifetime on the island of Malta, which sits in the Mediterranean Sea, mid-way between the foot of Italy and North Africa. My brothers and sister, (Sophie wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye yet!), were brown as autumn berries and could all swim like fish. We were all fluent in Maltese, since Joycie, our Nanny, spoke no English. My parents did their best at teaching her the basics, but it was so much easier for us to learn her language, since we were with her most of the time. Maltese is a strange mix of Arabic and Italian! Mummy was in the kitchen conjuring up some delicious Mediterranean feast, and Joycie, just arriving for the day, went into the kitchen, following the exquisite aromas, to proclaim in her very best English, "Oh, Madam, I am smelling!" We've never forgotten it. And back in England, my parents did a splendid job of raising their ever-growing brood in a marvellous laissez-faire fashion. There were few rules, one of these was that when we heard the cow-bell, a huge great Swiss thing on a fat leather strap, we were to drop everything and run home as fast as we could muster. The cow-bell rang for lunch and tea-time and bed-time, or if there was a crisis (it never happened!) Every now and again, at least once a week, Mummy would plonk a shilling down on the table, and tell me I could go riding with Cally, my mostest friend. We'd ride our bikes the 2 miles to Downhead Farm, crossing the A303 with a fleeting left and right glance. (The A303 was the main road from London to Cornwall in those days). Mrs. Neimeier and her husband (who I was madly in love with!) owned the farm and all 'our' precious horses. We'd 'yahoo' into the kitchen, to let her know that we were taking Betsy and Bendix out, and could we use the loo before we went. There were always cookies and 'cow-cake', lumps of goodness-knows-what that we fed to the horses instead of sugar lumps. So off we'd trek, the two of us, up onto the hill and into the woods where the gypsies made camp when they were round about. I remember their ponies. They were piebald and skewbalds and wild as the wind, like their children. It really was an adventure, and very brave of us to go up there. Everyone knows that gypsies steal little children, and sell them in Africa! We liked to play with the children, all muddy-faced and raw. They showed us how to catch rabbits and things, and the grandmother told our fortunes if we had a few extra pennies in our pockets. The promise of marrying at 21 a dark-eyed prince of a fellow, with the resultant eight children was enough for me! After a while, we'd get on our horses and wend our way back through the woods, into the quarry and down the hill to the farm. Riding our bikes home to arrive in time for a delicious tea-time, nobody could have convinced us that the old woman made it all up, every stinking word!