Chapter One
Although the letter had only arrived that morning, Gypsy had already folded and unfolded it so many times that a tear was forming along the central crease. She was sure that, if asked to, she could recite the whole thing from memory. Now as her father appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a red checkered oven glove sling over the crease of his crooked elbow, she slipped it into her pocket for the last time. Clenching one fist and digging her nails into her palm, she readied herself for confrontation. She could feel the venom beginning to scald her guts. She took a deep breath and headed down the stairs, where her father was doling meat and vegetables out onto two mismatched dinner plates.
Gypsy sat down at her usual place, to the left of her father’s seat at the head of the ornate table. She murmured her thanks and nodded slightly as he set a plate before her, and waited until he too was seated and had put a large chunk of meat into his mouth before she began to speak.
“I’m going to visit Nana Medley.” It wasn’t a question. She wasn’t asking his permission. She looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering.
He laid down his cutlery and began chewing furiously. He was far too polite to speak with his mouth full, regardless of the circumstances.
"Her letter came this morning." Gypsy paused brifely to invent an accepotabel content for the letter, so that he would not ask to see it. "She needs help clearing out the attic."
He swallowed. “Absolutely not.”
Gypsy glared at him. “She’s my grandmother! I have every right to visit her. Besides, I’m old enough now to know what I’m doing.”
“Watch your tone, Miss! You’re under my roof, you live by my rules. What insane reason has she given this time for wanting you to visit?And don't give me that "cleaning the attic' nonsense. She has Oren, and soem of teh neighbours, I'm sure, if she really needs help.”
Gypsy scowled. She knew that she could never relay her grandmother’s views to him without having him declare for the thousandth time that his mother was a mad old bat, always had been, and that old age was making her senile. The fact that this was coupled with her pre-existing insanity, he would say, made it impossible to converse normally with her. The best they could do for her, he always said, was ensure that she was well provided for. Not that she ever accepted money from him. He would never understand how urgent it was that his daughter left.
“I forbid you to go anywhere near that woman, Gypsy.” He was standing now, drawn up to his full height, with his chest puffed out beneath his crisp white shirt and black suit jacket. His small blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon her. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” she replied, returning his stare in the hope that she would realize that she didn’t see herself as inferior to him, or as subject to his authority.
“Good,” he nodded, trying to hide his surprise at how easily she’d given in, and sat back down, smiling.
Gypsy returned his smile and refocused her attention upon her dinner. She hadn’t given in; he’d asked if she’d heard him and she’d said that she had. That didn’t mean that she was going to accept his embargo on seeing Nana Medley. It wasn’t disobedience, really, just a breakdown in communications.
Her mother would have immediately understood her logic. There was far more of Thalia in Gypsy than there was of her father. In fact, Gypsy had long since begun to silently question her parentage. While she had her mother’s spirit and conviction, as well as her green-blue eyes, untameable sandy brown hair and slightly tanned skin, there seemed to be nothing of her father in her. No way would Thalia have believed that Gypsy was bending to her father’s will without putting up a fight.
She finished her meal, laid her cutlery on her plate, and brought it to the dishwasher.
“Are you staying in tonight?” her father asked, having swallowed a mouthful of boiled potato, as she headed for the door. What he saw was, as always, informed more by what he believed was there than by what was actually in front of him. He saw his daughter with her wild, tangled hair and her mother’s eyes. Her clothes were far more worn and ill-fitting in his mind than they were in reality, and her features bore the gentle signs of submission. Such signs had (very) occasionally touched his wife’s face, but they were quite alien to his daughter, whose eyes were alight with rebellion. His lack of awareness as to what was in front of him prevented him from hearing anything else which happened that night.
“I think I’ll go to bed early,” she replied, as she headed out of the room.
He coughed. “Good, good.” He sounded nonchalant, but underneath it he was thrilled. She seemed to be calming down at last. He made a mental note to say no to her more often. That was the problem, he decided. She was spoiled, allowed to run wild. Not that he could very well prevent her what with the example her mother was setting. He sighed and retreated to the sitting room where he could get lost in a detective program and forget all about the difficulties and complexities of his wife and daughter.
Gypsy headed up the stairs to her room, frowning as she saw what a mess it was in. There were clothes strewn across the floor, balled up at the foot of her bed, and hanging on the back of her old wooden chair. That would make packing somewhat more difficult.
****
She had her bag packed within two hours, an incredibly long time given the size of her small brown rucksack. Having washed her face, hands and teeth, she pulled off her worn brown sandals and crawled under her red blanket, fully clothed and feigned sleep.
Her father pulled open her bedroom door at about half ten, when he was going to bed himself, just to check if she was safe in bed. He retreated quietly. She could almost hear his relief.
Her mother didn’t arrive home until five hours later. Gypsy could hear her coming up the stairs, in spite of the lightness of her step, because of how her beads clicked and her bracelets jangled. A second step of footsteps followed hers. Gypsy scrambled out of bed and crept out into the landing.
“Hello Gypsy my flower.” Her mother sang out, her eyes dancing with a combination of alcohol and elation. “Look who I found!”
Gypsy smiled. “I didn’t know you were coming home, Sabine.”
“Neither did I!” Her mother beamed. “Imagine! My own daughter doesn’t even tell me when she’s coming for a visit!” It wasn’t intended as a criticism as it would have been coming from her father.
“Good to see you, Gyps.” The older girl hugged her tightly. She smelled of jasmine and incense. Her wavy brown hair hung lose around her shoulders. Though thick, it was tidy, carefully brushed, well looked after.
“You too.” Gypsy would never admit that she’d been lonely for her sister after she left. “What have you done with the twins?”
“I left them with Aunt Phil. We’re staying with her for a few days. The lot of us would never fit here. It’s bursting at the seams as it is! I was going to visit first thing in the morning, but I ran into Mum at Malachy’s, and she insisted that I come back with her.” Sabine smiled, and squeezed ehr mother's elbow fondly.
“Well it’s a good thing you did. I’m off first thing in the morning, if not sooner.” She had intended to leave at once, but now that her sister was home, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to catch up with her.
“Where to?” Sabine asked. Her mother never asked such questions.
“Nana Medley’s.”
Sabine frowned. “Not again!"
Gypsy pressed her lips together. “I just need to check some things out. We’re not completely sure of anything yet, but I need to be there.
Sabine nodded. “Alright. If you need me, write.” Unlike her mother, she'd be true to her word, and give help if needed, even if that meant she had to inconvinience herself in the process.
“Thanks.”
“Your father won’t be happy,” Thalia told her, half amused.
Gypsy laughed. “He’s not. I already told him. He thinks I’ve agreed not to go.”
Thalia snorted. “Poor man. Book smart, yes, but he falls down when it comes to reading people. Come on, we’ll go downstairs and toast an arrival and a departure.”
Gypsy and her sister headed into the Other Sitting Room, her mother’s sitting room, furnished with cushions and beanbags. Thalia liked sitting as close to the floor as she could. They sat, and Sabine began telling her how much her daughters, Clover and Leaf (how her father had protested at the names. Worse than Sabine and Gypsy, he said.) had grown since last she saw them.
Gypsy smiled. “You do need to bring my goddaughter to visit more often.”
Sabine stretched her legs out in front of her and flailed them in mid air before curling them up underneath her with ease. “If you weren’t leaving tomorrow you could have seen her.” She sighed. “Never mind. There’ll be time.” She didn’t bother asking Gypsy when she’d be back. It was impossible to know so soon.
Their mother elbowed the door open and set glasses of whisky before her daughters before returning to the kitchen for her own glass. “Now,” she said as she sat down, leaning forward on her purple beanbag. “Gypsy, tell me about things at Nana Medley’s.”
****
Gypsy did not return to her room until after five. She’d pulled blankets from the hot press and arranged them on the couch for Sabine. Her mother never thought of such things. “Be careful”. Sabine had whispered, her brown eyes darkening with concern. Gypsy had laughed. “I always am. You know that.”
She was too geared up to sleep much that night, and what little sleep she did get was restless and punctuated with vivid, confusing dreams, which evaporated instantly upon her waking. She was glad she hadn’t changed into her pajamas; getting dressed would only slow her down.
She washed again, and descended the stairs with her bag slung over one shoulder. She opened and closed the front door as quietly as she could. It always remained unlocked, even at night, in spite of her father’s better judgement. Thalia insisted that she felt trapped otherwise, and refused to listen to reason, saying that if he locked the door, she’d simply sleep somewhere where the door remained unlocked. He always conceded, knowing that she wouldn’t hesitate to convert her words into actions. Given that she’d maintained the beautiful figure she’d had when she first met him, because of the fact that she couldn’t stay still for more than a few hours at a go, and that her hair still had no grey showing in spite of the fact that she was nearing forty, he didn’t doubt that she’d be welcomed with open arms into many a house.
Gypsy was the same, never shutting her windows at night, even during the depths of winter. She laughed at her father's protests about bugs coming in, about her getting a chill, about the possibility of someone climbing in through the window while she slept, murdering the three of them and then robbing their dead eyes blind.
“It’s not funny!” he’d insist. “These things happen. It’s just the kind of world we’re living in.”
Outside, with the gentle rain cascading down on top of her, Gypsy felt refreshed. She pulled off her shoes and squeezed them into her bag. She’d always had an aversion to shoes, and wore them so rarely that the skin on the soles of her feet was thick and tough and permanently tattooed with dirt no matter how often she washed them. Elated, she broke into a run, loving how her hair flew behind her. Action had always suited her better than passivity. She’d worry about the consequences when they came.
The roads were lined with sleeping households. It lent a whole different feel to the world, as if time had stopped, as if nothing existed except for the present. It left her feeling disconcerted. She ran faster and harder until, eventually, she had to stop for breath. She hated having to stop.
The familiar irritation was beginning to rage through her system. She pulled her shoes back on out of necessity. Ever since she’d gotten glass in her foot five months ago, she’d acknowledged the need to be careful and practical, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Jamming the prongs into the loops of her sandals, she began to run again.
