Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

They came in the morning, early, walking with the others alongtracks and lanes and roads, across fields, down the long low hillswhich led to the slow pull of the river, down to the open gatewaysin the city walk, the hours and days of walking showing in theslow shift of their bodies, their breath steaming above them in thecold morning air as the night fell away at their backs. They camequietly, the swish of dew-wet grasses brushing against theirankles, the pat and splash of the muddy ground beneath theirfeet, the coughs and murmurs of rising conversation as the samefew phrases were passed back along the lines. Here we are now.Nearly there. Just to the bottom of the hill and then we'll sit down.Cigarettes were lit, hundreds of cigarettes, thin leathery fingersexpertly rolling a pinch of tobacco into a lick of paper withoutlosing a step. Cigarettes were cadged, offered, shared, passeddown to nervous young hands eager for that first acrid taste ofadulthood, cupping a mouthful of it in the windshield of their openfists in imitation of fathers and uncles and older brothers, coughingas it burnt down into their untested young lungs, the spluttered-outsmoke twisting upwards and mingling with their cold cloudedbreath as they made their way between flowering hawthornhedges and cowslip-heavy banks, down towards the city walk.They wore suits, of a kind, all of them: woollen waistcoats andwell knotted neckerchiefs, thick tweed jackets with worn elbowsand cuffs, moleskin trousers with frayed seams tucked into the topsof their boots. The younger ones carried bundles of clothes, brownpaper parcels fastened with string, slung across their shoulders orclasped to their chests, held tightly in their damp nervous hands asthey started to gather pace, pulled down the hill by the sight of thecity, by their eagerness to be first and by the impatience of the menand the boys pressing in from behind; still foggy from sleep, stillaching from the long walk the day before, but forgetting all that asthey came to their journey's end.

From the top of the hill, where others were only now beginningthat last long downward traipse, the city looked quiet and still,wrapped in a pale May morning mist, weighted with the samebrooding promise that cities have always held when glimpsed froma distance like this, the same magnetic pull of hopes andopportunities.But as those first men and boys came into the city, theirboots beginning to stamp and echo across the cobbled ground,windows were opened and curtains pulled back, and the citybegan to wake. Sleepy children peered from low upstairs windows,the hushed chatter and the rumbling of feet signalling the start ofthe day they'd been looking forward to, calling to each other andpulling faces at the children in the houses across the street.Landlords opened the doors and shutters of their bars, sweepingthe floors and standing in their doorways with brooms in theirhands to watch their customers arrive. Stallholders finishedpreparing their pitches around the edges of the square, keepingan eye on the small group of guards by the steps of the new townhall. And from each end of the long square, from the road leadingin from the bridge to the east, from the gateway under the lodge tothe west, from the road winding out along the river to the south,the army of workers appeared, hurrying on with the growingexcitement of arrival, calling greetings to friends not seen for thepast six months, looking around for others yet to arrive, askingafter health, and families, and wives. And the crowd of people inthe square grew bigger, and noisier, and fathers began to layhands on the shoulders of their youngest sons, keeping them close,wary of letting them drift away too soon, listening to the snatchesof conversation echo back and forth, looking out for the farmersand foremen to start to appear, waiting for the business of the dayto begin.

Mary Friel stood with her father and brothers, watching, heryoungest brother Tommy clutching her hand. You okay thereTommy? she whispered down to him. He looked up at her,nodding, a look of annoyance on his young face, and pulled hishand away.

Soon, as if at some unseen signal, deals began to be made allover the square. You looking for work son? the smartly dressedmen would say, glancing down. How much you after? And theolder boys, the ones who knew their price, or the ones who couldsay they were experienced, stronger, would get more work done,tried their luck with eight, nine, ten pounds, while the youngerones, who knew no better or could ask no more, said seven or six asthey'd been told. Deals were made with a terse nod and a handingover of the brown paper packages, an instruction to meet backthere in the afternoon, sometimes with a shilling or two to keep theboy busy for the day, sometimes not; sometimes the father takenfor drinks to smooth over the awkwardness of the scene, sometimesnot.

This was the first time Mary had been to town for the hiringfair. She'd only ever watched her father setting off with herbrothers before; stood in the low doorway to wave them goodbye,her sister Cathy beside her, Tommy holding on to both theirhands, their mother turning away before the boys got out of sightand saying no time to be standing around all day now. She'd hadan idea of what it would be like from hearing her father thoseevenings he came back home alone; she and Cathy lying in bedlistening while he talked in a low voice to their mother by the lastfew turfs of the fading fire. But she hadn't been expecting quite somany people, or so much noise, or the way her father would staresternly straight ahead when a gentleman approached him and