Gypsy Coppersmiths in Liverpool and BirkenheadMacfie, R. A. Scott (Robert Andrew Scott)
History
Gypsy Coppersmiths in Liverpool and Birkenhead
Macfie, R. A. Scott (Robert Andrew Scott)
Romanies
I DO not think the old Drill Hall in Birkenhead has ever been a cheerful
place: deserted by the military and transformed into a boxing booth, it
is now positively dismal. But for two months during the summer of 1911
it was ablaze with Oriental colour. Kola, the Gypsy chieftain, with his
tribe of coppersmiths, had taken possession of it, having left the
English Romany camp at Tranmere to make room for his brothers, Yantshi
and Yishwan, who had arrived from Marseilles with their wives, children
and followers. The ruling family had established itself upon the high
platform where once bruisers proved their mettle, and from it the royal
tenant looked down a crooked lane bordered on either side by the tents of
his subjects. From irregular skylights in the black roof dusty,
mysterious sunbeams fell upon gay drapery and piles of eiderdown beds
gaudily covered with scarlet and yellow stuff, on black-bearded men and
strange groups of dark women in bright red dresses loaded with gold, on
the little low round tables at which they sat cross-legged, and on the
blue tendrils of smoke that rose from their brass samovars. In the yard
outside was the din of many hammers beating cauldrons of copper, but it
was almost drowned by a babel of shrill voices quarrelling in a strange
and strongly aspirated tongue.
[Picture: Worsho. Photo. by F. A. Cooper]
For all was not well in Kola’s kingdom: disaffection was brewing, and a
schism was imminent. And in the midst of all the trouble the wife of
young Worsho Kokoiesko presented her husband with a little brown girl,
his first child. No stranger ever knew what secret rites were practised
in the distant corner of the great barn where Worsho, as a poor relation,
lived humbly. Mother and child were screened carefully from observation,
and the first token of the arrival of a new recruit was the healthy voice
of a crying baby. There was no general rejoicing, no excitement; but
Worsho slipped shyly to my side and, in his rich mellow voice which
resembled singing rather than speaking, invited me to be godfather.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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