Nice Cup of Tea

This story was entered recently for a short story competition.
It didn't win!

She opened her eyes. It was pitch black, so dark that in those first
seconds before all her senses kicked in, in that transition moment
between asleep and awake, as between birth and life, she wondered if
she could still see. Her fingers flew to her eyes, checking that they
were open, that there was nothing in their way. But then the
realisation of where she was swamped her, her head slumped down, chin
onto her chest, there was nothing to see.

As she moved, the sounds of the others came to her, breathing, a
slight snore, a mumbling. And from outside, a constant churn, an engine
in the distance. The space lurched slightly, the snorer stopped, a
whispered cry.

She was still in the back of the lorry, the one that they had been
bundled into several hours ago and in the darkness beside her were her
brother, her friend and others, strangers.

She felt out tentatively towards the body beside her, they had been
huddled close against the cold but in sleep had fallen away from each
other. Her hand met another hand, her friend, she was awake.
They moved close and whispered together, knowing that loud noise could
be detected and was dangerous. The harsh whisper of her brother
interrupted them.
"Be quiet," he hissed "we'll be heard."

They lapsed back into silence, hand in hand. The last clear noises
that she had heard had been voices calling, clanking, slamming and the
sound of other engines close by but this had faded away to be replaced
by the sound of another, different engine further away. They had,
whispering together agreed that they were now in the hold of the ferry
. The occasional lurch was the ferry negotiating the waves of the
unknown sea outside.

She was hungry and very thirsty. They had finished the food hours ago,
and had not drunk since boarding the lorry, for obvious reasons. She
fell into another troubled sleep, where she seemed to be at home, but
everyone talked in whispers, the sun never rose and the ground below
her feet moved all the time, lurching her into corners.

And then, another dream, a more lucid one, the sun was shining, the
ground was still and the voices of her family were sharp in the clear
air of the garden. Father was drawing water from the well and pouring
it into a fluted glass. One of mother's best, saved for special
occasions. The water was cold, so fresh that she gasped as she took the
first sip and then drunk it all down, as father watched, smiling at her
achievement. From the house she could smell coffee and turning she saw
mother carrying out a tray , with tiny straight sided cups, the steam
from them rising, rainbow coloured and then disappearing into the sun
filled air. The aroma of the coffee surrounded them as they sat at the
old stone table, mother, father, herself and her brothers and sisters
sipping at the strong, thick, almost solid coffee, all smiling,
contented. She awoke and the mineral taste of the water and then the
sharp tang of the coffee seemed to be on her lips still.

But now, there were more noises from outside, feet clanking across the
metal floor, doors opening, banging closed, the sound of the ferry
engine changing. And then the sound of a man's voice virtually beside
them, she shrank in fear, clutching at her friend. It was the driver,
returning to his cab.

And then, they were moving, the smell of diesel permeated even into
their hiding place, then a sharper smell, the sea, then lurching,
driving onwards. It couldn't be much further, soon there would be
daylight, air not soiled by the close proximity of unwashed bodies,
water, something sweet to eat.

More shouts, close by, the lorry slowing to a stop. The engine turned
off. Were they there?

Chris Turner stood up, pushing his shirt down into his waistband from
where it had escaped, again. This job was doing him no good he thought,
sitting around most of the time, eating too much junk food and then
moments, like this, where they would be busy for an hour or two. He
wondered what it was this time, people or contraband.

He watched as the lorry reversed in to the bay, as his colleagues
opened up the back, as the driver was taken aside.
And then, there they were, a small handful this time, a dozen, blinking
as they were pulled down, steadying themselves as their feet touched
solid land. Their first seconds in England. Young, most of them, he
noticed. The teenagers and the ones in their early twenties always made
him think of his own kids, tucked up in bed now, a few miles away,
sleeping, waiting for the next day when it would be exams for his
youngest and another job interview for his eldest.

He watched as they stood there, huddled together, wide eyed now
accustomising themselves to the bright lights of the holding bay,
watching him and his colleagues, all of them biggish men in uniforms.
He knew that he must look terrifying to them.
"Do any of you speak English?" they were asked. And again simply
"Speak English?"

One of the girls put up her hand, slowly, watching the men, looked at
Chris and then spoke, her voice tiny, like a child.
"A little." Was all she said. Chris couldn't place the accent, didn't
know where this particular batch came from. Europe somewhere, he
guessed, Turkey maybe. They weren't Chinese, that was for certain, or
from Africa.

She lowered her hand, pausing to touch her hair, smooth it out a
little and then it was back in her pocket.

"Let's get them inside." Said the boss and Chris opened the door. As
they walked in, single file, Chris met the girl's eyes.
"Don't worry love, " he said " First off, you're going to get a nice
cup of tea!"