The Girl in the Painted Caravan by Eva Petulengro Page A

knew that it was like a slaughterhouse on the beach and they offered to garrave (hide) them. But my father’s only desire was to
see the back of France now, for he had just about had enough. All he wanted was to see his home and his family again, and he was quite prepared to risk his life for that.
    So it was back to the beaches, and there he had another strange meeting, this time with a man called Gadsby, whom he knew from Skegness. Gadsby was a performer – he used to high-dive from
the pier into a ring of flame on the water. My father couldn’t have asked for a more appropriately qualified friend than this and he made sure he stuck close by him. They finally managed to
get on a boat together and, as it happened, they weren’t more than a few hundred yards out to sea when it hit a mine and sank. Gadsby saved several men who couldn’t swim while my father
was dog-paddling his way back to the beach. He, Gadsby and most of the survivors managed to get aboard a second boat and, again, they had hardly got clear of the beach when they suffered a direct
hit from a German dive-bomber, the bomb going clean down the steamer’s funnel. Yet another scramble took place and once more Gadsby played a heroic part, saving more lives because of his
skill as a diver and swimmer.
    By now, as can be imagined, it was like Bedlam at the beach, with hundreds of small ships arriving, more and more troops converging on Dunkirk from the battle lines and the Germans throwing in
every dive-bomber and fighter they had, pausing their ferocious onslaught only to refuel and rearm. Dozens of ships were being sunk and the survivors machine-gunned in the water as they tried to
get back to the beach.
    In the midst of the chaos, Daddy got separated from his friends, but managed to get a place on board – of all the ridiculous vessels that were there in Dunkirk harbour – a paddle
boat normally used for pleasure trips between coastal resorts like Margate and Ramsgate. The King George V was not built for speed or for manoeuvrability, but it somehow managed to evade the
minefields and the German dive-bombers, and paddled, literally, its way back home.
    One day in the NAAFI canteen, while queuing up for a meal, my father heard a welcome and familiar sound. One of the men on fatigues was mumbling away to himself, cursing miserably, as he
splashed out dollops of mashed potatoes. There was nothing unusual in that except that the man was cursing in Romany, which made my father smile.
    ‘Keker puker duver, chore,’ he said. (‘Don’t speak like that, boy.’) The man cheered up immediately, hardly able to believe his own ears, and could not wait until
he was able to join my father for a chat. The Romany boy’s name was Leo Cooper and he was one of those who had been called up, much against his will. He felt a tremendous resentment against
the army and was terribly homesick, finding it impossible to make friends among the gorgers. He poured out all his troubles to my father.
    His young wife was expecting her first child and was unable to earn her keep. Most Romany women work for the full term of their pregnancy, but Leo’s wife was having a bad time and he
desperately wanted to get home to her. ‘I’ve got to jaw kerry,’ he kept repeating. (‘I’ve got to go home.’) Daddy warned him of the dangers of desertion, but Leo
was determined. He felt he just had to get back and take his wife somewhere where at least she would not be lonely and would have her relatives to care for her. But he had no intention of coming
back, even then, because he hated the disciplines of army life. He wanted to be free again.
    In fact, Leo was better off than he thought and the job he had in the cookhouse was one which was much sought after. It was always warm, there was plenty to eat, and the cooks were excused from
all drills and guard duties.
    The day after Leo’s chat with my father, they were a man short in the cookhouse. At the same time, by a strange