The man is talking too fast. It is stretching Andriy’s English to its limit. What is the price, he wonders?
“What it is?”
“Quality tackle. As used by all the top competitive fishermen. Fella caught a twenty-five-pound cod off of here the other day. Got fifty quid for it. Cash in hand.” He looks Andriy and Emanuel up and down, as if appraising their fishing potential.
“Put food on yer table every night, and the surplus you can sell to us. A quid a kilo. Easy money. No tax. No questions asked. Yours to spend as you wish. Just five quid for the day. Try it out.”
Andriy picks up a rod and examines it. He hasn’t been fishing since he was a kid, but it can’t be so difficult-that Bulgarian lad didn’t look particularly bright.
“Five quids? Five pounds?”
“That’s it, mate. Big shoal of mackerel coming in with the tide. You’ll cover the cost in no time, and then all the rest’s yours to take home to the missus.”
Andriy hands over his five pounds. The man gives him a rod and a blue bucket.
As the Ukrainian driver pulled in through the gate, I saw the gleaming white field that I’d spotted from the hillside yesterday. It had looked as though it was covered with plastic, and it turned out to be just that-rows upon rows of tunnels made out of polythene sheeting stretched over metal hoops. Down the centre of each tunnel was a row of straw bales, with bags of compost on them, planted with strawberries. It was like a whole garden under cover. The air was humid and warm, sweet with the scent of ripe strawberries, and another sickly chemical smell that clung to the roof of my mouth. Despite the smell, I was so hungry I couldn’t help myself-I reached out and started cramming the strawberries in my mouth. The others laughed.
“You can’t be a real strawberry-picker, Irina! We’re not allowed to eat them. They’ll sack you if they catch you,” said Oksana, who seemed to have taken me under her wing. Oksana was from Kharkiv, a bit older than me, and nice, though not very cultured-but all that seemed much less important now.
The supervisor, Boris, was also Ukrainian. He was a bit fat, and not too bright, with a thick Zaporizhzhia accent. He kept looking at me and saying if I proved myself today he’d put in a good word for me, and sort out my paperwork when we got back to the office. He was sure they’d take me on, because the warm weather had caused the strawberries to ripen early and-this was the third time he’d said this, what was the matter with him?-he’d put in a good word for me.
When he told me the wages, I couldn’t believe it. It was twice what we got in the other place, and I started thinking about all the things I would buy-some lovely scented soap, nice shampoo, new knickers-little sexy ones that Mother would detest-a massive bar of chocolate, some strappy sandals, and I needed a hairbrush, a new T-shirt, maybe two, a warmer jumper, and don’t forget a present to take back for Mother. And the picking was so easy; no bending, no lifting. Yes, I thought, I’m lucky to get this chance, and I’d better make the most of it, so I picked like crazy, because I had to prove myself.
At the end of the shift, when we went back to the strawberry farm, Boris came up and said it was time for me to prove myself. Then he pushed himself up against me in a disgusting way and kissed me on the mouth, with wet slimy kisses. I wasn’t frightened-Boris just seemed stupid and harmless-so I made myself go limp and let him kiss me, because I really really wanted this job. His gaspy breathing on my face made me feel cold inside. On the scale of sex appeal I would give him zero. OK, it’s a transaction, nothing more, I told myself. I tried to imagine Natasha and Pierre kissing, lost in each other. Were men different in those days? When he’d finished, I wiped my mouth on my T-shirt, and followed him up the stairs to the office.
Andriy walks down the Admiralty Pier with his rod and blue bucket in his hands and Emanuel at his side. The pier is a bleak span of concrete almost a kilometre long, reaching like a crooked dog-leg out into the sea, and every metre seems to be occupied by a fisherman, bucket at his feet, rod or line pitched over the water, staring out over the waves. In some of the buckets there are a few small fishes, but nothing to speak of.
About halfway along the first leg, Andriy and Emanuel come across the Bulgarian lad who sold Andriy the fish. He introduces his two friends, who are Romanian and Moldovan.
“Usually two or three of us here,” says the Bulgarian. “Next few metres is Baltics. Fish fryers. Up there”-he points for Andriy’s benefit-“Ukrainians and Byelorussians. Beetroot-eaters. Over there”-he points for Emanuel’s benefit-“we even have Africa. God knows what they eat. Down that end are Balkans-Serbs, Croats, Albanians. Best steer clear of those. Too much fighting.”
“And Angliski fishermen?”
The Bulgarian lad points at the end of the pier.
“That’s where all Angliskis go. Right up to end. Past Balkans. You can tell which is Angliski. Every one wears woollen hat. Even women. Pulled down over ears. Even in summer. Very good at fishing.”
“You get good fishing?”
“Plenty. Plenty fish everywhere. Easy money.”
Andriy glances down into the lad’s bucket. There are a few tiddlers. Who does he think he’s kidding?
“How long you been doing this fishy thing?”
The lad looked shifty. “Few days.”
“Where you get this fish line and bucket?”
“Man by pier. Same like you. Easy money.”
“Easy for him.”
The Bulgarian lad looks away and fiddles with his fishing rod. Andriy feels like thumping him, but what’s the point?
“He says plenty plenty mackerel coming this morning,” the lad calls plaintively to Andriy’s disappearing back. Poor mutt, doesn’t even realise it’s the afternoon.
“I go find Africa!” Emanuel heads off towards the two black figures hunched over their rod near the angle of the dog-leg.
Andriy picks up his bucket and rod and goes off to find the Ukrainians. They are two thin-faced youths, one with a shaven knobbly head, one with a sticking-up Klitschko-style crew cut.
“Hi, lads.”
“Hi, mate.”
“Any luck?”
“Not much.”
In fact, judging from the content of their buckets, none at all.
“Where you from?”
“ Vinnitsa. You?”
“ Donetsk.”
Andriy positions himself in the small gap beside them and takes a look at his rod-he’s paid for it, so he’d better try to get his money’s worth. Then realises he didn’t get any bait. He asks the lads if he can borrow some.
“No need for bait. Just stick feather. Mackerel go for feather. They think it’s fish,” says the knobbly-headed one.
“Must be bit stupid.”
“Yeah. Huh huh huh,” the lad sniggers.
“Does anyone ever catch anything?”
“Yeah. Course. They must do.”
“I mean, enough to pay for rod and bucket?”
“Yeah, I reckon somebody must. Why d’you get blue bucket?”
He notices their bucket is yellow.
“Blue, yellow. What’s the difference?”
“Blue is you rent. You give back at end of day. Yellow is you keep. Use every day.”
“You mean I give back bucket at end of day? Even if I catch nothing?”
“Maybe you are his fish, and he has caught you.” The knobbly-headed lad grins. “Not even with any feather. Huh huh huh.”
“Devil’s bum!”
Andriy looks up and down the pier. There are mostly yellow buckets, a few blue ones, and some buckets of other colours, red, green, black, grey. Really you’ve got no one but yourself to blame, Andriy Palenko, for listening to that moon-faced cretin. He counts the yellow and blue buckets and tries to calculate how much profit the Mr Tattoo has made in a day. Easy money.