Gypsies

By Patrick D. Ferris

Gypsies is a novel about following your heart set in the world of competitive cycling. Giselle, tall and forbidding, grew up in Trinidad as a mechanic at her Dad’s shop, looking for a sense of belonging and happiness and never quite finding it. Losing her job forces her hand and she spends every penny to seek a new opportunity in Tucson, Arizona for a university education that would change her life. Upon arrival, state politics turned her away without a refund, forcing her to walk the streets, her savings all spent. Alone and frightened, by chance she meets Julie, a sympathetic bike shop owner who causes her to meet Larry and his group of cycling ‘gypsies’ who are also seeking their fame and fortune in the area’s hotbed of professional cycling. Giselle and Larry are drawn together despite themselves, finding they can’t live without each other. The stakes get higher with each succeeding cycling event, until the final big race which will decide if they stay together or he leaves her life forever. They are an odd couple among strangers but need each other if they are going to find a way to make their dreams come true in a competitive world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick D. Ferris
• Release date: Mar 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310042812

Patrick D. Ferris

Since he was fourteen years old, competitive cycling has been the constant in the life of Patrick D. Ferris. He races bicycles on-road and off-road, as well as completing an Ironman Triathlon. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba in 1954, Pat Ferris grew up in Victoria then moved to Fort St. John in 1975 to pursue his trade in the rapidly expanding natural gas industry. In 1997 he left the gas industry to start "Ferris Fast Cycles", a specialty bike shop, with his family. At this shop, he met a variety of interesting characters of all stripes and backgrounds. He also found out that a long "North Peace" winter is an ideal time to try his hand at novel writing. After many years of tinkering with different ideas and drafts, his first novel "Gypsies" emerged: a fictional tale of a relationship between outsiders intertwined with top level cycling. The sequel 'A Gypsy Engagement' soon followed with a third on the horizon. There are a few more novel projects coming, time permitting.

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Gypsies

by

Patrick D. Ferris

Copyright @ 2014 by Patrick D. Ferris

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Ferris, Patrick D.

Gypsies

ISBN# 978-0-9919852

Second Edition

Printed in Canada

http://patrickdferris.wix.com/gypsies

Acknowledgements

Sherril Guthrie inspired me to think that writing a novel was even possible.

Bruce Lantz gave me sage advice about this story at a crucial time, giving me the confidence to keep writing when I wondered if my work was viable.

Jolea Bilodeau listened to my endless ideas and banter, and gave me suggestions that were a huge help – as well as putting together this fantastic book cover.

My patient wife, Patricia, kept me going with terrific insights, suggestions and proofreading.

My son David took on the thankless job of editor and son Stephen kept me on the path of artistic integrity to write this novel, when I was not sure.

Thank you to those who read the various manuscripts and gave me invaluable feedback.

And thank you to all my patient, long-suffering friends, who listened to my endless talk of writing this book. You did it all once more when I revised it for a second printing.

I am most humbly grateful to you all,

Patrick Ferris

Gypsies

This work is entirely fiction so the characters and events in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is pure coincidence.

Everyone can be a gypsy, taking a journey away from the security of their roots to seek fortune, love and fame. Though they may be restless souls, they can find contentment by discovering that home is whom they are with, rather than where they happen to be.

Chapter 1

Twelve hours ago she was living in carefree Trinidad, and now she was now hiding behind a stinking grease dumpster in the unbearable desert heat of Tucson, Arizona. Giselle was in hiding, angry and bewildered, after local politics had derailed her plans. If she managed to evade capture she would be homeless, with very little money and no friends. Eventually, she’d need food and a safe place to live until she could figure out what to do next.

Her prospects were bleak.

Giselle Barnett had left the Caribbean islands of Trinidad and Tobago in late August for her prepaid and reserved seat at an American University in Tucson, Arizona. She’d planned to earn her technical degree in engineering or the sciences of the petrochemical industry, which would change her life from that of a beach handyman to that of a Certified Professional Engineer. There was big money in these worthwhile positions – if she could get the specialized training needed to take advantage of it. Her life in Trinidad wasn’t going anywhere and that was why she had left.

She knew Trinidad’s economy was of two contrasting employment worlds: heavy industry and the tourist trade. Heavy industry certainly paid better than tourism, provided the worker had serious technical training. Unfortunately, most industrial jobs went to the highly skilled workers who came in from other parts of the world leaving many original ‘Trinis’ far behind. Island-based technology schools were being developed as fast as the government could. But it was difficult to get capital for buildings and the latest sophisticated training equipment and qualified instructors were hard to come by, as they could make more money working in industry than teaching about it.

Giselle considered herself a craftsman and a wizard with her hands. She could take a very expensive failed machine designed by the finest industrial minds and make it work, sometimes better than the original designers could have anticipated. Unfortunately, genteel society sees the dirtying of hands and the skinning of one’s knuckles as the preserve of mere laborers. Upper echelons of society prefer the pushing of paper and the operation of computers as an image to aspire to, as even the lowliest and least practical engineer was more desirable than the ablest of craftsmen, particularly a woman.

Giselle had once considered moving to Trinidad’s sister island, Tobago, to find better work in the tourist trade. While Tobago had better tourism, it didn’t pay much better than Trinidad. The seasonal tourist trade paid poorly when making beds or being the shop handyman was her only vocation.

At home, her frustrated father often mumbled that owning a tourist sideshow was a mouth ta’ ass existence, with many unpaid hours to work for a very small return on your investment.

The Barnett family business in Trinidad consisted of a ramshackle boat-rental shop located in a large, old wooden shed near the beach. A holdover from the 1940s and World War Two, its cheapness and great size made it ideal for its purpose. The whitewash was faded and chipped, but a new paint job was not in the budget.

The Barnetts lived for the tourist trade, renting out some powered skiffs, a sailboat, bicycles and a few small motorcycles. On the side, they also repaired almost every other type of mechanical device to try and keep the cash flow going, especially when tourist business was slow.

Giselle had worked at the shop since she was ten years old, the only daughter and eldest of five children. The next oldest was Paul, two years her junior; then David, Mel and Chris, all about 18 months apart.

As Giselle grew older, it fell to her as the eldest and the only girl in the family to help cook and clean for her younger brothers and parents. Her mother, until her death, was frail and in poor health, suffering with tuberculosis, so Giselle pitched in wherever she could without complaint.

She didn’t mind looking after the younger ones but she bitterly resented looking after Paul, who seemed to enjoy teasing her and expected to be waited on. Usually, Giselle patiently said nothing until their father wasn’t around, and then exacted her swift and painful retribution upon him. It was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

Her mother and father had immigrated to Trinidad just before she was born, coming from the desperate and lawless streets of Mogadishu, Somalia, where each day was a struggle for the barest of food and survival. At that time there was no government and no police for the protection of the public in the streets. Almost everyone, from small children to the elderly, carried guns and they weren’t afraid to use them. It was that ‘kill or be killed’ lifestyle that the Barnetts sought to escape.

Giselle’s dad was a tough man who didn’t fear anyone. He could best anyone with either his wits or his fists, whichever was best, and he was always shrewd about which method to choose.

Over the years he showed Giselle some of his pet kicks, punches and self-defense techniques that had served him well. He didn’t want his only daughter preyed upon so he gave her the tools to protect herself regardless of the circumstances, and showed her how to win a fight in any way possible, without mercy.

The two often practiced these moves whenever they had a chance. Giselle caught on very quickly, which sometimes led to her father catching an errant punch or kick that left him winded and surprised. She was very good with these abilities by the time she was a young teenager with the confidence and physical strength to go along with her skills.

She never considered herself to be a school bully and rationalized her actions as handing out justice as she saw it. In the schoolyard she was someone to be respected, by students and teachers alike. Teachers knew her to be sharp and challenging with her wits, while the other students knew not to tease or bully her or her brothers as she proved handy with her fists as well. Very early in her life she learned that a Somalian heritage meant ridicule and beatings because they weren’t considered real ‘Trinis’. Giselle found that she would rather hand out punishment, when needed, than receive it. She was given a wide berth wherever she went, especially as she grew older, bigger and stronger.

Giselle mostly kept to herself, happy to read and be with her own thoughts. She was a loner. Her marks in school were excellent as she took pride in being top of the class at whatever she tried. No matter how long it took, she would master any subject as well as the teachers and was a keen debater if given a few minutes to think about her position.

There was not a lot of money in the Barnett household, so her mother taught her to be thrifty. She often said, There’s a fine line between being smart with your money and just being plain cheap. Don’t be cheap, girl. Unfortunately, Giselle did not heed the last part of her mother’s advice and became the queen of cheap. She wore clothes until they were worn out or too small. As far as she was concerned, there was always one more outing left in a pair of shoes, a dress or jeans. This served her well over the years and allowed her to save enough money for her future.

At the rental shop she could fix almost any type of bike, boat engine, motorcycle, gadget or machine after only a few years of experience. People would comment on how much handier she was compared to her younger brothers. It didn’t matter if it was an electric starter on a boat, adjusting the carburetor on a motorcycle or gears on a bicycle; she could quickly figure things out and make them work. Her brother Paul, on the other hand, couldn’t even fix himself a sandwich.

She often cursed Paul as useless, mostly just standing around or going out back to ogle the girls on the beach. He was a good talker, but not much work got done when her father or uncle were not around. He could, however, put on a pretty good show when they returned, ordering her around and bustling about with the customers with a lot of selective energy. She quietly endured it, ignored it, and went on doing what she thought best. And Paul made sure the two of them were never alone afterwards, when Giselle would give him ‘the stare of death’ or worse to put things right.

Normally she didn’t speak much, preferring to quietly work and let her father, her uncle Silas, and Paul sweet talk the customers. She’d rather fix something than talk any day. Despite her shyness, Giselle garnered considerable respect from her dad and the smarter customers, and the quiet prestige that went along with it.

Paul was always a bit jealous of her stature in the family. Much to his annoyance, the sharper customers would go straight to Giselle and talk to her about business, bypassing him completely. They knew she was both smart and a straight shooter. If they requested her opinion she’d give it to them, only after some thought, and she expected it to be received with due consideration and without interruption. Smart customers respected that and acted accordingly.

She wasn’t smiley or bubbly but was very business-like, keeping small talk to a minimum. She had a serious look and was always busy as if there was a constantly running clock in her mind, understanding that time was money when you are in business for yourself. Smiles from her were rare and laughter rarer still. Her uncle Silas once joked, Giselle is like Venus Williams without the sense of humor!

Everyone else thought that was very funny. While she didn’t appreciate being made fun of, being compared to someone of the caliber of Venus Williams was actually quite a compliment, although she wouldn’t admit it. She did, in fact, have a very good sense of humor, though she only showed it only to those few close friends she knew were intelligent enough to understand it. She didn’t tolerate fools or stupid people. When she listened to someone, they were getting a one-minute assessment for future reference, which normally wasn’t much of a threat coming from a woman but this assessment was coming from a big, tall imposing Somali girl.

Giselle had an open, honest face with big brown eyes, a nose that almost seemed a bit too wide proportionally, and a large mouth surrounded by full, thick lips. Her facial features were mostly serious, but on occasion she could light up the room with a huge smile, showing off her perfect white teeth. Smiles were guarded and only for those who earned it. When the rare occasion came for her to laugh, anyone nearby would find it difficult not to join in.

She wasn’t afraid of solid eye contact. When spoken to, she straightened up and looked right into the speaker’s face, seeming to study their features, movements and body language as if she was trying to read what they were going to say before they said it. Some people found this a bit unnerving, expecting a girl of her age and class standing to be obsequious and deferential as a matter of respect. Women found this eye contact particularly intimidating. As far as she was concerned, respect was to be earned, not simply given.

Her mother was not in the least intimidated by her, though her she was frail and sickly most of the time, struggling with her illness. Life in Somalia had been very hard on both mother and father before they immigrated to Trinidad. They were tough and self reliant, as any less was death in that Godforsaken failed state. They knew there was no future there, so scraped together enough money to escape. Trinidad was the first stop for the rusty, shitty freighter and as far as their meager savings allowed them to go, so that became their adopted home. They started the rental shop, had five kids and eked out a living from there. It was a life of luxury compared to what they had left behind.

Her mother had a certain toughness and was an immovable force of spirit – smart, wily and cunning. In her home country only the strongest and smartest survived, and she had survived it all. Giselle knew that and greatly admired her for it.

Giselle was horrified to see her mother slowly deteriorate, her health crumbling regardless of anything the doctors could do. It was a terrible day when she finally passed away. Giselle was only fourteen when her mother finally died. But her sadness was cut short because she had to grow up that day and be the head of the household at home. Her brothers and her beloved father now depended on her to keep the family fed and organized in her mother’s absence. It fell to her to make sure daily chores were done: shopping for food, homework finished and clean clothes made ready for the others. All this took place after her school day was done, along with her part-time work at the rental shop. It was a dizzy pace, leaving her little time for anything else.

Her father worked long days and evenings at the shop and could offer little in the way of support and help. After all he and Mom had been through together, she thought perhaps it was his way of dealing with his broken heart.

It was not in his nature to show his feelings, but on occasion Dad did spend a bit of time with each of his children in some small way. He showed her how to play chess when she was ten. It was a complex game and it took her years to master its difficulty and intensity. He said life was a lot like a chess game. Ya have to do your daily activities but always look at what is goin’ on around ya, he would say. They’d play chess off and on if there was a bit of time to spare or a lull in the day. She was the oldest, so she could challenge his chess-playing skills the best of all her siblings. Though he always won, she’d come very close to defeating him a few breathtaking times.

When she was barely fifteen, and the rental business was quiet, her father appeared one day with a couple of store-bought fancy coffees and they went behind the shop to play chess on the upturned bottom of an old rusty oil drum. He wasn’t a talker during the game as much as he was a keen observer. Occasionally his tough, muscled hands, permanently stained with grease and oil, carefully moved the weathered old wooden chess men around the board like they were monarchs of power in old England. The play went back and forth, pausing once in a while to slurp that delicious, fancy coffee.

About halfway through the game he asked her, hardly looking up, So dear, are ya happy? Is life all ya thought it would be?

The question struck her as odd. It took her a few moves to reply. How would I know if I was happy or not, Dad? I’m just a kid.

Well . . . are ya unhappy, then?

She answered after a few moments’ thought, Well, I’m not unhappy but I’m not happy. I’m okay, if that can be a type of happiness.

So ya’re sayin’ not knowin’ if ya’re happy is kinda like being happy?

That comment made her think a bit harder. My life is really busy. I’m up at six in the morning and go ta bed at eleven at night. I don’t mind it ‘cuz it doesn’t make me sad. Home, school, dinner, laundry and homework has ta happen. Every day is an accomplishment in itself.

I don’t tell you often enough but ya are a wonderful girl ta take on all the responsibility around the house. Your mom would be proud of ya, jus’ like I am.

She smiled wistfully, thinking of her mother and saying nothing for some minutes. Compliments did not come often but were very much appreciated.

He suddenly took her knight. So what do ya dream about that would make ya happy?

She winced at losing the knight. Happiness? I’d love ta be married to a millionaire, livin’ on a yacht and havin’ a ring on my finger with a diamond the size of a walnut.

Her dad looked up at her and made a funny face, then took her bishop. C’mon, dear daughter, be realistic. It needs ta be ya’re dream that ya accomplished ya’reself. Ya won’t enjoy being on the top of a mountain unless ya climbed it on your own.

She said nothing, moved her queen, I don’t know what I want. What would I do or where would I go?

He moved his queen near her king, Think about what ya like to do and then the logistics of it afterwards. No need to pack for a trip somewhere if ya don’t have a destination . . . unless ya’re runnin’ away from somethin’.

Much to his surprise, Giselle abruptly took his queen. I’m good at workin’ with my hands and I like it, she said. I s’pose some kind of trade would be fine.

His eyebrows went up at seeing the loss of his queen, Do ya have ta work in a trade? Have ya considered becoming an engineer or somethin’ like that? Ya’re very smart and understand mechanics very well. Get some schoolin’ at a college.

She moved her knight over to protect her queen. School’s expensive. The colleges around here don’t want girls. There are already too many men wantin’ trainin’ anyways.

He moved his pawn forward. Keep lookin’ around then. If ya have the interest then see what’s available. Don’t take no for an answer.

In fact, he hated the thought of seeing his only daughter leave. Every parent is sad when their child leaves home to make their way in the world, but they know it is mostly for the better. Moving away gives them confidence in dealing with the world and expands their horizons. They grow up fast.

Holding her breath, she moved her queen one space closer to her dad’s king. Check-mate! a final move of death and ultimate victory in chess.

After surveying the situation her father looked up. Ya have me in checkmate!

She laughed, as this was the first time she had ever defeated her father at this ancient game.

He scooped her up in his arms and they danced around laughing. Beatin’ up on an old man, are ya’? he teased. How do ya know I didn’t just let ya win?

I just know I won ‘cuz I’m amazin’, she giggled and then laughed. She held his arm as they finally walked back into the shop, knowing joy and happiness at least for a little while.

This event would be a cherished memory to savor.

Now sixteen and nearing the end of her formal school days, she was becoming restless. Some of her classmates were already off to college or to high-paying jobs, or just getting married and having kids. They were all going somewhere and apparently had plans. Giselle had no plans. It was like the chess game, where she knew it step-by-step and day-to-day but had no idea what the future was or what the big picture held for her. She felt like she was going nowhere. Someday, she feared, she would look in the mirror and see herself looking like a worn-out old woman with no future, nothing remarkable in her past and all because she lacked the confidence to take the risk of trying something else. It was as if she was a person marooned on a remote island – safe for now but fearful of making a raft and leaving to search for something better.

She admired her parents’ lives, struggling in their childhood country of Somalia, living day-to-day with each hour full of adventure and survival, then abandoning it all to come to Trinidad for a better life for their children. Her parents took a huge risk, yet it worked out well in the end.

Was her life better here or was it just being spent with her playing it safe; no risks taken and no adventures experienced? These thoughts vexed her for her years, leading to many sleepless nights. She kept such thoughts to herself. She was unhappy that she hadn’t experienced the highs and lows of life, never sticking her neck out even occasionally.

Seeing other couples kissing and cuddling in public annoyed her, and she was privately jealous. Being a loner didn’t help her get a date. It’s not that she didn’t have a heart, but more that she felt her feelings were a private affair. Few would ever see her feelings come out. ‘It was none of their business, anyway,’ she thought. The right man will have to find it, she told herself.

Nearing her eighteenth birthday, she developed into a good-looking woman: very tall with medium-length, jet-black hair. Anyone who knew her would say she was a big girl but in a curvy, handsome way. Her legs were long and powerful, with big hips proportional to her height, her upper body strong and athletic and with medium-sized breasts – all suiting her nicely. Her six-foot, two-inch frame tipped the scales at almost two hundred pounds. It was more than she liked but it was a function of her height and size so she reluctantly went along with it. Her height and earnest, austere disposition still seemed a bit formidable.

She was a striking girl with very dark skin and a commanding presence. She had a smooth drawl of a voice with the distinctive British accent that was only used to inform others of what was needed or what she thought, if asked. She made little effort to dress up to show off her features. Her hair was generally in a ponytail under a baseball cap. She usually wore little or no make-up, a pair of old, faded jeans, and a shapeless work top. A bra was all she grudgingly wore as a concession to her femininity – and because her heavy, worn, shop shirt had holes and rips in it and chafed uncomfortably.

At a distance her friends would say she was a jaw-dropping beauty. Up close Giselle looked more like a stern giant with unflinching eye contact that made strangers and even acquaintances nervous, and prospective dating opportunities sparse. A few local boys tried for a date, without success. Some even thought she was gay or something, but in reality she didn’t find them of any interest. They mostly were either scared off by her size or were uncomfortable with her intellect and direct bearing. Dating was hardly a priority for her anyway. At least that’s what she told herself.

Other than a few short evening dates, her first major foray into the field of romance was a brief interlude with an older man, an oil worker named Robert. He was a construction engineer from nearby Venezuela who first noticed her fixing an industrial pedal tricycle at the gas plant.

The Barnett’s shop had the repair contract for the unpowered people movers. They had rented six big industrial tricycles to construction workers at the gas plant where Robert worked. The big pedal trikes were as useful as they were cheap, didn’t produce sparks or exhaust, and forced the gas plant workers to get a bit of exercise. Eventually, of course, the trikes broke down and Giselle was sent to repair them on site.

She scoffed at how these supposedly highly trained engineers and technologists from all over the world could not do the simplest thing with a tricycle, such as fix a flat tire or adjust the gears. So when she wasn’t in school she had to ride her bike down to the plant weekly and fix these trikes for the dimwitted gas plant workers.

One Tuesday, true to form, the plant supervisor called her father and told him to send someone down to fix the tricycles that had developed flat tires over the weekend. He sent her down with her little pouch of tools, a pump and a few spare tubes. She made it through the security checkpoint and was soon fixing the bikes in the middle of the noisy, hot maze of pipes and roaring plant equipment.

Most of the nearby workmen stopped what they were doing to watch this pretty girl fix their grubby, broken down, neglected trikes. Every time she leaned over they oohed and ogled, never offering to help at all. This annoyed Giselle to no end but it was good pay for the shop so she chose to ignore them amid the ear battering din of the plant.

Soon the supervisor came along and noticed the small crowd of idle workers and shouted at them, Get back to work! Do you think we pay you to stand around? Get going! He waved his arms and directed them to where they were supposed to be. Soon it was just him and Robert, the Venezuelan contract engineer, standing there watching her work.

It must cost the company a thousand dollars an hour having those assholes standing around watching the girl fix the trikes, said Robert as they continued to stand there for some minutes watching her work.

Oh, I bet she’s a pretty one under those coveralls, remarked Robert.

I suppose she could be. Unlikely anyone will ever see any of it. She’s a crabby one, added the supervisor.

Really? I bet you I could get her pants off if I tried.

You? Her? I bet you a hundred bucks you can’t, grinned the supervisor slyly.

Robert thought about it for a few minutes, smiled, and then accepted the bet. His home was Venezuela but he was often away for months at a time, which meant numerous sly liaisons with various women wherever he went. At twenty-eight he was very good looking, tall, dark, suave, smooth and experienced. His Spanish-accented English could charm the pants off of almost anyone – and often did. Certainly a local bumpkin would be no match for his smooth-talking skills.

You’re on! Robert smiled as he shook hands with the supervisor to seal the deal.

Oh, by the way, how will I know you were successful?

I’ll bring you her panties. How’s that? Robert grinned as they both laughed hard.

As the supervisor moved away, Robert boldly walked over to Giselle and simply pitched in to help. Without a word, he held up the old heavy and rusty trike so she could remove the wheel. He then pumped up the tires with her hand pump and handed her tools as she worked. All that time he met her furtive but stern eye contact with short, shy, winning smiles. The work on the three trikes was completed after about an hour and a half. She was happy to get the help so she could get out of that hot and noisy gas plant as soon as possible.

Afterward, she looked at him and called out over the plant noise and racket, Thanks for the help!

Robert met her gaze. No problem. You’re certainly a handy person with tools. Have you been a mechanic for very long? As he spoke, he looked her over, noting she looked mature for her age and guessing she must be nineteen years old or so. He was wary of getting mixed up with someone too young. As the old saying goes ‘Sixteen will get you twenty’ – or worse, in some countries.

Giselle was a bit flattered at being called a mechanic and not just a handyman. I’ve been repairin’ machinery at Beach Rentals and Repairs since I was little.

I see you’re quite efficient and very good. In fact, he was very impressed.

Why thank you, she smiled guardedly. Robert was nice and very good looking, she thought. It wasn’t often anyone took the time to speak to her, especially a professional-looking, polite, well-mannered man.

Robert smoothly looked into her eyes and offered, How about a drink after work? Where can I call you?

Initially she was shy and surprised, but Robert persisted, Wouldn’t a cold beer and some fish and chips go down well after work? Pick you up at seven? What’s the harm in a little dinner?

His winning smile and confident face made saying no impossible, so she finally agreed to meet him. Nobody had ever been this persistent in asking her out on a date before. Usually one