He must press on. No time to be lost. If there ever had been time to lose, he did not remember it. Sunday evenings? Perhaps, evenings when he should be sat down with his dreams but even then, how could anyone cross their heart and say that was lost time. How could you win without having your dreams?
This Sunday evening he could only remember his dreams. He must press on. A small misunderstanding when night was falling and the girls must be fresh for the dawn because Mr Brown too, he was pressing on. Expansion, a new contract, was what he said and the agency must supply or he would have to look elsewhere. It was nothing personal, he said, the big Englishman in his suit and the pressed white shirt undone at the collar, but that was the situation, fresh salad was a highly competitive business.
He must press on, pushing the girls like the donkeys they were, stupid girls from the north, from villages on stony ground. Hurry hurry. It was he who must say it, see how was the traffic and say Go! Pulling the handle of the fold-up shopping trolley and the mattress tied on with the octopus grip, pulling the girls at either end. And still the mattress swayed on the trolley as if the girls were not there at all. Till they reached the white line in the middle of the road, after the half-gap had come, the big red bus that had had the time to brake. And there, the sound of the brakes with the white line reached, when it was clear there was only one thing to be done, that the mattress must turn and hold itself along the white line till the next gap came, it was he, sweat on the forehead in the cool night air, him who must make it so. It took all his strength to pull them into the line, the girls and the mattress that was red with a white zig zag so as to face the opposite pavement.
It was their next objective, the opposite pavement. It was nothing personal, Mr Brown said, but the consumer is king. Or queen, he said, with a laugh and a slap on the shoulders. And he had said in return, No Problem Misser Brown, because it was no problem till the dice fell bad and there was a small misunderstanding over the room. These girls, they were stupid country girls, he’d said, must cook their own food like there is no other food in the whole wide world. Mr White said, read the contract pal. A rude man. Now they must press on. And these girls, what did they care when everything was laid on for them. Knowing there would always be a bed and some food because someone else would arrange it.
The half-width of road ahead rumbled under the weight of the truck, TESCO lettered along its side. The girls, what did they care. England, where nothing bad happened. Hurry hurry, pulling them through the next gap before the BMW. Pulling because they stared at the car, black, 5 series, like paradise had come to this earth. He would have done it all by himself if the double didn’t bend and spout itself like the fattest, baddest serpent. He would have brought the girls separate. One by one or two by two, he’d have brought them, but when there was mattress or tow, what could he do?
What could any man do? Till they reached the promised land, him dragging the trolley when its left wheel had tilted on the camber. There, on the other side, a man stared at them . Too bad, there was no time to entertain. Stare what you like. Whereas he, he must press on: the girls must be fresh for dawn, Mr Brown says that’s how they must be. It is nothing personal he says, it is contractual quotas.
Over the weekend problems had come his way like a pack of dogs in a village of mud. Scavengers with yellow teeth.
Was a mistake Misser White, he’d said. Poor country girls, they are ignorant. It was not his problem Mister White had replied. Contractual obligations had not been met and they must go.
On the pavement the girls stood. He must pull the trolley round, them and the mattress with it. They must press on. Of course they must press on. Along the one block, past the All Night Food and Wine where no one gave them not a stare nor a glance. This was London town There was enough entertainment already.
A very hard man, Mr White, and then today, the clutch on the Transit had gone. More money from his own pocket and not ready till Monday.
It was not his problem, Mr Brown said but just this once-and he was serious, just this very once-he would arrange transport for the pick-up. 5.30 am sharp, and the girls must be fresh, fresher than the fresh salads, he’d said, and laughed at his own joke.
The address?
He’d said he would ring Mr Brown later with the address, waiting for a joke at his expense or worse, Mr Brown saying enough was enough.
And now, he must take the next risk, leaving the girls on the corner with the mattress while he checked the new place was safe, no sign of the bandit landlord himself or any neighbour snoopers.
He told them, stay there, and don’t talk to no one. Everywhere in the world there were bad men and in London too, he told them. And then there were the police. Any sign of them, they should walk away and leave the mattress. And then return to the corner when everything was OK again. He would be waiting for them. They moved their heads as if they understood, and what could he do but hope even these village girls had done understood. They surely knew what meant police.
And he must press on. Around the corner he went, his chest tight, the breathing heavy, and unclipped the new keys from his belt. He knocked the door five times before opening up. It’s what he’d told them, the first batch: so they would know it was him, told them five times that he would knock five times.
There were four of them with the one double mattress, along with the single bed that came with the room. The light bulb in the ceiling had a pink shade that was stuck in a tilt. A studio flat, the thief of a landlord said, a kitchenette and bathroom squeezed in. But what could he do?! Pay, he had no choice; the girls must be fresh for their work.
No, they said like they were Siamese and all joined at the head, no one else had come round. On his way out he locked the door. Anxious juices were in his belly as he turned the corner, but there they were, with the mattress, just as he had left them. Donkeys waiting to be told what to do next. A couple in crazy coloured clothes were staring at them from across the street. Lucky people with time to lose. They could stare as much as they like for now they must press on, round the corner with them and the mattress in tow.
Six of them in place now, chattering away their nonsense, not a care in the world. Everything was on his plate. Six more girls, one more mattress and one hour to go before midnight and Mr White round with his friends who would not be friendly friends. He must press on. He folded the trolley flat and told them not to speak to any one, not open the door to anyone, and hurried out. No time for even one cigarette when this should be his own time, to sit down with his dreams.
One day.
