2Cockle Picking
A young girl clambers down from the back of a large lorry. Behind her, many other men and women scrabble desperately to get out of the cramped space, gasping in the sweet clean air and the sharp cold bite of a December wind. She stands disorientated for a moment, shivering in thin cotton garments. She has come from China; they all have, smuggled across to a future in the West. She had no documents, no knowledge of the language, nothing but a dream of financial freedom for her and her family. She needs money, urgently, and she has been told how to get it,
The girl is shepherded along in a wave of others, men are shouting orders she doesn't understand; they are forming a long line. Two men are walking along, handing our nets, rakes, blankets and pillows. It is a long line and she is at the end. Looking around she sees a building, a hall, surrounded by green, green grass, wet from a driving sleet that was falling a few hours ago. Everywhere there are people, some look furiously ahead, staring with dark eyes into the horizon. She sees her own fear and confusion reflected back at her a hundred times in a hundred faces. Countless, nameless faces. She doesn't belong. It's so cold, the faces are stone; the sun is harsh and not warm. Where is the land of plenty she heard about? Where are the rolling hills, the snow, the happy, well-off, well-fed people? In another West.
She will be a cockle picker. Nine pounds a bag. December is the right season; she will earn lots of money, starting tonight. She holds tight to her dream. Completely, innocently trusting, she is lead to a terraced house, and met with yet another cruel shock. Eyes peer from round doorways. Forty pairs? Or more? She grimaces at her dirty blanket. At the back of her mind a voice quietly asks her what happened to the last user. The air is rank and heavy with the scent of salt water and grimy mould. But it doesn't matter. Tonight she will pick cockles.
Soon the girl has settled. She is happier; after all, the conditions are not any worse than what she has come from. The owners of they eyes she saw are sympathetic and support each other. They are the family she left behind.
Seven o'clock drifts into place. And she is here. Puzzled she looks at a glaring red sign staring at her. Shrugging to herself she moves on, towards the beach. The moon is concealed by a wispy veil of smoky clouds. Pollution chokes the stars' light, turning the sky darker. Tall, towering cliffs stretch upwards, crevices and rugged surfaces blending in the dark quiet of the night. The rock the rough sand and smooth pebbles grind together as bare feet tread over them, silent and swift. A glistening sea shines silver from a black backdrop, reflecting ripples and the watching moon. It laps and bubbles quietly, soothing and comforting against the shore.
Two hours have gone. Looking over her shoulder she is startled at how quickly and stealthily the sea has crept up. It is getting closer. "One more bag she thinks", that will be enough for now. Turning she moves ankle deep in water, away from the others to fresh ground. She does not notice the sea inching up her, as it whispers soothingly, cooling her aching feet. She wishes the bags were not so big! The tide works faster than she does. Now she notices how it is getting higher. But she MUST finish the bag. Too late.
Too late she tries to make for shore. Far too late. Too late for all the new cockle pickers. Too late for someone to tell her what the red sign meant, the warning. The sea picks her up, pulling her feet from under her she screams as she goes under, but only bubbles come from her mouth underwater. Her family runs. She was new. They need money. They all need to live for their dreams. She is dragged under as she tried to swim against the swell.
Tomorrow her body will be found and police and cameras will descend on the area. A charity will try to trace her family, maybe they'll succeed, maybe they won't. Her image will be splashed across national paper front pages for a week. Then page 2. Then a small article will appear in the back of the papers. Now people now and for a while people will care. They will shake their heads and sigh "such a waste". Soon they will forget and the passionate cries for change will mute. The world will forget and she will be gone. Her dreams gone with her. Britain was not what she dreamed of. She dreamed of a different Britain. A Britain totally foreign from the one she found. For a while the dream and reality will merge. Then separate again until the next body.