928 Miles from Home

by Kim Slater

  WOMAN

  (crying)

  You hurt him!

  She runs to help her son. MAN storms towards them both.

  CUT TO:

  The trees swaying gently in the breeze. Different shapes and shades of green leaves against the blue sky.

  Sounds of hurting. A slap. A thud. A boy cries out. A woman screams.

  Birds scatter, a squirrel runs up a tree.

  Then the sound of a car door slamming. An engine revving.

  CUT TO:

  The MAN jumps back into his vehicle and drives away. Dust flies up from the dirt road. Then, silence.

  CUT TO:

  BOY ONE and his mother sit holding each other on the grass. WOMAN’s nose is bleeding. The dog limps up to them and nuzzles BOY ONE’s face.

  WOMAN

  (crying)

  This time we must leave, my son. Right now, before he gets back.

  BOY ONE

  (alarmed, stroking the dog’s head)

  But . . . what about my friend? What about Baron and Dziadek? Surely, we cannot leave again, Mama.

  WOMAN

  (stares into space)

  We have no choice. We will take Baron to Dziadek’s house and then we must get away from here.

  BOY ONE

  Where will we go?

  WOMAN

  To England, where we always planned to go. And one day, I promise you, Sergei, we will return here. One day, we will come back home.

  END SCENE.

  The next day, when we wake up, Angie’s flights have already been booked online and Dad is up and dressed, ready to drive her to East Midlands Airport.

  I stay in my bedroom while Sergei says goodbye to his mum. When he comes back in, his eyes are red and he keeps sniffing like he has a cold.

  I’ve had Sergei’s screenplay swirling round in my head all night. It’s left a sour taste at the back of my throat, as if while I’m sleeping I’ve been trying to swallow down all the mean things I’ve said and all the stuff I’ve watched being done to him since he arrived in England.

  I’d like to take it all back, now I know the truth, but I don’t know how to.

  Angie puts her head around the door before she leaves.

  ‘Goodbye, Calum. Soon, I will be back.’

  ‘Bye, Angie, have a safe journey,’ I say, and I mean it. After Sergei confided in me, I think about how she might not be safe.

  When they’ve gone, Sergei helps me get dressed, and eventually we manage to get into the sitting room.

  Two hours later, Dad strolls back in with doughnuts and vanilla milkshakes from McDonald’s.

  ‘Thank you, Pete. This is a good treat.’ Sergei brings some plates through. His eyes look far away but I can see he’s trying to be brave about his grandad.

  ‘I rang the coppers like you asked me, Calum,’ Dad says, handing me a doughnut. ‘Spoke to PC Channer. He made a note but doesn’t think it’s very likely there’s any connection between the break-ins at the centre and your accident.’

  A stab of annoyance jabs at my chest. ‘How does he know? If he hasn’t found who’s thieving from the centre, he can’t know for sure.’

  Dad doesn’t answer. I feel a burning urge to go out there and knock on doors to ask questions. Anything but sitting here, completely useless and reliant on others.

  I watch Dad carefully as he hands me the paper cup with a straw. He’s avoiding my eyes, for some reason.

  I’ve seen him like this before and I recognize the signs. He’s got something to say that he’s not looking forward to telling me.

  ‘So, what “man-stuff” have you got planned for us today then, Dad?’ I nudge him.

  Sergei looks up from tearing his doughnut into bite-size pieces. ‘Man-stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad’s cleared his diary to spend more time with us while your mum’s away.’ I wipe a smear of jam from my chin with the back of my hand.

  ‘This is good news, Pete.’ Sergei seems to cheer up a bit. ‘Perhaps we can go to the bowling alley?’

  ‘Well, that was the plan, of course, but . . .’ Dad stammers. His eyes dart around the room while he thinks of the best way to drop the bombshell I can feel is coming. ‘But it won’t be today or tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Today or tomorrow?’

  He can’t be serious. I really thought he’d changed.

  ‘I got a call driving back from the airport,’ he explains. ‘This gem of a job has come up, Calum; it could seriously set us up. I swear this will be the last time – one last job.’

  ‘Until the next “gem of a job” comes up, that is,’ I snap. ‘I believed you, Dad. When you said you’d stay home because of me, I was stupid enough to swallow it.’

  ‘I meant every word of it, son.’ His face drops. If I didn’t know better, I might think he was genuinely feeling bad about it. ‘I don’t need to do the dodgy jobs now for money like before. Me and Angie are sharing the bills now, and things are much easier. I’m only going to be taking work on that’s above board. No more dodgy stuff.’

  ‘Then why are you doing this job?’

  ‘I’d already agreed to it – and besides, it’ll help us get our heads above water once and for all. Just means me driving to France for a couple of—’

  ‘France?’ For as long as I can remember, Dad’s next job is always going to ‘set us up’. Of course, it never turns out to be as lucrative as he’s hoping.

  ‘It’s just some stuff that needs to be collected and brought back to the UK,’ Dad says, as if he’s just going down the road and I shouldn’t be making such a big deal about it.

  ‘Not drugs, I hope, Pete?’ Sergei says, his face lined with concern.

  I want to laugh but I’m annoyed with Dad and I don’t want to let him think he can squirm out of a proper excuse.

  ‘Give me some credit, Sergei.’ Dad frowns. ‘Not drugs, no.’

  ‘What then?’ I demand. I’m sick of Dad’s bluffing and half-answers. He’s my dad. I should know how he earns money. He’s already admitted it’s dodgy; he might as well spill the beans.

  ‘Designer handbags, if you must know,’ Dad replies.

  If anyone asks, just tell them I’m in imports and exports, I remember Dad saying.

  Then it hits me.

  ‘Dad, are these handbags counterfeit?’

  Dad looks up sharply from eating his doughnut.

  ‘What does this word mean?’ Sergei asks. ‘Counterfeit?’

  ‘It means fake,’ I say, looking at Dad. ‘And fake designer handbags aren’t just dodgy, they’re illegal.’

  ‘I’ve been stupid, I know that, but I don’t need you telling me what to do.’ Dad stands up, his face red and his jaw clenched. ‘This is the last one. I mean it this time.’

  He throws a twenty-pound note on the table before stuffing his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans and walking out of the room.

  I hear his bedroom door open and then he’s rifling around in the wardrobe. The familiar sounds of Dad packing a bag filter through to the living room. My heart sinks.

  A few minutes later he’s in the doorway.

  ‘I’m off now, back tomorrow evening. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, eh?’ He walks a few steps to leave, and then turns back when Sergei calls his name.

  ‘What about Calum? I mean, what if he needs to go to hospital again?’ He looks fearfully at my leg. ‘I will have to call Mama if there is an emergency—’

  ‘No need to tell your mum about this, Sergei. I don’t want her worrying about you two, on top of everything else. She’s got enough on her plate.’ Dad gives me the thumbs-up. ‘Calum will be fine – won’t you, lad?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound as if I’ve got much choice,’ I say with a scowl.

  Dad winks at us from the door, his bad mood already forgotten. He raises his hand and then he’s gone.

  Sergei looks at me, confused. ‘Mama has a plate?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s just a way of saying your mum has a lot of worries on her mind at the moment.
’

  ‘I see,’ he says. ‘This British way of speaking can be complicated.’

  I can’t argue with that.

  I listen as the back door slams, and a few minutes later Dad’s diesel van coughs into life.

  Sergei is chewing noisily with his mouth open – ‘clapping’, Grandad used to call it. I put my own doughnut down and stare at the wall.

  Two full days with nothing to do apart from listen to Sergei eating noisily, and it’s still only the first week of the summer holidays.

  Somebody kill me now.

  The next afternoon, I’m reading A Kestrel for a Knave when my phone buzzes with a text.

  I snatch it up, thinking it might be one of the lads finally getting in touch.

  Will ring in 5 mins. Dad.

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Dad hardly ever calls me when he’s away unless he’s going to be delayed on a job. And it’s my birthday tomorrow.

  I answer on the first ring.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I’m stuck on this job. Any luck, I should be back Thursday evening.’

  ‘OK.’ I can hear the disappointment in my own voice, but I should be used to it by now.

  ‘We’ll celebrate your birthday at the weekend, I promise.’ Dad is speaking too fast, like he can’t wait to get off the phone. ‘We’ve got some big problems here and I can’t get—’

  ‘Dad, it’s fine.’I sigh. I’ve heard all his excuses before. ‘See you when you get back.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Dad sounds relieved. ‘Tell Sergei again he needs to keep shtum about this. No need for Angie to be worrying while she’s away.’

  Dad ends the call and I sit for a few moments staring at my phone.

  Sergei comes through with two glasses of milk.

  ‘It will be fine,’ Sergei says when I tell him about Dad’s call. He takes a long slurp of his milk, leaving a ring of froth around his mouth. ‘We will survive, Calum.’

  ‘It’s not your birthday that’s going to be cancelled,’ I point out, feeling miffed.

  ‘No birthdays will be cancelled while I am in charge,’ Sergei says firmly.

  I scowl at him. ‘Who said you were in charge?’

  We stare each other out for a few seconds and then, for no reason at all, we both burst out laughing.

  The next morning, I wake up and look across to Sergei’s bed to find it empty. I can hear him banging around in the kitchen.

  I can’t get out of bed on my own, so I’ll just have to wait until he reappears. My legs are banging with pain. The bottom of my back is damp and my stomach feels a bit queasy, probably with the pain medication.

  Five minutes later, the door opens and Sergei makes his way back into the bedroom, carrying a tray weighed down with food and drinks.

  He lowers the tray slowly down on to his camp bed. I breathe in a sweet, delicious aroma, but all I really want is for the pain to go away.

  ‘Wszystkiego najlepszego z okazji urodzin, Calum!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It means All the best on your birthday!’ Sergei beams and hands me a glass of fresh orange juice and, even better, two painkillers.

  ‘Oh right, yeah. Ta.’ I swallow the tablets.

  He offers me a dish of fruit: apples and oranges cut up into little segments. I don’t know what it is about Polish people, but they never seem to just eat Weetabix for breakfast.

  I take a bit of apple but I don’t eat it.

  ‘For your birthday treat, I bake for you a very sweet cake.’ He picks up a plate and hands it to me.

  It smells good, so I take a bite and chew. It is still warm and tastes delicious.

  ‘You like my Polish fried cherry cake?’

  I swallow down another mouthful of cake and nod. ‘Very nice, thanks.’

  He hands me a card. On the front is a picture of a teddy bear. It might be a suitable card if I was turning five years old today.

  He watches me.

  ‘Sorry, it was all the shop had.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s great,’ I say, smiling. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

  ‘Oh, and I got you this.’

  He hands me a grubby paperback book. I read the title: The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner. I’ve never heard of it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘It is a story about a troubled boy who copes with his problems by focusing on his love for running. I see you have nearly finished your other book so I thought you could read this one next.’

  I want to choose my next read myself, maybe with Mr Ahmed’s help. But it’s nice of Sergei to try and pick one as a gift.

  ‘Sounds great, thanks,’ I say politely.

  ‘It was written by a man called Alan Sillitoe,’ Sergei says, beaming. ‘A fellow Nottinghamian just like you, Calum, who wrote about the lives of working-class people.’

  ‘Eh?’ I look at the cover again.

  ‘The book was made into a film and Mr Sillitoe wrote the screenplay, too.’

  Alan Sillitoe . . . I say the name in my head: a real writer, who was born in Nottingham? I turn to the inside page and my eyes widen.

  ‘Says here his father worked at the Raleigh Bicycle Company and Alan worked there when he first left school,’ I say as I scan the short author biography. ‘That’s where my grandad, George Brooks, worked all his life.’

  ‘Exactly, Calum.’ Sergei looks pleased with himself. ‘So you see, you already have a good start, just like Alan Sillitoe, for writing your screenplay.’

  I can’t believe it. All the stories my grandad told me about working at Raleigh – like when a man lost his hand because everyone stood around in shock . . . Then I get to thinking: maybe he even knew Alan Sillitoe before he became a famous writer . . .

  ★

  INT. RALEIGH BICYCLE FACTORY, NOTTINGHAM – 1944 – AFTERNOON

  The Pedal and Bar factory floor is large and dusty. Machinery is clunking and clicking, the workers are chattering; somewhere a radio plays. Bicycle parts can be identified everywhere: pedals, handlebars, axles and steel tubing.

  A nineteen-year-old YOUNG MAN is dressed in overalls, and he whistles as he works, taping the grips of the handlebars and fitting the stems. The YOUNG MAN is deep in concentration when there is a loud yell and a machine squeals over the other side of the room.

  WORKER ONE

  (yelling)

  Help! He’s trapped, get help!

  YOUNG MAN runs over. Everyone is gathered around. Most of the men are older than him, experienced workers, but some can’t look and some are panicking. There is a lot of blood. Someone has pressed the emergency stop button on the machine, but nobody is attending to the injured man.

  YOUNG MAN

  (urgently)

  Shut off all the machines! Do it, now!

  Someone call an ambulance.

  Men scatter, and the groans and clunks of the surrounding machinery slowing down and shutting off commence until the factory floor is quiet. Except for the trapped and injured man groaning in pain.

  YOUNG MAN moves closer and sees the man’s hand and forearm is caught in the jaws of a cutting machine. His eyes are rolling with pain but he is slumping and making less noise. The injured man continues groaning, with incoherent whispers.

  YOUNG MAN

  What’s that, my friend?

  WORKER ONE

  (calls from sidelines)

  You’ll not be able to understand him, he’s foreign.

  WORKER TWO

  I knew he’d be trouble, soon as they took him on.

  YOUNG MAN

  (annoyed)

  We don’t need to understand him to help him, you bloody idiots. Where’s that ambulance?

  WORKER TWO

  Oi, watch your mouth, young ’un.

  FOREMAN

  Stand back now, help is almost here. Take a five-minute break, you lot.

  YOUNG MAN walks to canteen. He starts chatting to the NEW LAD next to him in the queue. They are both around the same age.

  YOUNG MAN

 
; I haven’t seen your face before. Are you new? I haven’t been working here that long myself.

  NEW LAD

  Aye. My dad works here. He got me the job.

  The NEW LAD does not look happy to be there.

  YOUNG MAN

  You’ll be all right here, you know. You can earn a good wage.

  NEW LAD

  (eagerly)

  I’d rather be writing, but my dad says that’s not a proper job. One day it will be, though. In a few years, I’ll be a published writer, you’ll see.

  YOUNG MAN

  I like reading. Maybe I’ll read one of your books. What sort of things do you write about?

  NEW LAD

  (shrugs)

  People like us, places like this.

  YOUNG MAN looks sideways at him. He hesitates, looks as if he’s trying to make his mind up whether to give him a bit of advice or not.

  YOUNG MAN

  (kindly)

  I hope your dream comes true, I really do. But if you want my advice, it’s to write about something a bit more interesting. I mean, why would folks want to read about people like us and places like this?

  He looks around him gloomily at the busy canteen.

  NEW LAD smiles, as if the answer is obvious.

  NEW LAD

  (looking around in awe)

  Because this is real life, that’s why. What could be more interesting than that?

  YOUNG MAN

  (sighs)

  It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I can’t imagine anyone would want to read a book about ordinary folk that work at the Raleigh factory. Good luck to you, though.

  END SCENE.

  ★

  Sergei spends the next hour getting me to the bathroom, helping me back into my baggy tracksuit bottoms and a clean T-shirt.

  I try out the crutches that Dad collected, but it’s still too painful for me to manage on my own.