By mid-afternoon the slender hydraulic tower glowed rosily in the sunlight above Grimsby Docks; and since the fishing-port had no particular charm for us, we proceeded to Cleethorpes, preferring the more airy shore and being eager to see the Gypsies. As might be expected, the summer-like day had brought a goodly number of late holiday-makers to the sands, and as we moved in and out among the groups near the pier foot, I heard a donkey-boy address someone not far away—
“Would the lady like a ride?” The lad’s features, bearing, and tone of voice were distinctly Gypsy, and, seeing he was within hail, I looked towards him and said—
“Dova sî kushto maila odoi” (That’s a good donkey there).
His face beamed with delight, and from his lips sprang the question—
“Romano Rai?” (Gypsy gentleman?)
“Âwa; kai shan tîro foki hatshin?” (Yes; where are your people camping?)
In gratitude for the explicit directions he gave, I placed a sixpence in his hand, and his remark was “Dova’s too kisi, raia” (That’s too much, sir). “A hora (penny) would have been dosta (enough) for mandi” (me). This boy was one of the Grays, and, following his instructions, we had no difficulty in locating the Romany camp.
It was early evening when we strolled forth upon an expanse of grass parcelled into building plots, where in a corner between the hedgerows were drawn up, with the doorways facing south, several substantial vâdê (caravans) near which some large tents had been erected. The Grays, who were silently moving to and fro, revealed by their interested side-glances that they had already heard of somebody’s inquiries concerning themselves, and when we advanced to offer our civil and friendly greetings to two women who were washing pots before an outside fire, every politeness was shown to us. They rose and spread a horse-rug for us upon the ground. “Dai ta tshai” (mother and daughter), thought I; nor was I wrong. The older woman, diminutive, lean, and somewhat bent with age, informed me that she was Eliza Gray, and the younger was her daughter Lena. As we talked by the fire, a goat appeared and rubbed its nose affectionately against Eliza’s knee. Said she: “This is an old pet of ours. We’s had it for years. I picked it up in Scotland.”
In late September the sun goes down early, and a chilly wind now set in from the North Sea. In the baulk of the old lady’s tent a coke brazier was glowing invitingly, so we all moved under cover, and, seated on a dais of clean straw covered with rugs, listened to tales and talk, the brazier’s crimson gleam being our only light. After some discussion of mutual acquaintances, the conversation drifted towards dukerin (fortune-telling), a subject never very far from the thoughts of a Gypsy woman.
“How I’ve sal’d” (laughed), said Eliza, “at those dinelê gawjê (foolish gentiles) what come to our tent to be duker’d. One time I put a crystal on a little table covered with oilcloth, and I ax’d the young lady if she couldn’t see her sweetheart in it. ‘Yes, I can,’ she says, ‘and it’s just like his face, but oh, lor, in this glass ball he’s got a tail.’ I nearly laughed straight out, for I’d sort of accidentally put the crystal on top of a monkey picture. The oilcloth was covered with all sorts of beastses, don’t you see?”