Sunjeev Sahota - The Year of the Runaways

*

The work was a few miles away in a place called Catcliffe. An old building had been demolished and the ground had to be prepared for a new one. They were split into groups. Some were dispatched with orders to find all the intact bricks and pile them to one side, so they could later be sold. Some had to work the JCBs and clear the rubble and topsoil. And some, like Randeep, had to gather the boulders and wheel them to the waiting yellow skips. He’d been given a pair of worn-looking boots, and thick gloves for handling the stones, but could still only manage one rock at a time, and it became almost comical how often he had to stop the barrow and turn the thing round. The rocks were so big they had to be rolled up a laddered plank leaning against the skip.

‘My grandmother could go faster,’ the guy who was rolling said.

‘Sorry,’ Randeep replied and trudged back with his barrow.

At the end of the week he got his wages from Vinny and went to the supermarket to buy a plate, a knife and fork and spoon, and a bar of soap. That evening, he came down into the kitchen holding his purchases by his side, hoping no one would notice. But Gurpreet was dishing out and as soon as he took hold of Randeep’s clean white plate he looked up.

‘I see. So what we have isn’t good enough for you?’

‘It’s not that, bhaji. You saw how I was sick. My stomach is just very sensitive.’

‘O-ho! He is just very sensitive! Did you hear that, faujio? And I suppose you think the rest of us are barbarians compared to you?’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll take it back. I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. If the prince is sensitive, then we must respect that.’ He shook the brown porridge from the spoon and onto the bright white centre of the plate and handed it back to Randeep. ‘Enjoy.’

No one spoke to him during the meal. Afterwards, he cleaned his plate and spoon and went to lie on his mattress in his room. He called Avtar but it went to voicemail. He didn’t know how he was going to survive a year. Maybe if he asked Vinnyji if there was somewhere else he could live? He could say he’d be happy to take a pay cut. He drifted off to sleep, still in his boots.

He did ask Vinnyji if there was alternative accommodation, catching him on his own before he drove off one morning.

‘Look, I sympathize, mate. You like the finer things. My missus is the same. If it ain’t Gucci I get no smoochy. Know what I’m saying? But — ’ he shrugged — ‘it’s one in one out. The other house is full and, to be honest, it’s best to have everyone in one place. Easier.’

Randeep listened miserably, but as he listened he remembered his friend Michael. ‘Vinnyji, how far is Doncaster?’

‘I ain’t picking you up from fucking Doncaster.’

‘Could I live there? I have a friend there. Could I live with him?’

Vinny sighed and said he supposed he could live on the fucking moon if he wanted as long as he arrived to work on time.

‘So I can move there? With my friend?’

‘Like I said, just be here on time, every time.’

Before dinner, he called Michael. He’d rung him so often Randeep could picture perfectly the telephone number printed below the address in the office filebook. Someone answered. ‘Yes?’

‘Michael? Is that you? It’s me. Randeep. Your friend from India. I’ve just arrived in England. In Sheffield.’

He couldn’t be quite clear how much the old man had understood. But definitely Randeep had said he’d like to come over tonight and definitely Michael had replied that he looked forward to seeing him.

He lifted his suitcase down from the cupboard and had made it as far as the front door when Gurpreet entered the hallway and asked where he thought he was sneaking off to.

‘Nowhere, bhaji. My friend called and asked me to visit him.’

‘So you’re taking all your clothes?’

‘It might be a little permanent.’

The taxi from the station dropped him off outside a pebble-dashed bungalow, at a flame-red gate almost hidden in its privet hedge. A light was on in the window. Randeep wheeled his suitcase to the door, ringing the bell, and had to wait a good few minutes before he heard the lock turn, and even then the door stayed on its chain.

‘Yes?’

‘Michael? Oh, it’s good to meet you at last. This is great.’

He was seated on a comfy plaid armchair by a three-bar heater glowing blue. There were an oppressive number of family photographs on the walls and the window ledges, the side tables and mantelpiece. Black-and-white images of Michael in his uniform, of Michael and his late wife — Janice, Randeep remembered — and colour photos as well, of children slurping ice cream or grinning on their bicycles.

‘I wasn’t expecting visitors until you called,’ Michael said, coming in from the kitchen with a glass of milk. He was a slightly hunched man with a silver comb-over, his face a network of deep wrinkles connecting the soft nodes that were his mouth, nose and ears. His left eye didn’t open fully. Several times he had to ask Randeep to speak up.

‘I said, I remember you telling me the story of you and Balwant Singh.’

‘Oh, yes, Billy.’ Michael made a sympathetic noise. ‘He was a good one. An engineer, you know. He had a girl waiting to marry him back in the Punjab. Don’t think he’d ever clapped eyes on her, mind. One of those arranged jobbies. Is that what you’re here for?’

‘No, sir. Too young for that. I’m here to work only.’

‘Because there’s plenty of them knocking about Donny. Your sort. And a young chappie like you won’t have any trouble to start a-courting.’

‘Sir, actually, I have a girlfriend back home waiting for me, too.’

‘Have you seen her, though?’

Randeep asked if he might remove his jacket — to get more comfortable, sir. When he came back from the cloakroom, Michael was waiting at the frosted-glass cabinet, beckoning Randeep over.

‘My grandchildren.’ He went through their names, ages, how far they lived, what they were like. ‘They all take after their nana, if you ask me. Bright as butterflies, the lot of them.’

Randeep suggested that he — Randeep — make them both something to eat. Michael said he’d eaten. ‘But you help yourself.’

He found some sort of pie in the fridge and a tin of baked beans and he heated this all up in the microwave. As long as he kept making himself useful, Randeep thought, waiting for his food to cook. Maybe then Michael would let him stay. He hoped so. It would make all the difference, knowing he had a cosy home to come back to, that he’d never have to spend an evening with Gurpreet again. He could suggest a walk to the park one evening next week, or to the cinema, even, to watch an old wartime film.

He returned to the front room, hot plate in hand. Michael was rousing awake the television. He wanted to watch the news and for the next half an hour the two of them sat there quite companion-ably: Randeep, for once, enjoying his meal, while Michael wielded his remote at the screen and swore at the flaming Tories.

After the news came the weather, and the bearded man with the map said they expected a mild, dry day tomorrow, with only a small chance of showers.

‘Maybe when I come back from work I can take you to the park. For some fresh air.’

‘That’s kind of you. I’d enjoy that.’

‘And I also want to talk about rent. I insist. What sort of payment would you like for all this?’

‘Rent? You staying?’

The front door opened and a man started backing into the room. ‘Sorry, Dad, the pigeons took the arse-end of forever. I tried calling but you must’ve been fast on.’ He wore a fluorescent raincoat, though it wasn’t raining, and was dragging over the doorstep some sort of trolley covered in tartan. Only when he rested the trolley against the wall and turned round and pulled off his hood did he see Randeep sitting in the armchair.