Jaspar locks the strongbox and continues his needling. “We don’t want no embarrassment for the family. The kid’s a migrant, could be anyone. We’ve no idea what he’s gone through, what he might do. Might be a ticking time bomb for all we know. And I’ll tell you another thing for free.” He steps towards me and grabs my arm tight, doesn’t let go. “I don’t like that fucken loser you’re seeing. Don’t look good.” He juts out his chin, spoiling for a punch. I come dangerously close to laughing at the jerk, even though he’s hurting me. He lets go of my arm. God, it stings.
“I’m finishing with him, Jasp. I got lonely, that’s all.”
“Don’t you finish with the loser. I’ll put him straight. We don’t want no shouting match for the neighbours to blab about. Do we?”
“And I can keep the boy?”
“Yeah. Keep the little bastard, if he’s that special.”
Caleb returns from the warehouse with two large bundles of clothing—one gathered up in a blanket, the other in a torn sheet. He balances them on the trolley as best he can, but it’s obvious I’ll have to carry one of them. I’m wondering if his face will be bruised by morning.
“Why so much, Caleb? That’s easily twice as much as we need for one week.”
The bundles slip off.
“It’s a new idea, Ma Lexie.” He still sounds a bit downbeat, but at least he’s talking.
“Please do share,” and I’m surprised at the sarcasm in my voice. Jaspar brings out the worst in me. I add, trying to sound calm, “I’d like to know.”
“I’m going to cut up eight or nine pairs of trousers to make one or two pairs of remake trousers.”
“What?”
“They’re worthless right now.”
“Why nine pairs—surely two or three—swap the pockets, that sort of thing?”
“This is different. I’ll cut them in curves and piece them together like a curvy-edged jigsaw.”
“Too much stitching.”
“It’s all machine work. No hand stitching.”
“Make the fur-collared shirts first. After that, I’ll give you one day to make a sample for me. One day, are you listening? Then I’ll decide if we’ll begin a new line.” As an afterthought, for I can see his face is indeed still red from the slap, and his forehead is creased as if he has a headache, I say, “I’d like to start a new line of specials. I’ll give you one day every week for developing new ideas. Agreed?” He nods and, at last, a smile, though it’s strained and fleeting. “We’ll get the kids to make labels and stitch them on the outside of the clothes.” I turn towards the metal entrance gates, and so I don’t see his reaction when I say, “We’ll call it the Caleb fashion line.”
He doesn’t reply.
There’s a ruckus outside—kids screaming, playing some stupid chasing game. I walk on ahead, back towards the centre of the enclave, but I twist around because I can’t hear the trolley squeaking. He’s standing stock-still, staring at the kids. They’re chasing one another with sticks, there’s a ball in there somewhere, and they’re kicking up clouds of dust.
I call to him. “Come on. Remember? Cake?”
I’m too tired to walk to the shower block down our street. I close the kitchen shutters, strip off and fill the sink with warm water. Caleb’s gone back to the roof with the food we picked up on the way home, taken the pomegranates too. Should I have taken the keys away from him? I’m pretty sure I can trust him. He’s keen to sew the remake trousers. And I don’t want him to feel demoralised, which he would be if I took the keys. I have to assume, for the time being, that he told the truth about losing sight of Skylark. He panicked, that’s all.
I’m free for the rest of the evening. I should be happy with the day—trade was brisk, and Jaspar agreed to let me hold on to Caleb. What’s more, I have the beginnings of a real plan—a new line in remakes. I’ll sketch some ideas for the label’s design. Could be the start of a bigger business, because I see no reason why I shouldn’t expand, supply other enclaves. If the business does take off big-time, I’ll give up the janitor’s job. It makes far more sense to rent a workshop near the family premises.
I take my washing cloth, an old, thin hand towel, and soak it in the warm, soapy water. I wring it, but not too tight, shake it out and throw it across my back. A satisfying slapping sound bounces off the kitchen walls. Pulling the cloth back and forth, I start to feel cooler. Slowly, I wipe myself down. I stand still enjoying the goose bumps. Leaning over the sink, I rinse my face with fresh water from the tap, pull a strand of hair across my face and inhale. The cloying smell of the recycling yard lingers. I put my head under the running tap.
I sit cross-legged on my bed. The bedsheet is scattered with dashed-off sketches for a “Caleb” logo. He’d like this one. I pick up the outline of a leaping cat.
At Amber’s place this afternoon, he instantly recognised her marmalade cat when it jumped in through the window from the street. There’s no mistaking its markings—a white front leg and white chest. Caleb pointed, dumb, his mouth full of cake. I explained, “Yes, I borrowed the cat while you settled in. But she lives here.”
I couldn’t believe it. His eyes filled with tears. Acted like a baby. He slid down on to the floor and played with the cat for the rest of our stay. I felt embarrassed by him, so I deflected Amber before she passed comment. I could see the start of a sneer. I leaned towards her, told her my boyfriend was getting his marching orders, that Jaspar insisted on “handling the situation.”
She said, “That’s probably wise.”
Caleb paid no attention to us. Amber shifted closer and told me she’d never liked the boyfriend, thought he was annoyingly flippant, as though he didn’t need to earn a living like everyone else. Got up her nose, she said, the way he took advantage of my good nature. “You’ve got to stop this—forever seeing the best in people.”
I said, “Well, I didn’t make a mistake with your brother Ruben, did I?” Which she could have taken as a compliment if she cared to. Past caring. All said and done, she’d never piped up about lover boy before now.
No point getting het up. I know I’ve had my best years.
I never felt too tired to go out dancing with Ruben. I feel his hand on my waist and glimpse the roll of his hips. He was some dancer.
In reality, I had no great qualms walking away from my own family, but I never thought I’d end up here. Like this. If we’d had children, I might have patched things up with my own parents. I suppose it’s possible they’re looking, even now, to end the rift. People can’t stay angry forever.
Unless they don’t even think of me. I draw an outline of a cat with a bird in its mouth. I might be dead to them already.
CHAPTER 3
CALEB
As Zach spreads out the raffia mat, Mikey shoots questions at me about my first day off the roof. He wants to know how far it is to the market, if Ma Lexie let me serve on the stall. And he pesters me to ask Ma Lexie if he and Zach can go next time. As I answer one question, he’s interrupting with the next. I hold my hands up to say: Enough.
Zach, quiet so far, chips in with one question: “Did you see any stalls selling figs?” I’m not surprised he asks me this. He told me one time that his family had fig trees, but when I asked how many, he didn’t know. It’s possible his family owned a whole fig farm. Or, just as likely, Mikey remembered a small garden at his family home—two or three fig trees planted for shade as well as fruit. I felt sad that he remembered so little. I explain to Zach that I didn’t have time to look around the fruit stalls, but there must be figs somewhere, and I’ll try to buy some at tomorrow’s market if Ma Lexie lets me.
He says, “I like figs more than sweets.”
We sit ourselves down, picnic-style again, and I hand out the spicy egg wraps. It was my idea to buy the street food on our way home. I told Ma Lexie, “You must be too tired to cook. You’ve had a busy day.” Honest, I couldn’t care less about Ma Lexie being tired. I was worried about Zach and Mikey, who would be starving hungry.
During the weekend markets, they go without food at midday—there’s no one around to feed them. Buying street food was the quick way to get the kids fed.
I put on a brave face—same as I did at Jaspar’s recycling yard—because I can’t admit to the kids that I’ve been in trouble with Ma Lexie. I pretend everything’s okay by telling them about the amazing sight at the far end of Clothing Street. I saw it when I walked through the market with Skylark: a massive pink sheet was strung up between two buildings on opposite sides of the street. It blew around in the breeze high above the stalls, like a giant advertisement saying Welcome to Clothing Street. I explain to Zach and Mikey that most of the stalls sold second-hand clothes, piled high, but Ma Lexie’s stall looked special. “We should feel proud of that,” I say, making a real effort to sound happy. My fur-collared shirt, I tell them, sold to a musician for a sky-high price, and he didn’t even barter.
And I give them the gossip, that Ma Lexie was married one time, that she’s widowed now.
I describe Miss Amber’s flat and the cat with the incredible coat of fur—orange with one patch of white on its front leg. I told them I’d seen the cat before, when it was smaller, when I first arrived at Ma Lexie’s flat. I tell them that I’m sure the cat remembered me because she curled up in my lap like we were old friends. But I don’t tell Zach and Mikey about Miss Amber’s cake because I don’t want them to feel jealous.
And I don’t tell them that Ma Lexie hit me.
I’ve never been hit across the face before. My parents never ever smacked me. The inside of my mouth still stings, but at least I can’t taste blood any longer. After the slap, Ma Lexie joked around with her customers like nothing had happened, and Skylark gave me toffees, as if toffees would make everything all right. I thought I’d be sick if I tasted anything sweet, but in the end my mouth was hurting so much I tried one, and it did ease the pain a little. Then, out of nowhere, Ma Lexie said she wouldn’t hit me again. I wanted to tell her that no one in my family ever hit another person, that she was bad. Instead, I clamped my mouth shut and imagined a blade in my hand. I saw myself lunging at her.
And I know I’ll be ready, if only with my fist, if she ever does that again in front of people, in front of Skylark.
I expected a telling-off after I gave Skylark the slip, but Ma Lexie should have believed my story. So, I learned an important lesson today. It took me a while to work it out. My head was ringing. While I stood at the back of the stall, I decided Ma Lexie didn’t trust me—even though I’d worked hard and tried to be cheerful all the time. I never once blamed her for any of my problems. I decided, standing there listening to her laughing and joking with her scummy customers, that Ma Lexie is just another chapter in my story of hard luck.
When I saw the cat at Miss Amber’s, I lost it. I couldn’t hold back all the sadness. I had to dive off my chair to hide my tears. What with Ma Lexie hitting me, and with the warning from the guard at Jaspar’s warehouse. The guard said, “Don’t get too cosy with that boss of yours. The last one she took a shine to was confiscated by Jaspar. Started on collections. Ended up here on the sorting lines. But the kid got on Jaspar’s wick. Shipped him out.”
I don’t know why, but I said to the security guard, “Thanks for telling me.” And he replied, “No skin off my nose.”
As usual when we sit on our mat, I make sure I’m facing Odette’s roof. I like to watch her move in and out of the garden as she takes drinks to the visitors. When she isn’t busy, she stands quietly, all watchful. I’m sure she chooses a place to stand where she can look across to my roof. One of the things I like about her, at least from a distance, is that she always looks so clean. Her dark hair is neat, scraped back in a ponytail.
I stand up. “Save the pomegranates for later, boys, or you’ll be hungry again before bedtime.”
Mikey clears away the food wrappers, and Zach rolls up the mat while I walk across to the edge of the roof and wave to Odette. She doesn’t move. I guess she’s being careful, in case her boss or the visitors are watching her. I head off to the work shed to sort through the recycled clothing I brought home from the warehouse. While I’d rummaged in the textile bay, I picked out two warm tops for myself and buried them deep in the bundles. I’ve learned to plan ahead like this. The days will be getting shorter soon, and with these warm clothes I won’t wake up in the night, freezing cold.
I carry the tops back to my hut and hang them from the hooks under the shelf. I like the look of them. It’s good to have something new.
I take off my T-shirt and wash at the sink. It’s odd; it’s a relief to be back on the roof where I can reach up and almost touch the big blue sky. Down on the street—this came as a surprise—I felt the buildings were leaning in, that they could easily topple over and bury me.
As I turn away from the sink, I see Odette, waving—not in a nice to see you way, but in a way that says hurry up, I need you. I cock my head. What’s the big panic? She pretends she’s throwing a bottle and waves towards herself.
She wants the torch, but why the drama? I should tell her about the trouble her stupid errand dropped me in.
Skylark took me to the toy stall, and on the way I saw a pile of gadgets, mostly junk, and I spotted a solar torch. I should have told Skylark I wanted to buy it, but something told me to keep quiet. If she’d asked me why I wanted one, I didn’t have an answer. Because, here on the roof, there’s light from the streetlamps. And I couldn’t say I wanted the torch for Odette. Skylark would have too many questions about that.
When we reached the toy stall, I waited until Skylark looked away, and I ducked down, retraced our route, bought the torch and ran back. I’d been gone for a couple of minutes, that’s all, but Skylark had disappeared. I raced around the stall, looked down an alley that led away from the market, hoping to spot her. The alley stretched away into the distance. I don’t know why I did it, but I took a few steps, and then I ran as if the alley sucked me along. I wanted to run, to find the end—where the enclave meets the countryside. It felt good—to be on my own and running. I’d run half the length of the alley when I came to my senses and ran all the way back, straight to Ma Lexie’s stall.
I wrap the torch in a cloth, push it into a wide-necked container and add more padding for a snug fit. On a scrap of paper, I write, What’s the panic? The container is heavier than the usual bottle. Odette’s waving, encouraging me to throw. I hold it up and gesture that it’s heavy. She puts her hand to her forehead; she thinks I’ll fail. I practise a longer run-up, and feeling confident, I run—counting the steps—and launch the container, higher than usual.
She reaches, and with her fingertips she manages to break the container’s fall. She rushes off, out of sight, and I’m left wondering what she’s up to. I sit and watch.
The sun is low, and I’m ready to flop out. I can hear Zach and Mikey playing at the far end of the roof. I’m relieved they haven’t pestered me to join in. I’m suddenly reminded of the older boys and girls playing outside the family premises this afternoon. As soon as I heard them screaming for the ball, memories washed over me. For a couple of seconds, I was standing in my street back home, on the sidelines watching my friends running around. Seemed such a long time since I’d seen a sweaty, shoulder-barging, shirt-grabbing ball game of any kind. But it hit me that this enclave game had a nasty edge to it. Each kid had a stick like a stripped branch, and it seemed—but it was difficult to believe—that they were using them to hit one another rather than the ball. I’d never seen anything like these sticks—hand-painted as if in team colours, either pale blue or yellow, with coloured stripes around the shafts.
Still no sign of Odette. I might have missed her; there’s only the streetlight now. I thought she’d send me a message, thank me for the torch. She hasn’t even asked how much I paid for it. Unless she thinks I stole it. I guess she wants a torch for when the days become shorter. Maybe she wants a better light for reading. Or she’s afraid of the dark, and when autumn comes—when it’s too cold to sl
eep under the stars—she plans to fall asleep in her hut under torchlight. I can’t blame her; since I crossed the Channel to England, everyone seasick, in total darkness—
The steel door creaks open on her roof, and I see the silhouette of Odette’s boss, a stooped woman who always dresses in black. I think she’s carrying a plate of food. She disappears into the garden. I guess she’ll leave Odette’s meal near her hut.
After a couple of minutes, she hasn’t reappeared. They must be chatting. Thinking about it, Odette doesn’t say much about her boss in her messages.
I decide to crash out, accepting that Odette will chat away the entire evening without messaging me. As I turn away, I catch, in the corner of my eye, a darting movement on her roof. I look across. She darts again, stops suddenly and runs in my direction. She throws a bottle and it flies way over my head, landing on the far side of the roof. Ha, she’s overdone that! I chase across and find the bottle perched over the roof drain. I use two hands to lift it, carefully—I don’t want to nudge it down the drain. I’m still feeling pleased with myself as I open the bottle and read the message: I am leeving NOW. Going to the hills. Come with me. Only 1 chance.
I’m staring, reading and rereading these four strange sentences.
Going to the hills?
I see myself sprinting down the alley this afternoon. It felt good.
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