‘Why not?’ asked Dave rubbing himself down.
‘It’s not been cleaned for two months. Can you imagine all those kids in there peeing and throwing lumps of mud about. And what about the drowned flies for God’s sake.’
Pete pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Here,’ he offered the packet.
Dave accepted one and finished dressing.
‘How long you been here Dave?’
‘Almost two weeks. Go back day after tomorrow.’
‘Like it?’ asked Pete sitting himself on the washhand basin.
‘Not bad. Saw nearly everything. Went to the old German hospital yesterday and we went around the island again today.’
‘More than I’ve done in four months.’
‘Four months?’ echoed Dave.
‘Yeah, I’m doing the season. My fourth,’ he added.
‘Lucky man,’ murmured Dave.
‘Yeah, it’s a good place this.’
‘Is the old Irishman with you?’
‘Old Patrick?’ Pete smiled, ‘he isn’t with anybody.’
‘What do you do to live?’
‘Oh picking. Potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, roses.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Pick anything at all. Even noses.’
He jumped down from the basin.
‘Anyway Dave I start work in approximately six hours.’ He opened the door, ‘See you tomorrow if you’re around.’
At 7.15 a.m. Pete wearily stretched out an arm from the sleeping bag and switched off the alarm. He dragged himself out, pulled on his patched jeans and tee shirt then slipped into his sandals. The farmer’s boy had left the carton of milk under the outside flap. Even this early in the morning the temperature was soaring near 70°F. Pete drank half and hid the remainder in the long damp grass near his tent to stay fresh, covered by a polythene bag to ward off insects.
One or two campers were already up, the men out for a bit of peace before the children took over. The washroom was busy and Pete had to queue for an empty basin. Come August and it would be like Portobello Road on a Saturday afternoon. Some of the men were talking to each other, gingerly using christian names.
Pete was allowed a basin by one of the men before his turn. He was accorded some respect because of his status as a seasonal worker.
Among the hundred or so people camping on the site there were only two working the season. The previous year there had been eight but this season only Pete had returned with the old Irishman. Patrick had first come during the late fifties for some mysterious reason. Pete had guessed at tax problems but he was a close man and gave no clue whatsoever. He had come back every year since then only returning to Sligo every Christmas to visit his family and hand in all his money. Pete had come four seasons ago and had no fixed plans. He was twenty-four now and returned to London for four months each year. It was becoming more of a wrench to leave Jersey with every winter. However he had no fixed plans.
Patrick and he had remained close friends after sharing a pot of vegetable soup for four days when both men were without money or work at the beginning of Pete’s second season.
As Pete washed his face he was aware of a heavy smell drifting from the cubicles. Noticing two or three holidaymakers with wrinkled noses looking self-consciously about the room, he smiled inwardly.
A door clanged shut and old Patrick appeared, book in one hand. The other held his stomach.
‘Ah Jasus me guts.’ He shook his head mournfully as he crossed the damp floor.
‘You’re late,’ said Pete who was drying his neck.
‘Twenty-five minutes in the shit house? No bloody wonder boy.’ The old man stopped, ‘Where’ve you been the last couple o’ days?’
‘In town.’
‘Boy,’ said Patrick, ‘you’ll have no chopper left if you don’t slow down.’ Pete smiled following him from the washroom. The sun was streaming down. Old Patrick pulled his ancient bunnet down over his red, gnarled face.
‘Good Christ what a heat. Blind a man,’ he muttered as they walked to their tents.
‘Could have done well last night if you’d been in,’ he continued. ‘Plenty tourists about.’
‘I’ll be in tonight,’ said Pete, ‘although I’m pretty broke.’
‘Did you get a bit when you were in?’
Pete shrugged, ‘I’m saying nothing.’
The old Irishman snorted.
‘Don’t want to get you all worked up man,’ Pete said. ‘You might rape a cow or something.’
‘Ha!’ cried Patrick, ‘don’t worry about me boy. I don’t go short. Don’t worry about that.’ Pete burst into laughter and flicked his towel at him.
‘See you later you lying old bastard,’ he shouted.
‘Aye,’ called Patrick as they parted, ‘and you’d better bring some money ’cause I’m buying you nothing.’
They worked on different farms. Patrick drove a tractor for John Fasquelle down at St Martin and Pete worked near Grouville for Freddie Coffier. He cycled the three miles there and back on a ramshackle bicycle Coffier had given him. He was a good boss and Pete made his own hours, normally working from eight until five unless they were exceptionally busy. He was paid 6/6 an hour tax free and the farmer paid all his insurance.
Pete arrived home after five and boiled some freshly picked potatoes which he had with a frozen minute steak and the remaining half pint of milk. Some holidaymakers were eating dinner and a few were recuperating in the sun, dozing to Radio 1. Pete ate quickly then carried the dirty utensils to the washroom.
‘Hullo there.’
Pete stopped, seeing Dave approach.
‘Hullo Dave how are you doing?’
‘Okay. How was work?’
‘Too hot,’ Pete answered, ‘far too hot man.’
‘What are you doing now? I mean after, where are you going?’
‘I’ll be off for a few pints.’
‘To St Helier?’
‘No. Just down to the cross.’
‘The hotel?’
‘Yeah. The Queen’s. Fancy coming along?’
‘Yes,’ Dave looked pleased, ‘how long will you be?’
‘As soon as I do this lot,’ he looked at the utensils. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Okay, I’ll go and get changed.’ Dave turned and walked off.
About twenty minutes later they met at the gate entrance to the campsite. Pete grinned to himself when Dave appeared wearing a suit and a shirt and tie.
‘Kind of formal man,’ he said. ‘The locals will take you for a tourist.’
‘Well it’s a hotel,’ he hesitated. ‘Oh who cares. I am a tourist anyway.’
Pete laughed, ‘I doubt if Patrick’ll even talk to you.’
‘The old Irishman?’ asked Dave.
Pete nodded. ‘Yes. The best domino man on the Channel Islands.’
‘Oh!’ Dave glanced sideways at him.
The Queen’s Hotel stood at the crossroads just under a two-mile walk from the campsite. It had a bar, a lounge and a fair-sized restaurant all of which opened seven days a week to resident and non-resident alike. The lounge was patronized by holidaymakers and wealthy retired couples in contrast to the large bar where the local farmworkers congregated. They were in the main Bretons and tended to drink in one large group by the bar. A few tourist husbands on the run from television lounges would end up here where they could have a quiet pint and perhaps a game of darts or dominoes.
When Pete and Dave entered the bar the Irishman was sitting near the group of Frenchmen, chatting to an old crony who puffed on a gray clay pipe. Pete asked Dave what he wanted to drink.
‘Pint of bitter and a pint of Guinness, Sam,’ called Pete to the barman.
He turned to Dave.
‘Notice how he never acknowledged it?’
Dave nodded.
‘That’s because I haven’t been in for two days. They think if you’re not here you must be in some other boozer spending the money.’