As you know, my caravan had become somewhat dilapidated.* With the advent of the land being purchased by my neighbour, it was high time to move on. I had spoken to Duncan and informed him of my intention to be back out on the road again as soon as I could. He was cool and said that I should not stress, particularly given my recent health issues.
I started to clear my pitch. I began work repairing my caravan in earnest. But that didn’t stop the abuse. Tammy came to my door on a number of occasions shouting abuse at me, sometimes speaking in tongues. She would make strange noises and shout indescriptive things at me. One time, she growled something in my ear that I can only describe as a mooing sound. All very odd. She had no idea that some of her antics were witnessed by anyone, Dave Baxter, mostly.
Whenever Duncan and I crossed paths, one of two things would happen. If he was with Tammy, he would blurt out a load of abuse. If alone, he would apologise for his behaviour. It was ridiculous.
Then one day, I heard that I had “driven Tammy from her home”! She had apparently gone. In that time, my old mate, Dunks reappeared. In no time, Duncan had reverted to his old self. He came down the ‘drove’ to visit, chatting about the old days and sharing the odd spliff, just as we used to. It was great having him back.
Sadly, it wasn’t to last. Tammy returned. Nine months later, she gave birth.
Things returned to ‘normal’. The abuse continued. I was even told that Tammy had been bragging about trying to cause me as much stress as possible, “In the hope of causing (me to have) another heart attack. Hopefully, fatal”! Now, I don’t know whether this is true, but that is what I was told by one or two people. I don’t know why somebody would make up such a wicked thing. Tammy’s behaviour certainly supported the accusation.
Up until not long after I found myself hunkered down the ‘drove’, I rented a large garage in Penryn. It had long been used for storage. The old lady who was the landlady had become ill and was selling up. I had approached Duncan about renting one of the mobile homes for storage. It was suggested that as it’s supposed to be for habitation, the local council would pay for the rent. Needing space, I agreed to fill in the relative forms on condition that any monies paid would go directly to them and that I was to have no further involvement; that they would deal with it all. (I know. No, it’s not exactly legal. Yes, it does mean that I am complicit in fraud. As I said in the beginning, please don’t judge me. It’s the truth. I am merely relating the story.)
Shortly after arriving home from the hospital, I was asked to swap mobiles. A young woman and her child was living in one that had been damaged in the same storm that tore the canvas from John’s yurt. I agreed.
What I didn’t realise was the extent of that damage. It wasn’t until I went to go through what I had in the mobile home that I discovered that a lot of my belongings were ruined. The storm had ripped off the roof. I was told that the roof had been repaired. Only thing was, Skippy had done the repair! The repair leaked.
*see entry My caravan