I’m not entirely sure what you call them. We used to say “Gypsies” but not any more. Apparently, some Romanians have made that a trademark, in same way that FCUK and Coke are protected brands with anti-establishment connotations. “Travellers” doesn’t really fit - it conjures up romantic adventures meandering through exotic locations: this group moves from one municipal car park or recreation ground to another only through the threat of an eviction notice. A neighbour calls them ‘Dirty Thieving Bastard Tinkers’ but I’m not so sure. I’ll settle with ‘Caravan People,’ it sounds bland and nondescript enough to please everyone.
They’ve reappeared, overnight, on the disused side of the Cattle Market car park. A dozen caravans and mobile homes. And swarms of children.
A large group of men stood around a car deep in animated discussion. Children played in small groups around the site. Some chased dogs or pigeons. The three young girls nearest the edge were skipping. They all seemed completely oblivious to the torrential downpour that made millions of raindrops explode on the wet ground and filled the air with heavy drumming. My sodden trousers stuck to my legs, my shoes leaked and the pathetic excuse of an umbrella merely channelled the water into streams that unerringly hit my face and neck. They didn’t seem to notice a thing.
As I looked, I saw a train of kids running across the camp. One wore grey leggings and a bright red puffer jacket. Over by one of the mobile homes, another cluster, and amongst them, a slight girl in grey leggings and a bright red puffer jacket. Obviously imagining things, I looked back to the first group; they were still scampering around but as I scanned further, there was a third girl, identically clothed in grey leggings and a bright red puffer jacket in the doorway of a mobile home. The mildly unsettling aspect was that I could never see any more than one of the girls at a time. And that made me feel as though I was bit part in a surrealist film. Again.