Illegal E-Book

alastair macleod

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

"A fantasy – the cycle of their days and weeks locked them in - they never met any young British men.
At the farm they collected on trailers and were tractored out to the fields. The ground was wet, slimy, so when the field workers got down their boots were soon clogged and heavy with thick clay. A drizzle had set in.
As she bent and stretched Irene recalled yesterday morning.
It had been bright and sunny.
A young man heading for the train station had smiled at her as she tried to look invisible. She regretted that. At home she would have smiled, flashed her eyelashes. She smiled now at the thought of it. Ilona caught her look saying “And what are you thinking of.” Irena laughed, “Guess.”
“Men of course,” replied Ilona, stooping to cut a stalk. “Of course,” said Irena.
The gang boss couldn’t stop them from dreaming"

Leseprobe

Alastair Macleod

Illegal

"this story was written before Romania finally joined the European Union in 2007. Yet, the trafficking goes on from it, and other countries of the world" first published in the collection of short stories "Strip of Light" in 2005BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Illegal

The minibus picked her up at 7 am. She and the others had been told by Costa not to form a group, not to stand together so as to draw attention – too many foreign looking people stood together might bring questions. So one stood in a shop doorway, another sat on the bus stop seat; she leant against the wall.

It was cold, her thin jacket ineffective against the biting wind from the North Sea.

The gang boss drove the minibus. He was always surly. Everything was a problem, people leaving, things breaking down. Was it all show so he could justify the pittance he paid them?

They were all illegals. Irena sat beside Ilona. They were both from Romania so they could at least chat without Costa understanding; he was Croat. Jaco, the third from her pick up point, was Russian from Odessa.

It would be cold today. Picking broccoli in January made your hands blue.

She barely glanced at the houses as they sped along. The wealth of the English. Their cars spoke of it, so many. Satellite dishes sprang like fungi from their neat homes. She burned to see inside, to see how they lived.

And how they drank. She was never out on a Saturday night but she heard them. She had been told to keep low, keep out of sight, stay in your accommodation. Costa rented them the ugly little flats in the back streets of Great Yarmouth. There they made what life they could. They worked so much that eating and sleeping was almost as far as it went. Someone had a radio, another might have some wine. They helped each other. Over all of this was the fear of discovery, deportation.

The boss kept talking about it. Step out of line and you’re out.

“Was this a life?” Irena had often thought. This daily rhythm – the trip to the fields, a long day, cold, often wet. What for? Going back meant failure and back to what? There were no jobs to be had. The village was empty now of young folk, all dispersed, like her, to the west or to the cities.

Here she at least caught glimpses of another life.

Some of the young women talked of marrying a Brit – that way you’re in, all problems solved. A fantasy – the cycle of their days and weeks locked them in - they never met any young British men.

At the farm they collected on trailers and were tractored out to the fields. The ground was wet, slimy, so when the field workers got down their boots were soon clogged and heavy with thick clay. A drizzle had set in.

As she bent and stretched Irene recalled yesterday morning.

It had been bright and sunny.

A young man heading for the train station had smiled at her as she tried to look invisible. She regretted that. At home she would have smiled, flashed her eyelashes. She smiled now at the thought of it. Ilona caught her look saying,

“And what are you thinking of.” Irena laughed,

“Guess.”

“Men of course,” replied Ilona, stooping to cut a stalk.

“Of course,” said Irena.

The gang boss couldn’t stop them from dreaming.

Around them there was a mixture of men and women but Irena and Ilona had ruled out these men.

There were no prospects. These men had no money, no house, no citizenship. They were as likely to be shipped back as the girls, therefore the girls, being practical, dismissed them. Besides, some of them were pretty rough.