She said, “Find some spirits, Caleb. Vodka. Someone will have a bottle.”
And that’s when I started my first ever job—doctor’s assistant. I watched her pour vodka over the wound, scissors and needle. She boiled the black thread. She examined the cook’s torn flesh as I’d seen her in the past examining a ripped dress. She took her scissors and trimmed the ragged edges of his skin, saying, “Don’t look away, Caleb. You should learn how to do this. Look here! I need a neat edge so I can close the wound properly.”
Mother’s sewing kit lies at the bottom of my backpack in a biscuit tin. A tin of chocolate fingers.
Mother became important in our group after that night. She began making rules. The young children had not to wander around barefoot when we camped. Otherwise, they had stupid accidents. When we made camp each night, she told everyone where to pile our waste, so that sharp tins and bottles were out of harm’s way.
The second attack came in daylight. We’d walked for days on quiet country roads surrounded by gentle rolling fields, which were muddied by early spring rainstorms. We could see for miles because the fields had no hedges. And we slept in small woods where we felt safer. We always cleared up after ourselves; we didn’t want to annoy the farmers. But we couldn’t avoid walking through one village, and looking back, we should have expected trouble. We rested in the village square while we took turns to fill our water bottles from a small fountain. No one shouted at us, but they all stared. Four men—looked like builders, muscular and tanned, one with paint splatters on his forearms—they stood close, legs wide apart, arms folded. Scowling.
We left as soon as we could. On the outskirts, a small van pulled up in front of us. Someone threw out a bin bag and sped off. My mother’s friend poked the bag, looked inside and found a pile of stale bread and pastries, probably intended for a pigsty. But I thought it was kind, like someone cared. We shared them out.
A second parting gift came an hour later at a crossroads. A farm building hid our attackers from view. Seven of them came out holding knives, and I recognised the guy with paint splatters. Housepainter turned hard man. His arms weren’t folded now—he held an old shotgun, the barrel hinged open. Snapped it shut and shot above our heads. We scattered. I ran off the road, pulling Mother across the muddy field. They ran through us, pushed Mother to the ground. When they ran off, I saw my leg was bleeding.
I sometimes think that if I hadn’t been injured, I’d still be with Mother. She couldn’t handle it. She cleaned mud out of my wound and stitched it—twelve stitches in all—her hand trembling. She didn’t say anything, but under the surface I think she freaked out. Me, being injured, losing blood. The skin didn’t even need trimming, but the stitches were the worst ever. Other injured people needed help, but I saw she was struggling to keep a grip. We swapped jobs. I took the needle from her hand. She poured salty water on the wound—she’d learned that salty water worked better than vodka—and held the needle in the flame, while I stitched the wounds.
I made a bad job of the first one. Mother mumbled, as though she didn’t care, that I’d trimmed too much skin away. We moved on to a man with a nasty slash across his back. He was hairy and the light was poor. I found it difficult to see exactly what I was doing as I pushed the needle through his skin, through his hair.
I couldn’t help thinking of him yesterday when I stitched the fur collar—when I pushed my needle through the pelt.
A scream rips me from my sleep. I hear another scream. It’s a catfight. I open my eyes but I haven’t escaped my dream. In a ploughed field, I struggle to pin my tent across the furrows as someone shouts, “Wolves.”
It’s true; we often heard animal cries at night. But they weren’t wolves.
I wish I could sleep better. I wake two or three times most nights, and each time I fall back asleep the dreams become stranger and stranger. I fight in my sleep now and then, and wake to find myself hitting out, sometimes bruising myself on the metal stands of the solar arrays.
I don’t really mind dreaming about the journey because I hope to see Mother as she used to be, before she became untidy and quiet. I roll onto my back, look up at the stars, and I hear her soft, clear voice from a time when everything was normal, when Father still lived with us: “Have you finished your homework, Caleb?” And then her voice is gone. I push myself up on one elbow, force my mind to clear.
I imagine the day to come—leaving the roof, walking through the enclave with Ma Lexie. I remember when I arrived here in darkness with Skylark, my surprise at seeing streets with no trees. It felt like a prison town without a perimeter wall. Blocks of flats, all the same size, separated by narrow streets and side alleys. Where I came from, every street was lined with trees, though many were dying back—bare branches poking out from the greenery, reaching for help.
Skylark led me up the stairs to Ma Lexie’s flat and knocked. Ma Lexie let us in, and, without being asked, Skylark filled the kitchen sink with hot water. She drew a curtain across the kitchen area, gave me a cloth and told me to strip off. “Time to clean up,” she said. I must have stunk. I hadn’t washed in hot water in weeks. I peeled off my sweater and two T-shirts, and Skylark—without coming around the curtain—handed me some clothes in a pile. I placed them on the floor away from the sink and smoothed my hand over the fresh, clean cloth.
Above the sound of splashing water, I caught a few snatches of conversation—some talk about money, and I heard Skylark say, “. . . tall for his age.” Ma Lexie asked, “Is he inoculated?” I didn’t hear Skylark’s reply, but Ma Lexie said, “Good. That’s how I like them.”
Before setting off to school, back home, I’d look down from our balcony, peer through the trees, to see if my friends were playing in the street. Often my friend Leo shouted from below: “Come down, come down, Caleb. We need you.” It felt good to hear that. But my parents didn’t like me to play football before school. Instead, my father would test me on the vocabulary lists he’d given me the night before.
Father walked me to school every day on his way to work. He would quiz me about my schoolwork because he wanted to get my brain started. He said I was too slow in the morning. I didn’t like to tell him that I wasn’t interested in many of my lessons. He wanted me to do well, but I knew I couldn’t be like him. He once said, “You’ll need to look after your mother and me one day. Our pensions will cover only the basics. It’s your responsibility.” I didn’t understand him because I thought we were better off than most families. It was the first time he talked to me about money in a serious way. I wish I’d asked Mother on our long journey: Were we poor? And, looking back, I think I was so used to walking with Father to school that it felt strange to find myself walking every morning, as a migrant, with Mother. I never got used to that.
I roll up my bedding, stand and stretch out my arms. If Ma Lexie sells my fur-collared shirt today, I’ll be the apple of her eye. Maybe I was meant for this kind of life. Working with my hands, helping Ma Lexie in the market. I can’t wait.
Suddenly, I jump out of my skin—a clattering. I swivel around and see a new message bottle by the hut’s door. Why’s Odette messaging so early? I pick up the bottle and look around, but I can’t see her. I pull out an empty packet of marigold seeds. The sides are slit open, and inside there’s a message: In the markit, find me a small torch. Throw it to me tonite. Do not miss.
CHAPTER 2
MA LEXIE
It’s too damned quiet up there on the roof. Mr. Ben would be barging around by now, knocking stuff over, scraping back chairs. I look up at the ceiling. Come on, Caleb. Don’t fall at the first hurdle, for God’s sake. You need to prove yourself today.
I suppose he tossed and turned last night, overexcited about helping on the stall. But I shouldn’t make excuses for him. He’s got to pull his weight.
I hear the familiar creak-bang, creak-bang from across the street as Mr. Entwistle throws open his window shutters. I know it’s nearly time for me to set off because Mr. Entwistle is a man of routine. Sa
me time each day, weekday or weekend—makes no difference to him. Naturally, I have my own routines, and I’m ready to go with the kids’ breakfasts boxed up.
After living here for nigh on three years, I know the routines that punch through this building. On a weekday, I know it’s time to haul my ass out of bed when my downstairs neighbour slams her front door. I know it’s time for my second cup of tea when I hear the orange seller calling from the street. And I know I’m late taking the kids their breakfast when I hear my neighbour’s chatterbox child on the stairwell, leaving for school with his quieter older sibling. I like to follow the young boy’s fizzing monologue—picking up the odd word or two—as they leave the building and turn down the side alley.
The noisiest time on our street occurs shortly after nine every weekday—when the rubbish and recycling collectors lurch past with their bicycle trailers and empty the bins at the end of each block.
I don’t let the boyfriend stay over on Friday night because of my early start. So Saturday morning is altogether quieter. I don’t like it. Me, I need distractions—busy, busy, busy. No point dwelling on things, is there? Like how I miss my old life with Ruben, with our bigger flat, our parties. Like how my kid sister fucked up my chances, getting arrested for petty vandalism a month before I was due for brain chipping. That’s all it took for me to be judged an unsuitable candidate. Why would they enhance someone with suspect genes? The more I ranted my utter frustration, the more my parents told me I was better off staying as I was, like them, fully organic as nature intended.
Come on, Caleb. You’d better be up. Maybe he’s creeping around trying not to wake the kids. I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s a considerate, sensitive boy. He’s sunny, too, which is surprising, even impressive. I pride myself that those three weeks he spent in my flat—eating regular meals, playing with the kitten—helped him leave his past behind.
If I were more calculating—which I need to be, according to the family—I’d be more guarded. There’s no doubt Caleb is a charmer, which can be a dangerous quality. It’s easy for a charmer to morph into something darker, a trickster, a con merchant. But the family can’t understand; for me, the boy is simply nice to have around. He knows how to get on the right side of me. Acts more like an ally than . . . Well, he knows he’s onto a good thing here.
He’ll be up and ready, walking around barefoot, waiting for me.
I’ll pay Skylark a bonus if Caleb comes good today. A completion bonus. She deserves one not just for finding him but for taking her time to persuade him. It’s better that way. They settle in quicker when they feel they’ve made their own decision. I hope Caleb follows Skylark’s example, becomes someone I can trust, someone who’s content to work his way up.
When Skylark delivered him, she gave me the backstory without overloading me with detail. She knows I can’t get involved with every kid. It’s too draining. Even so, poor kid, he lost one parent and then the other. Skylark’s best guess was that the mother suffered a breakdown, wandered off—died of exposure—or she was picked up, trafficked.
I haven’t pried any further. He’s the survivor type, and that’s all that matters.
For once, I’ll put my foot down with the family, tell them I’ll make best use of Caleb. He’d be wasted in any other part of the business. And I won’t delay. I’ll see Jaspar at the family premises later today, and I’ll bring up the subject. He makes all the big family decisions these days, so if I persuade him, no one else will argue. The last thing I need is Jaspar nicking Caleb off me for heavier work. Caleb has more valuable skills. A case in point—that fur-collared shirt. Nice piece of work. But where did the idea come from?
I pick up the breakfast box for Zach and Mikey and head up the stairs. I unlock and push open the steel door. Soft morning light surges through the stairwell. It’s quiet on the roof, and the door to Caleb’s hut is closed. Don’t say he’s still asleep. When I reach the work shed, I find him sat at the table, stitching. He looks up, flashes his smile, and I melt. I leave the kids’ breakfast on the shaded side of the work shed.
“Look, Ma Lexie.” He whispers, for the kids are still asleep. “I’m covering these buttons with scraps of velvet.”
“Leave that. Let’s go. We’ll get our breakfast in the market.” He leaps to his feet. We each take two containers of pressed garments down to the street. I send Caleb back upstairs to fetch coat hangers and finally the tall hand trolley. He runs up, two steps at a time, which warms me. Without being instructed, he stacks the containers on the trolley and grabs the handles. “What’s the plan, Ma Lexie?”
“Follow me.” I set out towards the market square.
The shutters are pushed back on my sister-in-law’s ground-floor flat and I holler, as I always do, through the open window, “Amber!” After a few moments, she appears in the alley.
“Can’t stop, Amber, I need extra time for setting up today.” I point behind me with my thumb. “Meet my new overseer.”
“Got a name?” asks Amber.
“Caleb, madam.”
“So, Caleb, you work hard for Ma Lexie today, and I’ll invite you for tea and cake on your way home.”
He looks at me and back at Amber. “I work hard all the time.”
“It’s true,” I say. “And Caleb’s pretty nifty with a needle and thread.”
Amber frowns at me, and I know that look. She steps forward to hug me and murmurs, “Come on, Lexie. Let’s avoid a rerun, shall we?” She pulls back and adds, “Come out tonight. Listen to the buskers, join the street dancing, hey?”
“No way. Not on a Saturday. I’ll be wiped out.” She doesn’t press me. “Maybe tomorrow,” I say. “I won’t be so tired after the Sunday market.”
We press on, and Caleb calls from behind. “Is she serious, Ma Lexie? About tea?”
“She is Miss Amber to you. Show some respect to my late-husband’s sister.”
“Husband? Late husband?”
I don’t answer. For now, I must maintain the distance. As the family keeps harking on: business is business.
Drives me crazy how they watch me. Amber, no doubt, keeps them all informed, though she’s kind enough. She knows the sacrifices I made when I married Ruben, that is, when I married the family. Even when my Ruben passed away, I didn’t contact my parents. Why humiliate myself? They thought I’d married down, seriously down.
Since I was widowed, I admit that Ruben’s family has been good to me—setting me up with the flat, the janitor’s job and the remake business. It’s small-fry to them. I’m definitely grateful; it’s not as if Ruben and I had any children. But the way they check on me . . . It’s annoying, belittling. And I’ve no delusions. If I ever remarried, they’d take a different attitude. Kick me out of the flat most likely. So it’s best to toe the line. And fair’s fair—they don’t mind the occasional boyfriend passing through.
“Ma Lexie? Who builds our stall? Did Mr. Ben set things up for you? Do I need to do that now? Is there a clothes—?”
“Too many questions.”
The end of our street opens out into the market square with its food stalls, regimented into rows but precariously constructed—old doors and warped planks balanced on crates and blocks. The stall owners are piling up their produce, stringing up multicoloured tarps to offer shade. I wave to the woman who sells fennel—another family widow. I love this time when the market belongs to the stallholders. No shoppers as yet, just the scrawny hangers-on who descend on the food stalls—youngsters mainly, trying to make themselves useful by tautening the canopies, hauling boxes of fruit and vegetables. All unpaid, working for tips. Entrepreneurs in the making, I reckon.
Today, though, I’m on edge. I’m going to put temptation in Caleb’s path. Because I need to test his loyalty before I pull him closer. I need to know if he’s playing me, if he’s all empty charm. I walk faster, stretching the distance between me and the boy; he’ll see that I trust him, and he’ll taste a bit of freedom. I skirt around the food market and stop by the snack stall at t
he corner of Clothing Street. It’s pushed tight against the end wall of a housing block. I daren’t look around in case Caleb isn’t there.
He appears beside me. Was he even tempted? Maybe it didn’t occur to him. Gingerly, he tilts the trolley upright, with one arm stretched across the top container, stopping it from tipping forward. He looks up to me, expectant.
“Egg wrap?” I ask.
He nods as he studies the handwritten prices. “With sauce,” he says. “Please.”
“Make that two egg wraps with the extras, and one with sauce,” I say to the girl. She splashes oil in the wok, adds onions and herbs from two piles on the counter, cracks two eggs into the mix, whisks, adds spice. “And chilli,” I tell her. She takes two thin pittas, spreads one with sauce and splits the egg filling between them.
We stand together eating our breakfast. My shoulders relax. As I look across the market square, I imagine a more traditional scene, with the addition of a church at the far end, and a fountain, and a statue of . . . anyone, for heaven’s sake. Anything to relieve the back-to-basics look of the enclave. I know it’s a cheap way to live, but does it have to look so bland? The enclave has its graffiti artists who’ve sprayed the end walls of the housing blocks, but it’s all too loud for me. A single tall spire would make all the difference.
In Manchester, if I stayed after work for an hour or two, I’d say to a friend, Meet you by the Pankhurst statue. I haven’t visited the city since I married my Ruben. I gave up the job, and my free travel pass was revoked automatically. I’ve never missed the commute, the crammed carriages. And I haven’t missed the job. Just another invisible organic working for the bright sparks, the clever bastards. Mind you, having worked with them, seen them up close, I don’t envy them, not really. For all their brains—it’s not even their own brains, it’s brain chips making them supercharged—they’re no better than skivvies themselves. Talk about a day-in, day-out treadmill, working long hours, hardly seeing home during the week. They don’t get it though, do they? All said and done, I wouldn’t mind one of their fancy houses in the suburbs—
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