Don't Make It Worse

The third in a collection of short stories

The strange thing was, she had been so relieved to see them that morning.

Four Indian men, at first she thought maybe from Afghanistan or Pakistan but then when she came to the door and offered them tea and received the single head bob to the shoulder she asked them ‘Where you from?’ and was pleased to hear they were from the Punjab. Close to Pakistan at least, then. She was quietly smug that she’d been nearly accurate.

It didn’t take her long to fall into the sort of pidgin she’d learned growing up, that she hadn’t needed to use since they moved, where she’d found herself with the only brown face in the village. In fact, she realised now, she’d probably accentuated how proper her English was, that perfectly formed Received Pronunciation she’d had drilled into her - unconsciously reassuring the locals (many of whom had ties to the village that went back many generations) that she was basically English but just happened to be brown. Now, she fell into half-sentences and hand gestures to communicate, the shared language of immigrants. They had travelled together, three of them, last year to work with a cousin in the nearest city. Not just working on roofs like hers but various house jobs. And all living together. How awful, she thought, probably not even on minimum wage.

She went inside to put the kettle on, feeling aggrieved. Was it ok for them to be working there? Was she colluding with them being mistreated? She waited for the kettle to boil  and pulled out her phone, looking up ‘modern slavery’. Hang on, what did they want to drink anyway?

Taking out a plate of biscuits with her, she saw they were already set up on the path with a kettle, a huge box of Rich Tea biscuits and mugs. One of the men, tall and slim wearing a Carhartt beanie and a thick fleece, showed her the plug to an extension cord and gestured to the window. ‘Ma’am, can you put inside please?’ They didn’t need looking after, then. ‘Ok, tell me if you want anything’ she replied. He bobbed his head, one quick bob to the right, and then closed the front door on her. She walked back to her desk, opened the window and fed the plug through the gap. She plugged it in, and sat down. Might as well carry on working, then.

As soon as she had got into a flow, there was a knock at the door, and all four of them stood on the doorstep. She noticed four mugs on the window ledge, steaming. ‘Toilet, ma’am?’ the tall one asked. She gestured up the stairs, and one by one they removed their boots, traipsed up the stairs, the door closed, she heard a flush and they came back down. ‘Thank you, ma’am’. She stood in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Hopefully the kids had left the bathroom clean. What must they think of her, here in her yoga pants, hair bundled on the top of her head? She scratched her jaw and realised she hadn’t washed her face yet this morning. She hadn’t been expecting them until a little later. She saw one of them looking at her, maybe only 20 or so, dark brown eyes with the longest eyelashes looking at her from under his hat.

‘You are Indian?’ he asked, seeing her seeing him.

‘No’, she replied ‘Mixed’.

‘Mix?’ he asked

 ‘Yes’. He looked confused.

‘My mother is Malaysian. My father English’.

‘Ah. Mum, Malaysia. Father England?’

‘Yes’.

‘Ah. You Hindu?’

‘No’

‘Ah. Speak Hindi?’

‘No. Only English’

‘Only English’ he repeated. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, tufted with soft small hairs that weren’t quite yet a beard.

His workmate nudged him on the shoulder and he went up the stairs, looking at her as he passed. She felt a little nervous. He was much younger than the others. She wondered what had brought him here. Whether he was ok. He wasn’t that much older than her daughter. She pushed the nerves down.

The other three went out again, nodding at her as they went. She waited until she heard the toilet flush and he came back down. He put his boots back on in the hallway, and looked at her once more before he went out. ‘Mum, Malaysia. Father England’. ‘Yes’ she replied. He went out and shut the door. She wondered if she could shower and change, but suddenly felt aware of four men she didn’t know working on her home. She sat back at her desk. Out of the window, she saw them start to climb up the ladder, and heard them walking on the scaffolding boards. She went back to her screen.

Some time later, the door went again. She pressed ‘Save’ and went to open it. The young… boy? Man? Was standing on the doorstep. ‘Open window’ he said.

‘Which window?’ she asked. He gestured inside, and she stepped into the hallway to let him in. He walked past her, boots still on, and walked down the hallway into the kitchen. He was looking around, not at the windows but at the photos on the wall, at the cupboards. The sink was full of dishes from last night. She stepped in front of them, embarrassed. ‘Window’, he pointed at the skylight. ‘Not this one. Roof window’.

‘Oh’ she replied, and pointed up the stairs. He went past her again and up the stairs, not stopping to take his boots off this time. On the landing, he looked at her. She stopped, on the top step.

‘Roof window?’ he asked. She pointed again, further up, the next set of stairs. She saw him peer into her bedroom as he passed, and felt a sudden twinge in her stomach again. She pushed it away. He was just a boy. She could be his mother.

She followed him up to the loft. As she stepped through the door, she saw him looking at the easel, a prepared canvas sitting on it. He waved towards it ‘you?’ he said.

‘My husband’ she replied.

‘Husband?’  

‘Yes’, she pointed at her wedding ring.

‘Husband. Children?’

‘Yes, two’.

‘Babies?’

‘No, at school’

‘Ah. Two children. Girl? Boy?’

‘Two girls’, she said, holding up two fingers.

He bobbed his head to the right. ‘Two girls’ he repeated, ‘no boy’ he added. She noticed a flicker of shame. He looked at the windows. ‘This one’ he pointed, and stood back. She reached up to open it, feeling her T shirt lift up. She wondered if he could see her sagging belly. He stood and watched, she couldn’t quite reach the handle, so pulled over a chair and climbed up on it quickly. He watched, still, and she reached up and opened the window. ‘There’, she said.

She got down and stood looking at him. He didn’t move. ‘Ok, done’ she said, and gestured down the stairs. He stood a beat more, and then turned and walked down the stairs, quickly. She put the chair back and followed him down, the first flight. He wasn’t on the landing. She pulled her bedroom door shut as she passed, and carried on down to the hallway. He was standing looking at the photos there. ‘Your mum and dad?’ he asked, pointing at her parents’ wedding photo.

‘Yes, my parents’. They stood side by side.

‘Mum Malaysia, Dad English?’

‘Yes’

‘You no Hindi?’

‘No’

‘Only English?’

‘Only English’. They stood, looking at the photo together. Her mum looking up at her dad, both beaming.

‘This your daughter?’ he pointed at another photo. Her youngest, three years old, holding a dandelion clock up to the camera.

‘Yes, my daughter’

‘And she?’ He pointed to another photo. Her eldest, six years old, mid-jump on a trampoline, limbs everywhere.

‘Your daughter’ he nodded. ‘No son’ He looked closely at the photo.

‘Ok then’ she said, suddenly uncomfortable. She moved towards the front door. He pointed at her trousers.

‘This one. Like at home’ he said

‘Sorry?’

‘This’, he reached down and held the fabric of her yoga pants, ‘like at home. My mother’.

‘Ah’

‘But you no Punjabi?’

‘No’

‘Mother Malaysia, father England?’

‘Yes’. He let go, turned and opened the front door. Then turned back to her.

‘Thirsty’ he moved his hand as if drinking from a cup.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Drink’

She went back to the kitchen, and he closed the front door again and followed her. She opened a cupboard, took out a glass and held it over the dirty dishes, filling it with cold water.

‘No Coca Cola?’ he asked.

‘No, sorry’ she handed him the glass. He took it from her, holding her gaze and drank it in one go. He put the glass down on the counter.

‘Ok then’ she said again. They stood still. She waved towards the door. ‘Ok’

‘You nice lady’ he said.  She laughed, surprised.

‘You nice lady’ he repeated. ‘Nice lady, friendly. People in England’, he grimaced, shook his head, wrinkling his nose and frowning. ‘Not nice, rude. Not friendly’. Her heart swelled. Poor kid.

‘Oh, I’m sorry’ she said. He bobbed his head. ‘You nice’

He turned and walked down the hallway, opening the door and heading outside on to the front step. She followed him, hand on the front door. The other men were gathering at the end of the path, sitting on the wall and opening food containers. One looked up. The boy/man turned again, and looked at her. He put his hand on his crotch and said something she didn’t understand. She felt a lurch in her stomach.

‘Sorry? I don’t understand’

He moved his hand, rubbing his crotch, and said something.

‘I don’t understand’ she said again. He shook his head and walked towards the others. All looking away now. She shook her head and closed the door. Weird. She must have misheard. He was young enough to be her son. She went back to work. As she sat at her desk, she looked out of the window and saw them all laughing. Were they laughing at her? What must they make of her?

A little later, Billy, the owner of the company came to check everything was ok. A young local lad, he came smartly dressed and clean shaven, holding his iPad. She opened the door to him untying his shoelaces on the front step. The young boy/man was by the doorstep, speaking into his mobile. He pointed at his phone, saying to her ‘Mum’ and she smiled. He gestured at her pants again, ‘like at home’ he said ‘my mother’. She wondered if she reminded him of his own mother, maybe he had called her to say hi. What was his mother like, she wondered. Did she worry about her son, all the way over here with these unfriendly English people? She gave a little wave and stood aside as Billy stepped in to the house.

‘Do you want a cuppa?’ she asked Billy, ‘no I’m ok, thanks so much’ he replied.

She led him to the kitchen table, remembering the dishes again, feeling her cheeks flush. He went through some paperwork with her. On the doorstep, putting his shoes back on, he nodded up at the roof, ‘are they ok, these guys?’ He asked.

‘Yes’, she replied ‘they’re really working hard’. It was starting to drizzle.

‘I’ve got them in just for today, they’ll strip everything back and then we can start repairing tomorrow. It’ll all be watertight by tonight so you shouldn’t have any trouble with this’, he gestured at the rain.

‘Ok, that’s a relief. Thanks Billy, appreciate you doing this all so quickly’.

‘Course. Just give me a call if you need anything.’ He stepped on to the path.

‘Actually…’, she said.

He turned back.

‘…Do you know if any of these guys speak English?’ Billy shook his head.

‘No, I don’t know, I haven’t used this company before. They were the only ones able to get here today. I don’t think so.’ He paused. ‘Why? Everything ok?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ She rubbed her jaw and thought of the boy/man rubbing his crotch. Maybe he was just having a scratch. ‘Just one of them was trying to ask me something’. Billy shrugged his shoulders.

‘Their boss is coming about 6 to pick them up again, maybe ask him then?’ He turned to leave. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, thanks Billy’

‘No problem, Jazz’. He waved his hand. The others were up on the roof. ‘All ok, fellas?’ he shouted up. She noticed his round belly, thought about how skinny all the men were up on the roof. Something was shouted down, and Billy stuck his thumb up in the air, hunched his shoulders down against the rain and ran down the path.

Back at her desk, she looked out at the rain. It was getting harder. She got up, and opened the door. They were still up on the roof. ‘Hello?’ she called up. She could hear banging. She closed the door, and went back inside and up the stairs to the loft. Water was dripping in through the open window. She pulled the chair over again, and climbed up to close it. A tiny rivulet of brown water was dribbling from the corner of the window. She picked up a cloth to wipe it, rubbing the dirt further around the wall. She threw the cloth down, frustrated. Looking out of the window, she could hear them walking on the roof. The rain was really hard now. She heard the doorbell go and ran down the stairs.

All four of them were standing on the doorstep, huddled under the porch roof, dripping wet. The tall man in the Carhartt hat was holding the extension cable again ‘Ma’am, please close’, he pointed at the cord running through the window, then up at the sky. ‘Dangerous’.

She nodded, feeling annoyed, and went into the front room, unplugging the cable and passing it to him through the window. She pulled the window down. Going back to the front door, she didn’t know what to do. They were soaked.

‘Do you want to come inside?’ she asked.

‘No ma’am’, the tall man said. ‘No we will stop for break now’.

She wondered where they would go, thought about asking again. Billy had said they were getting picked up later, so presumably they didn’t have a van they could stay dry in. They could eat in the kitchen. But she didn’t say anything.

The boy/man stepped into the house. ‘Toilet?’ he said, pointing up stairs.

‘Of course’, she said.

He walked in, trailing wet footsteps behind him and up the stairs. She kept the door open, aware of the other three still huddled under the porch.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in? It’s pouring.’

‘No ma’am’, the tall man replied. ‘We will stop now and go. Come back soon’.

They all stood in silence, looking up the stairs. Waiting. She shifted on her feet. Finally, they heard the toilet flush and he came back down the stairs, slowly, hand trailing down the banister. One of the other men, short and moustached, spoke to him -  she assumed in Punjabi, a sharp edge to his voice. The boy/man smiled at him and replied, ‘No it ok’. He came to stand next to her, touching her arm. She stiffened. He addressed the man ‘Sister, sister’ he laughed. The other man replied, scowling. The boy/man didn’t move, but turned to her.

‘Nice, so nice’. He looked at her, eyes slowly moving down her body, pausing on her breasts, and continued down slowly. She felt the hair on her arms prick up. He bent down and touched her trousers again, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. ‘Nice lady. These, like at home’.

She moved away from him and gestured to the door. ‘Ok, bye’. He frowned at her. She crossed her arms, and the moustached man said something again, waving his arm at the path. The boy/man stepped out the house and turned back to frown at her. ‘Thirsty?’ he said.

‘I have to get back to work now’, she said, smiling stiffly. She gestured typing with her fingers and pointed back to the front room. ‘Work’. He nodded, still frowning, and she closed the door on them as they turned to walk away.

She sat back at her desk, and watched them walk out of the gate. She wondered where they would go. She realised she was feeling sick, and pushed her chair back again, walking into the kitchen. She stood at the sink and poured herself a glass of water, sipping it slowly as she looked at the dishes. She shook her head, picked up a sponge and started washing up.

The rest of the afternoon was brighter, the rain stopped and the sun came out. When the men came back they were dry, and one of them whistled as they came down the path. She was sitting at her desk, eating a sandwich with one hand and scrolling through emails with the other, and heard them open the gate. She watched them laughing together, the three older men talking and jostling each other companionably.  The boy/man walked behind them, looking deep in thought. They went straight up the ladders, and she heard them on the roof and went back to work.

The boy/man knocked on the door again some time later, when she was on a call. She let him in, still talking on the phone, and he pointed up the stairs. She stepped back into the front room, leaving the front door open and listening to him walk upstairs. She heard him stop at the top of the stairs, but she went out to the doorstep, listening to her colleague, and let her face turn up to sun. She was relieved that her colleague was still talking when he came back down, and passed her. He stopped in front of her, waiting to speak, but she smiled at him, pointed at the phone and went back inside, shutting the door behind her.

At 4pm, she saw her eldest coming through the gate, waving to her friend. The men were out the front, talking and looking up at the roof, and she saw their eyes follow her daughter into the house. Ash flung her bag on the floor, leaving the door open. ‘Hi’ she called to her mum as she walked through to the kitchen, ‘I’m starving! What is there to eat?’

Jazz followed her in to the kitchen and opened the fridge, leaning in she started to pull out leftovers then realised that the boy/man had followed Ash in to the house. She straightened up, alarmed, and stepped into the hallway, leaving Ash in the kitchen. She felt the air still.

‘What is it?’ she asked him.

‘Your daughter!’ he said, smiling. ‘This your daughter!’

‘Yes’ she said, walking towards him and ushering him back towards the front door. He pulled out his phone.

‘Selfie?’ he said, opening his arm wide to beckon Ash towards them. Ash came to stand next to her mother, looking at her face, questioning. ‘Selfie?’ he repeated to them both.

‘Selfie?’ Jazz asked, confused.

‘Photo. Photo you, nice lady, and daughter. For my mother’ he replied. He moved to stand next to her.

‘No’, Ash said sternly. ‘No, no photos! That’s ridiculous’ She shook her head, bemused, and went back into the kitchen, opening the fridge again and looking at the contents. Jazz gave a short laugh, seeing his face fall.

‘Sorry! No selfie’ she said. The tall man came to the front door and peered in. ‘Ma’am?’ he showed her the extension cable in his hand again. ‘Plug?’ She laughed, relieved, and went to plug it back in again, becoming aware the boy/man had gone back upstairs. She wasn’t sure what to do. She felt strangely safer knowing Ash was home. But was that fair on Ash? Or on him? She wondered absent-mindedly where the others were going to the toilet, he was the only one who kept coming back in. She imagined them pissing off her roof. The tall man was waiting on the doorstep, waiting for the younger man. She walked back to Ash in the kitchen and heard footsteps on the stairs, the two men talking quietly, and the front door closing. She looked into the hallway. Empty.

‘What a weirdo, Mum’ Ash grimaced. ‘Why was he in the house?’

‘He’s been coming in all day, they needed to….’ She paused. ‘He came in to show me a window but actually he’s been coming in and out a lot’. She wondered whether to tell Ash how uncomfortable she’d felt, but thought better of it. She didn’t want to worry her. Plus, he probably just didn’t know what was appropriate. She imagined he was pretty new to the country, and maybe he didn’t realise he was being… a bit forward. ‘He told me he’s been having a hard time here, that people in England are rude.’

Ash laughed ‘I’m not surprised they’re rude to him, he’s a total weirdo’

‘Ash!’ Jazz admonished her. ‘Don’t be mean. He’s just… he just doesn’t know, maybe, that things are…things are different here’.

‘Mum, don’t be an idiot’ her daughter scoffed, ‘there’s fresh off the boat and then there’s just being weird. Don’t make excuses for him. He’s creepy’.

‘Ashita! You can’t say that!’

‘I just did, Mum, there’s cultural differences and then there’s just plain weird. He’s a creep.’

Jazz didn’t know what to say. Was she right? Ash didn’t know what it was to be a foreigner, didn’t know how many unspoken rules there were. Didn’t know how different things were in places like India or Malaysia. Granted, neither did Jazz. She’d only been to Malaysia once on holiday, her mum’s family had moved over here when her mum was small, and rarely returned, preferring to holiday in the Canary Islands or Spain.

‘How was your day?’ she changed the subject, watching her daughter shovel rice and broccoli into her mouth with a spoon. ‘Mm-good’ Ash replied, mouth full. They sat at the table together and Jazz listened to her talk about the events of the day, the argument that her friends had got into at lunch break, indignant that one of the boys in the class had called her friend ‘flat-chested’. Ash was appalled, ‘I mean, what right does he have to even look, Mum? And in any case, it’s so wrong to judge someone’s appearance. What does he think this is, the 90s?’ Jazz laughed. Ash retrieved her bag from the hall and pulled out some homework, sitting down at the kitchen table while Jazz started putting away the dishes on the draining rack, putting some quiet music on in the background. She walked around the table, pausing to kiss Ash on the top of the head as she passed.

She brought her laptop through to the kitchen and sat down with Ash, trying to finish her work before she had to start cooking. It was beginning to grow dark, and the rain had started up again. Jazz realised she was listening out, waiting for the four men to go home before she could fully relax. She couldn’t quite settle to her work, opening a game up on her laptop, screen facing away from her daughter while she passed the time, restless.

About 5:45, there was a knock at the door. She left Ash in the kitchen, and went to open it. She noticed how dark it had grown. Two of the men were at the gate, stacking up tiles they had brought down from the roof. One of them had a head torch on, but she could barely see the other in the shadows. The man in the hat, and boy/man were on the doorstep. The man picked up the cord running through the window. ‘Finish’ he said.

‘Shall I unplug it?’ she asked. He bobbed his head.

As she stepped away from the door, the boy/man came in to the house. The other man put his hand on his arm, holding him and speaking to him in a low voice. The younger man shook his head, smiling at Jazz. ‘All ok’ he said to her.  She walked into the front room and unplugged the cord, feeding it back through the window. As she came back to the door, she saw the boy/man on the stairs again. ‘Toilet’ he said to her, again.

‘Ok, ma’am?’ the other man said. He stepped back from the door, and into the security light which clicked on, bathing him in light. He squinted at her, holding the extension cable in one hand. ‘We go now’.

‘Thanks, are you all finished?’ She said. She was aware it was quiet upstairs.

‘Sorry, no understand’ he said.

‘All done?’ she said, making a cross with her hands, ‘finish?’

‘Aho, yes’ he replied. He turned to go. She couldn’t see the other men.

She stood by the door, awkward in her own home. He walked into the darkness, and she walked back towards the kitchen. She paused to look at the photos, Ash’s hair flying high in the air as she jumped. She missed those days.

Hearing the flush again, she pulled her cardigan around her and crossed her arms. The boy/man came slowly down the stairs and stopped mid way.

‘Nice, so nice’ he said to her. She shivered. ‘Now, selfie?’

‘No’, she replied. ‘No photo’. He frowned.

‘I take ID? Your ID?’ he asked. She frowned back, confused. ‘What ID?’

‘Your ID, I take?’ he held up his phone to her. Oh, her number.

‘No, thank you. It’s time to go’ she beckoned towards the door.

‘Ok.’ He didn’t move. ‘I hug’. He stepped down the stairs and held his arms out towards her, wide open. She stood stiff, arms still folded, and shook her head.

‘Hug’ he repeated, and came towards her. She could smell his stale sweat.

‘No’, she said again. He didn’t move, arms still out, close enough now that she could feel his breath on her face. She lifted up her hand and showed him her wedding ring again.

‘Husband, married?’ she said. He nodded.

‘Husband no like’ he said, nodding again, slowly. ‘Husband. No like’.

‘Yes’, she said ‘husband no like’.

‘No selfie?’

‘No, no selfie. Husband no like’ she said again

He stayed in front of her, still close. His breathing was heavy.

‘Ok, bye now’ she said.

He didn’t move.

‘Bye’ she said again, taking a step closer towards him, so that they were almost touching.

He didn’t move. Instead, he leaned his face closer still, scowling at her.

‘No, you no nice lady’ he said. ‘Not nice. I not happy’.

She froze for a moment, then repeated ‘bye now. Time to go’

He didn’t move.

‘You go now’ she said again, and pushed past him to the door. She saw Ash looking at them from the kitchen table.

‘Not nice lady’ he repeated. He moved at last, shoving past her through the front door. He turned back one last time ‘Not nice, I not happy’.

She went to close the door, and realised his foot was on the threshold. The three other men appeared, and the security light flicked on again. The tall man said something, then looked at her, frowning. ‘We go now. Thank you Ma’am’. They turned and left. She stood for a while, and heard a van door slam, then the sound of it driving off. She shut the door, and realised she was shaking.

Walking back into the kitchen, Ash was sitting glaring at her.

‘What the fuck, Mum?’

‘What?’

‘Why did you let him in the house?’

‘What do you mean? He needed the toilet. I couldn’t really say no, could I?’

‘Course you fucking could. Oh my god mum, why? You’re so dumb’

Jazz stood, stunned.

‘You’re such a fucking people pleaser, Mum’ Ash stood from her chair, gathering up her books. ‘What about me? Who cares about him. That was fucking scary’.

Ash started to cry, surprising herself almost as much as her mother.

‘Ash’, Jazz stepped towards her, ‘I’m sorry. I….’ She paused. ‘The thing is, I just… I just didn’t want to make it worse’.

Ash pushed past her. ‘No mum, it is worse. This is not ok. It’s not ok. You let a creepy guy into our house. It’s not ok. That’s so stupid.’ She wiped her face roughly, picked up her bag, and stalked out of the room, running up the stairs. Jazz heard her bedroom door close.

The next morning, after everyone had left the house for school and work, Jazz walked into the village to post a parcel. Returning back home, she bumped into her neighbour.

‘Oh Jasmine, nice to see you’ she said.

‘Hello Mrs Sawyer’, Jazz responded ‘how are you?’

‘Not to bad thank you love’ she replied, putting down her shopping bag and pushing back a wisp of grey hair. ‘Oh those poor men yesterday out on your roof’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes I was really worried about them up there in the rain, it was really dangerous wasn’t it? I was worried about one of them falling. I said to Andy, would that be your responsibility? You know, if they fell? In the rain?’

Jazz hesitated.

‘Oh yes, I mean I was really worried about them too’

‘You didn’t think to tell them to come down? Imagine if they’d have fallen.’

‘Yes, um. I did tell them. I think I did tell them. Good thing they were ok, eh?’

‘Yes, such a relief. They probably don’t have any rights, poor boys. Bet they’re paid a pittance. Terrible’.

‘Yes’ Jazz replied. ‘Terrible’. She looked up at the scaffolding. ‘I’ll let Billy know’

‘You must’ Mrs Sawyer replied. ‘I’m sure Billy wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt’.

‘No, you’re absolutely right’ Jazz said, bobbing her head. She walked back in the house, and closed the door behind her.