The pub was from time to time visited by a Gypsy girl, a black haired beauty I once nearly married. I shall name her Jill, her Roma name is different and not common knowledge. She would travel to London from the midlands in her grandfather`s Vardo, a beautiful wooden wagon from a long gone era. She would park the vehicle in Charlotte Street, much to the delight of the locals.
Jill intrigued the young artists who thronged the pub. The very fact that she loved the travelling life and would not give it up made her a heroine. She represented everything that the Beatniks and their followers aspired to, but were unable to achieve. She was a genuine free spirit.
One Friday evening she arrived unexpectedly and asked me to travel with her to Abingdon, a two day trip by horse transport. I agreed, and we set off down the Bayswater Road at the height of the rush hour. The horse was little afeared of the cars and buses, in fact the other road users kept a good distance from us. They were more afraid of us than we of them.
At one road junction a car driver bawled out my friend, "Get off the road, you are too young to drive that thing!"
Jill`s reply was sharp and to the point. "I am eighteen - and besides I don`t need a license!"
The car sped off noisily, but the horse did not rear up or shie, although I expected him to do so, I had seen his flank tremble.
That night we rested in the first country lane that we came to; and then set off again early in the morning, just as the sun was rising.
I took the reins when we travelled the quiet morning B roads, but Jill took over when we encountered heavy traffic or had to traverse a town centre.
Eventually we arrived in a small field a mile or two from Abingdon. This field was her new official residence; a place where she could live a life private to herself and entertain her closest friends. Jill was born a natural loner. Life in a crowded camp site was not to her liking.
That night the heavy springtime rain clattered on the wooden roof. We slept up close in the narrow bed. We were lovers and glad of this small amount of time that we could spend together. Outside in the rain the horse stood restless in a thicket of trees. Two greyhounds slept soundly under the wagon.
The morning dawned damp and dark. Jill pulled on a pair of leather boots and went hunting rabbits in the neighbour field, shrieking instructions to the two fierce dogs. I think she caught three rabbits that morning.
Breakfast was reheated stew and smoke tinged coffee. Then at 9 o`clock we walked the half mile to the farmer`s house and sat down in his kitchen. A carefully worded contract giving Jill rights to her field was placed on the white wood table. Jilll, being just eighteen, was too young to sign the contract, and besides she could neither read nor write. I was just twenty two and officially an adult, so I signed the contract on her behalf. She put her mark next to my name. The field was now her home base, and has remained so to this day.
We returned to the Vardo, trudging through mud and rain; and while our clothes dried slowly by the window. I read a comic to her. She loved to look at the cartoons and imagine the stories. Having someone to tell the tall tales to her was a novelty and a joy.
That evening I returned to London by train. Marylebone Station is not too far from the One Tun, so I visited the pub before catching the tube home. My friends wondered where I had spent the weekend, so I told the full story while they sat still and silent.
"I don`t believe any of that" one of them said. But in fact he knew that I was telling him a true story. He was just mighty jealous that I had lately experienced a freedom that he craved, but was just too conventional to try.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 30th. 2014. . .
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