Book TRK
Chapter 81
Chapter 81
Thirty-One Years Ago
The bus pulls in and settles with a hiss. Shelley steps down and off.
The night is cold, with a mist that clings and swirls. Miserably she pulls her creased and filthy jacket
tight around her. Shivering and numb, moving awkwardly in her outsized trainers, she looks around at
dark streets.
She has never visited the City before, does not know where she is, has no friends here. Late though it
is, people move around her going this way and that way. None of them looks at Shelley. A group of
rowdies spill from a bar, yelling and pushing and singing obscene songs.
Cars drive past, splashing through ice-rimmed water and over anyone incautious enough to walk too
close to the road. Neon signs dazzle in the darkness and in the distances, sirens wail. The night smells
of fog and gasoline.
She fingers the coins in her pocket.
So few of them….
And she’s hungry.
She spots a late-night diner across the street. Scurrying across she walks past graffitied walls and
steps nervously over the outstretched legs of a bum, lying on a sheet of cardboard by the entrance.
But inside, at least it’s warm. She checks out the menu, choosing the cheapest meal she can find; a
bowl of soup, paying with a couple of her precious coins.
Cheap it might be, but the soup is hot and filling and delicious. She takes her time eating it - Where
else is she going to go? - but by the time she has finished it, she feels much better.
But what to do now?
The clock above the door displays well past midnight.
“You new in town?” The woman who served her the soup stands over her, holding a coffee pot.
“Yes.”
The woman looks at her with an assessing eye. “Family here? Friends?” She has a harsh accent, but
her tone is not unkind.
Shelley shakes her head, looking down at her empty soup bowl. “No.”
“Anywhere to go?”
“No.”
The woman sniffs and shifts then a cup appears on the table. The woman splashes it full of coffee.
“New start, huh?”
“I suppose.”
“A kid like you shouldn’t be on the streets at this time. I’m on the night shift ‘til six. So, stay here. Keep
warm.”
*****
The clock shows a quarter to six. Outside it is still dark. Shelley wakes, stiff from sleeping propped up
in her seat. But as she opens her eyes, there is a plate on the table in front of her: eggs, bacon and
sausages and her coffee cup has been filled again.
The woman stands over her again. “I’m off in a few minutes. If you don’t find somewhere to stay by
tonight, at least get yourself into one of the flophouses. Don’t stay on the streets.”
“I was hoping I could get a job.”
“Yeah, that’d be best. Good luck. What’s your name by the way?”
“I’m Shel…. I’m Mitch.”
“Nice meeting you, Mitch. You take care.”
*****
Assistant wanted. Part-time hours. Good rate of pay….
Mitch peers at the notice, then walks into the supermarket.
“Yes dear. What can I do for you?” The be-spectacled woman looks her up and down, then down again
at the trainers.
“I saw your notice. I’m interested in the job.”
“Of course, dear, let me take your details.” She takes a pad and pen, fingers poised to write. “It’s only
shelf stacking I’m afraid. Nothing very exciting.”
“That’s fine. I just want a job.”
“Don’t we all dear. Name please.”
There is a hesitation, then, “Mitch Kimberley.”
“Address?”
“I don’t have one yet. I’ve only just arrived.”
The woman looks at her long, then, “Can I see some ID, please dear.”
“I…. I don’t have any.”
She puts the pen down. “I'm sorry, but I can't employ you like this. It’s against the law.” She pins an
eagle-gaze on her. “And how old are you?”
*****
A hand-written sign on cardboard at the local market: Help wanted
It’s out of doors and the chill bites at her fingers. The stall-holder eyes the girl standing there, in her
dirty clothes and absurd shoes. Her red hair hangs in rat-tails and she wears an anxious expression.
“Can you start now?”
Her eyes brightening. “Yes, I’d love to start now.”
“It’ll be cash in hand.”
She smiles. “I'll work for cash.”
“Alright. You can start over there. Those crates on the truck. Get them unloaded then stack the veg on
the display. Potatoes there, cabbages there and carrots there….”
The work is back-breaking. Constant lifting, carrying, bending…. Lifting again….
At the end of the day, the stall must be disassembled and the heavy steel parts, icy in stiff hands,
stacked back in the wagon. There has been plenty of hot tea and coffee to drink, but she hasn’t eaten.
But she’s going to be paid….
“Hey, Mitch, Here's your cash.”
Stepping smartly, she takes the money, then her smile fades. She starts at the coins in her hands. “Is
that all?”
“What did you expect working for cash? I can't pay you the full rate. Anyway, how old are you?”
“I’m not a child. And I did a full day’s work.”
“Got some ID? Then I can put you on the books?” Her face falls. “Yeah, that’s what I thought…. You
going to come back next week?”
Dumbly, she turns, making her way along the ranks of the rapidly closing market. One end is all food:
fruit and veg, eggs and cheese, meat, fish, farm produce of all kinds. At the other end, cheap clothes,
shoes and bags are being stashed into crates and boxes.
She sits on a bench, her paltry wages held in her hand….
Home….
Family….
Would her brothers be angry?
Stevie certainly.
She stole their money….
But they’d forgive her when she showed them she was sorry….
The afternoon is lengthening, the chill air turning to freezing air once more.
Home….
….
…. Butterflies….
The shoe stall next to her bench finally packs up its last board and rack. There is the slam of a tail-gate
closing then the van drives away. Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.
To the back of the stall is rubbish from the day’s trade; empty boxes and bags, the remains of packed
lunches and junk food and takeaway coffee. At the end of the street, cleaners and trash collectors are
working down, clearing the mess.
Her gaze roams the stacks of trash….
…. and she breaks into a sunburst smile.
Reclaiming them, she tries them for size. They’re second-hand, abandoned and need new laces, but
the shoes fit her. She can walk comfortably again.
Fuck butterflies….
*****