Author's Note: Welcome readers, to my first Watership Down story. This story hasn't been able to leave my head since I watched recent Netflix adaptation, which I loved. The original film was great, and was a rite of passage for my childhood, but I do love the Netflix adaptation a little more (please don't hurt me!).

This story (like many others of mine) is centred on an OC - so if that's not your cup of tea, I understand, but I hope that you at least give my story a try first. And whilst this story is primarily based on the Netflix version, there will be some things thrown in here from the original movie, both books, and maybe even the 1999 cartoon.

Massive thanks to ilovedracoDH for being an awesome beta reader!

Usual disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights of "Watership Down" belong to Richard Adams, Netflix, and the other powers that be. I only own my OC's and any AU elements.

~ Champion Of Inlé ~

by DONOVAN94

The Vet of Ecchinswell

"I swear," Angela growled softly, "I'm going to kill the scumbag that left this snare lying about!"

She threw the offending object into the back of her car, not caring where it landed. As far as she was concerned, it would be burned the moment she got back to the clinic. The blood still on it stained her fingers. Her wellies squelched in a patch of mud left from yesterday's rain. She didn't care. What she did care about, was the struggle she'd have to go through to get her car out of the field when she left. She cared about the poor dog who needed to be cleaned up. In the pockets behind the driver's seat, in the compartments of the doors, the sanitary wipes eluded her.

A knock echoed on the roof of the car. Ducking her head out, she found Daniel leant against the side, helpfully holding one out for her. He was a good young man, just out of vet-school but he was sharp of mind enough to keep up with Angela. Tall and lanky, only a hint of past acne still in his cheeks.

"That's the third snare this month." He said as she took the wipe. He closed the car door and crossed his arms. He nodded to the middle-aged man just twenty feet away, trying to keep his Rottweiler calm. "And Mr Cane thinks there's more dotted about his lands."

Stuffing the bloody wipe into her pocket, Angela picked up her kit. "I know. Someone's poaching, and we need to find out who."

"Come on, Angela. We know who it is." Daniel muttered.

His trainers sank into the mud, and he cursed. She stopped him with a hard hand on his arm. "Yes, but we can't be making accusations without proof. And we don't want to attract trouble…"

Daniel looked about as if saying the words aloud would summon those they spoke of. "Right. Gypsies* are a nasty bunch."

"Not all of them." Angela began to walk back towards Mr Cane. She could hear Daniel try to wipe his trainers on the overgrown grass and smiled to herself. That was why her welly-boots were her favourite pair of shoes. "My best friend in middle school came from a Traveller community. Some of them wouldn't think about touching animals like this. But others…"

"Let's just hope they move on soon."

Angela knew that even if the gypsies moved on tomorrow, the damage would've already been done. They'd been spotted only a week ago, parking their caravans in a field left by Farmer Cane to fallow. Already, they'd been dumping their rubbish, and there'd been a number of iron work stolen. The police said they couldn't do anything because the circumstances were coincidental, and no actual evidence pointed to the Travellers. Angela had a bad feeling in her gut that this problem would only get worse before it might get better.

Gently placing her kit on the ground, Angela began to rummage through for the cotton-wool and bandaging she needed. A lock of black curly hair fell in front of her face. She puffed it away. Daniel knelt beside her and took hold of the dog's leg. It began to growl immediately, but Farmer Cane held onto the collar and kept speaking quietly. Angela held back the wince she wanted to make as she gazed upon the poor dog's leg. It was a lot better than she'd been expecting. When she'd received the emergency call of a dog trapped in a snare, she'd feared the worst – skin ripped off, muscle hanging by a thread. Funny, how the mind conjures the worst scenario's possible when faced with a crisis – as if to protect itself and then allow for the relief when the real problem is no where near as bad as what one thought. The Rottweiler's leg had a cut just above the joint of the wrist. Angela was confident it wouldn't need stitches, but it was best to get it bandaged up, at least.

The dog was still growling, clearly distressed. Angela's fear melted away as her brain entered a robotic-like trance. Emotion faded as she only perceived what could be observed, what could be done and ruling out what couldn't. In this state of mind, what she called 'vet-mode', she didn't hesitate to offer the dog's snarling mouth the back of her hand. She saw Farmer Cane tense but ignored him. The dog was surprised at her move but curiously gave her knuckles a sniff. A pause, and a slobbering pink tongue darted out. Taking his acceptance, Angela began her work. The wound caused the dog pain, for he twitched his leg away from her touch. But Daniel held him still.

"There we are, Mr Cane." She said at last as the bandage was secured in place. "Just needed a good clean and wrap up."

"Ah, be thankin' ya, miss." The relief on the farmer's face was heart-warming. Most farmers had affection for their dogs but still saw them as tools that needed to be used. It was touching to see the genuine affection Mr Cane had for his canine companion. "I tell ya, poor Bob was beside 'imself, he was! Couldn't stop cryin'. Woul'n't believe he'd bite yer hand off, eh?"

The dog – Bob – slowly got to his feet, only a slight tenderness in putting his paw down. Angela knelt in front of him, holding the back of her hand out again. After a second sniff, Bob came right into her petting hands. "Oh, he's a big sweetheart – aren't you, you handsome boy!"

"I can't make 'eads nor tails o' tha'…" Farmer Cane grumbled in amazement, his Hampshire accent thickening with the little volume. Sometimes Angela had to struggle to understand these people, even though she'd lived in the village of Ecchinswell for several years now. Her oxford-raised parents had insisted she speak the Queen's English, and unfortunately, that hampered her sometimes in understanding certain accents.

"She's got a way with 'em, Mr Cane." Daniel grinned. "Had a Yorskire Terrier in the other day–"

"Yappy were it?" asked the farmer with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah. Nearly took mi fingers off. She comes in, and she's got him eatin' out her hand!"

"It's because none of you know how to speak the language." Angela chuffed, amused. "Right. That should do it 'till you get home. You're lucky you managed to get to him as the snare got tight. If he'd been too far away, it could've cut deep. I want you to bathe it in salt water, and if you think he's suffering in any way, give us a bell** and we'll book you in ASAP."

Mr Cane shook her hand. "Thank ya fer comin' oot 'ere, miss. I know it's a bit outta yer way…"

"Being the only vet in three villages, I'm used to getting called out of the office."

Daniel shrugged. "And gives those of us left behind a chance to shine."

"Now," said Angela, serious. "If you spot any other snares, dismantle them and tell me. We need to know how many are out there."

"I'd be alrigh' wiv 'em puttin' 'em down if dogs didn't keep gettin' caught in 'em." Grumbled Cane. "Rabbits be eatin' my crops, they dig up my fields, they be spredin' disease to my Lucy's bunch. Can't get rid o' the blighters."

Angela frowned. "So you're offended at the idea of dogs getting caught in the traps, but not rabbits?"

"Never liked the ugly buggers," he spat. "Bob 'ere's been wiv me fer six years – best dog I've ever 'ad. I ain't gonna let nothin' nor no one take 'im away."

"Oi! Can I ask whattcha doin'?"

The voice had them all turning the hedge at the edge of the field. A man, just shy of forty but with a worn enough face to look older, stood at the gap in the shrubs. His brown hair was greasy, a shadow of stubble peppered his chin. He wore jeans and a coat that had seen better days. A golden cross hung from his neck and a small hoop earing hung from each ear.

"On yer way, boy." Said Mr Cane, suddenly tense and thunderous. "This be my land, I'll be askin' what yer doin' 'ere."

"I've come to collect my proper'y."

"Your property?" Angela echoed. The man's eyes darted to the hedges where the snare had been. The vet felt her irritation grow. Between the snare and his Irish accent, it was clear this was the Traveller that had been causing them grief. "You mean the snare?"

"I ain't sayin' nothin'." The Traveller said, lips curling in a sneer. "Best be movin' on, settlers***. Or I'll set mi dogs on ye."

As if waiting in the wings for that moment, a second gypsy stepped out, almost identical to the first but a little younger, less wrinkled around the eyes. In each hand he held chain-leads to a pair of dogs, both such a mix Angela couldn't tell outright what the dominant breed was.

Cane held onto Bob's collar as the Rottweiler began to growl and snarl in an impressive display. "Just try it, son. Ye won't like it when Bob gives 'em what fer."

"He a fighter, is he?" the lead gypsy's eyes lit up with interest that made Angela's stomach churn. "Plenty big enough, and he's got that look about him."

"And he's none of your business." She snapped loudly. The men finally looked her way, but she refused to bow, not to their misogyny, and not to their attempts at intimidation. It was obvious from the snares that they were poaching rabbits and pheasants and whatever else they could get. Angela just hoped they weren't stupid enough to add dog-baiting to the list. "You're on private property. I say you clear off before I call the police."

"I ain't talkin' ta you, woman." He shrugged. "And if ya wanna run yer mouth, call yer little pigs. Me and my boys'll be happy ta see 'em."

Mr Cane was near enough ready to let Bob loose. Behind her, Daniel was near enough ready to challenge them to a duel to defend her honour. A fight would break out, and Angela knew they wouldn't win. You had to be hard as nails and unafraid of dying to take on gypsies. "Daniel, load up the car – we're leaving. Mr Cane? I suggest you get Bob home. He needs rest."

The two men seemed to listen to her cool command. Even as Daniel and Angela made a slow retreat back to their car, and Mr Cane back to his own, the farmer couldn't resist one last word. "I ain't 'avin' no gypos**** on my land. Get yer asses outta 'ere by sundown, or I warn ye now, I'll be comin' fer ya with mi gun."

The gypsy spat onto the ground. "Be lookin' forward to it, ya old goat."

"Mr Cane!" Angela shouted. "Let's go."

Through the rear-view-mirror, Angela didn't take her eyes off the gypsies nor Mr Cane's four-by-four until both were out of sight. Even after that there was a heavy silence in the car as she and Daniel had to allow their bodies to slowly work off the adrenaline of the situation.

But Daniel was a lad who never liked the quiet, he always had something to say to fill it. He puffed his cheeks loudly. "Well… that was intense…"

Angela didn't say anything, attempting to will the shake out of her fingers before Daniel could spot it.

"I think after that, I need a drink," her assistant proclaimed, rubbing the baby-haired goatee he was trying to grow. "You fancy comin' along? We could bring Jess. Make it a work-do."

The temptation was so strong, Angela could picture it clearly for a whole heartbeat: her, Daniel and Jess laughing in the pub, drinking, chatting, socialising, telling stories from their childhood. They would bond and they would laugh away the night. But didn't Daniel realise there were still lambs due on Farmer Croy's land? What if there was a complication and any one of them was needed at a moment's notice?

It wasn't the first time Angela had been invited to get-togethers like this. But when she'd told her disappointed parents she wanted to be a vet, she'd made a promise to put her career first. She needed to take her job seriously – there were too many responsibilities on her shoulders. She needed to keep her head afloat. Keep the business running, keep food in the house, a roof over her head. Survive first. So this time, just like many times before, she had to decline.

"Sorry, Daniel," she lamely replied, glancing down. "I've just got so much to do and…"

She didn't finish. She didn't need to. His dejected silence crushed her heart enough. He always knew when she lied. She always looked at her feet when she lied.

"What is…?" Daniel's voice was bewildered. He twisted in his seat to watch a sign as they passed it. Warning of roadworks closing the road for the next year. They'd have to take a diversion. "What on earth are they doin' here?"

"I heard they're building houses." Angela said, all too eager for the change of subject. "The local Council bought up a load of farmland."

"Oh yeah, Sandleford way, right?"

She shrugged. "Can't remember the name. Just think it's disgusting."

"How?" he asked. "That land weren't in any real use. With the housing crisis, we need as many as we can. My sister's been on the waiting list for a council-house for over a year!"

"Yes, I know," Angela stressed, trying to keep her voice level so that the debate wouldn't turn into an argument. "But think of all the wildlife that will be displaced? Our country has so few wild places as it is. If we need homes, why not tear down and renovate all the empty boarded up buildings in the towns and cities? There's plenty of them!"

"Yeah, but somebody, somewhere, owns those buildings. This new stuff belongs to the Council, which is then owned by the government. Plus, it would be too much money to tear down old buildings likely falling apart."

Angela's grip on the steering wheel tightened and she grit her teeth. "Because God forbid the world be run with kindness and not greed."

Once they'd gotten back to the surgery, Angela had dismissed Jess and allowed her and Daniel to start their night out early – no reason to spoil their fun. She could tell Daniel was fighting a battle with himself to again ask her to join them. But she couldn't be that woman for him; and Jess was clearly begging for any shred of affection. Angela had sworn off romance when she'd devoted herself to her career. It had taken every ounce of her pride to ask her parents for even a shred of help in starting up her own veterinary centre. She wouldn't throw that away through pointless complications like significant others, babies, families. She couldn't be the woman her parents wanted her to be. So she'd meet them half way and be a career woman instead.

Closing up the surgery, Angela thought to distract herself with a good night run. She'd always liked running. Ever since secondary-school, it had given her the chance to keep in shape and clear her mind. After a day like today, she needed it. With her village surrounded by farmland and the chalk downs beyond, she had plenty of choice to run free for an hour or two.

Her house was a tiny cottage at the edge of the little village of Ecchinswell. It wasn't much, with most of the windows always letting in a horrendous draft due to still being a hundred years old. She'd had to spend most of her profit last year on replacing the thatch roof with tiles – something she'd had to battle her landlord for tooth and nail. It was a quaint little place to burrow in for the night… but even after living here over half a decade, it felt cold and unwelcoming.

As she opened her front door, the landline was shrilly ringing. Racing in, Angela snatched up the receiver. Who would be calling at almost nine o'clock at night? "Hello?"

"Is that Vet Romford?" asked a voice half strangled with fright.

"This is she; who is this?"

"It's Mrs Cane! Tom's wife!" the woman on the phone cried shrilly. "Oh! Ya gotta come quick, miss! It's them gypos! They've got our Bob! He's gone!"

The woman's heart dropped before suddenly racing. "Mrs Cane! Did you see them take the dog? Have you informed the police?"

"Tom saw 'em do it! He's gone chasin' after 'em. Police said they're on their way – but Bob could be hurt. Ya gotta get there! They was headin' west outta the village–"

"I'll try and get there as soon as I can!"

Angela's old and battered car roared in protest as she sped it down and through the winding country lanes. She didn't care. Still in her running gear and the cold of the night piercing into her body from where her heater was broken, she didn't care. The pounding of her heart refused to abate as she drove at such a speed any police would forgo the tickets and just put her straight in prison.

There were several roads out of Ecchinswell, but there was one main way that would get you out onto a duel carriageway. If the gypsies were fleeing with caravans, they couldn't go at speed on country lanes – the sharp turns would have their caravans rolling all across the road. Angela sped that way, half questioning her own sanity as she did so. She wasn't a policewoman. What business was it of hers to be out here chasing down potentially dangerous people?

Because an animal was in danger, that's why. Animals didn't have the voice to tell you when you hurt them. They didn't have a way to explain why they were scared. Animals suffered because of human-kind's inability to show sympathy for anyone but themselves. And Angela had always tried her best to alleviate that suffering. No matter where, no matter how, when she received the call, all rhyme and reason vanished from her head. Only the patient mattered.

Bright headlights shot through the back of her car. Angela had to wince at the beam reflecting into her eyes via the mirror. A car blared its horn loudly behind her as it came up close to her bumper at speed. A car pulling a caravan.

Angela felt her heart slam into her ribs. How had she managed to get ahead of them?! She pressed the accelerate as far down as she could. Her car groaned and complained, struggling to go any faster. The revs crept into the red. She looked frantically to either side of the road, trying to find a layby to pull into. A daring chase she wouldn't second guess – but not when she was the one being chased! But in the dark, she couldn't see well enough to spot the laybys before they were gone.

The car behind slammed into the back of her. Angela jerked forward with a cry, almost bashing her head on the steering wheel. The car spluttered and swerved from the sudden force, but she managed to get control again. The woman looked around in fright for some sort of escape. A sign for a bridge flashed in her headlights, partially hidden by the brush at the side of the road. Angling the car as far to one side as possible, she felt the car shudder as half the tires slipped from tarmac to mud. If she made enough room, maybe they might squeeze past her!

A terrible screech from the sheering of metal and paint blasted in Angela's ears. Her car was shoved to the side and she screamed. The gypsy car tried to push its way up the side of hers, ramming into her side. The bridge was insight, old stone walls corralling traffic onto a narrow path. Angela panicked. The gypsy would crash her into the edge of the wall – a potentially fatal collision! She couldn't slam on the breaks because the wide caravan would simply push her along whether she liked it or not. With little other choice, she hit the accelerate again and pushed back against the other car, attempting to get in front again so that the pair of them could make it over the bridge. But then, she felt one last forceful blast against her side, and Angela couldn't get the wheel under her control in time.

She hit the wall, her body slammed against the door that crumpled in towards her and the glass that shattered in her face. Over two hundred years old, the wall of the bridge was flimsy and in disrepair and broke apart under the impact. Angela's seatbelt strangled her as it suddenly went taunt, locking her against the seat. She didn't even have time to register the feeling of weightlessness as her car flew through empty air. Only the bone-crunching slam of her body against her restraints when the car hit the water of the river.

For a moment, the world went dark, and when it came back, Angela's head was pounding and there was a rushing in her ears. It took her a moment to register that it wasn't her own heartbeat she could hear, it was water. Cold swept around her feat and up her legs. She blinked her eyes open – the river was quickly filling into the car! With a scream, Angela pulled on the belt-buckle. It resisted for a heart-stopping moment before it came away. She tried the door – jammed. The water was up to her stomach as it spilled in the broken window. Angela tried to shimmy herself up so that she might slip through the window herself. But the steering wheel had been bent in the collision, trapping her legs. Flailing, she tried to get free as the cold coiled higher and higher up her neck. She craned her head to the ceiling, gulping in whatever air was left – before it closed over her face.

Squirming and wriggling, Angela tried every angle to get her legs free. Glass sliced open her palms as she hooked herself on the window and attempted to pull herself out through it. Surely the river wasn't so deep above the roof of her car? If she could just stretch… Her lungs were burning, her hips aching… and it was so cold… so very cold…

She floated away. Had she gotten free? Breathing is such a fundamentally simple aspect of life that one often takes it for granted right up until the moment it is robbed from them. An urgency to just breathe fuelling her, Angela clawed her way towards air, to abandon this cold and make her way towards life!

Water burst out of her throat as she coughed. Something wet and sludgy stuck to her face. Had she made it to shore? An icy grip had such a hold on her she had gone past merely shivering. Eyes heavy, Angela attempted to look around, to move. Even when her brain was half drowned in the cold and the tiredness that came with it, some small rational part of her knew that she had to move, had to get warm. If she rested, as her aching body begged her to, she would die. And she really didn't want to die…

It occurred to Angela, when death seemed so close, that she had barely lived. An education dictated by her parents' expectations… a career put before everything in an attempt to appease them even when they were long gone… She'd tried to tell herself there would be time for socialising later, always later… and now there would be no time for that at all. She'd never have that drink with Daniel, she'd never form the friendships that she could look back on with fond memories.

Let me live, she prayed, let me live and I won't ever take that for granted again!

A rustle by her head. Angela blinked to try and focus her eyes. A black blob was sat by her head.

A voice came to her ears – there was someone close by! But it was a voice unlike any she'd ever heard. Neither male nor female, cold like the water she'd just escaped even if the words were gentle. "Such a fight to exist. To exist in exchange for living?"

The blob moved closer. Angela could make out long ears laid regally back against a curved spine. A rabbit? The speaker must be the owner – for surely, Angela had never seen a wild black rabbit of such beauty.

"Bargains, bargains. There are no bargains. For what is, is what must be." Said the voice.

"P-Please…" Angela could barely whisper. Couldn't her saviour see she would do anything they asked if only they would help her?

"Then it is settled." The voice mused. "You will be my eyes to see, my mouth to speak. Until once again you find that which you might seek."

A shiver crawled down Angela's spine, a tremble that had nothing to do with the cold of her body. Her eyes grew wide, able to see clearly all at once. The Black Rabbit peered straight into her eyes.

"Then take my cloak to warm yourself, child," offered the voice from above. "For it is too lovely a night to see such life go to waste…"

"I'll see you again, Bigwig! I promise you that!" They heard Captain Holly's voice call from across the river. "And next time, there won't be a river between us!"

Bigwig shook off his fur of the water, his large paws slipping slightly in the soil of the bank. "Oh, I'm counting on it!" he laughed – the kind that one makes when adrenaline from anger or fear (or perhaps both) was still pumping through your veins and the relief of still being alive makes one giddy.

With a bound he caught up with the other six, still a little unbelieving at the turn of the night's events. He had left the Owsla. They'd all left the warren. He still didn't know if this was really the right thing to do, joining Hazel and his odd little brother on their daring escape. If he stopped and thought about exactly what he'd just done, throwing away his entire life filled with privilege and authority, an up-and-coming Owsla officer… it was daunting. But something in his gut, like the whisper of Frith himself, urged Bigwig onwards, and he obeyed.

"Is everyone alright?" Hazel asked.

The others of their group nodded, tired from the night's events. They were all thinkers and outskirters; not Owsla, not fighters. It occurred to Bigwig that the only one who could keep them safe if they got into a fight, was him. Bigwig was the type of rabbit that liked it best when he was given a clear objective, and as of now, the protection of this little group was his new objective. He scratched at the tuft of black fur on the crown of his head – after which he had been named – a slight nervous habit that had stuck with him since he was a kit.

"Alright," said Hazel. "Let's keep moving south-east. We need put as much distance as we can between ourselves and Sandleford."

The others followed him without complaint. Bigwig took up the rear, checking over his shoulder to make sure neither Captain Holly nor his officers had braved the river.

Just after where they had crossed it, the river forked into two bends, one of which Hazel and the others followed beside it. The grass was tall and thick, and offered a way to hide should any elil be out hunting in the pre-dawn light. As the group made their way along, Hawkbit, a grey buck, suddenly swivelled his head.

"What's that? Over there?" he pointed his nose towards the river.

They all paused to try and get a good look at what Hawkbit had seen. Bigwig didn't have to crane his head up far to see over the others, being the biggest. On their side of the bank, washed up in the shallows and caught in the grass, lay a rabbit.

"Frith's mercy!" Hazel gasped and leapt down immediately towards the bank. Bigwig pushed his way through the others to get there as well. The two crouched over the rabbit, who lay unmoving. It was a doe, unconscious and half drowned. Her fur was as black as a midnight sky, so dark that for a moment both Bigwig and Hazel were afraid to touch her for fear that she was the Black Rabbit of Inlé – the rabbit of death. But her sides rose and fell with the breath of life, and she looked so pitiful with her fur soaked to the skin and a terrible shiver quivering her spine. A triangular patch of white fur was upon her chest, stained red with blood from one of her forepaws.

"Who is she?" asked the littlest of their group, Bluebell, as he tried to lean in as close as he could.

Bigwig pushed him back. "Give her some space to breathe, would you?"

"Is she from our warren? Maybe she tried to escape the Owsla to meet us?" asked Hawkbit, unable to take his eyes off the doe. Bigwig had heard stories in the Owsla of Hawkbit's relentless (and abysmal) pursuit of does back at Sandleford.

"I don't recognise her," said Blackberry, the eldest among them (though only by a few months), his ears tipped black. "Hazel, she's half drowned and needs help."

"But we can't stay here!" argued Bigwig. "Sooner or later, the Owsla might figure out a way to cross the river. If we're stuck in the open when they do…"

"We have to take her with us… She's important, somehow…" said a small voice. Fiver, Hazel's runt of a brother, was staring at the doe, his ears and nose all twitching like they did whenever he made the excuse he was having 'premonitions'.

"We can't leave her, Bigwig," Hazel implored. "She'll die if we do. Either through exposure or maybe an elil might find her. Either way, we help."

There was such conviction in his voice, that this was the right thing to do and they needed to do it. Bigwig was almost impressed. Truth be told, he didn't want to leave the doe to die, it felt wrong. But he'd just sworn himself to the duty of protecting their little group. How could he do that if they were stuck out here…

"Ugh, fine!" he growled. "There's a small burrow down the river. Owsla on patrol hide there if they get caught out in bad weather. We can take her there until she wakes up – but I'm warning you, Hazel: we need to keep moving. As soon as possible."

Hazel nodded, and the two of them set about attempting to help the poor doe. It was decided to lay her on Bigwig's back, him being the only one strong enough to carry her to the burrow. But as they set about moving her, the doe's eyes shot open as wide as if she had the fear taking hold of her. They were the most shockingly green eyes Bigwig had ever seen – brighter than even Hazel's. Her breath quickened and she squirmed and clawed about weakly.

"It's alright, you're safe!" said Hazel as he and Bigwig attempted to hold her down before she hurt them or herself.

"Hey!" Bigwig said, louder. The volume seemed to shock her back to herself, for the doe fixed her extraordinary eyes on Bigwig. He found himself frozen in her stare for a moment. Clearing his throat, he asked in a softer voice: "What's your name?"

At first, she did nothing but pant. And then, in a weak and hoarse tone, she said: "A-Angela…"

And then she collapsed.

* - There are two well known types of gypsies: the Romani people and Travellers. In the UK, most gypsies are Irish Travellers, and whilst it is technically correct to call them "Travellers" instead of "gypsy", to most of the British public, they use Traveller and Gypsy interchangeably.

** - 'give us a bell' is a way of saying 'ring me'.

*** - 'settlers' is what Travellers call people not of the Traveller community.

**** - 'Gypo' is a slur in Britain used for Gypsies/Travellers. It is an insult and derogatory term and it is NEVER recommended to say it to a gypsy's face.