Chapter One

Everton’s story.

“It’s not fair,” Everton told himself, trying to bite down on his fear and anger, before the first of his lashes landed. He stopped thinking after that, as the whip cracked and licks of pain and shame multiplied and shuddered through him, filling his world from top to bottom.

“Ten,” he heard from a distant place. Blinking back tears he opened his eyes. The horseshoe shaped crowd of villagers were staring. His older brother was staunch, his mother pale. Chief of Police Cooper and the constable who’d arrested Everton were present as witnesses that sentencing had been carried out. The remaining spectators, mostly citizens who worked near the central square turned their backs and returned to their jobs, showing he was nothing but a thief to them and deserved his latest whipping.

Billy rolled up his whip and walked over to him slowly. Everton knew he was revelling in making him wait. Billy lifted the Velcro loops out of their hooks screwed into the triangular frame, the loops that had stretched his arms high, then pulled them open, the sound like tearing baize, reminding Everton of the time he’d got his own back on those stuckups at the British Legion who’d thrown him out one night, saying he was drunk.

“Keep your sticky fingers to yourself in future,” Billy said. “Or get a Saturday job. There’s a novel idea. Astonish us all.”

“I’ve got a job,” Everton returned weakly.

Billy shrugged. “Come on. Julie will clean you up.”

Billy opened the door of the clinic and walked away, leaving Everton to go in by himself. He knew Julie would dress his cuts in disapproving silence. Mia would have clucked over him, tut-tutted at the village’s vengefulness as she called it while disinfecting and dressing them.

“Why couldn’t they just make you work the punishment hours,” she would say. “Why do they have to have this barbaric ritual?”

To fill Julie’s critical silence he reminded himself it wasn’t his fault he only worked in the fields. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t read properly or do woodwork and all that rubbish they’d tried and failed to make him learn at school. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t have the spare time to earn coins for beer.

Everton, his mother Judith, three sisters and older brother Junior all worked full time as agricultural labourers. They were all Deltas, the least skilled rank of worker in the thousand strong village. All year round their farm foremen set them to work, clearing, digging, sowing, harvesting, fertilising, manuring and then back to clearing. That gave them shares in the village’s produce, like meat and veg, light beer and cider, fruit and bread that Everton grudgingly admitted was more than enough for them to live on. His mother, when on her count your blessings trip, used to bore him silly reminding him that they never went hungry, nor cold in the wintertime and on and on about how well the farm was run until he was sick of it.

“We were so blessed when they took us in here,” she would say. “Real farmers run this farm, not like next door. And our doctors, they were doctors before, not just first aiders.”

“Huh. What about our draughty old hut?” he would grumble to wind her up. “An’ them foremen and the bosses, they don’t have to work every hour like what we do. They got loads a time for their businesses. They got money, not like us. Doin’ wine and cheese, ownin’ cafes and restaurants.”  She always gave up. She wasn’t much sport anymore. Later, he’d see her looking at him when she thought he hadn’t noticed with her weary, broken eyes. Everton knew he was asking herself why was he just like his father, why couldn’t he be like his brother, who took after his Grandfather. Junior brought in a few coins, sometimes more, for the family, his pure choirboy voice and guitar playing scoring him regular work. He was in demand at parties, even dinner parties, weddings and christenings.

“That’s it, finished,” Julie said curtly. “Off you go and keep those dressings clean. Come back after work in two days and I’ll see how you’re healing.”

“Can I have some Panadol? It hurts like hell.”

“Panadol? I’ll give you Paraquat, you cheeky wretch. It’s supposed to hurt.”

Cursing under his breath, Everton hobbled out of the clinic and out to the fields. Dave, his foreman was standing on a cart, handing out pitchforks and other tools to the three other Deltas he’d been working with until called for his punishment.

He looked quizzically at Everton who put some more feeling into his limping. “Ooh,” he moaned as he approached the cart. Dave’s expression didn’t change.

“Just for this afternoon you can drive the horse. It’ll be a bit less bending over for you.”

“Can’t I just sit under the cart? Just for today? It’s agony.”

Dave ignored Everton’s request. “We’ve just finished lunch. Here’s your sandwich, I kept it in the shade. Get some water down you. You can eat under the cart and then get on with your jobs. We’re finishing on time today and the others won’t be carrying you.”

Everton walked home that evening, wincing. He knew tomorrow would be worse and sometime toward the end of the third day, the pain would start to ease. As he approached their shack he noticed an older, grey haired woman with floaty, Indian style clothes and dangly jewellery. It was Edna, a hippy dippy widow who he’d see out in the evenings gathering leaves and plants. He’d overheard the local kids say funny smells came from her hut sometimes.

His mother came out as he sat down on the ripped old sofa outside.

“Evening Everton,” she said. “Edna’s kindly come to put some salve on your injuries. That’s thoughtful of her isn’t it?”

Everton grunted at them both and pulled his shirt over his back.

“This is a new recipe,” Edna said. “I’ve added some willow bark, so it should relieve your pain somewhat. I’d appreciate some feedback if it does please.”

“We’ll let you know Edna, and thanks so much for coming out in your free time,” his mother gushed.

“You’re welcome Judith, both of you are,” Edna said, taking a handful of salve and gently spreading it with her hand. Everton hissed, sucking in a breath as she touched a deep weal but didn’t grumble. His mother would only let him know how disappointed she was later.

Everton muttered thanks he didn’t feel as he stalked off to lie on his bed. He was only a guinea pig for her new potion, she should be paying him.

“Lie on your front,” Edna called out after him. “Don’t roll on your back for at least two hours.”

She would be chatting, Everton’s mother corrected him when he called it gossiping, for hours. He wasn’t interested in who’d had whose baby and what they’d named it. Nor about who’d started up a new restaurant just for Mondays and how it might affect the other ones or how many people had already booked in for opening night.

He continued ruminating over how much he hated living in this stupid village and the stupid laws that were designed to catch him out and stop him enjoying himself. Stop him having all the nice things that others did. Like a beer in the pub or… A knock came at the door.

“Everton?”

It was another blasted busybody, that one from the church, what was her name, never mind, the one with the nice tits whose nipples couldn’t help sticking out when there was a breeze. She’d be on at him about some job or other she wanted him to try. Last time she brought a cake though. He rolled off the bed, wincing.

“Good evening Everton,” she said. “Your mother said I could come in.”

Catherine, that was it. Try not to stare right away.

“Hullo Catherine. Er, did you bring another cake?”

“No Everton. That would be like a reward, you’ve only just had a punishment for stealing.”

“Uh.”

“I’m here to try and help you not have to steal.”

Another job then, thought Everton.

“I’ve been speaking to a few people at church. There are a few who will still give you a trial. Do you know John Lawrence? He sells those delicious Saddleback sausages and bacon when he kills a pig. No? he needs someone reliable to feed and water and check on his pigs when he’s busy in the evenings.”

“I hate pigs. They smell.”

Catherine persisted. “They’re actually very clean animals. It’s their pens and er excrement that smell. John emphasised ‘reliable’. Several times. On Tuesday evenings he helps at his daughter’s café. Do you know it? Dandy Lions? In Magnolia Square. In Kingfisher’s corner?”

Everton grunted.

“And on Friday evenings he runs his own café, I think he calls it a bistro. In the same premises as Dandy Lions. He would only pay you ten pence for both evenings to begin with, that’s say six to eight pm, you have to prove yourself first.”

“Hmph. And what will it be if I do?”

“When you do Everton. When you do. He only said, well he wasn’t convinced you would prove reliable. But I know you can.”

Catherine’s nipples were now visible through her blouse. Everton took furtive glances when he thought she wasn’t concentrating.

“I have to do community service on the evenings. Twenty hours. Can you believe it?”

“I can, quite easily. And won’t it go up to twenty-five if you were ever foolish enough to re-offend?”

“Yeah. On top of a whipping. It isn’t fair. Two punishments. They get me twice.”

“It’s perfectly fair Everton,” Catherine returned, a little snootily he thought. “You don’t have to have even one punishment, so long as you are honest. What do you actually want the money for?”

“Cos everybody else has got some. And for beer.”

“Not everybody does have money. You should know that. Lots of you Deltas have so little spare time they can’t earn any coins, let alone set up a little business.”

“Exactly. They keep us down, just like in the old days. Posh gits.”

“That’s quite enough of that nonsense. Alfred and the council have done a terrific job setting our village up. Nobody goes hungry. Or cold in the winter. When did anyone ever manage that before? You should be grateful, not resentful like you are. That will get you precisely nowhere.”

Everton grunted. “Any jobs without pigs?”

“Just one. And again it’s a kind person giving you a chance. You know the Patel’s Indian restaurant? It’s a bit further away, in Northern Diver’s quarter.”

Everton grumbled. “That’s on the opposite side of town.”

Town was how the old village centre with its buildings and main street was referred to by everyone. The church shared by the Protestants and Catholics was sited there, along with the pub, many of the cafes and restaurants and the main dormitories converted from the old supermarket building.

“Beggars can’t be choosers Everton. You’ll have more choices once you prove yourself reliable. And honest.”

“What’s the job?”

“That’s better. Washing up while the restaurant is open. That’s six to eight again, on Thursdays and Fridays. And cleaning up the cooking equipment, the pots and pans and all that after they close. The family clean the restaurant itself after close of business. Somebody else uses it on a Saturday, well, every day actually. Just like here in Peregrine.”

“Pay the same as the pigs?” Everton stole another look at Catherine’s perky nipples. They must be the longest ones ever. He wished he could see them for real.

Catherine pulled her cardigan closed. Everton must have frowned in disapproval. “Concentrate please Everton. The pay is better, ten pence per night because you’ll probably have to stay until nine. Until you speed up.”

“That’s two pints at the pub.”

“Yes, if you must spend it at the pub. Or it would buy a home brew kit from Derek. Then you could make your own.” She paused, hoping the idea would win him over.

“And this time they’ll know you earned the coins. How do you think they caught you?”

Everton bit down a curse. So that’s how they found him. Someone at the pub grassed him up when he spent it. I bet it was that puff who served me, the little guy with the pencil moustache.

“Yeah, alright, but I told you before I have community service in the evenings.”

“I spoke to Colin at church. He’ll have a word with whoever supervises you and they’ll do your CS on the other days.”

“So I won’t have any evenings off at all,” he grumbled.

“Except Sunday evenings,” she corrected. “You are so ungrateful. I don’t know why I bother sometimes.”

“Why do you bother? I dint ask you to find me jobs. I can do that myself.”

“Hmm,” Catherine briefly considered challenging the last sentence but decided against it.

“I bother because the good Lord wants us to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Even sinners like you. Especially sinners like you. And because you won’t help yourself, you’re stuck in a rut and need someone to help you pull yourself out.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s what you always say. I’m not chasing you this time. Today is Saturday. The pig job starts on Tuesday if you want it, make sure you get there before John sets off for the café. Otherwise next Friday at Patel’s Pakoras and Poppadums.”

She stood up stiffly and Everton sneaked another look as her cardigan fell away.

He scowled at her retreating back as she left, walking past the camp table his mother and Edna were still sitting at, working through a pot of nettle tea. The late afternoon sun washed over the folding table the teapot stood on.

They were starting a second pot when Junior arrived home. He sometimes arrived home late if he’d dropped in at a café on his way home to hash out ideas for an evening’s setlist with the owners. This week he’d been working with the dairy cattle on the far side of the farm and had detoured through the village centre.

“Hi Mum. Edna,” he said cheerily, bending down to kiss his mother.

“Ooh love, you’re home. I haven’t started tea. We’ve had such a good catch up.” She stood up, smoothing her apron down.

“Sit down Mum,” Junior pacified her. “Finish your tea. I’ll start on the grub. What is it tonight? Are we using the mince?”

“Thanks love. We’re having shepherd’s pie with it. Could you just start off the mince in the pan and peel some potatoes? I’ll take over then.”

Junior walked in the house and saw Everton laid on the bed. He threw him a dismissive look. Everton grunted. Junior was only helping his mother to score points over him, it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t move to help cook dinner. Edna had told him to stay still for two hours.

Judith came inside a few minutes later and put the kettle on the stove.

“Go and sit down love,” she told Junior. “Cup of tea? Catherine was here earlier. She’s found two jobs for Everton.”

Everton could see the kitchen from where he lay on his stomach. He saw Junior throw him another disdainful look before asking his mother about the jobs.

“He couldn’t steal a whole pig, but he’d be stealing anything not nailed down from the restaurant. He can take the pig job. You’ve had enough shame from him for a lifetime already.”

He turned to Everton. “You’re having the pig feeding job.”

“Get stuffed,” Everton snarled. “I’m doing the other one. Pays better. You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not having you disgracing us again, you thieving little shit. All I have to do is talk to Mr. Patel. I’m working on him to have me play there. If you rob him, that’ll put the kibosh on me ever performing at his place.”

“Selfish that’s what you are,” Everton spat. “Only ever thinking about yourself and your career. Not about your brother. If I didn’t have to lie here, I’d launch you.”

“Don’t try it,” Junior bristled. “I’ll batter you worse than last time…” he paused. “Not so bad you can’t do your CP.”

“They can shove that up their…” Everton stopped at a snapped command to shut up from Junior, rising from his chair.

“I mean I’m not doing it. I already had ten lashes,” Everton shouted, enraged. “That’s all they’re getting. CP was easy in the old days. We just dossed around all day. They make you work hard now.”

“Please stop,” Judith shrieked, her voice high and strained. “Please don’t fight anymore boys. I can’t stand it.”  She stood at the stove, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Ok, sorry Mum,” Junior said, calmer. “I don’t know how else to get through to him.”

“Where did I go wrong?” Judith pleaded, almost in tears. “Why are you like this?” she implored Everton. Everton looked away.

“Mum, please,” Junior walked over to her and took her face gently, cupping it in his big hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Just look at me and the girls, not him.” He spoke the word ‘him’ with thinly veiled contempt. “Didn’t we all turn out well? You and Dad were great. The best.” He turned his face to Everton. “Some kids just turn out wrong no matter what. Despite everything you both did.” He turned back to Everton.

“If I hear you’ve refused your CP, I’ll lock you out. Until you’ve completed it. You’ll be sleeping on the doorstep.”

“I’m still not doing it,” Everton attempted to sound defiant but couldn’t help an appealing look at his mother.

“Don’t bother trying to wring some pity out of your mother. And if you’re stupid enough to imagine locking you out is the worst I can do, well you’ll be wishing you’d just had another whipping instead.” He heard his mother wince and forced himself to take a deep breath and leave it there. He swallowed down the rest of his speech and took his tea onto the deck, away from his brother.