Coming Clean (20 page)

“There will be no compromise.”

“Come on, Shirley. I beg you not to dig in your heels like this.”

STD leaned back in her chair. “I’ve said my piece.”

“And that’s your final word.”

“It is. And from now on, I expect everybody on the team to fall in and start toeing the line. Do I make myself clear?”

I stood up. “Crystal.”

“Don’t let me down, Soph, or you may have to reassess your position here at GLB.”

•   •   •

I
was upset and angry—not to mention scared to death of losing my job—but I wasn’t surprised by STD’s reaction. I headed straight to Des’s office.

“Don’t panic,” he said when I’d told him what had happened at the meeting. “She’s just sounding off and trying to intimidate you.”

“Well, she certainly succeeded.”

“She knows you’re good at your job and that the staff respects you. That’s why she promoted you. She needs you.”

“I’m not so sure. The way I see it, there is no way STD is going to change her mind. I was mad to think she would. She didn’t say as much, but if you ask me she’s gunning for a confrontation.”

“And if she is, we’ll be ready for her.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the workers control the means of production.”

“You’re suggesting we go on strike?”

“Possibly, if it comes to that.”

“And you really think people are going to support a walkout? Des, nobody’s had a pay raise in two years. People have got kids and mortgages. There isn’t a single person who could afford to go on strike.”

•   •   •

T
he bus pulled up at the stop. Huck was waiting for me, looking seriously hot in his beanie hat and stubble, his coat collar turned up against the wind.

We greeted each other with double kisses. He smelled of the cold.

“I really do appreciate you coming,” he said. “I realize it’s a hell of an ask dragging you out here, particularly after dark.”

I smiled. “Should I have brought Mace?”

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Most people here know me.” I was aware of him looking at me. “You OK? You seem—I dunno—a bit anxious. Nothing is going to happen to you. Honest.”

I was anxious, but not about walking through the Princess Margaret projects. “Sorry, it’s not fear you see—it’s worry. I had no idea it was so obvious. It’s work. There’s a possibility we could be going on strike.”

“From what you told me the other day when we met, it sounds like it could be your only option if you want to save the show.”

“That’s what our union rep thinks. The thing is, if we walk out, I’ve got no idea how I’ll make ends meet.”

“Talk to the mothers who live here. They’ll tell you all you need to know about making ends meet.” He stopped. “Sorry. That was insensitive. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t know the first thing about being hard up. And the truth is that if we do go on strike and it gets to the point where I can’t manage, I have family who will rally around. My ex has family. I’ll always be able to put food on the table.”

“Well, if you need it,” he said, “I’ve got this great cookbook that I bought when I was a student. It’s called
A Hundred Ways
with
Mince.
I’d be more than happy to lend it to you.”

I said I would bear it in mind.

We started walking. I took in the smashed paving stones, the graffiti, the bits of litter and tinfoil stained with crack being carried in the wind like autumn leaves.

“Welcome to your local neighborhood ghetto,” Huck said. “First I would like you to note, if you will, the concrete landscape raw with suffering and social deprivation.”

“Believe me, I’m noting.”

“To our right you will see the general store with its barricaded windows. To our left, the church surrounded by razor wire.”

In the distance a child’s voice was crying out from one of the apartment block landings: “Mum, Dad . . . it’s cold out here. Let me in . . . Come on, you smackheads. I know what you’re doing in there.”

“The secret is to keep looking up,” Huck said.

I frowned a question.

“You always have to be on the lookout for kids throwing supermarket trollies off the roof. Then there are the ones who blow up cars with firecrackers or slash tires with knives right in front of the neighbors, in broad daylight. People are too scared to call the police for fear of retribution, so the kids don’t even bother to run away anymore.”

“Do you mind telling me how people manage to stay sane in all this?” I said.

“A great many don’t.”

I noticed a group of boys—fat trainers, hoods, jeans slung so low that the crotches practically came level with their knees. They were hanging around one of the stairwells. Two of them noticed us, broke away from their mates and came loping across.

“You know these boys?”

Huck nodded.

“Safe, man,” one of them said, knuckle-pounding Huck. “So what’s happenin’, blud?”

“I’m good. So you two coming to the youth center? It’s Saturday night.” He paused for dramatic effect. “We’ve got hot dogs.”

The boys started laughing. “Hot dogs? Nah. We gonna get pot.”

“OK, well, maybe I’ll see you later.”

“For real.”

The pair ambled off.

“I guess hot dogs can’t compete with weed,” Huck said.

Just then the smaller of the two stopped and looked back. “She chug, man.”

“Thanks,” Huck called out. “I’ll tell her.”

“What?” I said.

“He said you’re very attractive.”

I colored up. “Really? Aw, that’s sweet.”

“They’re not all bad kids,” Huck said. “The problem is that nobody’s offering them a future. Instead they’re caught up in a tide of drugs and hopelessness.”

“Meet the underclass,” I said.

“You got it. Some of them are third-generation drug addicts. They’ve had nobody to parent them. They don’t know what it’s like to live in a home where people go out to work. All they’ve ever known is violence and squalor. Is it any wonder they’re practically feral?”

I guessed not.

•   •   •

T
he youth club was a graffiti-covered concrete box with a flat asphalt roof that was riding up, and presumably letting in the wind and rain. The window frames were rotten and peeling. The windows themselves were covered in a lattice security screen. This was badly bent—evidence that attempts had been made to break in.

“Well, this is it,” Huck said, standing aside to let me in.

The first thing I noticed was the temperature. The place was freezing.

“Heating’s on the blink again,” Huck said, reading my mind. “The furnace needs replacing, but of course there’s no money.”

I stood looking around. The walls were bare. Seating came in the form of plastic public-institution-style stacking chairs. Most of these were covered in gum and cigarette burns. There were two Ping-Pong tables, both without nets, a giant TV blaring in one corner.

There were maybe twenty kids in tonight. The mood was lackadaisical. They were mostly watching TV. A couple of lads were shooting hoops. Two white girls, each with half a head of cornrows, were attempting to play Ping-Pong on one of the netless tables, but nobody knew how to keep score and they were starting to argue. Suddenly everything kicked off and one of the young youth workers had to intervene and restore order.

“You get the picture,” Huck said. “Tempers are constantly on a knife edge. It takes nothing to get these kids raising their fists or pulling a blade.”

Off the main hall were half a dozen smaller rooms, all of them empty. “I’ve got these rooms earmarked for activities like dance, drama, music, art, filmmaking,” Huck explained. “But right now we’ve got no money for equipment or instructors.”

We went back out into the hall. The kitchen was at the far end, behind a long counter. “Volunteers come in each day to cook lunch for the homeless, but we can’t afford to feed the local kids on a regular basis. I’m desperate to get a breakfast and supper club going. If it weren’t for their free school lunches, some of these kids would actually go hungry. And during the holidays some of them do.”

He introduced me to some of his coworkers. The young men and women—black, white, Asian, mixed race—radiated energy and enthusiasm, which, bearing in mind the lack of funding and the myriad other obstacles, seemed remarkable. I discovered that one or two had been raised there in the projects. By some miracle they had managed to stay on at school, take their exams and get to university. Now they were back, determined to do their bit for the next generation of Princess Margaret kids.

“Oh, and this is Araminta,” Huck said as a girl came jogging over to join the group. “She’s the newest member of the team.”

“You must be Sophie.” Araminta beamed, shaking my hand, which none of the others had done. “We’re all so glad you could make it. Has Huck given you the tour yet?”

I said that I thought he was about to.

“Excellent. There’s just so much that needs to be done, but what with all the government cuts and the new welfare reforms, we’re really up against it. It’s so frustrating because we’re all just raring to get going with new projects.”

Araminta was a slender, blond-haired beauty. She was dressed just like the others—jeans, baggy jumper—but unlike the others she had an accent that made Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge sound like the hired help. How she fit in here with her upper-class grace and charm, I had no idea.

“What I don’t understand,” I said, turning to the whole group now, “is how you all manage to stay so positive, considering you have almost no money.”

The general view was that there was no choice. One particularly earnest girl with blond dreadlocks insisted that things would change. The way forward was to keep trying to raise money and putting pressure on the government. “But to give up hope would be to betray these kids.”

“Hear, hear to that,” Araminta said.

I took the point. We were still standing around chatting, a few of the workers having to break off from time to time to settle disputes among the kids, when I noticed a chap coming towards us pushing a mop. He was sixty maybe, but tall and straight of back.

“Out of the way, if you please, ladies and gents. This floor will not clean itself.” I clocked the lumpy red nose that said alcoholic, the grubby woolen cardigan, the frayed checked shirt and military tie. I wondered what his story was.

“But you’ve already done it twice today,” Huck said.

“I know, but these young people bring in so much mud. It’s their trainers. The soles are so badly designed. Dirt collects in the crevices. Somebody should complain to the manufacturers. I might even do it myself.”

“Sophie, I would like you to meet Pemberton.”

Pemberton offered me his hand. “And that’s not Mister Pemberton,” he said. “Just Pemberton. It’s the way I like it.”

“Pemberton used to be a butler,” Huck said.

“Indeed I did. I buttled for the best, you know . . . everywhere from Blenheim Palace to Belgravia.”

“And now he helps us out at the center, don’t you, Pemberton?”

“Indeed I do. When I can get on, that is. Now, then, I would be most grateful if you would kindly move to one side.”

We duly moved.

Once the tour was over, we headed to Huck’s car.

“Sorry it’s such a crap heap,” he said, opening the door to an ancient Ford Fiesta that couldn’t have been worth more than a hundred quid. “No point in having a decent car around here. This is easily replaced if the kids decide to firebomb it.”

•   •   •

F
ifteen minutes later we were being shown to our table at Chez Max. I was glad to be in the warm and even gladder when Huck suggested we order a bottle of merlot.

“Whenever I go to nice places, I feel so bloody guilty,” he said. “But I’ve learned that unless you have the occasional treat, you end up with nothing left to give.”

“I get that. Nobody could do the job you do with an emotional fuel tank constantly running on empty.”

He noticed my hands. “God, they’re white with cold. Sorry the heater wasn’t working in the car.” He took one of my hands in both of his and began rubbing. It felt good being touched. Correction: it felt good being touched by Huck.

“Ooh, that feels better,” I said after he’d been rubbing for a minute or so. “I can feel the life coming back.”

He started on the other hand, stopping only when the wine arrived.

“So, what happened to poor old Pemberton?” I asked.

“Booze.” Huck explained that Pemberton had been a drinker all his life. “For years he managed to hide it, but eventually he started drinking on the job. People from the best houses have little time for drunken servants and he got the sack. He’d drunk his savings, his wife had left him and he had no family to speak of. So he ended up sleeping on the streets. He lives in a hostel and we let him help out at the center.”

“Poor man.”

“I know. I think about these people and realize how easy it is to find yourself homeless. Talk about ‘There but for the grace of God’—” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Time to change the record. Work tends to get to me and I end up getting maudlin.”

We ordered comfort food: lamb shanks braised in wine with mustard mash. Chez Max didn’t disappoint. It was sublime.

He asked me how my Christmas had been. I found myself telling him about Christmas morning and how I had stood in front of the his and hers sinks in the bathroom feeling sad. “For a few moments, the aloneness was just so overwhelming.”

“I know it’s an old cliché, but you have to give it time.”

“You’re right. People keep telling me the same thing, but I miss us being a family.” Now I was the one getting maudlin. “So, come on, how was your Christmas?”

Huck said that the youth club had been open to the homeless as well as to kids whose drugged-up parents were too out of it to feed them. “It was pretty full-on, but I managed to get home for a couple of days.”

He explained that, until he could find somewhere to live, he was staying with his parents. “Mum can’t believe her luck. Not only am I back from Africa, but I’m living at home and sleeping in my old bedroom. She hasn’t stopped clucking. Don’t get me wrong—I love her to bits and I do appreciate her ironing my pants and socks, but she can be a bit smothering.”