Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'I suppose so.'

'We're very old-established, y'see. Very old-established indeed.'

Well, this was true. And the family itself was old-established in Bridelow, at least on Ma's side. Dad had come from Oldham to work at the brewery, but Ma and her ma and her ma's ma… well, that was how it seemed to go back, through the women.

'But we've let it go,' Ma said.

Willy remembered how upset she'd been when her grand-daughter, his sister's lass, had gone to college in London. Manchester or Sheffield would've been acceptable, but London

He said, 'Let it go?'

Ma Wagstaff leaned back in the rocking-chair, closing her eyes. 'Aye,' she said sadly. 'You say as you don't want to hear this, Willie, but you're goin' t'ave to, sooner or later. You're like all the rest of um. If it's up on t'moor, or out on t'Moss, it's nowt to do wi' us. Can't do us no harm. Well, it can now, see, I'm telling thee.'

All eight of Willie's fingers started working on his knees.

Ma said, 'They're looking for openings. Looking for cracks in t'wall. Been gathering out there for years, hundreds of years.'

'What you on about, Ma?'.

'Different uns, like,' Ma said. 'Not same uns, obviously.

'Yobboes,' Willie said dismissively, realising what she meant. 'Bloody hooligans. Always been yobboes and hooligans out there maulin' wi' them owd circles. Means nowt. Except to farmers, like. Bit of a bugger for farmers.'

'Eh…' Ma was scornful. 'Farmers loses more sheep to foxes. That's not what I'm saying.'

Her eyes popped open, giving him a shock because there was no peace in them now, no acceptance. All of a sudden they looked just like the little white marbles Willie had collected as a lad, shot through with the same veins of pure, bright red.

She stabbed a finger at him again. 'I can tell um, y'know. Couldn't always… Aye. Less said about that…'

Willie's own fingers stumbled out of rhythm, the tips gone numb. 'Now, don't upset yourself.'

'But there's one now,' Ma said, one hand clutching an arm of the rocking-chair like a parrot's claw on a perch. 'Comes and goes, like an infection. Looking for an opening…'

'Shurrup, Ma, will you. Whatever it is, Lottie doesn't want…'

'Listen,' Ma said without hesitation. 'You tell that Lottie to come and see me. Tell her to come tomorrow, I'm a bit busy now. Tell her I'll talk to her about it. Just like we talked to Matt. Matt knew what had to happen. Matt were chuffed as a butty.'

'Aye.' Matt and his mate, the bogman. Together at last.

'Only we've got to protect the lad,' Ma said.

'I don't like any of this. Ma. Lottie'll go spare.'

'Well, look.' Ma was on her feet, sprightly as a ten-year-old, moving bottles on the shelf. 'Give her this.'

'What is it?'

Daft question.

'Aye.' Accepting the little brown bottle. 'All right, then, I'll give it her. Tell her it'll calm her down. Make her feel better. But I'll not tell you're going ahead with…' Willie gave his knee a couple of climactic thumps. 'No way.'

He didn't tell Ma what Lottie had said about them finishing Matt's bogman song-cycle. Because, when it came down to it, he didn't like the thought of that himself. And he had a pretty good idea how Ma would react.

I warned him not to meddle with stuff he knows nowt about, she'd say. And I don't expect to have to warn me own son.

So, in a way, Willie was hoping Lottie would have forgotten about the whole thing by the time the funeral was over.

A funeral which, if she'd any sense, she'd be attending with a very thick veil over her eyes.

The man with two Dobermans prowling the inside of the wire mesh perimeter fence was clearly too old to be a security guard. His appallingly stained trousers were held up by a dressing-gown cord with dirty gold tassels; a thinner golden cord was draped around the crown of his tattered trilby.

However, the dogs looked menacing enough, and when the man flung open the metal gate, they sprang.

For just a few seconds, the dun-coloured sky disappeared as the Dobermans rose massively and simultaneously into the air. And then they were on her, both heads into her exposed face, hot breath pumping and the great, savage teeth.

'Oh, my God!' Moira shrieked as the rough tongues sliced through her make-up. 'Do you guys know what this bloody stuff cost?'

She threw an arm around each of the dogs, trapping the four big front paws to her tweed jacket, and they all staggered together through the gate and on to the site, knocking over an empty, grey plastic dustbin.

The elderly man in the black trilby caught the bin as it fell. 'Moira!,' he yelled. 'Hey!'

'Donald,' Moira said, arms full of black and gold paws. 'You all right?'

'Well, damn.' He pulled his hat off. 'We wisny expecting ye today, hen, the Duchess didny say…'

'That's because she doesn't know,' Moira said. 'I hope she's not away from her van… Down, now…'

The dogs obediently sat at her feet. 'Ye've still got the way, all right,' Donald said admiringly.

'They've grown. Again. I swear I've never seen Dobermans this big. What d'you feed them on?

Donald didn't smile. 'Public health officials.'

'My daddy,' she reminded him gently, "was a public health official.'

'Aye, I know. But your daddy wisny like the hard-faced bastards they send 'round these days.' Donald turned his head and shouted at a woman pegging baby-clothes to a washing line outside a lilac-coloured caravan.

'Hey, Siobhan, the Duchess, she in now?'

'Oh… sure' The woman stumbled and dropped a nappy in a puddle. She picked it up, wrung out the brown water and hung it on the line. 'Leastways, I haven't seen no red carpet goin' down today.'

'Tinkers,' Donald said disparagingly. 'They're all bloody tinkers here now, 'cept for the few of us.'

Moira followed him and the dogs through the site, with its forty-odd vans on concrete hard-standings and its unexpectedly spectacular views of the Ayrshire coast. It might have been a holiday caravan site but for the washing lines full of fluttering clothes and the piles of scrap and all the kids and dogs.

They passed just one perfect old Romany caravan, bright red and silver, originally designed for horses but with a tow-bar now. A man with a beard and an earring sat out on the step whittling chunks out of a hunk of dark wood. He wore a moleskin waistcoat trimmed with silver. Moira stared at him, amazed. 'Who the hell's that?'

Donald turned his head and spat. One of the Dobermans growled. 'Oh,' Moira said. 'I see.'

'Bloody hippies. Call 'emselves New Age gypsies. Wis a time this wis a select site. All kindsa garbage we're gettin' now, hen.'

He stopped at the bottom of six concrete steps leading to the apex of the site, a flat-topped artificial mound with the sides ranked into flowerbeds.

Nothing changes, Moira thought. Wherever she's living it's always the same.

Evergreen shrubs, mainly laurel, sprouted around the base of the shining silver metal palace which crowned the mound like the Mother Ship from Close Encounters. The old man mounted the bottom step. 'Hey, Duchess!'

It wasn't what you'd call a traditional Romany caravan. Few like it had been seen before on a statutory local authority gypsy site. Only movie stars on location lived quite like this.

Donald stayed on the bottom step, the Dobermans silent on either side of him. There were antique carriage lamps each side of the door, a heavy door of stained and polished Douglas fir, which slid open with barely a sigh.

She came out and stood frailly in the doorway, a soft woollen evening stole about her bony shoulders. The day was calm for the time of year, no breeze from the sea.

Donald said, 'Will you look who's here. Duchess.' From the edges of the stole, the Duchess's hair tumbled like a cataract of white water almost to her waist. She looked down at Moira and her face was grave.