‘Fucking Euromillions.’
This was where men met if they wanted work. There was little to be had around here. The jobs had gone twenty years ago or more. There was just a couple of warehouses where you could get work shifting boxes into vans. At Christmas-time there were more boxes and more vans but still not enough. There were jobs here and there for women: hairdressing jobs, nannying jobs, shop-assistant jobs, cleaning jobs, teaching-assistant jobs if you had an education. But if you were a man and you wanted odd jobs or seasonal farm work this was where you met. A truck came through and took you off to the fields or more usually to a barn nearby where a combine harvester dropped its load on the floor for sorting: sugar beet for sorting, turnips for sorting. And potatoes. Today it was potatoes and the men knew they would be taken up to Sunrise Farm to work for the bastard farmer who had won the Lottery.
‘At least he gives us time off we need to keep signed on,’ said one.
‘Drives us up there if we’re going to miss an appointment.’
‘He fucking has to, though. If he keeps us signed on he doendt have to pay us as much. He just slips us a tenner at end of day like it’s fucking pocket money.’
‘And he’ll go and dob you in if you cause a fuss. He’ll go and tell job centre you’ve been working for him and he’ll rustle up some bits of paper he says he’s been giving you all along. Payslips and legal stuff. Stuff you’ve never seen before in your life but then it’s suddenly there and it’s your own fault for claiming benefits and for not paying tax or summat, all in one go. Happened to Johnno.’
‘Happened to Tony.’
‘Happened to Chris, and all.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Wanker.’
The farmer was a bastard, then. Like most others, they all agreed, but this one particularly because he had won the Lottery when he was already a millionaire. He was a lucky bastard. Euromillions. Or a scratch card.
Cathy and I were like grey standing-stones at the border of their coven. They mainly ignored us. We stood at the edge of the car park, a little way away from their cluster in the middle but close enough to hear. We had brought a flask of hot coffee. I sipped it out of a white and blue enamel mug while Cathy drank from the lid.
Potato-sifting at Sunrise Farm. That was the job today and the van would be here soon to pick us up. Give us a lift. Drop us off. Pick us up again when the day was done. Drop us back here.
Cathy was nervous. I could tell from the way she gripped the flask lid. I could tell from the way her thin and translucent eyelids blinked against the cool air. Her eyes were sensitive like her skin and could not stand the cold. They were especially sensitive when she was scared. When something worried her she kept them wide against it, whatever it was, so as to see it coming at her then to see it off. Today, fear coursed through her like a hare through wheat stubble. I could tell. She bristled.
I was afraid, just the same. Sunrise was farmed by this millionaire lottery-winner and his name was Coxswain. It was the same Coxswain that Daddy had seen to for Peter’s money. The money he had been owed. It was Coxswain who Daddy had nearly killed outside the back-room betting shop. Coxswain was one of Price’s friends. It was Price’s land like all the land around here and Coxswain held it, ran the farm, worked the labourers hard for a tenner a day and dobbed them in to the dole office if they complained.
Cathy and I were here to see what was what. Those were the instructions Daddy had given us. It had been Ewart’s suggestion.
We were to look at the farm and chat to some of the workers to find out what we could about Coxswain. If we could discover something about Mr Price, so much the better, though Daddy doubted there would be any chat about him. The men who worked on these farms did not know who owned the land or who managed the managers or what the turnover was like or what proportion of profit got translated into their wages. They sorted the potatoes, got paid and sometimes they went down to the pub or corner-shop and bought a packet of cigarettes.
We had almost finished the flask of coffee when the van arrived. Cathy took my mug away and tossed the dregs aside. She put it into her bag with the flask and our lunchtime sandwiches.
A man with a clipboard and a spongy pewter moustache climbed out of the driver’s seat. The men and Cathy and I walked slowly towards him and huddled around. Hands were in pockets and jackets were zipped as far up as they could be zipped. The man made a note of each name before its owner climbed into the back of the van.
The foreman spotted my sister and me. ‘What’s this?’
Cathy stepped forward, prepared. ‘We’re here to work. Same as everyone else.’
‘How old are you?’
Cathy shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’ she said.
‘I asked, dindt I? How old are you?’
‘Eighteen,’ she lied. ‘And he’s sixteen.’
‘He’s your little boyfriend, is he?’ said the man, obtusely.
‘Brother.’
‘How did you hear about meeting place?’
She shrugged again but the man did not seem too fussed by the rudeness. ‘Same as everyone,’ she said. ‘Someone told us. Someone said go down to WMC of a morning if you want to earn a bit of money. So that’s what we did.’
‘Who’s your dad?’
‘Sam Jones. Do you know him?’
It was a common enough name. I was not sure if it was someone she knew of or if she had pulled it from thin air there and then.
‘Never heard of him. Do you know any of this lot to vouch for you?’ He nodded at the men already sitting in the van and those still standing in the car park.
‘We heard you were short of hands this year so we thought we’d come down and try our luck.’
The foreman stopped to consider. He blinked a couple of times. His eyelashes were as grey and as coarse as his moustache. ‘That’s true enough. We do need some extra. Are you up to it?’
Cathy shrugged.
‘It’s hard work. Bending and lifting all—’
‘Not that hard,’ interrupted Cathy. ‘We’ve sorted potatoes before. And picked them. And carried great big sacks of them. It’s no problem. We worked on a farm near Grimsby where we did potatoes and sugar beets and all that.’
‘Grimsby? What the fuck were you doing over there then and being here now? You a pair of fucking gypos?’
‘Our nan lived over there. We used to live with her. Now we live with our dad.’
‘Your dad, Sam Jones?’
‘Aye.’
He did not believe us but he let us on the bus all the same.