Siberia.
They're not like American black women. The ones you see on the telly and in films. They're blacker; their bodies are a different shape. They're rounder women, bursting with strength. They like wigs, some of them, or bits of wigs – extensions. Going to work with purple hair. These girls have style.
They're young. She's the oul' one again.
—Girls, girls. This way.
Another man. He's waving at them. He's wrapped for worse weather than this. He's Scott of the fuckin' Antarctic. Or the Irish one, the explorer in the Guinness ad, who came back from his adventures and ran a pub. He has a black bag beside him. It's full – she can see that.
It's full of more black bags. He's handing out the bags. He'll be paid more than Paula. She'd bet on it. He dips in and gives her two rolls – twenty serious, heavy-duty bags. She holds a roll in each hand. Plastic bags always feel warm.
He lets go of his own bag and digs into his pockets. He takes out some plastic-covered cards. Laminated – that's the word. He holds out his hands to the women. The cards hang from his fingers. Paula takes one. WHITE STRIPES – STAFF. It's on a thin rope that goes around your neck. She hopes she gets to keep it. She'll leave it on the kitchen table. That'll show them. It'll give them something to be proud of, or envious. Or a bit of a laugh – their groovy ma.
Scott of the Bags points at a path that goes into the woods.
—Down there, girls. That's right. Happy hunting.
Jesus Christ, it's a fairy tale for big people. She's going to get lost in the woods. She's still ahead of the Africans. She goes slowly enough but they won't pass her out. She's the first one into the trees.
She can hear the music now. There's no sign of a house made of gingerbread.
Jack always hated that story. He'd take the book from her and turn the pages till he got to Snow White. Then he'd put the book back into her hands.
—Read it.
On the nights when she could read.
Everything seems well organised. There are big lights, like you'd get at a roadworks, for later when it's dark. But they're lit already. It's already dark. There are barriers at the gaps in the trees, where people might stray and get lost. There are men in fat jackets at every corner and swerve.
It's not very busy. They're the only ones on the path. She hopes it isn't going to be a disaster, that no one will turn up. There'd be nothing to clean up and she'd still get paid. But she wants the experience. She wants to tell Jack all about it. And Carmel and Denise.
And Leanne.
The path is wider now. There's a car behind them. They stand aside. Is this the band on their way to the stage? It goes by slowly and it's only a Ford or something, an ordinary car. Being driven by one of the men in the fat jackets.
The path widens again and they're in front of a field. There's a fence all around it. She can tell. It wasn't there a few days ago. There are four straight lines, steel barriers, like you'd get at a football match for controlling the flow of people. Paula chooses one line and walks down it. The other women are right behind her. She's Mother fuckin' Goose.
A man looks at her staff card. He steps aside.
—Cold enough for you, love? he says.
—Ah, stop.
She smiles.
—What happened the summer? she says.
—What bleedin' summer?
She walks on.
It's a woman this time, waiting for her. She's staring at Paula's card. She looks at Paula's black bags.
—Over.
She points. She's white but she isn't Irish. She's European or something. One of Carmel's Bulgarians, maybe. She's young. Good-looking but angry – skinny because of it.
—East, she says, still pointing.
That proves she isn't Irish. Just as well she's pointing. Paula wouldn't have a clue. Jack told her once, out in the back garden. One of the times she'd decided to make a proper garden out of it. South-facing, it said on the packet of seeds.
—Jesus, Jack, where's the south?
And he knew. He pointed.
—How do you know?
—Well, he
They're not like American black women. The ones you see on the telly and in films. They're blacker; their bodies are a different shape. They're rounder women, bursting with strength. They like wigs, some of them, or bits of wigs – extensions. Going to work with purple hair. These girls have style.
They're young. She's the oul' one again.
—Girls, girls. This way.
Another man. He's waving at them. He's wrapped for worse weather than this. He's Scott of the fuckin' Antarctic. Or the Irish one, the explorer in the Guinness ad, who came back from his adventures and ran a pub. He has a black bag beside him. It's full – she can see that.
It's full of more black bags. He's handing out the bags. He'll be paid more than Paula. She'd bet on it. He dips in and gives her two rolls – twenty serious, heavy-duty bags. She holds a roll in each hand. Plastic bags always feel warm.
He lets go of his own bag and digs into his pockets. He takes out some plastic-covered cards. Laminated – that's the word. He holds out his hands to the women. The cards hang from his fingers. Paula takes one. WHITE STRIPES – STAFF. It's on a thin rope that goes around your neck. She hopes she gets to keep it. She'll leave it on the kitchen table. That'll show them. It'll give them something to be proud of, or envious. Or a bit of a laugh – their groovy ma.
Scott of the Bags points at a path that goes into the woods.
—Down there, girls. That's right. Happy hunting.
Jesus Christ, it's a fairy tale for big people. She's going to get lost in the woods. She's still ahead of the Africans. She goes slowly enough but they won't pass her out. She's the first one into the trees.
She can hear the music now. There's no sign of a house made of gingerbread.
Jack always hated that story. He'd take the book from her and turn the pages till he got to Snow White. Then he'd put the book back into her hands.
—Read it.
On the nights when she could read.
Everything seems well organised. There are big lights, like you'd get at a roadworks, for later when it's dark. But they're lit already. It's already dark. There are barriers at the gaps in the trees, where people might stray and get lost. There are men in fat jackets at every corner and swerve.
It's not very busy. They're the only ones on the path. She hopes it isn't going to be a disaster, that no one will turn up. There'd be nothing to clean up and she'd still get paid. But she wants the experience. She wants to tell Jack all about it. And Carmel and Denise.
And Leanne.
The path is wider now. There's a car behind them. They stand aside. Is this the band on their way to the stage? It goes by slowly and it's only a Ford or something, an ordinary car. Being driven by one of the men in the fat jackets.
The path widens again and they're in front of a field. There's a fence all around it. She can tell. It wasn't there a few days ago. There are four straight lines, steel barriers, like you'd get at a football match for controlling the flow of people. Paula chooses one line and walks down it. The other women are right behind her. She's Mother fuckin' Goose.
A man looks at her staff card. He steps aside.
—Cold enough for you, love? he says.
—Ah, stop.
She smiles.
—What happened the summer? she says.
—What bleedin' summer?
She walks on.
It's a woman this time, waiting for her. She's staring at Paula's card. She looks at Paula's black bags.
—Over.
She points. She's white but she isn't Irish. She's European or something. One of Carmel's Bulgarians, maybe. She's young. Good-looking but angry – skinny because of it.
—East, she says, still pointing.
That proves she isn't Irish. Just as well she's pointing. Paula wouldn't have a clue. Jack told her once, out in the back garden. One of the times she'd decided to make a proper garden out of it. South-facing, it said on the packet of seeds.
—Jesus, Jack, where's the south?
And he knew. He pointed.
—How do you know?
—Well, he
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