Okay, let's see if this is closer, and if the whole thing is more grabby. There has been a chapter before this, so it's not the opening of the book but it is the first time we meet this point of view.
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The field is thick with mud. I tighten my hold on the handle of the cart, trying to keep it straight, but Jean has his side a little higher and it’s impossible. Sebastian will have to check its wheels tomorrow, before we set off. It’s crazy, but it has come to this; a cart is more important than any car we ever had.
Either side of the gateway into the field, Aidan’s people stand guard. Behind me, where it makes my back itch, the watchtower waits. We’re hemmed in, and I hate the spareness of my stomach that thought brings.
“Pull up on the right,” mutters Jean. “We’re going to get stuck.”
I try but the field is a mess of mud and half-trampled grass, a staging point which has never been prepared properly. I hate this country. I hate its rain. I hate the towers that guard our way. I hate Aidan, and the others who run this caravan, who promise we’ll see America soon, that we’re near the end of the road that leads to the sea. I hate, most of all, that I half-believe them, even though they’ve lied to us through hundreds of miles.
“Julia! Jean!” Jose waves the red and yellow rag that’s all he has left of his Spanish flag, and beckons us to him. I bite back a yelp as Jean changes direction, wrenching my shoulder, but put my head down and push; like a bulldog, I hide my hurt so that I’m not seen as weak. The weak die in the caravans. They fall behind and die, or they starve and die. Sometimes they just vanish in the night. But they always die.
“This way. Be careful. There’s a dip.” Maman joins us and puts her hand on the top of our equipment to hold it in place as we creep over to where Jose is waiting. As ever, he’s found a good spot. Well away from the latrines – a walk is better than the stink – and with a half-dug pit that will let us get a fire going quickly. He gives me a half-lidded look and glances to the left. There, through a gap in the hedge, the watchtower we passed is clear, and close. I hide a smile. Clever Jose.
We pull up the cart. I let go and rub the palm of my hand, over the rough, hardened skin. Like clockwork, our gang descend on the cart. Jose already has the kindling in the pit and is nursing a fire from it: Maman heaves the stockpot off the cart and fills it with water collected during a vicious rainstorm earlier. Once it’s bubbling, she’ll add the rabbit, already skinned by Jose.
Jean and I pitch the tent in silence, taking care to ensure the lines are tight and taut. As we work, Sebastian takes his place at the front of the camp. He’s thin, his muscles spare – in France, he was the biggest person I knew – but he looks threatening enough to keep our space safe.
Maman peels some half-mouldy vegetables and measures grain for the stew, each handful precious. My breath catches. Once, we were a family who donated to the food banks, before the drought reached us and we relied on those donating instead. Before we had to run, and we haven’t stopped since. Perhaps, when we reach America – if, says the other voice in my head, the one that keeps me alive – it will be different. Maybe there we will find space, and a new life. Papa believed, right to the end, that things would get better, that there was an end of the road for us where we would settle and be safe. I wish I had his hope.
I push in the last peg, using the heel of my boot to make sure it is flat to the muddy earth. The air is heavy, an oppression that builds around me. Jean stalks away before we have even unrolled the bedding.
“Hey!” I call, but he doesn’t turn around. He aims for the centre of the camp, where Aidan will be holding court. Jean will sit, listening, as they spit hatred of us, and he won’t argue. They treat him like a mascot, the little french boy. They’ll fill him with food from their fire – the best in the camp, better than anything I could dream of – and make him believe he matters.
I want to run after him, my little brother who relied on me through the first months, who sat on boats with me, sure we would die. I want to warn him that he means nothing to Aidan, that once we reach the ships – if there are any ships – he will be cast onto them as carelessly as the rest of us.
But I let him go. I’ve tried before and the gap between us is too wide. Instead, I wait for my own food and stare over at the watchtower, taking time to place everything I took in earlier, before the big man chased us off.
I imagine, of all things, a carrot, sweet and crisp and fresh. The bite of it. The rush of sugar I never used to notice, when all around us was rich and full, the savouring of it in my mouth.
As the storm breaks, I wait for full darkness, and my time.
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The field is thick with mud. I tighten my hold on the handle of the cart, trying to keep it straight, but Jean has his side a little higher and it’s impossible. Sebastian will have to check its wheels tomorrow, before we set off. It’s crazy, but it has come to this; a cart is more important than any car we ever had.
Either side of the gateway into the field, Aidan’s people stand guard. Behind me, where it makes my back itch, the watchtower waits. We’re hemmed in, and I hate the spareness of my stomach that thought brings.
“Pull up on the right,” mutters Jean. “We’re going to get stuck.”
I try but the field is a mess of mud and half-trampled grass, a staging point which has never been prepared properly. I hate this country. I hate its rain. I hate the towers that guard our way. I hate Aidan, and the others who run this caravan, who promise we’ll see America soon, that we’re near the end of the road that leads to the sea. I hate, most of all, that I half-believe them, even though they’ve lied to us through hundreds of miles.
“Julia! Jean!” Jose waves the red and yellow rag that’s all he has left of his Spanish flag, and beckons us to him. I bite back a yelp as Jean changes direction, wrenching my shoulder, but put my head down and push; like a bulldog, I hide my hurt so that I’m not seen as weak. The weak die in the caravans. They fall behind and die, or they starve and die. Sometimes they just vanish in the night. But they always die.
“This way. Be careful. There’s a dip.” Maman joins us and puts her hand on the top of our equipment to hold it in place as we creep over to where Jose is waiting. As ever, he’s found a good spot. Well away from the latrines – a walk is better than the stink – and with a half-dug pit that will let us get a fire going quickly. He gives me a half-lidded look and glances to the left. There, through a gap in the hedge, the watchtower we passed is clear, and close. I hide a smile. Clever Jose.
We pull up the cart. I let go and rub the palm of my hand, over the rough, hardened skin. Like clockwork, our gang descend on the cart. Jose already has the kindling in the pit and is nursing a fire from it: Maman heaves the stockpot off the cart and fills it with water collected during a vicious rainstorm earlier. Once it’s bubbling, she’ll add the rabbit, already skinned by Jose.
Jean and I pitch the tent in silence, taking care to ensure the lines are tight and taut. As we work, Sebastian takes his place at the front of the camp. He’s thin, his muscles spare – in France, he was the biggest person I knew – but he looks threatening enough to keep our space safe.
Maman peels some half-mouldy vegetables and measures grain for the stew, each handful precious. My breath catches. Once, we were a family who donated to the food banks, before the drought reached us and we relied on those donating instead. Before we had to run, and we haven’t stopped since. Perhaps, when we reach America – if, says the other voice in my head, the one that keeps me alive – it will be different. Maybe there we will find space, and a new life. Papa believed, right to the end, that things would get better, that there was an end of the road for us where we would settle and be safe. I wish I had his hope.
I push in the last peg, using the heel of my boot to make sure it is flat to the muddy earth. The air is heavy, an oppression that builds around me. Jean stalks away before we have even unrolled the bedding.
“Hey!” I call, but he doesn’t turn around. He aims for the centre of the camp, where Aidan will be holding court. Jean will sit, listening, as they spit hatred of us, and he won’t argue. They treat him like a mascot, the little french boy. They’ll fill him with food from their fire – the best in the camp, better than anything I could dream of – and make him believe he matters.
I want to run after him, my little brother who relied on me through the first months, who sat on boats with me, sure we would die. I want to warn him that he means nothing to Aidan, that once we reach the ships – if there are any ships – he will be cast onto them as carelessly as the rest of us.
But I let him go. I’ve tried before and the gap between us is too wide. Instead, I wait for my own food and stare over at the watchtower, taking time to place everything I took in earlier, before the big man chased us off.
I imagine, of all things, a carrot, sweet and crisp and fresh. The bite of it. The rush of sugar I never used to notice, when all around us was rich and full, the savouring of it in my mouth.
As the storm breaks, I wait for full darkness, and my time.
). After a couple of days with the ever patient 
