Gypsies Don't Cry

By Jack Hutchison

a young girl disappears...rumour is she was involved with a handsome young gypsy...Sam Guttridge thinks he is the King of Hobswick...he wants the gypsies off his land...he organises a drunken mob to attack the gypsy family...one is dragged to a hanging tree...a rope is placed round his neck...strange things happen...a gypsy dog with an almost human intelligence...
...once you get into this easy to follow read...you wont put it down...set in rural England during 1995...this book is a compelling read in which the author...Jack Hutchison...gives intimate details about the problems in human relationships between people from all walks of life...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Hutchison
• Release date: Jun 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458123954

Book preview

Gypsies Don’t Cry

by

Jack Hutchison

Copyright 2001 John Hutchison

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

This book is a complete work of fiction Any similarity of names and characteristics or professions to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

About the Author

Jack Hutchison was born the sixth of ten children in a family of Scottish tinkers who lived in the Aberdeen area in the North East of Scotland. As his parents were travelling people, Jack’s schooling was limited. He left school at the age of fourteen and from there, he led a varied life beginning with the craft of hawking… calling door to door for rags for which the main tool required was a jute bag rolled up and carried under one arm.

His first taste of real employment, was at the age of fifteen, when he signed on as a decky learner {apprentice deckhand} on the Aberdeen trawler SS Viking Reward with a crew of twelve and sailed for the fishing grounds at the Faroe Islands.

Decky learners usually took a few months to acquire the skills required before they could be signed on as, and enjoy the earnings of a qualified deckhand. In Jack’s case, the Skipper, a Mr Gearge Nutten, a man with a cleft palate who was known to the locals as Bud, was so impressed by Jack’s work, he promoted Jack to deckhand so that Jack could earn the full pay of a deckhand. after the first two week trip.

Jack hated trawling. He only stuck it a few months before he joined the Merchant Navy where he qualified as a ships officer. In the early 1960’s Jack had had enough of the sea and went to live in London.

In London Jack signed up and trained to be a guard/motorman for London Transport. Sadly, he didn’t like shift work. From there Jack went on to work as a handyman, a bricklayer, an electrician, van salesman before becoming a company rep. for a large international lighting company.

During the early 70’s Jack set up his own electrical wholesale business supplying electrical goods to retailers throughout the East Midlands for thirty two years.

The events that have stuck most in Jack’s mind during his lifetime are the events of his travelling people background and although this book is presented as a work of fiction Jack has created this book by taking a sequence of events that actually happened to him and his family during a three day period when they were camped at a place called …….. in the county of…………. in the North of England.

Hobswick, and Havelock Town are the authors fictitious names of the two towns where the events in this story happened. Please note that the author has used fictitious names to protect the privacy of the families involved. Also, the name of the haunted area of woodland between Old Havelock Road and the seaport of Hobswick has been changed for the same reason. The author regrets that because of his graphic descriptions, people who live in or near these areas will still recognise them.

12:01 am Sunday September 26 2005

‘Welcome to Hobswick’ the old black and white sign said.

And that’s when it all started. Gave me the feeling we were expected. And I’d never even heard of Hobswick until yesterday. The whole thing was so eerie my foot unconsciously eased itself off the pedal.

With hindsight, if only I had mentioned my unease to my family there and then, we would never have been dragged into that evil nightmare. The only reason I didn’t was because just at that moment dad stirred in the front passenger seat.

‘That sign say Hobswick son?’ he said sleepily

Dad’s voice calmed me. Gave me company. I was glad he was awake. It had been. lonely driving while all the others slept.

‘Yes dad,’ I answered quietly.

‘That must be the sign your Uncle Judiah told us about son,’ dad said hurriedly. ‘There should be a bridge about a mile further on.’ He broke off and peered through the windscreen. ‘Yes! Look There it is. Now, as soon as we come out from under the bridge, look out for a cottage on the left with a big hanging tree on the opposite side of the road. Judiah said we can camp in a clearing behind the hanging tree ‘cos the land belongs the Council.’

I drove under the bridge. It was long and dark like a tunnel. Ma and my sister Rebecca began to stir in the back seat. We soon emerged into the bright moonlight and my powerful Range Rover headlights pierced the road ahead. After what seemed a long time I made out the outline of the cottage. I slowed down early to allow for the length and weight of the caravan. As I neared the cottage the distinctive shape a huge Scots pine with a thick branch sticking out sideways loomed menacingly. Using loads of wheel I did a right hand turn past the hanging tree into the clearing but as my headlights swept over the hanging tree, I swear it seemed to beckon like a black shadow, and as if that wasn’t enough, straight ahead, beyond the clearing, my headlights made silhouettes of bushes and grass tussocks dart and weave like creatures of the night caught whispering.

I pulled up fifty metres from the road observing our gypsy etiquette of making sure our front door faced away from our nearest neighbour. In this case the cottage across the road. I stepped out of the Range Rover onto lumpy grass littered with old bricks and wooden planks that looked as if they’d been dumped by a builder. I looked back at the road we’d just turned off. It led up a steep hill to a main road well lit with amber lighting running from left to right across a set of traffic lights. About a mile to the right of the traffic lights a red neon interrupted the stillness of the night by flashing ‘Fox and Hounds.’ I looked round the clearing. We were on the edge of pine woodland with their tall jagged tops silhouetted against the moonlit sky like sentries. That’s when I first became aware of a stillness. Not the normal stillness of the night you understand but that other kind of stillness that sends a tingle up the hairs on the back of your neck when you sense that someone, or something, is watching.

Above the pine trees a black shape moved. I stared at an enormous bat hovering like a hawk against the moonlit sky, and then, as if it sensing it had been seen, the giant bat folded its wings and dropped into the darkness of the tree tops. I wheeled expecting dad to have seen it too but he was too preoccupied levelling the caravan. I calmed down and set about seeing to the water butts. Suddenly our lurcher Scara gave a long low growl at the cottage across the road. My sister Rebecca stepped out of the caravan to investigate.

‘Somebody’s watching,’ dad whispered with a casual nod at the cottage.

‘Can Scara see that far in the dark dad?’ Rebecca whispered.

‘Course,’ dad said with a grimace as he gave the wheel brace a final turn. ‘Dogs can see just as well in the dark as they can in the light.’

‘I’ve made a drink,’ mum called in a hushed voice from the caravan door. I followed Rebecca into the caravan. Dad dropped his wheel brace onto the grass and hurried to join us at the dining table.

‘Have you ever been here before dad?’ Rebecca asked with a smile. It was her usual ploy to get dad to tell one of his stories.

‘Funny you should say that Becca,’ dad said. ‘Because when Judiah told me about this place yesterday I thought I’d heard the name Hobswick before...?’His eyes narrowed as they always did when he was deep in thought. After a few moments his face lit up. ‘Ah, sure, now,’ he said with a snap of his fingers. ‘Twas when me and Judiah were lads.’ He leaned towards us. ‘This is the place where me father forged a paintin…’ He paused and threw us an exaggerated wink. ‘Signed it Constable, he grinned roguishly. ‘And then he sold it to the local antique shop.’

'Wow!' Rebecca said. 'Granda forged a Constable and sold it as real?'

'He did that,' dad said with a confident gesture. 'And today...' that Constable is probably hanging in the London Art Gallery being stared by the scaldie who has paid good money t’see a work of art.' He paused and shook his head to indicate his pity for the working classes 'Then what does the scaldie do? Eh? He hurries home. Brags to his friends about where he’s been. What he’s seen. Truth is, the scaldie can’t tell the difference.'

'Granda must have been clever though,' Rebecca said. 'I mean, to forge a Constable and then sell it to an antique dealer?'

'Nah Becca,' dad said running his fingers through his thick mop of iron grey hair.

'We’re talking fifty years ago Things was different then.'

'I think what your dad means Rebecca,' mum said as she placed a tray with four mugs of steaming hot Horlicks on the table. 'Is that time was slower in those days. Especially for travelling people. There wasn’t all the cars on the road. People were not rushing and pushing their way in everywhere. There was only one motorway .Nor was there building going on in every spare piece of land. You could park anywhere without getting clamped. And road rage had yet to germinate.'

'Sure, I see that mum,' Rebecca said with a questioning frown. 'But to forge a Constable? and then sell it to an antique dealer?'

'Your mum’s put it in a nutshell Becca,' dad said. 'But y’see them people who call themselves antique dealers nowadays? Well, to me, they’re just scaldies with a shop full of old second hand stuff. I mean, they’re not in the same league as the Antiques Road Show or Arthur Negus…are they?' Dad paused. And with only the faintest hint of a smile on his lips he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and added, 'And don’t forget Becca, in them days, the scaldie had to work fifty - sixty hours a week to earn a decent living. Why, the poor scaldie was always too tired to educate himself.' He sat up straight as if asserting himself. 'Nope, you just can’t compare the life of the scaldie to the life of travelling people who have all the time in the world to sit round a camp fire with paint and brushes, and copy any famous artist they likes.'

We all laughed. It was good wholesome laughter. And infectious. But when our laughter died down mum turned to me.

'You’re quiet tonight Cain?' she said.

I should have mentioned the dark feelings that came over me when my headlights lit up the old road sign. And my unease when I saw the giant bat a few minutes ago. But I had no wish to worry my family. In any case I felt sure my unease would be gone by morning.

'The name of this place puzzles me mum,' I said.

'Hobswick,' mum said with a deep frown. 'Why?'

'Doesn’t Hobswick means Deviltown, 'I asked.

Mum turned quickly. For a few seconds we looked at each other and I glimpsed a ripple of concern in her eyes. After a slight hesitation she said;

'It could be. The word Hob is old Saxon for fire or Devil. And Wick is an old Saxon word for seaport. So Hobswick could mean Deviltown but what’s brought the Devil into your brain tonight Cain?'

'Oh nothing really mum,' I said absently. 'It was just the name. Hobswick.'’

'Deviltown eh?' dad joked but I sensed unease in his voice.

At fifty eight dad was twenty years older than mum. And quite illiterate but dad was an accomplished violinist and he supported us by busking in the streets and public bars of the towns we travelled through. Mum was completely different. She was in fact a distant relative of dad’s but sadly, at the age of ten, mum had lost both her parents to a terrorist explosion in Ulster and as a result of intervention by the Social Services mum had enjoyed the privilege of a convent education.

I rose from the table. 'The drive seems to have taken it out of me,' I said. 'So if you’ll all excuse me, I’m off for a shower, then kip.'

And as a chorus of warm goodnights followed me to my bedroom how little did I suspect that the forces of evil were gathering and we were about to be plunged into a nightmare that would change all our lives forever.

*scaldie a word used by travelling people in the North East of Scotland to describe a plebicite

1am Sunday September 28 2005

'Cain’s quiet the night,' Ike whispered

'You noticed too?' Rebecca said.

'He’s at an impressionable age,' Esther said with a patient smile knowing her husband was concerned for their son and Rebecca was concerned for her brother. But they were right. Cain was quiet. Troubled even. But Cain was eighteen. He’d reached adulthood He had a right to his own life. His own counsel , but his fascination for the word Deviltown, was so out of character.

'Impressionable eh,' Ike said. 'Whassat mean Esta?'

'Cain wants to fit in with modern society Ike, just like other young men of his age.'

'I suppose,' Ike muttered in a damp voice. 'but he doesn’t work with us no more.'

'His choice Ike,' Esther said. 'Don’t forget, he’s been giving me fifty pounds a week for his keep when he worked as a barman during the long summer holidays.'

'Seen his clothes?' Rebecca chipped in.

'I have that,' Ike said. He threw Esther a triumphant glance. 'Barker shoes at two hundred pounds a pair. Farah trousers wi’ creases so sharp they’d a cut your finger.

Black waistcoats and white shirts with dicky bows. Huh! Looks more like a shan gajee out of Pot Black than a respectable traveller.'

'Now look here you two,' Esther scolded. 'Cain simply likes to look smart when

working as a barman.'

Rebecca fidgeted.

'You know summat Becca?' Ike demanded.

Rebecca nodded impishly and leaned across the table. 'At Cain’s last school, ' she whispered, 'two girls, Beth Mason and Susan Curzon,’ she paused and cast an anxious glance towards the shower room as if fearing Cain might overhear. ‘Were both hauled before the headmaster for fighting in the playground'

'And what’s lasses fighting got to with our Cain?' Ike said.

‘Hush Ike’ Esther whispered. She tee’d her lips with her index finger. ‘Let Rebecca finish.'

'Cos they was fighting,' Rebecca whispered. 'For Cain’s attention!'

Rebecca folded her arms and leaned back with her mouth crimped as if she’d said it all.

'I‘m not at all surprised,' Esther said dismissively. 'Girls have been making

sheep’s eyes at Cain since he was fourteen. But was Cain involved with those girls

Rebecca?'

'No more than a passing hello mum,' Rebecca whispered..

The shower room door clicked open. Cain came out and went to his bedroom.

'I‘ll wash the pots mum,' Rebecca offered. 'Then I’m off to bed.'

Rebecca was one of those rare human souls who have no quarrel with the rest of the

world. She had left school at an early age and like her mother she was a gypsy all the way to the marrow of her bones Her only ambition was to tell fortunes. She would wash the pots and have her shower and once in bed would be asleep within minutes.

Back at the dining table Esther and Ike were quiet. Esther smiled at the faint

Horlicks tidemark round her husbands mouth. Her husband was wise in gypsy ways and close to their son. But like all men her husband could also be naive. Tonight for instance he hadn’t seen that Cain had been disturbed. But she had. And she knew why.

*shan =poor , old, shameful*gadjee =non gypsy =policeman= stranger

1:30am Sunday September 25 2005

‘Well well well. Just do we have here.’ Seamus Whelk muttered as the headlights of his old BMW illuminated the car and caravan parked in the clearing opposite Lizzie Quinn’s cottage on the edge of Grover’s Woods. He braked and pulled over onto the grass verge opposite the cottage He climbed out and without taking his eyes off the caravan and the Range Rover he lit one Embassy off another, chucked a butt onto the grass and leaned back against his old BMW.

It was a warm bright evening with a full moon. The caravan and the Range Rover glistened like jewels in the moonlight against a background of ghostly silhouettes from jagged pine trees. Above the pine tops something moved. Seamus looked up and glimpsed a black shadow. He shuddered.

Seamus had come up in the world. He had been a builders labourer all his working life until twelve months ago when he met and became friends with local businessman Sam Guttridge. Sam Guttridge, by using his position as Chairman of Hobswick Independants (the party with the largest number of elected Councillors on Hobswick and Greater Havelock County Council) had successfully proposed Seamus as Hobswick Independant’s new candidate for the Hobswick seat in the local elections, and Seamus had been catapulted into being a duly elected Councillor for the Hobswick and Greater Havelock County Council.

Seamus saw himself as a forthright man. He would never let his position as an elected Councillor go to his head. After all, he used to be a builder’s labourer. He would never forget that. He hated his last building job in nearby Havelock Town because of the foreman brickie. A giant of a man from Glasgow called Big Jock who had talked down to him.

Called him Wee Shammy.

Yes. Wee Shammy. Next thing, every body on the site called him Wee Shammy.

That had been so belittling.

Especially for a man of his calibre.

He was a Councillor now.

Way above people like Big Jock.

Seamus got a wage for being a Councillor, and, as a Councillor, Seamus was entitled to be reimbursed by the Council for his out of pocket expenses. Which he was free to exaggerate, and from his Councillors wage, and his exaggerated out of pocket expenses, Seamus enjoyed a standard of living he’d only ever dreamt about as a builders labourer. Seamus understood two things. There is no such thing as a free lunch. And he owed Sam Guttridge. His mind was drawn to the day six weeks ago when Sam had summoned him to a meeting at his residence in the privacy of his study. He remembered standing head bowed with hat in hand in Sam’s study.

'Now Seamus,' Sam had began quietly. 'I’ve been sounding out your fellow Councillors. It seems Seamus, that my planning application to build five millionaire type houses on Grovers Woods is,’ he paused and threw Seamus a beefy smile from his huge round face. ‘Almost in the bag.'

Conscious of a nervous dread rising from the pit of his stomach Seamus had offered a feeble question.

'Almost Mr Guttridge...?'

'Almost,' Sam had repeated with another beefy smile and a shake of his head. 'Sadly, Seamus, three of your fellow Councillors, are hesitating.' Sam had paused to push a slip of paper across his desk towards him. 'Here are their names Seamus...and I need your, ahem, co-operation to put these three right.'

Seamus recalled the second sickening wave of apprehension that rose from the pit of his stomach as he leaned over the desk and picked up the slip of paper.

'I want you Seamus,' Sam had continued. 'To, ahem, wine and dine those three Councillors, on your own...one at a time at an upmarket restaurant.'

'All three Mr Guttridge,?' he had mumbled.

He was scared. He had limited his question. Guttie had helped him become a Councillor. He didn’t dare shake his head. Nobody messed with Guttie. He had stared down at his feet and carefully hid a shudder.

'Yes Seamus. All three...'

'Of course Mr Guttridge.....?'

Seamus would never forget Sam standing up from behind his desk. Sam was big. Six foot six, thirty stone, completely bald, and a stomach that draped over his knees like an apron. Seamus was five foot tall and of bony build with a big hooked nose and a thin wide mouth. His long straight black hair that began from the top of his eyebrows was still thick for a man of his years, was always slicked straight back with a greasy hair cream.

'Your mission...Seamus,' Sam had said in a coaxing voice. 'Is to make sure I get the support I need from your three hesitant fellow Councillors for my planning application to build five millionaire type houses with swimming pools on Grovers Woods.'

He remembered looking into Guttie’s eyes. Black and deep set and menacing they were. He had looked away quickly. He could never look Guttie in the eye. He’d always known he’d have to repay Guttie by working on the inside as a Councillor. And payback time had arrived. But Seamus was no fool. He understood only too well that if the Council gave Sam’s Grovers Woods project the go ahead Sam stood to make millions.

'Never discuss business during the meal Seamus,' Sam had said.

He remembered cursing under his breath. Sam persisted in talking down to him. Of course he wouldn’t talk business until the wine was served. Everyone knew that. He had listened in silence with his mind going ten to the dozen trying to work out a way to get a share of Sam’s millions to fund his own humble ambitions.

'I will of course fund everything Seamus,' Sam had said. 'And as the wine is being served you will, casually of course, broach the subject of my Grovers Woods Planning Application. And here’s the critical bit Seamus. I have prepared for you in advance, a large brown envelope for each Councillor, and after you have broached the subject of my planning application, place the envelope on the table. And then Seamus, simply excuse yourself for a visit to the wash room, and if that envelope is not on the table upon your return.....'

He remembered nodding. Guttie had it all worked out to a T. The greed of the three Councillors would guarantee success. It was going to be easy. Yes, but he, Seamus Whelk, was doing the dirty work. If any Councillor refused the envelope, he, and only he, was in the firing line. Guttie could deny it. He would have no proof. He’d be on his own. He could be charged with corruption. He could go to prison. He remembered a moment of panic.

'There is always a risk in business Seamus,' Sam had said in a casual voice as if reading his thoughts. 'And you are going to be well rewarded Seamus.'

'Oh?' he had said eagerly.

'Thirty thousand Seamus,' Sam had said with a big smile. 'Thirty thousand.'

He remembered his excitement. And Guttie was right. There was always a risk in business. He had nodded his willing acceptance. He had a dream of his own. A brand new Jaguar shimmering outside his council flat. He could see his neighbours faces. See their stares, hear their comments, their whispers. He could understand all that. He’d been working class himself once.

All that had been six weeks ago. He was now on his way home from nearby Havelock Town after entertaining his third and final fellow Councillor.

All three envelopes had been pocketed.

It was mission complete.

It had been so easy.

And Guttie was right.

But Guttie stood to make millions out of his hard work.

He leaned back against his old BMW and took a long drag on his Embassy.

'Guttie promised me thirty grand plus expenses,' he muttered aloud. 'But if I’m to get that brand new XK8 two door Jaguar Coupe`...I’ll need another twenty.'

Unaware of a low growl from under the caravan Seamus straightened up and flicked his half smoked Embassy jubilantly into the long grass where it landed in a shower of sparks.

'Thank you travelling people,' he muttered with a grin 'You’ve shown me the way.'

2:00am Sunday September 25 2005

'Sam!'

'Sam!'

'Sam Guttridge! Wake up...'

Sam opened his eyes. His wife Tessa stood by his bed. He smiled and lifted the duvet invitingly.

'Why, Tessa darling,' he said.

Tessa grimaced and took a step back.

'Its Seamus Whelk,' she snapped. 'He’s downstairs. Said its urgent.'

Sam swivelled his bald head and glanced at his bedside clock

'Its two o’ clock in the morning...?'

'He’s your friend not mine,' Tessa snapped. Her nostrils twitched as if she’d sensed a foul odour. She took another step back. "Shall I tell him to go, or will you see him?'

'Show him into my study,' Sam growled.

'Don’t be long Sam,' Tessa said as she swept towards the door. 'I can’t stand the thought of that dreadful little man in my house.'

Sam manoeuvred his enormous frame onto the edge of his king sized bed where he

slept alone and pushed his legs to the floor. He stood up and donned his pure silk black dressing gown. Breathing in long wheezes he made his way downstairs swaying from side to side like a sailing ship under way As he entered the study his huge bulk and black dressing gown darkened the room and dwarfed the skinny five foot frame of Seamus Whelk standing to attention with his overcoat draped over his arm clutching a felt hat.

'Sorry to trouble you Mr Guttridge...' he began in a tinny voice.

'Cut the cackle Whelk!' Sam growled. He glared at Seamus and without turning round he closed the study door with the sole of his foot. 'Why are you here?'

Seamus ran his fingers nervously through his greasy hair. His fear of Sam and Sam’s wealth were deep rooted. He glanced at Sam’s eyes and met hardness. He looked away quickly. He wanted to run but his vision of the new Jaguar parked outside his council flat was too exciting. He’d never get another chance. Not at his age.

'I’ve just got back Mr Guttridge,' Seamus croaked. 'From Havelock Town...'

'Get on with it Whelk!' Sam snarled.

'Its m-m- mission complete Mr Guttridge,' Seamus whimpered. He smiled like a

schoolboy expecting praise. 'Your planning application is guaranteed to be approved

by the Council at Monday’s meeting Mr Guttridge.'

Sam’s face softened. He straightened up. 'So that’s why you’re here at this ungodly hour Seamus,' he said smiling broadly. 'You want paying?' He frowned. 'But surely, this could have waited ‘til morning...?'

'I’m broke Mr Guttridge,' Seamus bleated. 'Flat broke. Those three Councillors have expensive tastes and I’ve spent a lot of my own money on top of what you allowed me '

'That’s not a problem Seamus, ' Sam said with a nod towards his wall safe. 'I got y’dosh all ready. I’ll pay you while your here.'

Sam lifted a whisky decanter and two glasses off the top of a bookcase and poured two glasses. He pushed one towards Seamus.

'Wrap your guts round that Seamus. Its a twenty year old single malt'

Seamus picked up the glass and sniffed it. 'Smells good Mr Guttridge.' He raised the glass and beamed at Sam. 'To the success of your Grover’s Woods project Mr Guttridge.'.

'I’ll drink to that Seamus,' Sam said.

Sam downed his drink in one gulp and with a throaty ‘aargh’ he padded to his wall safe. Keeping his back to Seamus he opened the wall safe. Inside the safe, resting on a brown envelope was a gun. He moved the gun to the back of the safe and took out a thick brown envelope.

'This is what we agreed Seamus.' Sam said. He wafted the envelope tantalisingly under Seamus’s nose. 'Thirty grand, plus another five for your expenses.' He paused and threw Seamus a plastic smile. 'Now before I pay up Seamus, are there any problems I should know about?'

Seamus hesitated. Sam saw the hesitation and in what seemed like one movement he withdrew the envelope and returned it to the wall safe. Seamus went weak at the knees. He was on dicey ground. Guttie had