“Ma Lexie, do I still get pocket money? Or do I get a proper wage now?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, having finished his wrap already. I’ve no appetite; I hand him mine, half-finished. He takes it and starts chomping.
I laugh at him. “A wage? What are you worth, Caleb? More than Mr. Ben? Anyway, what do you need money for? I’m feeding you, aren’t I? You’ve got a place to live.”
“I think an overseer should get a wage. Not pocket money for sweets.”
I laugh again. The cheek of him. Is he judging how far he can push? “You’ve a short memory. Hmm? Remember when you arrived here? Caked in dirt. Thin as a pin.”
“That was then, Ma Lexie. I want to work hard for you, like your sis—like Miss Amber said. And I’ve plenty more ideas for the workshop, for new remakes.”
“There’s more to being an overseer than you realise. Mr. Ben made an early start on market days. He collected the boards and trestles from the family premises and set up the stall. I’ve had to pay one of the family’s freelancers to do the job today. That’s profit down the drain. You see? So don’t talk to me about wages. You haven’t proved yourself beyond a bit of handiwork. Be thankful for your breakfast treat.”
The first of the shoppers are trickling in from the surrounding enclave when Skylark arrives at our pitch. I’ve finished setting out the garments on the tabletop, and Caleb, with his back to the street, is hanging the most expensive items on the clothes rail.
“What the hell is that?” asks Skylark, pointing at the fur-collared shirt.
Caleb spins around. “Skylark!”
“Come here, kid. I’ve missed your ugly mug.”
They’re in a bear hug as she says, “What are you doing out here? Got yourself promoted?”
He pulls away. “I’m Ma Lexie’s right-hand man.”
She grabs him for another hug. “No, you idiot,” she says. “I’m the right-hand man. Hey, let’s look at you.” She steps back, looks him up and down. “Not as skinny.” She leans in and inhales. “Smell a bit sweeter too.” She puts her arm around him, and it cheers me no end to see Caleb beaming that big smile of his.
Skylark twists around and says, “Ma Lexie, I went to the premises yesterday. Your Mr. Ben’s working on the separation line already.” She snort-laughs. “He didn’t look happy. Not one bit. I couldn’t resist—wandered over, all casual, asked him to pick out a fetching frock for me, for a big night out. Told me to fuck off. Still has a way with words.”
I turn to Caleb. “Don’t just stand around. Tidy up the rails and fasten up all the shirts. They’ll blow off the hangers if there’s a gust of wind.” Taking Skylark by the elbow, I guide her out of the stall, out of earshot. “How was the trip? Anything for me?”
“Sorry, nothing. Pretty tight family groups. A handful of singletons but they were all sick. Anyway, I thought you had enough with three boys.”
“We’ll see. I might need another, none younger than Caleb though. The young ones need too much organising. Listen, are you busy for the next hour?” Skylark shakes her head. “Take Caleb. Show him around—I’m cutting him some slack—and buy him a toy or a game. I don’t know what kids want, and I can’t leave the stall.”
She gives me that look, the same as Amber’s. She says, “There’s no point spoiling him, getting too close. If Jaspar takes him off your hands like last time, you’ll be crying in your soup.”
I call Caleb over. Tell him to take a walk with Skylark. He hesitates, looks back and forth between me and Skylark, as if he’s suspicious. I explain that I need the stall to myself for half an hour, that a business associate is calling by. I give him a handful of small notes, way more than the usual pocket money, and I watch him swagger away by Skylark’s side. I wonder if Skylark has guessed I’m testing the boy. I want to know what he’ll do—money in his pocket, out in the market for the first time, his first real chance to make a run for it. After seeing him with Skylark, so relaxed, I reckon there’s nothing further from his mind.
I hate it when people maul the goods. I can tell they won’t buy anything. Take this young woman. Neat as neat can be, shy looking, but a pretty face in a plain way. Somehow she manages to look down her nose at everything on display. And the lad who’s with her, he’s trying to inject a little enthusiasm. Some folk are born miserable. She holds the cuff of the fur-collared shirt—hanging in pride of place—and she actually cringes. Her shoulders twitch.
God help us. No imagination. No sense of derring-do. What’s the matter with people these days? It’s all these damned inoculations—no one has any addictions, but these kids growing up now, they’re all so damned . . . boring. With our remakes, I can read the confusion in people’s faces. They don’t know what they want until someone like me puts it under their goddamn nose.
The lad is still encouraging her to try something on. She picks up a cap made of army camouflage material with a fluorescent lemon peak—multicoloured metallic beads sewn to the underside. Another of Caleb’s ideas. He delegated the beading work to the kids.
She stares at the cap. The lad takes it from her hand and puts it on her head. And she stands in front of my mirror, looking at herself, blank faced. The cap suits her. The lad steps between her and the mirror, bends his knees. He pushes her hair behind her ears and pulls the peak down a tad and pushes it slightly sideways, as though the cap’s accidentally off-centre rather than deliberately, cheekily cockeyed. He lifts her chin. It suits her. I’ll offer a decent discount for the first sale of the day. Always brings me good luck. But as I step closer, the girl casts the cap aside and they move on. Casts it aside! That’s bespoke, lady. It’s not jumble.
Speaking of which, I cast a glance farther along Clothing Street. On the opposite side, the second-hand clothes stall is as busy as ever. The clothes are thrown in heaps. But their profits per sale will be tiny compared to mine. I’m not interested in volume trade. If I told Ruben once, I told him twenty times: the family should develop more spin-offs from the recycling business. What’s it called . . . ? An add-on . . . No, added value. But Ruben didn’t listen. Not the listening type, was he? A real hard worker but, it has to be said, he liked a straightforward job.
God, I miss him though. If he could see me now with my own stall and all these remake fashions, he’d be proud. Ruben’s mind fixated on one thing: the weight of recyclables—textiles, metals, glass, plastics, compost. I don’t know why he worried. He told me himself that the weigh station staff were paid off. Bumped our weights by twenty per cent.
My Ruben saw himself as the family strongman—keeping rival clans off our street. He patrolled after dark, checking every recycling bin from one end of our street, right across the market square, to the far end of the enclave. He said he needed eyes in the back of his head to stop other street clans from pinching our stuff. He knew every bin on our patch, had them all marked, and checked they were all positioned where they should be. I’ve pictured him so many times, totally pumped up when he caught them red-handed. I see him, ploughing into them with his baseball bat.
Knifed through the heart for half a bin of metals. My Ruben, bless him, took the small stuff too seriously.
Three sales so far. I can’t see far along the street; it’s thronging. Where the hell are Skylark and Caleb? It must be an hour since they left. I’m aware I’m nibbling at my lower lip.
Why do I do this—set people up to fail? People I actually care about. Jesus, like that time as a teenager. I didn’t remind anyone my birthday was coming up. My sixteenth. Of course, no one remembered. They were busy, working all hours. My parents felt terrible when they eventually noticed the date. Whereas, for me, I don’t know what felt shittiest—everyone forgetting my birthday or seeing everyone’s squirming guilt.
I like Caleb. That should be enough. He’s well-adjusted and smart, strikes a positive attitude. There’s no need to test him like this.
I’ll tell the family through Jaspar, in case anyone’s in any doubt, that I don’t want to remarry. They’ll app
reciate that, a sign of respect for Ruben’s memory. But I want a child—someone I can look after for a few years, who’ll look after me in my old age. Frankly, I could simply do it: move Caleb into my flat. I could build a platform above the living space for a mattress. I can’t have him sleeping in the kitchen. The family will see how happy I am, and Jaspar might be prompted to give me a bigger flat. Or he could encourage the tenant next door to move on and then knock through. That would be grand. Jaspar could make that happen.
Anyway, the family will grasp soon enough that something’s going on. Mr. Ben being demoted, Caleb coming to the market. Amber’s bound to mention Caleb at the Sunday gathering. Yes, I’ll tell Jaspar today that I want to keep Caleb. I’ll tell him. I won’t ask.
I catch sight of Skylark edging, shoulder first, through the crowd. I take payment from a young man for a pair of shorts with bespoke trim on the side seams and pocket edges—a quick job, five minutes with the machine. I fold the shorts, tie them with a thin strip of cloth to make a handle. He doesn’t seem too impressed, but it’s all part of the service. As he leaves, Skylark darts between the stalls. She’s on her own.
“I lost him. At the toy stall in the next street.”
“How could you lose—?”
“He ducked down to look in a box of oddments. I don’t know, maybe he crawled under the stall and ran from the back end. Couldn’t see him. Chased up and down, but—?”
“He ran away?”
“He might be lost, or . . . How much money did you give him?” she asks.
“It’s only enclave credits; he won’t get far with that.”
Skylark lays her hand flat on top of her head. “But he seemed happy. Why run away?”
“Because no one knows who he is yet. It’s his first day off the roof. In a month’s time everyone will know he’s with me.”
“Let’s not panic,” says Skylark. “If he’s lost, he’ll find his way back to the food market and—”
“Yes, he’ll find his way from there.”
“I’ll keep searching, Ma Lexie. I’ll go to the market square, and if he isn’t there I’ll check if he went home.”
As Skylark turns, Caleb crashes into her. “Sorry, Ma Lexie. Sorry. I looked up and I panicked. I couldn’t see Skylark.” He looks up at her. “Where did you go?”
I lean over and pull him by his top around the table.
“Sorry, Ma Lexie,” he whines.
I slap his face.
My mother slapped me often enough. It’s not the end of the world. But Caleb’s been sulking for the past half hour and won’t look at me. I sent Skylark to fetch him some toffees, but he hasn’t touched them. Pushed them in his pocket. I’m festering with the worst doubts. Did he try to run away but chickened out? I don’t know what to think. Did he take his chance and then realise he didn’t have a plan? Will he spend the next months working out how to get away? I don’t want to be suspicious; I want to believe he lost sight of Skylark and panicked.
We go on like this until late morning: there’s me, acting as though nothing has happened, chatting with the customers, pretending Caleb isn’t even there; and there’s Caleb, standing at the back pretending he’s invisible. One of my regulars turns up and we have a laugh. I want Caleb to see that people like me.
A guy I haven’t seen before strides up to the stall, points and asks about the shirt. “What kind of fur is it?” I tell him it’s mock. And he asks, “Mock what?” I make it up—“Mock arctic fox,” I tell him. He says he’s doing a music gig, and he’ll take it; it’s different. I tell Caleb to wrap it nicely. He’s watched me wrapping other items, and I reckon he’ll enjoy his first sale, if he can get over himself, stop his sulking. He hands over the wrapped shirt and smiles, just about. As the guy heads off, Caleb takes out his toffees and starts to suck on one.
By two o’clock the market is thinning, and I tell Caleb to start packing away. I tell him we’ve had a good day, thanks to his creative flair. He takes the compliment, and once again tries to smile. It’s more like a twitch. I wonder if his face is stinging.
I take a deep breath. “Caleb. Listen to me. I won’t hit you again. I was worried and . . . you know, I don’t want you to disappear like that. Gave me a fright.” I add, “You’re important to the business. So, from now on, you’ll have a wage instead of pocket money.”
He nods his head.
I think we’re over the worst.
I say, “We’ll go home via the family premises. But first, go back to the fruit market and fetch three pomegranates—a treat for you boys. Go to the woman with the rose tattoo on her throat. Tell her Ma Lexie sent you. And while you’re doing that, I’ll finish the packing.”
I watch him flip-flop down the street. I must be mad, testing him again. But I want him to make good his wrong.
We walk back along Clothing Street with the trolley. Instead of turning left towards our housing block, I turn right towards the family premises. At the far end of the street, the housing blocks give way to a shamble of workshops, with perimeter walls, and storage lock-ups, mostly built from recycled plastic building blocks, with battered wooden or steel gates. No signage. Around here, enclave entrepreneurs like to keep a low profile. But the recycling business is different—public contracts and all that—and as we approach the compound walls, I point Caleb to the sign:
MATERIALS RECYCLING FACILITY
ENCLAVE W3
NO DUMPING
“You’ll get to know this place, Caleb. It’s the family HQ. We keep our bicycle trailers here for the bin collections along our street. And it’s the sorting facility for recyclables from the entire enclave—we won the contract a few years back. The family’s doing well.” I place my hand on his shoulder. “Stick with me and you’ll never be short of work.”
I look up at the camera, and the gates’ unlocking mechanism clunks.
“What happens to the stuff you can’t recycle?” Caleb asks. He’s perking up.
“We don’t bring it here. It’s biked out to the incinerators on the eastern edge of the enclave, generates electricity.”
The yard is deserted at first sight. The bicycles and trailers are parked up against the perimeter wall. But then I notice there’s a mechanic tinkering with one of the bicycles. I avoid coming here during the week when it’s chaotic. Frankly, I don’t like seeing the boy who once worked for me—the one Jaspar purloined. Haven’t seen him in a while. Makes me feel bad he’s doing such dirty work. Within months he was unrecognisable, changed shape with all the cycling and heavy lifting. At least if he’s still on the collection side, he’s not sorting in the warehouse—too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter—and it’s pure bedlam in there with the conveyors, rolling drums, air blowers, sorting screens. First time I went in, I threw up.
“Caleb, I need to talk business with my brother-in-law. You run over to the warehouse, have a rummage in the textile bay.” I point to the near end of the warehouse. “There’s a security guard. Say you’re here with Lexie.”
He stares at me, quizzical. “Have a rummage?”
“It’s part of your new job. Bag up the best and we’ll take it home. Don’t see why I should do it any longer. I couldn’t ask Mr. Ben to do it; he had no idea. Now, off you go.”
“But how much—?”
“Whatever you can balance on the trolley.”
I head off towards the office—a windowless steel shipping container. We keep a strongbox welded to the floor, and it’s the safest place to leave my takings. I don’t want cash lying around at home. I’ve gleaned that my latest Romeo has a limited understanding of what’s mine isn’t yours. He’s had the nerve to drop hints about moving in with me. The next thing you know, he’ll be saying, Let’s share and share alike. I don’t care that he’s lazy, as long as it doesn’t affect me. I’m nobody’s meal ticket. My Ruben would climb out of the grave.
Jaspar steps out of the office, looks across at the warehouse as Caleb parks his trolley and disappears inside. “The kid. I could do with an
extra pair of hands on the sorting line. Can you spare him?”
“He’s too smart for this work, Jaspar. He’s better staying with me. He’s doing nice work, proper designer in the making.”
“Fancy that,” he says, all sarcastic. He smirks. “This”—he waves towards the warehouse—“this is where the family makes its money. Where there’s muck etcetera. Your operation, if I may raise it to that lofty status—”
“Don’t patronise me, Jaspar. If you need more hands, tell Skylark and pay her a bonus if she delivers.”
“Just saying. Keep your hair on.”
“Well, I’m telling you, the boy’s staying with me. I’m paying him a wage from today, so don’t fucking mess with my plans.”
He rolls his eyes. “Calm it, yeah? And this is strictly business, is it? Tell me, if I took him, would we have them tears again?”
“That was two years ago. I was still in a bad way after Ruben. So, hands up, I overreacted.” I pass the takings to him. He retreats into the office, and I call after him. “I admit, I like this boy, but it makes real business sense to keep him.”
“I’ve told you: don’t mix business and personal shit.”
“It’s all right for you, Jasp. Married with four lovely kids. My marrying days are over. Ruben was the only one for me.” I hate to use Ruben like this. It’s still difficult for his family, especially for Jaspar, losing his kid brother.
After Ruben’s murder, the enclave police weren’t too bothered about following up—regarded it as clan business—so we did our own investigating. Asked every resident what they’d thrown in the stolen metals’ bin, and we made an inventory of everything the residents could remember. Jaspar’s unloading team at the yard inspected every delivery of metals for weeks and weeks against that inventory. Four months on, we spotted a small wire sculpture of a dog that some old fella had made and discarded to the stolen bin. Jaspar went to see him with what we’d found, and he confirmed it was the one he’d chucked away. According to the delivery records, the wire dog arrived at the recycling yard from the far side of the enclave, from a collection gang that had previous form for pilfering, according to Jaspar. By then, the police had long forgotten about my Ruben. They didn’t make the connection when the retributions started. More than one tit for one tat. But that’s how it goes.
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