‘Could be worse? I’m in Scunthorpe. You realize that, yes? The only town in Britain with the word “cunt” in the title.’

‘He wouldn’t like that language, young lady,’ says Eva-Jayne, plonking herself down in the armchair and returning the phone to its cradle on the table at her side. Her presence seems to make the room seem jollier: as if she were a patterned blanket thrown over an old beige sofa. None of the other fixtures or fittings are particularly inspiring. It’s a miserable room: woodchip on the walls and haphazard swirls on the ceiling; a mustard-coloured two-seater sofa and easy-chair; a glass cabinet full of Royal Albert knick-knacks and ceramic animals; a bookcase full of DVDs and a gift parcel waiting to be posted. Roisin, who has grown up in a series of halting sites across the UK and Ireland, has seen nothing to suggest that there is anything about the life of the countryfolk, the Gorjas, to aspire to. Then again, she’s seen nothing about the life of the Pavee that doesn’t make her want to run away.

‘Not your daddy,’ says Eva-Jayne, a naughty smile on her face. ‘Your sweetheart. Your knight in white satin. Your policeman.’

‘Don’t start with all that,’ says Roisin, determined to bite back the smile before it can dash across her face. She’s unsuccessful. A bright white smile transforms her features. Light seems to dance in her eyes. She looks down at her bare arms and sees the hairs rise like the rigging on a flotilla of yachts. She feels at once shy, self-conscious, and very young indeed.

‘Ooh Roisin, you’ve gone all peculiar,’ laughs Eva-Jayne, delighting in the transformation. ‘Your auras turned sunset-red. Honestly, it’s like you’re glowing!’

Roisin looks at herself, peering at her skin as if searching for a hitherto unnoticed freckle. She can’t see what Eva-Jayne sees, but then, not many can. She has the sight, does her auntie. The gift. She’s a second cousin to Roisin’s mother, and is originally from a Spanish Gypsy family that settled in Wales not long after the war. Eva-Jayne’s mother married an English Traveller, and her cousin ended up falling for a bright-eyed, dark-haired Pavee from Galway. Her blood is pure Roma. It means she sees things. Senses things. She can see the future in the dregs of a cup of tea, can tell whether there is hope for a love affair just by staring into the bubbles on top of her washing up. She reads palms, Oracle cards. Has a crystal ball somewhere, just for the look of the thing. She’s been settled in this manky little flat for the last five or six years, but she holds onto her roots with a grip that is fierce. She’s made good money from her ‘gift’, since setting up home here. Two or three days a week, she’s Madam Zingara. She tells fortunes. She reads palms. She sells crystals and banishes the bad energy from spaces where the spirits feel ill-at-ease. Half a dozen different women have arrived at the flat while Roisin has been staying here, coughing up cash to contact loved ones across the void; to ask for a prayer of protection for a troubled loved one, or begging for any indication that their life will change; that there is something more exciting ahead than behind. Madam Zingara manages to send them home happy. Roisin isn’t sure what she believes, but there is certainly something magical about the bubbly, effervescent woman who sits in the armchair with her feet on a biscuit tin and smokes a cigarette held between forefinger and thumb.