We gave the job of transporting the Somalis to Carlos, of course. It was only right to give him the job after he’d helped bust them out of Braintree container depot the previous month.
“Hello again, chaps,” he called brightly as they filed onto the Harlow Sunshine Tours coach once more. “Glad to see you’ve scrubbed up since last time!”
We’d also spent several thousand pounds kitting everyone out with sleeping bags, camping beds and warm winter clothing – woolly hats, gloves, fleeces and thermal underwear.
We made the journey round the M25, and a couple of hours later Carlos pulled up outside the entrance to Chateau Spott-Hythe. There was a banner over the front gate with the blue Star of David and the words ‘Shalom and welcome to our guests from Israel!’ A photographer took pictures as we disembarked from the coach. Dan jogged down the track from the farm, waving enthusiastically.
I grabbed him and took him to one side. “What the hell’s going on Dan? We didn’t want any publicity!”
“Relax, Felix. I just need to generate a little PR so my boss can see I’m actually doing my job. It’s only a guy from the Ashford & Maidstone Times, it won’t go far.”
We shepherded the Somalis in their woolly hats and gloves down the track to the farmhouse, each of them carrying their new sleeping bag. The Spott-Hythes were waiting for us at the door – both fully dressed, thank God.
“Welcome, welcome!” called Jeremy Spott-Hythe, clapping his hands. His face clouded slightly as our new vineyard team gathered around the farmhouse entrance. “Er… these are the students from Israel?” he asked, looking confused.
“Yes!” I said brightly.
“They don’t look very Jewish,” said Mrs Spott-Hythe, doubtfully.
“They’re originally from Ethiopia, Mrs Spott-Hythe. There’s a whole tribe of Jews there. This group was working on a factory assembly line in Addis Ababa, making plastic toys, before they were rescued and flown to Israel by the Ecological Youth League of Jerusalem, to work on a kibbutz. Now they are in love with the land, never happier than when they’re out in the open air, picking fruit and communing with nature. When they were offered the opportunity to see Kent, they jumped at it!”
I thought I might have overplayed my hand slightly, but Mrs Spott-Hythe looked delighted. “How wonderful! I stayed on a kibbutz one summer in my youth. A liberating experience!”
“Excellent!” declared Jeremy Spott-Hythe. “Now then, it’s such a chilly day that we’ve made everyone mulled wine!” He revealed a steaming cauldron sitting on a low table just inside the doorway, next to a pile of mis-matched mugs. “Right, let’s get everyone warmed up before we hit the vineyard,” he boomed, ladling the spicy brew into cups and handing it out.
I sidled over to Dan, who shrugged at me. “Christ almighty,” I whispered. “Could you not have told them they’re tea-total or something?”
“They’re supposed to be wine students! How could I say that?”
“Why didn’t you tell them that they only drink kosher wine?”
“That’s a good idea,” he conceded. “Bit late though.”
The Somalis were sniffing at their mugs, a few had taken a little sip. Nobody appeared to be causing a scene, thank God. It was bloody cold, though. I gratefully took a mug from Spott-Hythe and warmed my hands around it. I caught Galad’s concerned eye and called out to him, “It’s only grape juice, Abel. Nothing to worry about!”
Mrs Spott-Hythe laughed. “Indeed it is! Now, does everyone have a mug? Good! Right then – it’s a very special day today, isn’t it? Don’t think we didn’t know!”
I looked at Dan again, whose face was blank. He shrugged.
She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a lit candle. “Happy Hanukkah, Happy Hanukkah!”
Oh shit. “Dan! Dan!” I whispered savagely. “How the fuck did you not know it was Hanukkah? You’re Jewish!”
“Ah. Yes, I’d forgotten. I’m not really that religious.”
I dashed over to Galad. “Big smiles, Galad. We need everyone to give big smiles. Tell them it’s an English grape festival. Everyone must look happy.”
Galad passed on my instructions in hurried Somali. Thankfully, most of the team broke into a big grin, some swaying their mugs of mulled wine from side to side.
“And that’s Hebrew they’re speaking, of course?” asked Jeremy Spott-Hythe, a look of wonder on his face.
“Yes. Their English is very poor, unfortunately.”
“We must ask Mr Wiseman, the dentist near the library, to pop down. He’s Jewish isn’t he darling? He could chat to them.”
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble. These African Jews speak a different dialect, anyway.”
“Do they? Golly, I’m learning a lot today!”
After a little more awkward small talk, our Hebrew University students were shown to their lodgings. Spott-Hythe hadn’t been joking, they really were stables – three long, wooden buildings with corrugated iron roofs and straw on the floor. A horse peered at us over a half-door, disapprovingly.
“You can’t stay in that one, Bessie lives there,” he said. “But the other two are empty. Should be dry and fairly clean. I sleep in there myself occasionally, when I have to be up early and don’t want to disturb the wife.”
Carlos gave me a hand carrying the camp beds down from the coach. We set them up in rows along each side of the stables, a sleeping bag on each. There was a building next door with several toilet cubicles over a sceptic tank – I was relieved to see they wouldn’t have to dig another compostable latrine.
In the meantime, Spott-Hythe walked Dan and the students into the vineyards, together with the photographer from the local paper, to explain the finer points of ice-wine viticulture. I joined them and was pleased to see our team were diligent students, examining each bunch of grapes and carefully removing any that showed signs of mould, discarding the damaged fruit in a bucket. They fanned out across the vineyard, woolly hats bobbing up and down as they examined the vines, little puffs of breath rising in the cold December air.
Jeremy Spott-Hythe was delighted. “What an excellent bunch of workers, so much better than the locals! We just need to hold out now for a proper cold front. If we don’t get one by the end of the month we’ll have lost too much of the crop to mould. Fingers crossed for a big freeze!”
I bade him farewell and Carlos drove Dan and me back to Little Chalfont, where we rejoined Wodin, Fistule and Mercedes in the cosy lounge. Tariq had departed for a week of winter sun in Dubai and wasn’t due back till Christmas Eve. It was very quiet in the house without all the praying, people running up and down the stairs and the constant clatter in the kitchen.
“What are they going to do when the grapes have been picked?” Mercedes asked me.
“There’s always work to do in the vineyard. Winter pruning, then ploughing the vineyard, tying the young shoots in spring, guarding against frost…”
“At some point, isn’t your wine-making friend going to wonder why his workers aren’t going back to Israel to resume their studies?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. We can do another brainstorm,” said Dan, confidently.
6.3
The Promised Land
It was Christmas Eve, the busiest day of the year for any food retailer, and Gatesave was having a bumper season. My Asti Spumante promotion was an outrageous success, pallet after pallet selling in every store across the country, customers filling their trolleys to the brim. We advertised the deal on television, a jaunty little ad showing bottles of Asti jumping into Christmas stockings, and customers responded by queuing round the block.
Jolly Trisha jumped out of her seat every ten minutes, announcing the latest sales figures to the trading floor. “That’s two million bottles sold this week alone! Well done Felix!” she squeaked, as George Bolus glowered and Timmy Durange writhed and gurned with jealousy.
In a world-first, the Head of Margin actually came up to my desk to congratulate me in front of the entire
floor. “Jingle fucking bells!” he bellowed, pointing at me. “Back of the fucking net!” before he strode off to scream at the mince-pie buyer for poor on-shelf availability.
As I basked in the universal glory from the trading floor, Bella from the media team stomped over. “I see you’ve generated another bit of interesting PR for us, Felix. Except this time it’s interesting in a bad way. It would have been nice if you’d flagged it so we could have been prepared for the calls from the media. We’ve had quite a few today already. Please tell me you can clear this mess up.”
She threw this morning’s Guardian on my desk and pointed to a story at the bottom of the front page, before stalking off.
Controversy as Gatesave supplier uses African Israelis to make Christmas wine
My bowels suddenly tightened. There was a picture of one of our Somalis, in woolly hat and gloves, carefully picking a grape from a vine. I scanned the article, panic rising.
Philomena Golden, of the ‘Justice Israel: Zionism Is Murder!’ campaign, has slammed Gatesave Supermarkets for associating with the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
Dan, you useless fucking bastard, I thought angrily. Why did you have to invite the press, let alone your lunatic mother? I read on:
We at JIZIM will campaign tirelessly against all association with the terrible, murderous Israeli regime until we see justice for the oppressed Palestinian masses. We will be demonstrating at Chateau Spott-Hythe on Christmas Eve to show our Palestinian comrades that we stand shoulder to shoulder with them on the brink of this so-called holy day.
Fuck. Fucking fuckety fuck.
I phoned Dan.
“Hi Felix, I know.”
“Your insane fucking mother is all over the papers, slagging off my employer and my wine supplier! We didn’t want any publicity for Christ’s sake. How did this happen?”
“Ah. Turned out the photographer for the Ashford & Maidstone Times was also a freelancer. He pitched the story to The Guardian and they went with it. Then they contacted my mum. They usually do, she’s always good for a bloodcurdling quote when Israel’s involved.”
“Fuck! I’m in the shit with my media team now. I’ll be fired if this carries on! Can’t you silence her? Call Mossad or something?”
“I can’t really have my mother killed, Felix. Besides, we don’t have an assassination arm at Jews for Goodwill.”
“Well you bloody well should have. We need to get down to the vineyard now and kill this.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how. You’re a PR Officer and she’s your fucking mother! Call Wodin and get him down there too, we need some muscle. Maybe we can cause a riot and get all the protesters arrested.”
“Oh dear, Felix, that’s not very good is it?” gloated George Bolus, reading the article over my shoulder. “Be terrible if it took the shine off your Asti triumph. In fact, I’d be surprised if you make it into the New Year if that story keeps running. Middle Eastern politics… Palestinians… Israel… goodness gracious me, I think this might be the gift that keeps on giving! Anyway, nice working with you.” He sauntered off, chuckling.
My phone rang. “Ears, hello Felix. There’s a bit of a brouhaha at the farm gate. Do you know what’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about, Jeremy. Just some rabble rousers who’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’m coming down now – I’ll be with you in a couple of hours. Don’t talk to the press.”
“Oh. Well, I did have a chat to a very nice lady from the Daily Mail just now. Is that a problem?”
My stomach lurched. “Probably, Jeremy. What did you talk about?”
“She was just interested to know about our employment practices. She was very interested in the stables.”
Fuck! Fuck! “Kick them out. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t show anyone else around. If they trespass, shoot them.”
“Oh. Very good. Er… There’s also a lady who’s pregnant.”
“What? Who?”
“One of your students. The one with the big stomach. She probably shouldn’t be working in the vineyards. That’s what the lady from the Daily Mail said anyway. She was very helpful. Her colleague took a few photos too.”
I ran through the Somali women in my head. He must mean Khadro – she was rather on the large side but I’d thought nothing of it. “I thought she was just fat. How do you know she’s pregnant?”
“She’s complaining about cramps. We were going to call an ambulance, but she’s insisting she’s all right.”
“Ah, yes. Don’t do that. They’re not insured for childbirth. They’ll run up a huge bill if they go to hospital. A couple of the other students are midwives, they’ll deal with it.”
“Are you sure? Sounds a bit Heath Robinson to me, old chap.”
“Just… don’t do anything, I’ll be there soon.” I hung up and grabbed my coat.
This was bad. It wasn’t just the PR embarrassment for Gatesave, of course. Our flimsy little conspiracy was about to be blasted wide open and it was probably a matter of hours before the police and immigration swooped on the winery and arrested the Somalis. Then they’d spill the beans on where they’d been staying and, as sure as night follows day, the authorities would turn up in Little Chalfont, search the premises, dig up the bodies of the Mafiosi… I’d probably be in Wormwood Scrubs by nightfall.
I was hurrying to the lift when my mobile rang. It was Tariq.
“Yo, Felix. Just got back from Dubai. Had a very interesting time.”
“Wonderful, Tariq. I’m so pleased you’ve had a good holiday but I can’t really talk. There appear to have been flaws in our plan. The whole bloody thing’s coming apart at the seams and I’m properly in the shit.”
“That’s a surprise, but I’ve got a much better plan.”
“Oh, good,” I panted, as I tore out of the Gatesave office and hailed a taxi. “Does it involve pretending they’re Hindu holy men on a pilgrimage to the Ashford Shopping Centre? Or perhaps a posse of trainee monks searching Beckenham for the Arc of the Covenant?”
“They’re great ideas, all of them. But no. Listen, have you ever heard the term bidoun?”
I hadn’t. And as I sprinted from my taxi to the train at Waterloo station and sped through the Kent countryside, Tariq explained.
When I arrived at Chateau Spott-Hythe there were two dozen shabby looking people gathered around the front gate, chanting. They had pulled down the little banner saying ‘Shalom’ and set fire to it – it now sat smouldering in a sad little pile. There was a tall woman in dungarees, with a huge head of bright red hair, right in the centre of the group. She held an open bottle of sparkling wine in one hand and a loudhailer in the other. I saw the bottle had a hand-made label that said ‘Gatesave: Chateau Death’. I guessed this was Dan’s mother.
She held the loudhailer to her mouth. “What do we want?”
“Justice!” shouted back the tawdry little group. Most of them were pale, greasy and wore cheap anoraks. A couple held banners saying ‘JIZIM – End The Killing!’
“When do we want it?”
“Now!”
A photographer was down on one knee, pointing his camera up at the group, presumably to make them look larger, while another took pictures of the oblivious Somalis walking through the vines in the field above us. A woman in a beret was talking to the protesters, holding out a tape recorder.
I spotted Dan flapping his arms, miserably failing to pacify his wild, red-headed mother. As I got closer, I saw she had glued several dozen children’s dolls’ heads to her clothes. They swayed and bobbed obscenely as she jumped around.
Mrs Spott-Hythe stood on the other side of the gate in her kaftan, a large scythe in her hands and her face like thunder, looking like Death’s angry mother-in-law. The demonstrators started to rock the gate, chanting slogans.
“Cross that gate, you urban hooligans, and I’ll spill your blood!” she warned.
“Killer!” shouted back the red-headed woman.
“Hello folks,” I ca
lled, “I’m from Gatesave Supermarkets. Can everyone calm down for a second?”
Dan’s mother turned to me. “Down with the child-murdering occupiers!” she screamed through her loudhailer, right into my face, and poured the contents of the wine bottle, which contained a red liquid, all over her clothes and the dolls’ heads. The photographers took more pictures, zooming in as Mrs Golden flung herself to the ground and writhed around, screaming, “Justice for the dead babies!”
The lady in the beret approached. “Is it Gatesave policy to use pregnant illegal immigrants in their supply chain?” She thrust a small tape recorder in front of my face.
“Ah, er no. Not as such. Best if I refer you to my Press Officer, I think.”
“But as a representative of Gatesave, don’t you agree that people trafficking is a serious crime?”
“Er, well, it depends really…”
“Would you be Mr Hart, by any chance?” asked an anxious voice behind me. I turned to see a neatly dressed middle-aged man in a grey suit and a scarf.
“Yes…”
“Good afternoon. I’m George Cohen, the Commercial Attaché at the Embassy of Israel in London.”
“Ah. Hello. Felix Hart.”
Mr Cohen shook my hand and glanced over my shoulder. “Hello Dan.” Dan joined us, looking very agitated. “I see your mother is causing us problems again Dan.”
“Well, yes, it looks like it, Mr Cohen. Sorry about this.”
“You two know each other…?”
“Yes, Felix, we do,” sighed Mr Cohen. “When I took this job I expected my fair share of invective from unhinged fundamentalists and pea-brained neo-Nazis. That’s par for the course when working for the Israeli Embassy.” He peered, dismayed, at the woman lying on the ground, her dungarees festooned with severed dolls’ heads, broadcasting through her loudhailer to the heavens.
“Jus-tice, jus-tice, jus-tice!” she chanted.
“But I never expected my most implacable opponent to be one Mrs Philomena Golden of Hampstead Garden Suburb.”
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