Alexander (3)

3.

Alexander's favorite novel was Dickens' Great Expectations. He’d read the book several times and had never failed to be entranced by the capricious Miss Havisham, the cold and beautiful Estella, the kind and generous blacksmith Joe, the dry and sycophantic Uncle Pumblechook, as well as Jaggers and Wemmick, with his dual personality, and the eloquent and wise friend, Herbert Pocket. The very title in English, Great Expectations, seemed to arouse a feeling of tremendous passion in Alexander - a feeling of aspiration. At university, he’d enjoyed taking part in discussions about Dickens’ work. For many of his peers, the author was held as a great critic of post-industrial capitalism, highlighting its shortcomings and violent nature. For other students in Alexander’s tutorial class Dickens simply didn’t go far enough. 'Why doesn’t your great hero call for revolution, Alexander ?' they said. And: 'His characters are all stereotypes!  They have no depth! The Modernists killed him off with psychology!' Alexander would put up a staunch defence of Dickens, arguing that the Englishman should be accorded a place at the top table of literary masters, alongside Shakespeare, Goethe, and Tolstoy; he was an author who, due to his innovative nature of writing serials for popular magazines with ‘hooks’ at the end of each instalment, was a master of narrative who would not be out of place writing for television or film today.

Alexander thought of Great Expectations now, as he walked into the café looking for a man named Terry about the possibility of a job. When Terry was pointed out to him, Alexander realized that the gang-master standing at the table distributing envelopes was the image of how he'd imagined the escaped convict Abel Magwitch to be - sullen, disheveled, angry at the world and everybody in it. What’s more, standing behind the counter, was an alluring young waitress – a living, breathing Estella - a girl for whom Alexander would willingly take on the role of the love tormented Pip.

‘The work isn't easy’ Terry said in his slow, dour manner. ‘These men clear land – heavy, dirty work. What makes you think you're suitable ? You're not used to clearing earth and rubble, I can tell.’

Alexander wondered how best to explain his predicament. He thought of Danuta and her malnourished half-sister Lidia. ‘I’m stronger than I look’ he said. ‘What’s more, I need work to help a friend of mine who's ill.’

Terry continued to call out the names of his men. He called the name Luther and Alexander watched a dark, brooding, raggedy man in military boots and greatcoat walk up to the table, collect his envelope and, after tearing open the seal, check his weekly wage.

‘Monday, five thirty am at the Co-op car park’ said Terry still concentrating his attention on the contents of his khaki bag. ‘That's our pick-up point. If there's work enough, I'll give you a try.’

The men drifted out of the café and Alexander caught the eye of the waitress. She smiled and he said goodbye. One of the older Polish men asked Alexander if he had anywhere to live. Alexander shrugged. The man told him to accompany them to the river.

-*-

Next to a sports centre, beneath a black-bricked, lime-stained railway viaduct, a group of homeless men and women had established a camp. They’d cleared an area beneath the towering structure where they could sleep and placed discarded tables and chairs against the graffiti-sprayed archway. Each day they laid a contribution of food and drink on the tables, much of which had been donated by the town’s food bank. ‘The people who sleep here come from many different lands’ one of Terry's laborers told Alexander. ‘We are all people who came to this country with hopes of a better life.’

Alexander found a space for his rucksack and sleeping bag. Trees and brambles grew at the side of the viaduct and he saw a posse of homeless men stripping branches and collecting dead wood. A cup filled with dark liquid was thrust into Alexander's hand. ‘Drink this. It will stop you from feeling cold in the night.’ Alexander took a generous mouthful; the liquor burned his throat and stomach and he began to cough. The men from the cafe laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Are you OK, little comrade ?’ ‘Yes’ said Alexander unconvincingly. ‘I'm fine.’

By eight o'clock a group of twenty or so people had gathered. A large fire spat and crackled and the atmosphere was that of an open air party. ‘Don't the police come along and move you along ?’ Alexander asked. The men shook their heads. ‘They are stupid’ said a gaunt young Romanian. ‘They are not sure who owns this piece of land, whether the council are the owners or the railway company or the sports center. Nobody knows! So they won't care to kick us off.’

‘And anyway, where else are we supposed to go ?’ said another member of the group. ‘We were told there would be plenty of opportunity here. Instead, we’re treated worse than dogs.’

‘I go from farm to farm’ said an older man. ‘I work an honest shift and expect an honest wage. Instead, they refuse to pay me and when I complain I am blacklisted.’

Fueled by alcohol the residents of the homeless camp became increasingly unruly as the evening wore on. The great fire generated a tremendous heat. Some of those sitting close to the flames shed their heavy coats and sweaters; some even stripped off their shirts and paraded round the fire’s perimeter half naked. The noise from the group began to increase. Someone, who had either discovered or stolen a ghetto blaster, played loud music and it wasn't long before wild dancing began, accompanied by loud yelps and hollering. Some of the participants were so drunk they almost fell into the flames.

At ten pm, with the fire being fed by more branches culled from the surrounding trees, a fire engine arrived, its sirens and blue flashing lights piercing the darkness. There was an incongruous cheer from the camp residents as the lead fire officer entered and spoke to a man named Tomas, who had assumed the mantle of spokesman.

Alexander watched as the fire officer warned that a complaint had been received and that the fire had become a danger. Some of the more excitable souls began to remonstrate, mumbling ‘Fascists!’ and ‘Leave us alone!’ Tomas pushed these hotheads away, explaining that the fire officers were good people who were merely issuing a warning; they were not about to extinguish the fire.

After gaining assurances that the fire would be kept under control the officers left to cheers and applause. The older men ordered the others to calm themselves. They did not want the police to appear. Enjoy yourselves but don't be stupid was their message. Better to be here, safe beneath the viaduct, than out in the town sleeping in a shop doorway.

Soon the fire settled to a more manageable size and many of the group curled up and slept. Alexander wondered what would become of these people, people who had arrived like him with hopes and dreams and who now found themselves consigned to the margins of society.

He too drifted into sleep, a sleep that was punctuated by dreams - dreams of Danuta and Lidia; dreams of standing alone in a desolate farm field, the flowers and vegetables withered and dry.

He woke at daybreak, feeling a little stiff but surprisingly fresh considering he’d slept close to the earth. Alexander collected his things and left the viaduct camp. It was Sunday morning, so he would have to wait for the coffee shops in the town to open. He walked along the side of the river for a while watching the fast-flowing water. Tomorrow he would join the others at the pick-up point in the hope of work. In the meantime, he would need to search for somewhere to live. In his rucksack, wrapped tightly in a polythene bag and hidden in a small compartment, was a wad of cash which represented his lifetime savings. He would use it to establish himself in the town. But he knew that when his savings had gone he would be destitute and, like Pip, at the mercy of whatever fate decided to throw at him.