The Girl in the Painted Caravan by Eva Petulengro Page B

coincidence, Daddy was enquiring whether there was a vacancy for a cook. He
always had a silver tongue and, when asked what his qualifications were, he told such a beautiful and mouth-watering tale that he not only got a job, they put him in charge!
    Since he had never so much as boiled an egg in his whole life, this was something of a problem, and one that he hadn’t bargained for. He had not known, when he applied, that the NCO in
charge of the place was being posted to some other camp. Ever quick-witted, though, he realised that he could turn the situation to his advantage. Being in charge meant he didn’t actually
have to do any cooking, which is when he would have been in danger of being found out. All he had to do now was to convince the cooks that he knew what he was doing and he would be all right.
    So he marched up and down the cookhouse as though he were the head chef at the Savoy or somewhere, barking at the youngest and most inexperienced of the men to start with.
    ‘What d’you think you’re doing, lad?’ was his favourite question. The young cook would then nervously launch into a long and detailed description, which was exactly what
my father wanted, as it enabled him to learn. All his close attention to the work was perceived as conscientious inspection by the chefs and he rapidly gained the respect of the men for what they
believed to be his astute supervision.
    He realised, of course, that this might not wash with the older and more experienced men working there. He gave them a wide berth for a day or two until he managed to get out into the
surrounding fields and gather together a collection of vegetables and herbs used by Romany women in their cooking: onions, wild thyme, fennel, marjoram and garlic. Then, copying his wife, he
sprinkled a handful of herbs into this dish and that one, improving the flavour considerably. Since army cooking was very basic, any improvement was a huge success. The men enjoyed their food and
the cynical cooks developed a great respect for Daddy, who they thought had to be some kind of expert.
    Learning fast, Daddy rapidly did become an expert – so far as army cooking was concerned anyway. As well as herbs and vegetables, he would gather mushrooms, which normally never figured on
any army menu, and these he reserved for the sergeants’ mess, where he became very popular indeed.
    From this point onwards, his life in the army was pretty comfortable.

NINE
Who’s This Man I Call Daddy?
    Keeping me out of mischief was obviously a major concern of the adults around me. Granny would often have first shift of the day, taking me with her to the bakery across the
road from the Red Lion. She would make her own bread and take it over to the baker, who’d put it in his oven. An hour or so later, she’d go back to collect it. I loved the smell in the
shop – freshly baked bread mixed with the sugary aroma of the cakes laid out on the counter. Granny would leave with a big basket of still-warm loaves and I’d be clutching a fresh cake
in my hand – the best way to keep me quiet.
    I’d also be given odd jobs to do. I was probably more of a nuisance than I was worth, but the grownups cleverly managed to give me the impression that I was doing something really useful.
In Romany families, children are set to work at an early age, not in order to exploit them, but to give them a feeling of belonging in their society and as an introduction to the skills
they’ll need later for survival. Their contribution is quite useful, however. The men would be away working during the day and the women would go out hawking, going from door to door selling
clothes pegs and offering readings. In older days, the little boys would tend the horses, while girls were sewing, cleaning and preparing meals long before the age of ten.
    The whole family is part of the Romany community and each family is a small community of its own. The children know when times are hard and money is scarce.