Free Gypsy Boy by Mikey Walsh

school. For the most part, Gypsies were left alone by education officials reluctant to set foot in the local camps. But we lived in a bungalow, where the piles of tarmac, the scrap and my father’s bright orange cargo lorry parked on the drive were already aggravating the neighbours. We were bound to be reported, sooner or later.
    But my mother wanted us to go. Our father and our grandparents on both sides were unable to read and write. Mum could write a bit, but only using phonetic spelling and in capital letters. She wanted more for us, welcoming the idea of us learning to read and write, while at the same time keeping us out of our father’s firing line.
    We lasted two weeks.
    Within two days, Frankie had brought home the contents of our teacher’s stationery drawer and I had stolen a goldfish. I’d reached into the head teacher’s, Mrs Trout’s, private tank during lunch break, and shoved the little stowaway into my pocket. It died during story time about a half hour or so later and, feeling guilty about being a murderer, I confessed.
    A bemused Mrs Trout ordered that from now on, every single lunchtime, she would come and sit between us until we had finished our food, to ensure that we would never be able to repeat such behaviour again. From then on we sat either side of her with our dinner trays, staring wide-eyed as she tucked into her salad bowl with her loose-fitting dentures threatening to pop out of her mouth.
    Then came the questions.
    ‘So, how old are you then, Mikey?’
    I let out a very small scream. ‘I’m six years old and share a birthday with Frankie!’

    ‘Really? That’s very interesting.’
    ‘Why?’ snapped Frankie.
    ‘Because, my dear, you are so much bigger than your brother is.’
    The three of us sat, quietly chewing on our food. I felt a bead of sweat tumble from my forehead.
    ‘I’ll need to speak to your mummy after school. Do you think she will be available?’
    ‘Nope,’ replied Frankie, sucking on a buttered roll.
    ‘And why not?’
    Frankie lifted her head, with a pool of butter spreading across her cheeks.
    ‘Because she thinks you’re a cunt.’
    Mrs Trout, cheeks scarlet, lifted her tray and moved stiffly to another table. Frankie giggled to herself, making dolphin noises as she slurped her soup.
    Later that week a woman who called herself Aunt Gertie appeared in the playground and began paying me and Frankie daily visits. The teachers approached one day and asked us if she was a relative. Although we’d never seen her before, we nodded enthusiastically. We were brought up to call any adults aunt or uncle; it was considered good manners.
    Tired of our tendency to stuff anything we could lay our hands on into our pockets, Mrs Trout and her staff were only too happy to have someone there to keep us out of trouble.
    We liked Aunt Gertie; she taught us some ripe swear words and never once arrived without some smuggled toys and sweets. So when, one dinner hour, she suggested we go for a walk, we thought it was a great idea.

    We were about a mile away when two police cars pulled onto the pavement next to us. Frankie and I were put into one of them while Aunt Gertie was slammed against a wall and arrested for child abduction.
    With all the faceless relatives we already had, it was hard for us to keep track of who was or was not part of our family. But Aunt Gertie, we discovered, was definitely not. She was, in fact, just a local nutter who had taken a liking to us.
    After that brief foray into school, we found ourselves back at home again, forbidden to leave the house, while Mother dealt with the trauma the school had put her and her kids through. Frankie and I didn’t really mind, we were just happy not to have to wake up so early. We went back to amusing ourselves at home once more.
    Thrown on our own resources, with only one another to play with, Frankie and I turned to our toys for company. They became our best friends, taking on personalities of their own. For