by Monica Ali
Some of the young men kicked a football in the yard and one used a bucket of water for a wash. Olek sat on a wooden bench in his oversized anorak, tossing a coin. Gabe sat down next to him.
Olek spun the coin, caught it, and slapped it on the back of his hand with his other hand covering it. He nodded to Gabe.
‘Heads,’ said Gabriel.
Olek removed his hand. He smiled, showing his brown teeth. He tossed again.
‘Heads,’ said Gabriel.
Olek revealed the coin, and then threw it in the air.
‘Heads.’
They both laughed this time.
Olek tossed and slapped the coin down on the bench, keeping it concealed. ‘What is chance,’ he said, ‘for to be heads?’
Gabriel considered. ‘Luck’s got to break. Had three in a row, so I reckon the chance of it being heads now is … one in ten, one in a hundred, I don’t know.’
Olek shook his head. ‘No, chance is one in two. Fifty-fifty. Only two possibility. Every time chance is same.’
A van drove into the yard and Olek picked up the coin. He stood up and said, ‘Food.’
The driver opened the van’s back doors and a group gathered round, buying bread, packet ham, cereal, milk.
‘When do we get paid?’
Olek coughed and lit up one of Gabriel’s cigarettes. He held up two fingers of his other hand.
‘Two days? The end of today?’
Olek shook his head.
‘Two weeks?’
‘Normal, yes.’
‘Christ,’ said Gabe. ‘And how much? How much do we get?’
Olek pulled a face. ‘How many box you fill?’
‘Well, how much for a box?’
‘Many expense,’ said Olek, ‘we must paying transport, house, tax – sorry for my English.’
‘Transport?’ said Gabriel. ‘That old minibus?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much for rent?’
Olek shrugged and the dark rings around his eyes seemed to get darker still. ‘Saying thirty, but possible charging more.’
‘I’ve only got a camp bed.’
‘Yes. Van will go. We must buying now. Later, tomorrow, buying from shop, more better, more cheap food.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Gabriel. ‘I don’t need anything.’
Olek bent down as if to tie his shoelace. He took a five-pound note out of his sock and pushed it into Gabriel’s hand. ‘When you getting money you pay.’
Gabriel went to the van with Olek and bought a pack of rolls, crackers, cheese and toothpaste. After breakfast they walked out to the onion field together, the two women trailing behind. Gabriel asked a few questions and Olek, in halting English, told him a little about himself. He was from the Ukraine, used to work in the accounts department of the telephone company, but had lost his job. He came to England hoping to save enough money to start his own business when he returned. The first job he had been promised failed to materialize. He found work on a construction site but when he took time off after an injury someone else took his place. Then he worked in a meat-processing plant somewhere in the north, and when his pay packet came after two sixty-five-hour weeks there was only forty-four pounds in it. He had not been told about the £150 ‘arrangement’ fee. He made a fuss and was thrown out and for a while he dossed down in a park. Now his only ambition was to scrape together enough money to afford the journey home.
‘God, that’s really tough.’
‘Same everybody,’ said Olek. ‘Nobody choosing this job.’
‘That’s true,’ said Gabriel. ‘Guess I kind of drifted into it myself.’
They started where they had left off the previous afternoon and worked in silence, punctuated only by Olek’s coughing fits which were more frequent than yesterday. When he coughed he shrank inside his anorak as if it were eating him bit by bit. But when he stopped he sniffed and cleared his throat and nodded to Gabriel to show that he was fine. For the first few minutes a nagging voice in Gabriel’s head told him he should not be here. He didn’t listen to it and focused on pulling the onions from the ground as cleanly as he could. The minutes passed into hours and, chained by his fork to this patch of earth, he felt remarkably free, as if he were burying his burdens one by one.
Only a couple of days ago he had been convulsed with worry about who he thought he was. Was he this way or that? What did people think of him? It made him smile to himself. What did it matter? He wasn’t Danilo Hetman. He wasn’t Gabriel Lightfoot. He wasn’t anybody, he was just a man, digging in the soil. He let it all go and sank into a deep warm pool of calm. All those anxious days chasing his tail, scheming, scheduling, plotting, moving restlessly from one care to the next, justifying, reasoning, arguing with himself, all the tension and contradiction, the endless search to get whatever it was he wanted, although he did not know what that was. He exhaled long and hard and let go of everything. He didn’t need it any more.
When he looked up he saw a rabbit, shiny fur and liquid limbs, shimmer up the next row. It peeked over its shoulder at him, shook its cotton tail and ran away. The clouds pleated softly across the sky. Green chased green down the fields and a lone weeping ash tree at the boundary trailed its tresses close to the ground. Gabriel dug on. He pulled up a weed with a small yellow flower and examined the tiny stamen. Mum used to say, when she went into the garden and it was growing wild and out of control, no matter how many weeds you pull up, there’ll always be more.
He worked, and while he was absorbed he was surprised to find a new self growing in the space that he had cleared, and it had no voice or thought, and he sensed it rather than knew it, and it didn’t ring in his ears, and it did not divide him but made him, for the first time, whole. And for the first time in his life he felt that he was connected to the earth, to the trees and sky, and that there was a prayer in him, not words to be offered up, but a life to be led. He thought, this cannot be true, I am only imagining things. He thought, I will wake up tomorrow and everything will be as it was. But it was only his mind turning things over, as minds, of course, will do. Thoughts, like buses, would come and go, and he would watch them, standing well back from the kerb.
* * *
Olek had received instructions from Tymon that they were to return to the barracks for lunch because in the afternoon they were needed in a field at the far side, to finish clearing another crop. As they walked, a series of random reflections entered Gabriel’s head. He remembered a suit he had left at the dry cleaners in January and wondered if it would still be there. He thought that he must join a gym and take regular exercise. It seemed that he had stopped scratching his head and he pondered whether, now that he had noticed this, he would start doing it again. A baby rabbit – did he have this right? – was called a kit. An image of Oona floated into his mind; she was laughing her cosmic laugh and showing her gold tooth, but it didn’t irritate him. He thought about Charlie. He had messed things up with her and now it was hopeless, beyond repair, and he received this thought without agitation, he accepted it, so that instead of remaining, as it had done so many times before, as a kind of oscillation in his brain, it quickly flowed away.
‘How long will it take you to save up?’ he asked Olek, as they jumped across the little stream.
Olek began to reply but was overcome by another bout of coughing. When he had recovered he seemed to have forgotten the question. He lit a cigarette.
‘Should you be smoking?’ said Gabriel. ‘I mean, with a cough like that.’
‘No,’ said Olek, taking another drag.
He told Gabriel about a woman he had met in London when he worked on the building site. When he had been laid up with a leg injury he had lost touch, but before he went home again he intended to stop off in London to see if he could find her.
‘Big place, London,’ said Gabriel. ‘If you don’t have her address or anything, running into her would be … a big coincidence.’
‘Not good chances,’ said Olek. ‘But must asking question. Sorry for m
y English.’
‘No … listen, thanks for that money.’
‘Twenty-two persons coming here on bus with you,’ said Olek, observing Gabriel with his bloodhound eyes to see if he was following. ‘What is chance for two this persons sharing same birthday?’
‘So out of the twenty-three of us who arrived, two of us having the same birthday? I don’t know how to work it out but it doesn’t seem very likely. Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year so the odds are stacked against. The probability is going to be … five, six, seven per cent.’
‘Over fifty per cent,’ said Olek. ‘With fifty-seven persons or more, probability of ninety-nine per cent – almost it is certain.’
‘Really?’ said Gabe. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Olek, ‘I am knowing. Maths degree, Donetsk University.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Chance,’ said Olek, gravely, ‘many often not how you think should be.’
They sat on the bench outside the barracks, eating salty crackers and hunks of plastic-tasting cheese. Tymon was in the yard, sorting workers into the backs of two trucks.
Gabe thought about Ted, making shepherd’s pie for Nana. He thought about the last time he went to Rileys and Ted standing in the weaving shed spreading his hands firmly over a stopped loom. Remember, lad, the important thing …
A young man ran up to Tymon, shouting and waving an envelope.
Tymon yelled back at him.
The man pulled a piece of paper from the envelope and waved it in Tymon’s face. Tymon swatted it to the ground.
‘What’s going on?’ said Gabriel.
Olek shrugged. ‘He saying something wrong with payslip, only a hundred pounds for two weeks.’
He was more boy than man, Gabriel saw when he looked carefully, young enough to think that being right meant that you would win.
The shouting continued. Tymon flapped his arms as if to wave the boy away like a stray dog.
‘What are they saying?’ said Gabriel. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Tymon telling him go if you not liking here, and boy say but they taking his passport.’
‘What are—’
‘Shush,’ said Olek, ‘for listening.’
Gabriel sat quiet and still, trying to find a calm space within.
‘OK,’ said Olek, ‘Tymon saying, this boy illegal now, can’t working nowhere.’
‘Why have they got his passport?’
‘For register – work legally.’
‘But they didn’t do it?’
‘No. Now time has passed.’
‘Bastards,’ said Gabe.
‘Yes.’
They thought they could get away with it, because they thought that nobody here was in a position to stand up for this boy. Gabriel tried to let this thought wash over him. He tried to let it go. The last thing he wanted was to lose the peace that he had found.
The shouting continued. Olek offered Gabe a slice of bread.
‘It’s not right,’ said Gabriel. ‘Someone should stop them.’
‘Yes.’
But the thing was, you drove yourself crazy if you didn’t accept the world for what it was.
‘Someone needs to go over there and stick a rocket up Tymon’s arse.’
‘Yes,’ said Olek. ‘Who?’
It had to be Gabriel. There was no one else. He knew he had to act and at the same time he knew it was only his ego telling him that. Who was he? He was nobody. There was nothing he could do.
The boy remonstrated furiously with Tymon, who suddenly grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. Gabriel jumped up and ran over.
‘Let go,’ he yelled. ‘Let the boy go, right now!’
Both Tymon and the boy started, and curious expressions spread over their faces, as if Gabriel had spoken in Japanese.
Tymon dropped the boy’s arm. For a couple of moments he stared at Gabe in bemusement. ‘English?’ he said, at last.
‘What you’re doing is illegal,’ said Gabriel. ‘You’re infringing this boy’s rights.’ He tried desperately to remember what Fairweather had told him about this kind of practice and the names of any laws he could throw out that would sound frightening. He settled for saying, ‘You might like to know, I’m friends with a government minister. He’ll be very interested to hear about this.’
Tymon looked at Gabe’s unshaven chin, then down at his muddy trainers and jeans. ‘You,’ he said, his voice and face sharp with contempt, ‘you wait there. I bring Mr Gleeson.’
An alarm went off in Gabriel’s head, so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. Way back, when he’d first started at the Imperial, Gleeson had told him that he grew up on a Norfolk farm. When Gabe had recognized that man – why didn’t he trust his own instincts? – he’d been absolutely right. It must be Gleeson’s father, no, think, think properly, his brother, more like. And … and … there was something else … what? The minivan. Hadn’t he overheard Gleeson once, talking on the phone about a pick-up at Victoria?
But it was none of his business. Oh, why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? Just when he had found a refuge, some peace and quiet at last. He would let it go, let the whole thing go. Think about something else. He had to ring Jenny, don’t forget. Ah, there was Dad, big strong hands, Remember, lad, the important thing …
Tymon strode around the corner with Mr Gleeson in his wake.
‘What’s your name?’ said Mr Gleeson, marching up, and Gabe could see he was poised between fear and anger and preparing to combine the two.
Gabriel hesitated. If he chose, he could back down and act dumb. But he wasn’t the kind of person to … or was he?
Gabe stood up straighter. ‘My name is Gabriel Lightfoot,’ he said, ‘and I demand you pay this man. What is he owed?’
Mr Gleeson looked at Tymon, the boy and Gabe. Indignation set fire to his eyes. ‘What are you?’ he said. ‘Who are you? What are you doing on my property?’
‘And give him his passport back,’ said Gabriel. ‘Do it now.’
Mr Gleeson looked around the yard as if he expected to be ambushed. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m currently employed by you.’
Mr Gleeson half lowered his eyelids so that he looked like a reptile basking in the sun. Languidly, he moved away from Gabriel and towards Tymon. In the flick of a tongue he issued a rapid instruction, and Tymon and another henchman, whom Gabe had failed to notice, grabbed him by the arms.
‘Search him,’ said Mr Gleeson. ‘Take his notebook and tape recorder. Son of a bitch!’
Gabriel stood impassively while the two men went through his pockets. They came up empty.
‘I’m not a reporter,’ said Gabe.
‘I’m losing patience,’ said Mr Gleeson. ‘I have a business – a legitimate business – to run. I’ll ask you one more time. Who are you?’
‘And I’ll tell you one more time – pay that boy.’
Mr Gleeson came up close and looked Gabriel up and down. He smelt just like his brother, of aftershave and righteousness.
‘Not a reporter?’ He grabbed Gabriel’s hands and scrutinized the dirt beneath his nails, the old burns and scars and calluses, the webbing between two fingers where a wound had healed badly. ‘No, so I see. A bloody fruitcake.’
‘Listen,’ said Gabriel, ‘I know a lot of people and you could get in a lot of trouble. One of my good friends is in the government, he’s a minister, and one word to him about what I’ve seen …’
Mr Gleeson burst out laughing. He slapped Gabriel on the shoulder as if they were sharing a marvellous joke. The henchman joined in the laughter and took the opportunity to give Gabe a friendly shove.
Tymon came out of the barracks, carrying Gabriel’s rucksack. He opened it and, without looking inside, tipped Gabe’s whites and the rest of the contents on the ground.
Mr Gleeson stood with his hands planted on his corduroy hips, and stamped one wellington boot on his green and pleasant land. ‘Do we have any vacancies, Tymon, for a chef? No
? I didn’t think so. Right, you – get out of here. Run, before I set the dogs on you. Go on, run!’
It took the rest of the day, walking and hitching, to get back to London. When he reached the outskirts of the city he went into an Underground station and hurdled the barriers. Eight thirty when he walked into the kitchen, and it was in full battledress, trays on every surface, the prep area overflowing. Victor nudged Suleiman when he saw Gabriel and within a few seconds everyone had looked up and stopped work.
An unnatural silence pressed down.
‘All right, O-K,’ crooned Oona, bustling over. ‘Betta get on with tings.’ She led Gabriel into his office and closed the door.
‘Something happening tonight, Oona? Event?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Oona. She made it sound like a lullaby. ‘PanCont Charity Gala. Not to worry, ’s all under control.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Gabriel. ‘Has Maddox been doing his nut?’
‘Ho, no,’ said Oona. ‘Told him you ring in sick. Benny, Suleiman and Nikolai been working extra shifts.’
‘I’m sorry, Oona.’
She crinkled her almond eyes. ‘Look like you need a rest. Why don’t you—’
‘I’ve got to see Gleeson,’ said Gabe. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Seen him go down to the lockers, but—’
‘I can’t explain things now,’ said Gabriel, ‘there isn’t time. Could you make sure the petits fours don’t come out of the pastry kitchen until it’s nearly time to serve. They start melting otherwise, and last time half of them stuck to the trays. Right, I’ll go and see Gleeson and then I’ll go upstairs and check on … oh well, I suppose I’d better get changed first. Any clean whites in the locker room? You know, I don’t think our laundry service is really all that good. Maybe we should think about—’
Oona cut in. ‘Chef, me an’ the boys got everyting covered. You go on home.’
