It was one thing to view the gypsy camp through the small window in the caravan, quite another to be thrust into it. It was early, the dawn chorus hadn’t been long finished, but already it promised to be another scorching hot day. All round the camp, fires were lit and the women were preparing breakfast. Mackensie, Halimena and the rest of the Lock family were sitting in the opening to the tent, and as Corinda and Pearl joined them everyone smiled and nodded at her – everyone but Halimena. Byron’s grandmother merely stared long and hard at her before taking the bowl of porridge, stiff with salt, which Madora handed her. ‘Feeling better?’ Eleven-year-old Freda hitched herself closer. ‘I got kicked by a dray horse once and had to stay in bed. I was black and blue all over, wasn’t I, Dai?’ Pearl had gathered by now that ‘Dai’ was the gypsy word for Mother, and as Corinda said shortly, ‘And whose fault was that?’ Pearl smiled at Freda, aware that the other girl was trying to make her feel comfortable.
