by Jennie Finch
‘Well, no. But you do get a reference and a recommendation to take with you when you leave. Much more use, don’t you agree?’
Samuel was already gone, heading upstairs to the airless, cramped room he was forced to share for at least the next three months. As the door opened, the smell hit him, a mixture of sweat, cheap aftershave and feet. He stood in the doorway for a moment, glaring at the dozing form of Charlie Dodds, a resident who had managed to slip back after breakfast to catch some illicit extra sleep.
The place was a pigsty, Samuel thought. Clothes and shoes were scattered across the floor and strewn on the furniture. Two of the beds had been made by pulling the covers roughly up and cramming the surplus between mattress and wall. One, Samuel’s, was made with close to military precision, its covers smooth, pillows squared off and not a wrinkle on the surface. Even the sheets, hidden beneath the neat blankets, had mitred corners.
The floor around his bed was clear, two pairs of shoes lined up at the foot of the locker and the few clothes he possessed folded neatly in the small cupboard. On arrival he had taken one look at the communal wardrobe and turned away in disgust, going straight into town to invest in a zipped hanging bag for his suit, an outfit so vital for court appearances and job interviews. It now hung from a hook fixed to the wall behind Samuel’s bed, away from the polluting squalor of the rest of the room.
Stepping swiftly across the room, Samuel jerked the curtains open and flung the window wide, ignoring the protests of the now-roused sleeper. He leaned out into the fresh air, relishing the cool tang from the river that ran below the building. As Charlie continued to protest, he turned and looked down at the recumbent form.
‘Shut up,’ he said softly. ‘It’s disgusting in here and I don’t see why I should be expected to live in this filth. This window will stay open until the smell in here is gone and if you don’t like the draught you can get up and leave.’
He crossed the room, settled himself on his own bed and pulled a book out from a cardboard box under his locker. Settling himself comfortably against the wall, he resumed his reading of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. As always, he found himself torn between admiration at the author’s perfectly rational caste system and bewilderment at the fact he spent a good half of the book attacking such a perfectly thought-out idea.
A wisp of smoke floated into his consciousness and he raised his eyes from the page to glare at the young man sitting on the bed by the window, sucking at a clumsily rolled cigarette.
‘Put it out,’ said Samuel.
‘Bugger off. ’Tis my room too an’ I’ve been here longer’n you. So if you don’t like it, you can get up ’n’ leave.’
Samuel was on his feet and across the small space before Charlie could take another drag. With no apparent effort, Samuel hoisted him up off the bed and bundled him head-first out of the window, where he dangled him over the river two stories below.
‘You can drop that filthy thing or I’ll drop you,’ said Samuel ignoring the struggles of his victim. He waited a few seconds after the skinny little roll-up landed in the dark mud of the river before hauling his room-mate back inside and tossing him on to the bed.
‘Reckon I should be by the window,’ he said as he wiped his hand on the curtain. Charlie opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again without speaking.
‘No, I’m not sleeping on your grubby mattress,’ Samuel added as the young man reached out to pick up his pillows. ‘Swap the beds. And don’t touch anything of mine, neither.’ Turning back to the cool of the open window, he ignored the scraping of furniture and the ragged breath of his room-mate struggling with the bed frames. ‘And don’t forget to pick up your mess before you go,’ he added, eyes fixed on the town that was laid out before him, fascinating and tantalising, like an ants’ nest before it was overturned by a thoughtless boot. Leaning on the narrow sill, he watched the townsfolk moving through their daily routine. The door to the room opened and then closed as Charlie left, his task complete.
Silently, Samuel lifted down his suit and hung it up behind his new space. He frowned at the floor by the window, the dirt in the carpet a source of great irritation. He considered going after Charlie and making him clean up but decided it wasn’t worth it. Might disturb the warden and anyway, none of the others could clean worth spit. He’d get the vacuum cleaner up in a minute and do it himself. Samuel’s eyes swung back to the window, his attention once more fixed on the little ant-like people swarming below, oblivious to his bright, hard gaze.
Chapter Three
Friday nights were always a bit special at Alex’s house. The most anti-social of people most of the week, she was happy to welcome her friends, and their friends, to the small terraced house she shared with Sue. Often it was just her and Sue, sometimes joined by Lauren with or without Dave Brown. Occasionally, Jonny joined them, accompanied recently by Kirk, his new friend from Glastonbury, and Alex would watch Lauren and Jonny together, marvelling at the easy friendship between brother and sister that was so different from her relationship with her own siblings.
Alex cooked, of course. Sue was not comfortable in a kitchen and Alex hated to see good food ruined. Sue, on the other hand, was a good host and could get people talking, set the fire burning in winter and lay the table all at once, with seemingly consummate ease.
None of them had much money – no-one seemed to these days – and the food leaned towards ‘hearty peasant’. Stews with a lot of vegetables, pasta and salad or rice with peppers, beans and a touch of salami or a few sausages were all staples on Friday nights. The visitors brought what they could – normally a bottle of wine, sometimes a cake or something for dessert. Alex was a good cook and somehow conjured something rich and exotic from the most unlikely ingredients and Friday evenings had become a fixture for the friends, a warm, happy end to even the hardest of weeks.
The evening following her court appearance to breach Martin Ford, Alex was standing by the cooker humming to herself as she chopped a rabbit into pieces so small as to be unrecognisable. Rabbit was one of the few meats they could afford and it was freely available in town but Sue had wrinkled her nose up at the thought of it the first time Alex had brought one home for dinner.
‘I couldn’t,’ Sue said firmly. ‘I had a rabbit as a pet when I was at school and I just couldn’t eat one.’
For once she had stuck to her word – unusual where food was concerned – and subsisted on burnt toast and jam for several evenings while Alex munched her way determinedly through the rabbit casserole she had made for the weekend. For several weeks they had got by on vegetables and whatever cheap meat Alex could find but there was a limit to even her ingenuity where mince was concerned. With just a twinge of guilt, she sneaked a rabbit home, cut it into cubes and served it as stew with dumplings.
Sue enjoyed every bite but brought Alex up short when she asked what the unfamiliar treat was. Such curiosity was unusual coming from Sue who normally ate what she was offered, happy just to escape having to cook. There was a heart-stopping moment when Alex felt her habitual honesty begin to form the word ‘rabbit’ before, from nowhere, she conjured up ‘Somerset beef’.
‘Oh,’ said Sue, blinking in surprise. ‘Well, it was jolly good. Is it cheaper than other beef?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Alex. ‘Much cheaper. It’s local you see.’ She felt a twinge of guilt but despite that, ‘Somerset beef’, became a popular staple, both on weekdays and for the Friday gatherings.
As she diced, seasoned and browned the meat she reflected on her on-going financial predicament. Despite having what many might consider a well-paid professional job, she brought home scarcely enough to cover the monthly bills. Without Sue’s rent she would find herself in real trouble and even with that welcome addition, something as trivial as a car breakdown would find her scratching around for money. In the last two years the mortgage on her tiny house had gone up by almost £200 a month. In contrast her salary had risen by just £40. If it carried on much longer, she’d have to
take a second job – if she could find one.
These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone in the front room and she hastily rinsed her hands and scuttled through to answer it.
‘Hello? Hello – it that Alex?’ came her mother’s voice. The sound was slightly hollow, as if there was an echo on the line. In the background she could hear the murmur of voices and then a laugh, abruptly stifled but startling none the less.
‘Mother – where are you?’ she asked, but she already knew.
‘Oh, still in East Sutton Park,’ her mother replied casually. She said it as if she were referring to a rather nice spa out on the Downs. ‘Actually, that’s why I’m ringing, dear. They’re letting me out on Monday and I do not want to go back to your father quite yet. I’m still cross with him, and your brothers, over the way they behaved and I want him to apologise. I don’t suppose you could come and get me, could you?’
East Sutton Park, the women’s prison in Kent, had been Dorothy Norman’s ‘home’ for the last three weeks. Her mother, incensed by the high-handed actions of the police towards the demonstrators protesting the export of veal calves in crates through the tiny port of Brightlingsea, had defied the magistrate’s court by refusing to pay a fine for ‘obstruction’. The sentence of 30 days had seemed harsh but Dorothy had gone off gladly, a martyr to what she considered freedom of expression. Her family, especially her husband and Alex’s two brothers, had been horrified. It had taken all Alex’s efforts to prevent them paying her mother’s fine.
‘It’s a disaster,’ moaned Hector, the younger of the two boys. ‘There’s no-one to look after Father and he’s furious. Spends his days sulking in his study until he gets hungry. Then he starts shouting and complaining about the dinner.’
Alex had been slightly less than sympathetic. ‘So who’s looking after him?’ she asked.
Hector snorted down the phone. ‘Nesta was here for a bit but she left after Father demanded something different to eat. I don’t know where she’s gone but Archie and I have been taking it in turns for the last week. I don’t suppose …’
‘Forget it,’ Alex snapped back. Good for Nesta, she thought privately. Her younger sister was showing some spirit, defying the males of the household. Alex had the excuse of being on the other side of the country but Nesta had returned to the family home after completing her degree and still worked in the town. Alex wasn’t surprised her mother didn’t want to go back just yet, but it left her in an awkward position. She hated the thought of Dorothy being released, standing outside the prison gates with no-one to greet her and nowhere to go, but it was going to be difficult getting over to Kent on Monday.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said to her mother. ‘I’ll be there or I’ll arrange for a taxi – promise. What will you do for money?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine dear. I’ll have my card so I can stop at a hole in the wall.’
This was news to Alex who was under the impression it was her father who controlled the finances, the way he seemed to control most aspects of their family life.
‘Don’t ask,’ said her mother briskly, interpreting the pause correctly. ‘I don’t suppose I could stay with you for a few days could I? Just until things settle down a bit …’
There was a shout from the back room.
‘Just stir it so it doesn’t burn,’ she called through the door. ‘I’ll be back in a minute’
‘You’re busy dear so I’d better let you go.’ There was a thread of disappointment in her mother’s voice and Alex felt her stomach clench with anxiety. Her mother had always had the ability to reduce her to a desperate child.
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll talk to Gordon and pick you up on Monday.’
‘Thank you,’ and the line went dead. Alex replaced the receiver and took a deep breath. She had no idea how she was doing to get over to Kent in time – in fact she wasn’t sure she could afford the petrol, but she’d agreed to go now. The smell of burning onions greeted her as she stepped back into the main room.
‘I said to stir it! For goodness sake …’ Alex nudged Sue away from the simmering sauce and pulled it off the heat. It had only just caught and was probably salvable, especially if enough grated cheese was added to the pasta.
‘I’ve got it,’ she said gruffly. ‘You set the table and see to everyone’s drinks.’
Despite the slight taint from the onions, the pasta was received with enthusiasm and the evening passed quickly, several hours around the table, talking and drinking wine. When Jonny and Kirk finally left it was gone midnight and Alex shook her head and closed the kitchen door on the debris.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said and made her way upstairs, already wondering how she was going to manage the extra couple of days off.
Ada Mallory was humming to herself as she wandered around her vegetable garden, checking the progress of the early salad and securing nets over the new seedlings. Despite having lived on the Levels all her life, she was still captivated by the great flocks of birds that formed over the watery landscapes, their aerial displays darkening the sky and forming patterns in the air. She was not, however, willing to feed them and exercised considerable ingenuity where her kitchen garden was concerned. Old fishing nets were hung over wooden posts set in between the neat rows of baby plants and above them string and ropes coiled around, looping across the patch and supporting a selection of tin cans and a few old bells from cattle. Any bird brave (or stupid) enough to land on the posts immediately set off a cacophony of rattles and clangs, double insurance as Ada was out of the back door, clutching a slightly less than legal shotgun, and she was not averse to a taste of rook pie if she got a lucky shot in. A croaking call floated across the Levels and Ada squinted up at the trees behind her land.
‘Don’t you be getting any ideas!’ she called.
There was another, almost mocking sound and a large, black bird flew out of the nearest tree, floating on wide, dark wings over her garden before circling lazily away towards Westonzoyland. Ada scowled after it, shaking her head in frustration. Her shotgun was lodged safely upstairs, in the back of a cupboard and she was unlikely to get such an easy shot again. Just as she turned her attention back to the seed beds there was a short bark and Mickey bounded around the corner of the house, his tail wagging.
‘Afternoon Ada,’ said Tom Monarch, striding down the path closely followed by Mouse.
‘What you doin’ back here, Tom?’ Ada asked. She tried to glare at him but could not keep the pleasure out of her voice.
‘Reckon I’d just pop in, seeing as I was passing,’ said Tom.
Damn, he was still a handsome devil, Ada thought. Standing there in the spring sunshine, hands in his pockets and that cheeky grin on his face – hardly a grey hair on his head, though he was at least the same age as her.
‘Been here all my life and you never had cause to be passing before now,’ she grumbled. ‘Suddenly you’s here twice in a week.’
Tom grinned at her and raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe I weren’t sure of my welcome,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that was afore I knew you was such a good cook. Don’t suppose you’ve got none of that fruit cake left?’
Ada snorted, heading for the back door with Mickey trotting happily behind her.
‘Just so’s you know,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’m only lettin’ you in ’cos the dogs seem to like you. Supposed to be good judges of character, they say, though I reckon maybe this is an exception.’
Tom stood for a moment, smiling after her. He glanced around the little garden, taking in the neat beds, the homemade cold frames and the shed that was cobbled together from scrap metal and gleanings from nearby trees. It was a testament to Ada’s pride, her indomitable spirit and determination to live entirely on her own terms. Tom’s eyes swept across the Levels, vast and echoingly empty on all sides. A lonely life, with her son was gone off with the travelling Fair to all corners of the land. Almost as lonely as his own was now.
He went inside, stooping to duck un
der the low frame of the kitchen door, and saw Ada had set beakers and plates out on the kitchen table.
‘What, no best china?’ he asked, trying to make a joke of it.
‘You was a guest then,’ said Ada shortly. ‘Now you’s just Tom – same as I’ve known you all these years. Besides, is getting warmer so I ’ent wasting wood putting the front fire on except in the evenings. Is warmer in here with the stove an’ all.’
Tom settled himself at the table, next to the old wood-fired range and nodded as Ada offered sugar and milk for his tea.
‘That’s good,’ he said, sipping the warm brew. ‘So, how’s you doing, out here on your own?’
Ada put down her tea and stared at the table for a moment before answering.
‘If I’m honest,’ she said, ‘Is a bit hard sometimes. Kevin was ready for going away, I know, but was good to have a bit of company, ’specially in the evenings. And he was even a bit handy around the place sometimes. Right good shot with a catapult, he was. Saved me all kinds of bother with rabbits and such.’ She took a sip from her beaker and looked at him. ‘Still, I’m managing. Got to, ’ent you?’
Tom nodded and they sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes.
‘Was sorry to hear about your Bella,’ said Ada finally.
Tom gave a tiny, involuntary gasp. The memory of his loss was still too recent, too raw to leave him for long but still, so few people ever touched on the subject, it was a shock to hear another person speak his dead wife’s name.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, tears forming in his eyes.
‘Oh, didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Ada. ‘Must be hard for you an’ all, what with both your families still bein’ stubborn about you two.’
Tom gave a tiny smile. He wasn’t sure ‘stubborn’ did justice to the fury he and Bella had faced when they announced their plans to wed. As son of a Roma Chief, Tom had been expected to marry the woman chosen by his father, not a half-Roma from a family that lived in a house. Bella’s family were equally upset at the thought she might take up with a Gypsy, attracting unwanted attention from their more settled neighbours and tying them to the Roma once more, for future generations. With the determination of youth, Tom and Bella had pressed on, alienating both sides of the family in one simple act but despite that they had been happy together. Tom found his place amongst the smugglers of the Levels whilst maintaining a more acceptable public persona as a trader in the local markets.
