Jaspar cuts her off. “I’ve had a belly full of this. I’ll keep the kids here in the warehouse dorm. I’ll ask the family later if anyone can make use of them.”
Ma Lexie goes all quiet again. I know what’s going on in her head. She thinks of herself as a good person, but when the chips are down, she’s a survivor like everyone else around here. She isn’t going to plead for those kids even though we both know the dorm here is a tough place for any illegal, let alone a couple of youngsters.
“Let me know if I can help, Ma Lexie,” I say without too much enthusiasm. I slip away and cross the yard, feeling bad that I didn’t wave or say anything to Zach and Mikey as I left. I poke around in the piles of textiles in the warehouse. Find myself a shapeless jacket, one my mother would wear. Blue, bland, altogether forgettable.
Before I leave the yard, I borrow some tools from a guy repairing a trailer. I need to tighten up the sidecar fixings. The last thing I want to see is my sidecar in a ditch. If I can fix it here, I can head out in the morning at first light, put some distance between me and the clan and the whole frikkin’ mess with Caleb and the girl. Then what? Pack in this business? Or, finish the season first? Right now, it’s early harvest, and I supply three vineyards that still handpick. Not that I’ve met the farmers. I’ve never set foot on a vineyard. I meet the fixers, and I doubt they’ve ever seen a bunch of grapes on the vine.
I try a few spanners until I find the right size. Lying on my side, I tighten each nut in turn across the undercarriage. One is gunked up with mud and grit and it won’t budge. I wipe the surface of the nut and spray some oil, cadged from the mechanic, and wait for it to penetrate and loosen everything up.
That Caleb is either smarter or more stupid than I first realised, and I can’t make up my mind which it is. He’s at the age where he could be both—brainy and thick at the same time. He probably made a dash for it without weighing up the risks. I reckon the whole thing was a knee-jerk, what with Ma Lexie losing her rag at him. He decided on instinct, and he’s probably regretting his decision already. Probably living rough under some hedgerow like his mum. Is this how it goes? Like if these illegals don’t settle to their fate—and let’s face it, Caleb landed on his feet with Ma Lexie, compared with most alternatives—they end up sliding into more and more chaos. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, warm bed on a roof versus damp hedgerows, waking up surrounded by fields covered in dew, a cow mooing in your frikkin’ face. What the hell has he gained?
Out on the road, I focus on the ride, the potholes. I have to concentrate but I’m right happy. I love the start of a new journey. It’s the best feeling in the world, mounting the bike, and I’ve felt the same thrill ever since I sped off from home in the middle of the night. About a month after I’d left, I got in touch with a good mate in our block, and he told me my dad didn’t report his bike as stolen. Kinda proud about that, and I half suspect, but this could be a flight of fancy, that he’s even a little proud of me having the gumption to do it. In his own day, he was Jack the Lad by all accounts. He must like it, just a bit, that I’ve got his genes and not my mum’s.
Someone’s trying to message me, so I pull over on a stretch of road shaded by trees. It’s Ma Lexie, and I can’t hardly believe my eyes when I read her message: Thanks for yesterday, Skylark. Fighting my corner with Jasp like you did, and clearing up too. See you soon. Lex.
Three whole sentences. I mean, could this be the start of a beautiful new friendship?
PART 2
CHAPTER 5
CALEB
The runner, Jerome, reaches my picking spot along the row of vines, and I tip my full-to-the-very-top basket of green grapes into his hod.
“Good work,” he says.
He’s the one runner who speaks to me. I untie the knee pads that hang from a belt loop on my shorts and strap them on. Kneeling is the easiest way for me, but I can’t do a full day in one picking position. You have to mix it up.
That’s the big lesson I learned when I started here. I worked for three days bending over to do all my cutting. I ached all over. My right hand and arm were burning from gripping and squeezing the secateurs. The pain was as bad as the time my thigh was knifed.
Now, after three weeks as a picker, I’ve found the right way. If I change my position every hour, my back is only half-broken at the end of the day. I spend one hour—or what feels like one hour—standing up, bending over to cut each bunch of grapes from the vine, then one hour on my knees, then one hour moving along the row on my bum, which isn’t the fastest way of picking. I’m getting stronger, building the grape-picker’s muscles in my back, across my shoulders and along my arms.
This is much, much harder work than unpicking and sewing at Ma Lexie’s. But, if I don’t count the first few days on the vineyard, I’ve been happier. It’s better working in the countryside than on Ma Lexie’s roof. And I’ve stopped stressing, because I heard the supervisor say he didn’t need any more hands. So, I’m no longer looking over my shoulder every five minutes to see if Odette has turned up. I’ve no idea what I’d say to her. I keep telling myself to stop sweating. She was heading for Wales. I’ve stayed on the English side of the border, in a place called Shropshire.
I’m glad to be kneeling again.
I hear the supervisor shouting for the runners to speed up. I got on his wrong side for the first few days. He’d call my name and I’d ignore him, forgetting I’d given a false name when I arrived. I’m calling myself Leo—my best friend’s name back home—because someone might come looking for a runaway named Caleb. Quick thinking on my part. The supervisor here isn’t too bad, better than that bastard Mr. Ben at Ma Lexie’s. And the food’s better, and there’s more of it. My best days are like today when Jerome is the runner on my row. He’s the only runner who remembers to bring us water between breaks. On bad days, I eat a few grapes if I get thirsty. It’s the runners’ job to bring us water, but they always make excuses: it’s nearly break time, or they’ll bring it next time, which they don’t. I hate them.
When I left Odette by the canal side, I kept changing my mind—should I head for the farms and vineyards, or should I hand myself in to the authorities? Finding a police station or even a police officer sounds easy, but it isn’t in the countryside. This is all I saw: canal paths, hedges, fields and a few houses in the distance. I decided to head for the farms and vineyards. I liked the fresh air too much to give it up. From then on, I hid during the day, walked at night. What worried me was the thought that I’d be nabbed again, not by Skylark but by someone like her pretending to be kind, and then finding myself trapped someplace even worse than the roof, or Jaspar’s recycling yard.
The whistle blows for break time sooner than I expect, which must mean I’m getting better at the job. I walk uphill along the row to the dirt track, and I hear the farmer’s drone whizzing over my head. I hope it’s carrying some chocolate today. We get twenty minutes. It’s just enough time to eat some bread and cheese, and glug as much water as I can. I never need to pee during the day, so I know I’m not drinking enough. Some of the workers drink wine, but I avoid it, hate the taste. At lunchtime when we all sit out by the vineyard track, I do take a swig of wine to make them all think I’m older than I am.
I reach the track, and the supervisor is already unloading the drone’s basket and passing out bread, meats, tomatoes, cheeses. And, yes, there’s a few chocolate bars. Can’t be bad.
“Where’s Eleanor?” asks Maria, one of the local workers. “She must be going deaf.”
The supervisor is biting on a chunk of bread. He points at me. “Leo!” Crumbs drop down his chest. “Go and look for her. Fourth or fifth row.”
“But—”
“Go on. Do it!”
Why should I miss part of my break? Hope he chokes. He should go and find her himself. He does next to nothing, spends all day walking backwards and forwards checking on us.
When he blows his whistle for the end of break, I won’t rush back to work. I’ve earned my twenty m
inutes. I head towards the fourth row, but Maria calls out, “Not that one. The other side of the red roses.”
When I first came here, I thought the roses were planted to make the place look prettier. I was wrong. They’re planted to bring bees to the rows of vines, but it sounds like a superstition to me.
I can’t see Eleanor. The rows are long and slope downhill. I think Maria told me the wrong row. I jump up to peek over the top of the vines, hoping to catch sight of her. But if she’s picking she’ll be stooped, and she’s short anyway. I crouch down and peer through the rows. Nothing. I jog downhill. A crow squawks and I pull up. Not because of the squawk. I’ve seen a red bundle on the ground. Eleanor wears red.
I run and kneel down next to her. She lies on her side, facing away from me. Bending over her, I shake her arm. She’s wheezing real bad.
I jump up and wave and shout, “Come quick.” And then holler, “Hey! Come quick.” Eleanor’s face is purple. A silver chain around her neck has snapped, and a locket has fallen to the ground. I look over my shoulder. No one in the row yet. I lift her head and slide off the chain, drop it into a crack in the ground. Look over my shoulder again as Maria turns into the row. I lay my hand over the locket, pick it up and slide it into my pocket as I stand up. “Hurry,” I shout, “She’s bad!”
I don’t think we’ll be picking any more grapes this morning. The supervisor called an ambulance straightaway, and within two minutes some of the seasonal pickers had disappeared. I heard one of them say that when there’s an ambulance you can expect the police to visit next. I knew that meant difficult questions: Where’s your work permit? Where’s your return ticket home?
I hang around Eleanor’s workmates, the other local men and women. No one tries to lift Eleanor, but Maria has already rolled her onto her left side, and she’s wiping Eleanor’s face and arms with a wet cloth, trying to cool her down. I walk over to the supervisor and ask if I need to stay as I was the one who found her. He doesn’t even look at me. “Make yourself scarce, kid.”
Eleanor is a local woman, so they have to get medical help. They have no choice.
I didn’t speak to her much, but one time she asked me how old I was. When I told her, trying to sound convincing, that I was eighteen, she said, “That’s a shame.” What did she mean? I didn’t like to ask. I guess she meant it’s a shame I have to work so hard at my age. Makes me think. I wish I was back home and eighteen years old already, because I could finish school and get a job. But my parents probably wouldn’t allow that to happen. It’s my father; he’s the one who’d make me keep on studying. Would my mother try to persuade him? No, I think she’d take sides with him.
And now, here I am, sweating, thirsty, doing a job that any idiot can do. The skin on my nose has burnt and actually scabbed. Maybe I was stupid running away from Ma Lexie. She gave me a real chance, wanted to give me my own label. There will never ever be a wine bottle with a Caleb label. I kick a clod of earth. Why don’t you know when you’re making a real bad decision?
I climb back up to the track, grab a hunk of bread and cheese, swat the flies. I stuff my pockets with the chocolate and a tin of sardines, which was meant for Eleanor. She won’t need it now. I drink more water and set off. There’s about ten of us travelling seasonal workers—I’m not sure who’s legal and who’s illegal—and we camp out in a flat field about twenty minutes’ walk away from this particular field. The owner of the vineyard loaned me an old tent and sleeping bag—didn’t ask where I came from. Some of the seasonal workers bring their own camping gear, and they’re totally organised with folding chairs and solar cookers. But I manage fine with the free food we get from the owner.
The one good thing about this vineyard, apart from the fresh air and the food, is the locker room, which is hidden from view in an old barn. There’s one locker for each worker. I don’t have to worry about my stuff being stolen. And whenever I see any tinned food lying around, going spare, I pick it up and store it in my locker. If I ever need to do another runner, I’ll be better prepared than last time.
It’s weird, walking in the countryside on my own like this. Out of sight from the field we’re harvesting, and out of sight of the camping ground. Normally, I’d be walking with all the other workers, keeping myself to myself, pretending I don’t notice things. Like the bald French man who thinks he can tease the young French woman just because they’re from the same country, like that makes them a couple. He’s an idiot. He can see she’s not interested, but he isn’t put off. Yesterday he grabbed her around her waist, in front of everyone. She totally lost it, shouted right in his face and threw punches. None of them landed. He laughed. Two of the other men pulled him away, but all the time they laughed and hooted, like the whole thing was one huge joke. The big guy, Jerome—who keeps to himself like I do—he strolled across and took a handful of the idiot’s T-shirt and shoved him off the path. They all shut up then.
I hear scratching sounds near my tent. Rats, I guess. But there’s nothing for them here. I never sneak any food into my tent, because the rats can smell it. They’d try to get in. Anyway, that’s one of the rules: no food in the tents, and no lighting campfires.
My tent is yellow, a bit grubby, but I like it because I fall asleep knowing that, even if I have nightmares about Odette or Jaspar, or putting up tents, or fighting in deep mud, I’ll wake up in a yellow light, and that tells me I’m safe. I don’t keep much stuff with me—a warm top in case it gets cold in the night and a towel. Plus some toothpaste and a toothbrush, which I bought from the workers’ shop. It’s not a proper shop. Just a room in an outbuilding at the farmhouse. It’s open for an hour at the end of the afternoon, and we can buy the basics there. It means I don’t need to walk into the village. I don’t dare to leave the vineyard.
So, so tired. I keep thinking about Eleanor, and it’s stopping me from dropping off to sleep. She didn’t need the locket. She has a home and her family. She’d forgive me if she understood. Like my mother said, you sometimes need to bribe your way when you’re on the road. When you’ve spent all your money, you need to do a swap.
When I left Odette, I didn’t have anything on me except one stupid orange. I got lucky though. During the second night’s walk, heading south along the canal cutting through Shropshire, I came across a bar. It’s called a pub here. No one around. I checked the bins at the back of the building and found half a pizza that was pretty clean, and some bits of bread that were dry. That saved me. Then on the third day in the late afternoon I came out of my daytime hideout—a patch of woodland as usual—and walked until I met a road bridge. I climbed up the embankment, and I saw some houses a short distance away along the country road. I decided to chance it, straightened my clothes, walked down into the village. I passed three or four people but kept my eyes down. I came to a small shop and looked at the notices in the window, hoping to get a clue about where I was. A girl came out of the shop and stopped. I could tell she was looking at me, but I didn’t look back. She asked what I was looking for. Before I could say anything, she said, “That’s my notice.” She pointed at it. “I’m selling my blades. There, see? Black blades.” I told her I wanted a fruit picker’s job. She said, “Rather you than me. It’s killing.” I tried to ignore her, pretended to read the notices carefully. Then she said, “I saw a sign just outside the village at the Bowens’ place. You know it?” I shook my head, and she pointed to a side road, told me they wanted pickers. “Up there. It’s in full swing, you know. The first harvest. You’re a bit late.”
I thanked her and set off.
We start harvesting a new field today, the Rondo grapes for red wine. Our last day in the Phoenix field—the one where Eleanor fell ill—felt strange, embarrassing. After our morning break, Eleanor’s daughter came to see the spot where her mother had collapsed, and she asked if anyone had seen her mother’s locket and chain, that her mother must have lost it—a family keepsake—somewhere between the field and the ambulance. She was upset and asked everyone to help her in the search,
which we did. After a few minutes, I held up the silver chain, as if I’d found it by chance. I didn’t make a big deal of finding it. I asked Eleanor’s daughter, “Is this it?” She chased over to me and began digging her fingers in the soil, desperate to find the actual locket. I’d already stashed it in my locker.
The pickers searched in the area where I found the chain and also along the path to where the ambulance had parked. The supervisor kept his mouth shut. Didn’t tell us to get back to work. After fifteen minutes we gave up, but Eleanor’s daughter stayed for ages turning over clods of soil.
All the itinerants, as they sometimes call us, are already picking Rondo grapes when the transport arrives, bringing the local workers from surrounding villages and small towns. They’re late. I wait for the inevitable—shouts and complaints from the supervisor. But it’s the locals’ voices I hear. I wouldn’t bother to get up if I was in my kneeling or sitting position. I’m doing my standing stoop, so I straighten up and look over the top of the vines to see what’s going on. The locals are all in a huddle like a mob, facing the supervisor, and Maria’s losing her temper, swinging her fists at the air—she doesn’t have the nerve to hit him. Lots of finger jabbing, too, from the other locals.
Heads pop up along the rows of vines. Curious, like me, Jerome walks up to the track and stands with his hands on his hips a few paces away from the supervisor. As he walks back down the row of vines to his picking position, Jerome calls out so we can all hear him. He tells us the news that Eleanor died in hospital last night.
I bend down and carry on picking. I didn’t know she’d die. I stole from a dead woman. Her daughter . . . the locket should be hers. It’s too late to make it magically reappear. We’re working in a different field now, and in any case, I opened the locket and threw away the photo inside. Didn’t look close at it. Picture of a child, I think.
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