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frustrates him – a snooze in the sun would pass the time,
but since she has not yet fully mastered swimming, he is required to be on
permanent if relatively relaxed lifeguard duty.
    ‘Daddy!’  He watches as she
clambers out of the pool and pitter-patters towards him on dripping tiptoes,
her brows knitted thoughtfully.  He resists the urge to open the text,
knowing he needs uninterrupted privacy of thought; he hopes she’s not going to
ask him to come into the water.
    ‘Daddy, is that lady a gypsy?’
    ‘Which lady?
    ‘There, that fat one.’  She points
extravagantly at an apparently (and thankfully) slumbering female of uncertain
origins, beached disconcertingly close by, swimsuit stretched seal-like, still
gorged on a breakfast shoal of oily sprats, pale skin slick with suncream.
    ‘Camille.  Shh!’
    ‘But you and mummy said there
were gypsies!’
    ‘Not here at the hotel –
that was at the boats.’
    ‘That lady’s hair looks like a
gypsy’s.’
    He flinches again, and puts a
silencing finger to his lips.  Inwardly he curses Monique.  To add
spice to their trip, she had arranged the final leg of their journey by
hydrofoil from Piraeus.  On being discharged from their taxi in the busy
street outside the port, Adam had been concerned to keep Camille clear of
Athens’ perilously swerving traffic.  Then seeing that she’d spotted a
swaying quartet of swarthy alcoholics arrayed upon a kerbside bench, he’d
barked:
    ‘Camille – quick! 
They’re gypsies. Stay close to me!’
    There were three men, leering at
Monique, enlivened by such a titillating highlight, and a gap-toothed woman
who’d fixed Camille’s small blonde form with a vacant stare. 
Terror-struck, she’d leapt like a grasshopper to his side, and might have been
conjoined as they trundled their smart cabin-bags past the unwelcome welcoming
committee.  One of the men remarked in Greek and the others cackled
lewdly.  Camille, determined never to take her eyes off them, entered the
gates of the port with her head facing almost backwards.  At first Adam
had congratulated himself on the success of their ploy – prior to the
trip, concerned over Camille’s propensity to explore, Monique had recounted the
true story of the British toddler who’d vanished on a holiday in Greece, and
that some said he’d been ‘adopted’ by gypsies.  What with other even
higher profile disappearances since, they shared the collective paranoia of
most parents of their generation; indeed Monique would spend what seemed like
hours on news and gossip websites, and appeared perpetually pained by the
prospect of becoming similar prey.  Camille, in her own way, had become
gripped by the notion of gypsies, and over and again had insisted they repeat
the tale, and tell her what the gypsies did with stolen children.  Now she
sidles up to him and asks in a more circumspect tone:
    ‘They were real gypsies at the
boats, weren’t they?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘Daddy – do gypsies
steal children?’
    ‘Bad ones might.’
    ‘Why do they steal them?’
    ‘To sell them.’
    ‘Why do they want to sell them?’
    ‘To get money.’
    ‘Who do they sell them to?’
    ‘To other bad people.’
    ‘What do the bad people do to the
children?’
    ‘Make them do nasty work.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Keep them prisoner.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Give them scraps to eat.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Shout at them.’
    ‘Why don’t the gypsies sell their
own children?’
    ‘They want to keep them.’
    ‘What else do gypsies do?’
    ‘They have fierce dogs.’
    ‘Why do they have fierce dogs?’
    ‘To scare people away from their
caravans.’
    ‘Is that where they hide the
children?’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘What else do gypsies do?’
    ‘I think that’s about it.’
    ‘What about hedgehogs?’
    ‘Oh yeah, they cook hedgehogs in
clay and eat them.’
    ‘And the prickles all come off
first?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘ Is that fat lady