Fresh (3 page)

The cloakroom was full of guys sitting on benches munching sandwiches out of Tupperware boxes. Sean went to the sink and gave his hands a good wash. Then he picked up his bag and sat between two guys. It was a bit tight so he wiggled his arse to make more room. They tutted but they moved. Sean pulled his box out of his bag and opened it. He threw one of the bags of crisps over to Albert.

Thanks son.

No bother old yin.

Not a lot was said in the cloakroom. The men were too busy cramming their food into their mouths so they would have time for a fag before they had to go back to the chickens. Sean ate the crisps and the sandwiches and he was halfway through his chocolate biscuit before he realised he had missed the break. He always meant to take his time. Savour the fifteen minutes as if they were finely spiced steak slices. But it never happened. He munched through his food and didn’t even taste it half the time. One minute his box was full and the next he was putting the lid on and pushing it back into his bag.

Sean finished the chocolate biscuit and made a ball out of the wrapper. He flicked it at a white cap and looked
away. The white cap had a look around and Sean caught his eye and pointed to Albert. The white cap threw a bit of bread at Albert. The old guy pointed to the white cap.

What the fuck are ye playin at?

The white cap went red and stared at his piece box. Albert looked at Sean.

Did ye see that?

Aye he’s a cheeky wee bastard.

The white cap looked at Sean like he was shocked. Sean gave him a wink but Albert caught him.

Ya fuckin arsehole. Ah might have guessed.

The white cap smiled and so did Sean and Albert. Sean stood up.

Ah’m goin for a fag. Are ye comin?

Albert pushed the last corner of his sandwich into his mouth and stood up. A few crumbs fell from his overalls onto the floor. Sean pointed at them.

Ya messy old bastard.

Albert gave Sean the fingers and they walked to the toilets.

Sean leaned against the washbasins and made a fag. He lit it up. Albert grabbed the lighter and lit his. He put it in his pocket. Sean put his hand out.

Cheeky bastard. Hand the lighter over.

Albert shrugged and gave it back. They had a few puffs without saying anything. Then Albert picked at a bit of tobacco hanging out of the back of his roll-up. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

So where’s Archie goin to stay when he gets home?

Fuck sake Albert that’s six months away. How the fuck should Ah know?

It’s good to get these things sorted out son. We don’t want the boy goin back to crime and drugs.

Well let him stay round yours.

Ah wish Ah could but yer auntie willnay let him.

Ye wish ye could my arse. Ye don’t want the cunt anywhere near ye.

Ah wouldnay say that son.

Well Ah fuckin would. Ah don’t want him anywhere near me.

What about Maggie’s wee sister? What’s her name?

Lizzie.

Was he no seein her for a bit?

Aye but she got pregnant while he was in the jail so Ah doubt he’ll be goin round there in a hurry.

But he’s no had his hole for five years so –

Aye maybe. As long as he doesnay think he’s stayin round mine, Ah don’t gie a fuck where he goes.

Or mine.

He’ll no even ask ye.

He’d be a cheeky cunt if he did.

Sean laughed.

Cheeky’s his middle name but.

Albert laughed as well.

Aye Ah know.

Both of them smiled and looked at the floor. Then Albert crossed his arms over his chest.

Yer da was the same.

Was he?

Aye. Ye wouldnay believe the trouble he used to get me into.

Aye Ah would.

Albert smiled into the distance.

And yer auntie Jessie hated him.

Maggie hasnay any time for Archie.

Albert nodded.

He changed though when he met yer ma.

Pity Archie cannay settle down.

Albert looked at Sean as if he just noticed him.

What’s that son?

Ah said it’s a pity Archie cannay settle down.

Albert dropped his fag in the urinal.

C’mon we should get back.

Sean sat on the edge of a basin and blew some smoke rings.

Ah’ll be there in a wee while.

Albert left the toilet. Sean felt good. A nice fat roll-up in the company’s time.

Aye this is the life.

He swung his wellies back and forth and leaned against the mirror. Life wasn’t so bad. It was just what you made it.

A pint would be nice.

The thought of the drink brought him back down. He wouldn’t be having one for a while. It was going to be tight but by the time Archie was out the jail Sean should have the seven hundred saved and ready to hand over. He felt the cold mirror on the back of his head as he nodded to himself.

It fuckin better be son.

Albert and Jessie were goin up the toon one night so they made Archie look after me. He was fumin. Gave me a slap round the ear as soon as we were out the scheme. Just keep yer mouth shut, he said to me on the way to Sammy’s. It was rainin but Ah was sweatin like a pig by the time we got there. Our Archie walks fast as fuck. Most of what Ah saw of him on the walk over was his hunched-up back, hands in his pockets, head down, and the odd gob from the side of his mouth. The only time Ah saw his face was when he turned to say c’mon hurry up ye cunt.

We got to a 74 on a peelin yellow door and Archie gave it a chap. Oh hiya Archie c’mon in said this old woman. She had a Celtic scarf over her hair and a fag in her mouth. She telt us to come in and called to Sammy yer pal’s here. Archie was straight into Sammy’s room tellin him Ah was there. Ah got into the room and he telt me to sit on the bed and shut it. He gave me a slap on the ear. Ah kept my mouth shut. Sammy put on a record. Same music Archie listened to at home.

Archie and Sammy sat in the corner and spoke to each other out the sides of their mouths. They looked angry and laughed and pointed fingers at each other. Ah looked around the room. Same room as ours really, same Stiff Little Fingers poster, only we had a double bed and our curtains didnay look as if someone had wiped their arse on them. Sammy asked me if Ah’d ever seen King Dong. Ah shook my head. Archie telt him to pack it in. Sammy telt him he was bein a prick. Archie said alright. He pointed at me and said but if ye tell Albert Ah’ll fuckin kill ye. Ah knew he’d come close
so Ah nodded. Sammy picked at one of the floorboards and pulled up a bit about a foot long.

He got on his side and put his arm all the way in and came out with a magazine. Ah couldnay believe it. There was a black guy with a cock that went down past his knees. Sammy said King Dong fainted every time he got a hard on. Ah bet ye his wife does as well said Archie. They laughed and Sammy took the magazine back and put it under the floor. Sammy pulled somethin else out and telt me to watch the bedroom door. Ah could hardly hear them for the music but the polis were mentioned.

On the way home Archie gave me fifty pence for sweeties and telt me Ah’d seen fuck-all, right?

A few nights later we were sat in the house and Archie seemed a bit jumpy. Every time a motor drove onto the street he got up and looked out the window. My auntie Jessie asked him if he had ants in his pants. My uncle Albert looked up, growled at Archie and got back to the paper. Ah watched the telly. Then Archie got really agitated and there was a knock at the door. My uncle got up to get it and came into the livin room with these two polis. He telt me to get to my bed. He telt Archie to get sat on his arse.

Ah heard a bit of shoutin downstairs then Archie came up. Ah asked him what was goin on. He telt me to mind my own business and gave me a punch on the top of my head. It was fuckin sore. Ah ran downstairs greetin just as my uncle was showin the polis out the front door. Ah went into the livin room and my auntie Jessie gave me a cuddle. My uncle shut the door and
went upstairs. Ah heard him gie Archie a batterin. By the time Ah went back up he seemed to be asleep but when Ah got into bed he grabbed me by the hair and telt me he’d fuckin kill me if Ah ever grassed him up again. It was that sore Ah nearly pished myself.

Sean finished his fag and walked down the corridor and back into Fresh. He looked over at the women but they were all busy and didn’t notice him passing. He couldn’t be bothered giving them a shout. One of the older women was showing a new lassie how to truss up a chicken. She was laughing because she couldn’t get the elastic round the chicken’s legs. The old one showed her three times before she finally managed it on her own. She looked best-pleased when she done it and the old dear winked at her and said that’s my girl. Sean spat on the floor and climbed the steps to his station.

He heard the psst-psst-psst and had to run. The birds being pumped onto his conveyor were plump ones. Sunday roasters. Lovely when they’re cooked. A light brown skin, toes turned up, and a waft of aromatic steam tempting the taste buds. The dad at the head of the table, sharpening the carving knife with long deliberate flicks. The children hypnotised by the rhythmic scrapes yet alert as hungry dogs. The sprouts and the mash potatoes are on dishes in the centre of the table. They’re dying to nick a sprout but any funny business and the dad will delay the serving of the chicken for another
few minutes. A lesson in self-discipline he calls it. Mum comes through from the kitchen with the roasting can smoking with potatoes and vegetables. She pours the contents of the can into a warmed dish placed in the centre of the table and goes back for the Yorkshire puds. In and out the dining room she is, head pecking the air like a busy busy chicken, placing random condiments on the table, until she hangs her pinafore on the back of the kitchen door and fetches through the gravy. She places it on a mat, souvenir of Minehead North Devon 1985, and waits patiently for the husband to serve up the meat. He cuts into the brown breast to reveal the pure white meat below and places a slice on his wife’s plate. Thanks darling she says. He serves up portions of the chicken to all the family leaving himself till last. Of course he saved himself a nice thick bit of breast, he is the breadwinner after all. Mum tells the children to help themselves to vegetables and they do. She picks out two choice roast potatoes and a Yorkshire pudding for her husband. A bit of roast parsnip, a spoonful of creamy mash, some sprouts and carrots and the dinner is ready for a liberal splash of home-made gravy. Mum does this for the whole family. She holds a tea towel against the edge of the gravy boat to make sure none drips on the embroidered tablecloth given to her and her husband as a wedding present. He is cutting into the flesh with a knife, fork poised above the repast, when he notices a piece of paper jutting from the chicken’s arse. What’s this? he says to his wife. I don’t know darling, why don’t you have a look? He reads the note out and his wife drops her cutlery and spits her barely chewed first
mouthful onto her plate. Can she taste the spunk of a factory hand? Nice.

Sean sniggered at the thought of the fortune chickens he has sent into the world of the happy family. The most important thing was not to do it very often. Once in a blue moon and he’d never get caught. He’d deny it anyway. Prove it he’d say.

Prove what? said Albert.

What are ye doin over here?

Never mind that, what are ye goin on about?

Nothing, Ah was just talkin to myself.

Oh aye? It’ll be hairs on the palms of the hands next.

Tell me about it, this place drives me fuckin nuts.

Them cunts should be offerin us counsellin or somethin.

Counsellin?

Aye. What’s funny about that?

Albert walked back to his station shaking his head and muttering counselling.

Sean struggled on with the Sunday roasters. A halfhour’s aerobic workout with them leaves the forearms zinging. You don’t just pick them up. You have to get your elbows under your wrists and swing them in the direction of the conveyor. Otherwise your wrists take the strain and before you know it you’ve lifted your last pint. That would be a tragedy. And Sean is not having that. When he retires he wants to be able to pick up a pint without wincing. These big ones don’t half pull but. Thank god they’re not like that all day. You’d end up crippled.

A chicken landed on the conveyor, its legs spread like
a woman that’s just dropped a baby, gaping minge telling him he’s a man and thank fuck for that. Sean wondered if Maggie was up and about yet. It must be half eight. She might be walking down the Royston Road with Donna. Long dark hair and blokes looking at them, seeing the mother and the potential in the daughter. One of them van drivers slowing down as he passes so he can have a look at their faces. The thing with Maggie is she’s got a delicious wee arse. Like two peaches it is. Any man can be forgiven for having a look. She just smiles though. Not one of them tarty smiles. The smile of a woman who appreciates the compliment but is happy with the man she’s got, thank you very much. She might even nod when he winks at her but she won’t wink back.

Of course she’ll get to the school and one of the teachers will come out to meet her. No doubt that Mr Keyes. Sean remembered him at the parents’ night. All sugar to the women. The trouble with teachers like that is they’ve had too much time with kids doing what they’re told. It gives them the idea they’re a bit of a character. Bit of a geezer. Lapping up the attentions of giggling lassies. Maggie wasn’t impressed either. Did you see the dog hair on his jacket? she said when they were walking home.

A chicken dropped and bounced to the side of the conveyor belt. Sean grabbed it by the thigh and tugged. It got wedged between the belt and the framework and he had to yank it free. It felt like it didn’t want to leave the conveyor belt. Didn’t want to be clicked onto hooks to disappear and be trussed and wrapped ready for the
sticker with the bar code and the price and the fluor escent display on the supermarket shelf.

Sean could see Maggie pushing the trolley round the shop. The vegetables first, potatoes and carrots and that, placed on the bottom. Then a layer of fruit. Tangerines, oranges, apples and bananas. Then she goes to the meat counter. Sausages, mince, and a chat with the butcher. Her smile and eyes and Royston-bred sharpness get a piece of steak as tender as a mother with a bleeding child.