The Year the Gypsies Came
Emily Iris looks forward to the times her parents welcome house guests to their family's unhappy home. As long as the visitors are there, her mother and father will put their quarrels aside. But one spring a family of wanderers – an Australian couple and their two boys – come to stay, starting a chain of events that will shatter Emily's world forever. |
Interview
Interview with Linzi Glass What are you reading at the moment? Which authors do you most admire? What books did you read as a child? Which literary character would you most like to meet? Where/When do you do most of your writing? Have you ever had any other jobs apart from writing? What’s your earliest memory? What are you proudest of? Who or what always puts a smile on your face? Where’s your favourite city?
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Extract from : The Year the Gypsies Came
Saturday
While Mother lies sunning herself, we play quietly on the lawn. Sarah and I are extra gentle when we win draughts from each other. ‘Sorry, Em,’ ‘Sorry, Sarah,’ we say each time we take a jump. I feel myself not wanting to have any of her draughts and would rather let her keep them all. After a half-hour or so Mother stirs and sits herself up. She fans her flushed cheeks and gazes out into the woods. ‘Your father’s heading back already,’ she says, sounding disappointed and looking in the direction of the white pillars, where I see him, thin dark hair plastered back off his shiny forehead, walking at a fast pace through the gates, like an eagle on a mission. ‘You’re back much too soon, Bob,’ Mother says, eyes half closed, her head turning away from his direction as he reaches us. ‘Nastiness becomes you.’ Father breathes heavily over her. ‘You’re blocking my light, Bob.’ ‘Nobody could ever block your light,’ Father snorts. Sarah and I both keep our eyes on the draughts board between us. My eyes burn into the pieces. Red over black, black over red. Your jump. My jump. His jump. Her jump. Mother’s jump. Father’s jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. One jump after the other all jumbled inside my head. Neither one of them moves for a few painfully silent minutes, then Father slowly begins to circle the blanket we’re sitting on. ‘I have some news that might sweeten your sting, Lily,’ Father says, placing one hand on his hip as he walks. ‘“I met a traveller from an antique land” – some gypsies.’ He stops and grins smugly down at Mother. ‘Gypsies?’ Mother raises an eyebrow then squints up at him from underneath the propped hand above her eyes. ‘How clever of you.’ ‘Real gypsies?’ Sarah sits up suddenly. ‘Well, let’s just say they’re gypsies of a kind. Adventurers. Wanderers I met parked in their caravan in the woods.’ He lets out a breath, then takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights up. ‘I’ve invited them to stay with us for a while.’ ‘Stay, Father? Where will they stay?’ Sarah asks in a high-pitched voice, looking up at him wide eyed. ‘In their caravan on our property. Don’t look so frightened, Sarah. They really seem awfully decent. A nice couple actually . . .’ ‘Do they have children?’ I blurt out, while Sarah quietly lowers her eyes and flicks specks of grass off her pinafore. ‘Yes, yes, two boys I think they said.’ Father draws deeply on the cigarette and blows out a large smoke ring. Mother is busy piling thick homemade strawberry jam and clotted cream onto a scone and acts like nothing’s been said, like the only thing in the world that matters to her right now is the scone she’s fixing. ‘They arrived last night. Didn’t know it’s illegal to camp in the woods. They’ve been told they have to be out by nightfall,’ Father says, like he suddenly doesn’t care who’s listening and who’s not. ‘Are they staying long?’ I ask, imagining a dark-haired gypsy couple in wild coloured scarves, a glowing fortune-telling ball between them and two scruffy-looking boys with big sad eyes looking on while their parents read fortunes to strangers outside their caravan. The thought fills me with terror . . . and excitement. ‘I told them we had a large garden and they could park their caravan in it for a while. Give them a chance to find somewhere to stay. They’ll be here within the hour or so.’ Father blows two more smoke rings. I watch them as they spin round, one inside the other. There are no sounds, except for the sprinklers that hiss rainbow sprays in the quiet air. Sarah must notice the quiet too because she starts to tap a red draught against a black one. Click, click, click, like tap shoes on an empty stage. Mother looks up from her scone. A small piece of strawberry jam clings to the side of her mouth. She looks directly at Father through the smoke rings that he keeps blowing. ‘Well, well, Bobby-boy. I didn’t think you had it in you. What fun! Gypsy house guests, how dee-vinely original! Do tell, what are they like? I’m all ears.’ ‘You’ll see for yourself, Lil . . . He’s a robust sort of chap from the Australian outback; his wife seems interesting, I daresay quite unusual actually. I’m quite sure he said they have two boys, but they didn’t come out. Must have been inside the caravan.’ Mother touches her sticky mouth and wipes away the strawberry jam with a lace napkin. We all watch her as she stands up and arches her back, stretching her arms high above her head. ‘Good!’ she says. ‘We could all use some livening up around here. Don’t look so glum, Sarah. No one’s going to cast a spell on you, for goodness’ sake!’ Mother laughs. ‘That’s settled then, they can park over there.’ Father stamps his cigarette into the grass and points across the lawn to a spot near the driveway. Mother looks across at the same place. I watch them, standing apart, but looking in the same direction and wonder if maybe they are both imagining the caravan that will soon be parked there. Something heavy seems to lift between them. It makes me think of the big black rock I once saw on a school field trip to Pelindaba that rolled off a cliff and crashed onto the ground below. For a moment, I feel happy. |