“Ah, yes, Mrs Hodfurrough. Good evening! Hope you’re well!”
“There’s a lot of noise coming from your side of the fence, is everything all right?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Just joshing with my mates. Sorry to disturb.”
“My husband said he heard a gunshot. We were going to call the police.”
“Ah, no, just a firework left over from November the fifth! Nothing to worry about.”
“Well, you’re not supposed to let off fireworks after Guy Fawkes, Felix, are you? It’s against the law. Unless you’re Indian. Is it those Indian friends of yours? Is it Diwali?”
“No, I don’t think so Mrs Hodfurrough. No Indians here, don’t worry. Just letting off our last firework. We’d left it in a cupboard and didn’t want to waste it.”
“You do get up to some funny things over there, Felix!”
“Yes, sorry about that Mrs Hodfurrough. Won’t happen again!”
“All right. Good night.”
“Nighty night.”
6.2
Brainstorm
Fistule and Cawaale surveyed the wreckage of their composting toilet the next morning with dismay. “That will take a long time to rebuild, man. How did you manage to destroy it so completely?”
“Cannot build again. Not safe. Too much disease,” said Cawaale, shaking his head.
“Sorry guys, I’d had a few glasses of wine and I knocked over the toilet. Next thing I knew, the whole thing had collapsed. I was lucky to jump clear in time.
The two of them started to shovel soil into the depression in the earth. They slowly advanced over the patch, stabbing their spades into the ground to ensure it was firm. As a mark of respect, I planted Mrs Spott-Hythe’s Pinot Noir vine over the bodies of Marco Rizzo and his friend.
That evening we sat in the lounge, pondering what to do. My old schoolmates Tariq and Dan had joined us, keen to drink some hundred-quid bottles of wine. It was a chilly December night and, as Mercedes placed more logs on the fire, I pulled a fine, first-growth Haut-Medoc from the rack.
It was clear to me that we’d have to move our Somali friends on from Little Chalfont, and soon. Marco Rizzo may well have shared our address with other members of his organisation, and one armed confrontation with Italy’s finest was quite enough for me, thank you. There was also the horrendous Mrs Hall next door, causing trouble. Who might she complain to next? And maybe the unfortunate council inspectors would return with a vindictive warrant, insisting on a more thorough inspection of the premises?
“We need to find a new home for our friends – it’s not suitable here any longer. Besides, we’ll be back to using the bath as a khazi by the end of the week.”
“We need work,” said Galad.
“But you need documents to work legally,” replied Mercedes. “And illegal work is probably not a great option, unless you want to earn a quid an hour scrubbing the floors in a restaurant.”
“And for the women, maybe much worse work than that,” Galad muttered.
“Anyone got any bright ideas then?” asked Wodin.
“We need to brainstorm,” suggested Dan, reaching over to take the bubbling water-pipe from Fistule.
“Ok, storm away,” I sighed.
“No, you have to do it properly. I facilitate brainstorming sessions all the time at the office.” After an unsuccessful couple of years auditioning for West End musicals, Dan landed a job as Public Relations Officer at a charity called Jews for Goodwill. Their mission was to spread peace and light across the world, building friendly links with other communities and faith groups.
“Oh God, I came here for a smoke and a toot, not a middle-management bullshitting session,” moaned Tariq, gesturing at Dan to pass the water pipe.
“No, we need to do this,” he insisted. “I’m in a facilitating frame of mind. Do you have a flipchart?”
“No, of course we don’t have a bloody flipchart,” I said. “This is a radical squat, not a stationery office. Here, you can write on the wall, we’ll paint over it.” I threw Dan a felt-tip pen that Wodin had been using to stoke his reefer.
“First, everyone needs to get comfortable,” he said. “And we need proper refreshments.”
“Right, I’ll put fresh whisky in the bong,” said Fistule. “How about a thirty-year-old Balvenie?”
“Good work Fistule. Felix, line up some more wine.”
I strolled over to the gigantic wine rack and picked out four more bottles of exquisite Bordeaux.
“Galad, would you like some khat from the fridge?” Fistule had made a special trip to a Somali grocery shop in Lambeth to procure the mildly narcotic herb.
“No, I’ll have some wine, please.”
“Wodin, get a couple of big joints rolled.”
“Coming up.”
Dan stood in the middle of the floor and limbered up, first rotating his shoulders, then tilting his head from side to side. If he hadn’t been built like a thirteen-year-old it would have been more impressive. He took the top off the felt tip and stood next to the fire.
“Ok people, here are the rules. Number one: there are no bad ideas. Number two: nobody is allowed to be negative about anyone else’s ideas. Number three: just relax, keep it positive and put it out there!”
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Tariq. “Fistule, please get that water pipe smoking, I need to anaesthetise myself.”
“On the way, man.”
“Come on then, Dan, you corporate powerhouse,” drawled Mercedes. “Let’s get storming.”
“Ok! Our opportunity – not problem, please note guys, opportunity – is to find a new home and decent work for our Somali friends upstairs.” He scrawled ‘home and work’ on the wall above the fireplace.
“Ok, let’s think about jobs first. Hit me.”
“Cooking,” said Wodin.
“Cleaning,” said Mercedes.
“More creative guys, come on! We need somewhere they can be hidden away. Somewhere remote.”
“Mining?” said Fistule.
“Mining?” scoffed Tariq. “What the hell are they going to mine, you muppet? Hashish?”
“No bad ideas, guys! This is a judgment-free zone!”
“You can say that again.”
“Ok. We need creativity guys. Keep those ideas coming!” Dan whirled his arms in great circles above his head and stared at us each in turn.
“Gardening,” said Fistule. “Cawaale is great at landscape gardening.”
“Especially if you want a gigantic shithouse in the middle of your garden,” giggled Wodin.
“Keep it positive guys, pos-it-ive! Gardening is a great idea, Fistule. Let’s have more like that.”
Dan wrote ‘gardening’ on the wall, below ‘cooking’ and ‘cleaning’.
“Farming,” suggested Galad. “Ten of us here are farmers.”
“Ok, farming. Good.” Dan wrote on the wall again.
“Farming what?” asked Mercedes.
“I want solutions, not questions, please!”
“Ok, cereal farming?”
“Fruit farming.”
“Cannabis farming!” shouted Wodin. Everyone murmured their approval.
“I would like something that does not mean prison, please,” said Galad.
“Now Galad, there are no bad ideas, remember,” cautioned Dan, kindly.
“But that is a bad idea. I knew a man in Mogadishu who was a cannabis farmer – and the big boss killed his whole family.”
There was a pause. “Ok, that kind of killed the creativity, Galad,” said Dan. “Sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Why does everything have to be about recreational drugs?” said Mercedes. “What about grape farming. You’ve made a start outside already.” Mercedes took a smug draw on the joint. She’d spotted the Pinot Noir vine in its new outdoors resting place.
“Yeah, working in a vineyard, good idea.” Dan wrote ‘vineyard’ on the wall.
An idea slammed into my head. “That’s it! A vineyard! Working i
n a vineyard,” I said, staring at the wall.
“Er, yeah. We’ve had that one Felix. Anyone want to build on vineyard working…?”
“No, really, a vineyard. In Pluckley, Kent. Harvesting Chardonnay grapes for ice-wine,” I shouted.
“Ok. That’s quite specific. Brainstorming works better when you keep things more general, so people can bounce ideas around.”
“Listen. Jeremy Spott-Hythe needs people to harvest frozen grapes. Right now.”
“Where will they live, man?”
“I don’t know, Fistule. On the farm, I should think. He’s got a huge estate. There must be outhouses or somewhere they can sleep.”
“Will he let them work as irregulars, Felix?” asked Mercedes. “How will they obtain work permits?”
“They’re pretty head in the clouds, but it would still be tricky. The other workers might be suspicious…”
“No shit?” guffawed Tariq. “You mean forty-odd black Africans with limited English skills rock up at a vineyard offering to pick grapes – hi there, we’re from Bromley, just popped by on the off-chance you had some work for us?”
“Ok guys,” piped up Dan again, “so they’re not just going to rock up… What could their story be? Get creative folks, come on!”
“A team of employment-law enforcers?” said Mercedes, sarcastically.
“I like it! You turned the whole thing on its head there! Keep the ideas coming, folks!”
“A team of consultant viticulturists…?” I wondered aloud.
“A team of drunken students on a three-year bender, travelling around the vineyards of Europe?” Tariq chuckled. “Oh, sorry, that’s your actual job, Felix.”
“Students. That’s a good one.” Dan wrote ‘students’ next to ‘law officers’.
“Do Somali students visit vineyards, Galad?” asked Mercedes.
“There are no students any more. They destroyed all the universities in the war.”
“Ok… let’s keep it positive, people.”
“You wouldn’t have to be Somali – you could be Nigerian,” suggested Fistule.
“But we do not speak Hausa.”
“I’m pretty sure the Spott-Hythes don’t either,” I said.
“You’d still need passports or ID, though,” said Wodin. “Could they get some kind of student card?”
It might have been the effect of Fistule’s billowing water pipe, which had filled the room with a thick fug of sweet hashish and aged Speyside malt, but Dan looked as though he’d had a Eureka moment. “Yes, international student ID cards!” Dan yelled. “You can get them through the Erasmus Plus programme if you’re splitting your course across two universities in different countries.”
“Look who’s getting all specific now,” I chuckled. “Couldn’t we buy a load of Nigerian passports?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Tariq. “Anyone know any good Nigerian forgers?”
“But you don’t need a Nigerian forger. I can get you an Erasmus Plus student letter of permission through my office.”
“Er… You work for Jews for Goodwill, Dan, not the Nigerian board of trade.”
“Forget Nigeria, Felix. My charity has just associated with a foreign university. I can apply for international student IDs from our new partners for further education.”
“Who’s that then?” I asked.
“The Hebrew University of Jerusalem,” said Dan.
There was a pause while everyone looked at Galad.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t want to bring any negative vibes down on your freestyle brainstorming, Dan, but I don’t think these guys look very Israeli.”
“Well, at least they’re circumcised,” chimed in Fistule.
“Oh, well, that’s fine then. One little peek down the pants and I’m sure they’ll be waved through by the immigration service. Welcome to Britain, Mr Goldschmidt, I do hope your studies are going well.”
“No,” insisted Dan, “There are Africans in Israel.”
“Yeah, selling knock-off Rolexes on Tel Aviv seafront,” grinned Tariq. “I’m not sure their residency status is triple-A, to be honest.”
“No, listen. There are Jewish Africans in Israel. One of the lost tribes. Academics believe they are descendants of the Tribe of Dan.”
“The Tribe of Dan?” I put my head in my hands. “Were they related to the Tribe of Kevin? Fuck me, how many of those bongs have you smoked?” Maybe we could just white the guys up and pretend they were from Ashford.
“I’m serious,” persisted Dan. “There are a whole load of people from East Africa who can prove they have Jewish lineage. They are known as the Beta Israel. They’re from Ethiopia rather than Somalia but, you know, that’s close enough. They’ve all moved to Israel and they’re hanging around being totally kosher.”
I peeped through my fingers at Dan. “Seriously? And you can get hold of some official student ID?”
“Yeah. We can say these guys are doing a course in vine growing or whatever. It’s a big industry in Israel, they make loads of wine. We can say they’re on a foreign internship as part of their course. I helped organise a student visa for some guy doing exactly that just last week.”
“So we’re saying a bunch of black Israeli students want to come to England to study winemaking. In December?” asked Mercedes, incredulously.
“They’re here to make ice-wine, isn’t that what you said Felix?” asked Dan. “They don’t have ice-wine in Israel on account of it being so fucking hot. So they’re coming to England, in December, where it’s miserable and cold. And icy. Lovely and icy. Yeah?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Ok. I’ll tell my charity that I’ve had an approach from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and that they have a whole class of winemaking students who want to come to England to study. We’re an official partner of the UK Accreditation Service for International Colleges – we handle all their enquiries for Israeli educational institutions. So, I can apply for proper papers from the Department of Education and we can make some official IDs. Yes! It’s a plan!” He punched the air like a victorious athlete – at a prep-school sports day.
I drained my glass of fine Bordeaux and poured another large one. “That’s great. But why are you doing this, Dan? Aren’t you taking a risk?”
Dan sighed. “To be honest, I kind of need a break at work. Things haven’t been going so well there. Mum keeps turning up at the office and haranguing me. My boss is losing patience.”
Dan had complained for a while that his career was not developing well, mainly due to his radical communist mother regularly storming into his office, demanding to know whether he was collaborating with Israel. Despite being as Jewish as a smoked salmon bagel, Mrs Golden was also a fanatical anti-Zionist and implacably opposed to any accommodation, trade or cultural exchange with the State of Israel.
“It’s not a good look when you’re a Jewish PR Officer for a Jewish charity and your mother ties herself to the railings outside, calls the press and screams about Palestinian babies. This would be a really good news story for Jews for Goodwill. My boss would love it.”
“We don’t actually want any publicity, Dan,” I objected. “The whole situation needs to be kept under the radar, understand?”
“Yeah, of course! It’s just an internal thing, so my boss can see I’ve achieved something.”
“Will it work though?” asked Mercedes.
“Yeah, course it will,” he said. “I can’t think of anything that could go wrong.”
“I can think of about eighty things without even trying,” I muttered, “but I can’t actually think of a better idea.”
“I do not understand,” said Galad, after a few seconds.
“Ah, yes, sorry Galad,” I said. “Let me explain. You and your friends will pretend to be Jewish Israeli students so you can pick grapes and make wine on a farm in Kent. Do you think everyone will be ok with that?”
Galad thought for a minute. “No. They will not be ok with that.”
“Oh. Bugger. What’s the problem?”
“It is our religion. We can pick grapes, but not the other things, like being Jewish or making wine.”
“Ok… I’ll just leave it with you to talk to your friends, Galad. Sounds like we have a plan. Dan, let’s get those permits.”
We took passport-style photos of everyone with Wodin’s camera the next morning – Galad explained to his countrymen that they were for a grape picking licence – and I called Mr Spott-Hythe.
“Ears, Spott-Hythe here.”
“Mr Spott-Hythe. It’s Felix at Gatesave. How’s the ice-wine harvest going?”
“Ah hello Felix. Not good I’m afraid. My workforce have scarpered. I’m not sure if it was my wife’s poetry or the cold weather. I’ve had to do all the mouldy grape elimination myself. Got bloody frostbite last week, nearly lost a finger. No idea how I’ll do the actual harvest, I might have to let it all go to waste. Terrible shame.”
“As it happens, I may be able to help, Jeremy. Gatesave has links with educational establishments around the world. We help to connect them with companies willing to offer internships. We have forty viticulture students visiting from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and they would love to pick grapes for your ice-wine. There’s no salary required but you’ll need to feed them.”
“Bloody hell, Felix – I’ll bite your arm off. Hebrews eh? Who’d have thought it? When can they start?”
“Straight away. But you’ll need to offer them accommodation too. Can you fit them in somewhere?”
“What! Forty people? They’ll have to sleep in the stables. We can put some straw down.”
“Right… I’m sure that will be fine.”
***
Dan was as good as his word – he brought us the laminated passes and official-looking notes of permission from the Department of Education the following week. We had to give everyone Jewish names for the passes, which Dan stole from a list of secondary school children visiting from Haifa as part of a cultural exchange.
Galad explained to his countrymen that, under English law, everyone had to have an official fruit-picking name as well as their normal name. None of the Somalis appeared to spot that there was an Israeli flag in the corner of their pass, nor that each one stated ‘Hebrew University of Jerusalem’ in both English and Hebrew. Astonishingly, our plan was on track.
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