The Bone Clocks

IT’S NEARLY FOUR P.M. by the time I turn down Old Ferry Lane onto the chalky track that leads to Black Elm Farm. On-and-off sprinklers in the fields spray cool clouds, and I sort of drink the vapor in like super-fine water-floss, and look at the little rainbows. The farmhouse itself is an old, hunkered-down brick building with a modern bit stuck on the side, and there’s a big steel barn, a couple of buildings made from concrete blocks, and a windbreak of those tall thin trees. Here comes this black dog, like a fat seal on stumpy legs, barking its head off and wagging its whole body, and in five seconds flat we’re best mates. Suddenly I miss Newky, and I pet the dog’s head.

“I see you’ve met Sheba.” A girl in dungarees steps out of the older part of the house; she must be about eighteen. “You’ve just arrived for picking?” Her accent’s funny—Welsh, I think.

“Yeah. Yes. Where do I … check in?”

She finds my “check in” amusing, which pisses me off ’cause how am I s’posed to know the right word? She jerks her thumb at the door—she’s wearing wristbands over both wrists like some tennis star but they just look spaz to me—and walks over to the brick barn to tell all the other pickers ’bout the new girl who reckons she’s staying at a hotel.

“THERE’LL BE TWENTY pallets’ worth by three o’clock tomorrow, see,” comes a man’s voice from the office down the hall, “and if your truck isn’t here at one minute past three, then the lot’ll be going to the Fine Fare depot in Aylesford.” He hangs up and adds, “Lying twat.” By now I’ve recognized Mr. Harty from my phone call this morning. The door behind me flies open and an older woman in stained overalls, green wellies, and a spotted neckerchief thing sort of shoos me on. “Chop suey, young lady, the doctor will see you now. Mush-mush. New picker, yes? Of course you are.” She bustles me forwards into a poky office smelling of potatoes in a sack. There’s a desk, a typewriter, a phone, filing cabinets, a poster with GLORIOUS RHODESIA on it and photos of wildlife, and a view of a farmyard and a decomposing tractor. Gabriel Harty’s in his sixties, has a low-tide sort of face and hair tufting out of his nose and ears. Ignoring me, he tells the woman, “Bill Dean was just on the blower. Wanted to discuss ‘a distribution niggle.’ ”

“Let me guess,” says the woman. “His drivers have all got bubonic plague, so could we run tomorrow’s strawberries over to Canterbury.”

“Ye-es. Know what else he said? ‘I wish you landowners would try to help the rest of us.’ Landowner. The bank owns the land and the land owns you. That’s what being a landowner means. He’s the one taking his family to the Seychelles, or wherever it is.” Mr. Harty relights his pipe and stares out of the window. “Who are you?”

I follow his gaze to the dead tractor until I realize he means me. “I’m the new picker.”

“New picker, is it? Not sure if we need any more.”

“We spoke on the phone this morning, Mr. Harty.”

“A long time ago, this morning. Ancient history.”

“But …” If I don’t have a job here, what’ll I do?

The woman looks over from the filing cabinet: “Gabriel.”

“But we’ve already got this—this Holly Benson-Hedges girl on her way. She rang up this morning.”

“That’s me,” I tell him, “but it’s Holly Rothmans and …” Hang on, is he being funny? He’s got one of those faces where you can’t tell. “That’s me.”

“That was you, was it?” Mr. Harty’s pipe makes a death-rattle noise. “That’s lucky, that is. Then we’ll see you tomorrow at six, sharp. Not two minutes past six. No. Nobody sleeps in, we’re not a holiday camp. Now. I have more telephone calls to make.”

“THE PLACE IS rather deserted on Sundays,” says Mrs. Harty, as we walk back across the farmyard. She’s posher than her husband and I wonder what their story is. “Most of our Kentish pickers go home on Sundays for a few creature comforts, and the student mob have decamped to the beach at Leysdown. They’ll be back by evening, unless they get waylaid at the Shurland Arms. So: The shower’s over there, the loo’s down there, and there’s the laundry room. Where did you say you’ve come from today?”

“Oh, just …” Sheba dashes up and runs happy rings round us, which gives me longer to get my story straight “… Southend. I just took my O levels last month. My parents are busy working and I want to save a bit of money, and a friend of a friend worked here a couple of summers ago, so my dad said okay, now I’m sixteen, so …”

“So here you are. Is it sayonara to school?”

Sheba follows a scent trail behind a pile of tires.

“Will you be going back to do A levels, Holly?”

“Oh, right. Depends on my results, I s’pose.”