"What did your Stonnie expect?" Mrs Cobson demanded. "Talking to you like that. You think he should get away with it?"
"I ain't saying that-" Morran began.
"Just not a slap, eh? Didn't think you were one of those, Morran."
"I ain't, an' I ain't saying-"
"Sometimes it's the only language kids understand. 'Specially the lads. Too many parents nowadays not raising their hand to their kids. Ain't modern enough for them. An' look what we end up with. Kids everywhere running riot, not listening to a word anyone says."
"I ain't saying Dryden were wrong to hit Stonnie," Morran protested, trying to keep her temper in check. "But there's ways of doing it an' he chose the wrong one."
"How can there be-" Mrs Amecco began and was glared at ferociously by Morran.
"You give your kids a slap or two when needs be," she was informed. "You don't belt 'em in the face like you're some drunk in a pub fight."
There were five women sat in Morran's flat that morning. From the outside they looked like that middle class cliché, the sewing circle. Neighbouring wives clustered together to gossip, busy themselves, fill an otherwise vacant morning. And the quintet did gather regularly to keep each other company and exchange news mostly about families and neighbours. They worked feverishly as they talked, however, and on items much less refined than a wealthy lady would touch. This was their livelihood; Mrs Cobson self-employed, the others thrown commissions by contractors. Mrs Cobson was mending holes in grimy socks, fastening buttons back to tattered shirts. Mrs Amecco and Mrs Chorley, two battered and rangy women who looked like sisters and may indeed have been related given the tangled thickets of Jakks Way's older families, both knitted relentlessly. Zesheyek was stitching sequins into lengths of cloth to form rather unenthusiastic brocade. Morran, meanwhile, was trying to liven up drab dresses by fastening aged strips of lace to hems and necklines.. She had first formed the circle. She also encouraged the women to offer up any problems they were having regarding pay or supplies. These were usually solved communally, albeit also surreptitiously. The tactic would not have pleased their contractors, who used domestic labour primarily to avoid the problems of a unionised workforce.
"Don't see how the method matters," Mrs Cobson declared. "So long as the message gets hammered in. My dad used to take his belt to me, I recall, an' a damn heavy one it was too. Twenty strokes of that we got sometimes, right on the bare. An' it did me no harm in the long run."
"You reckon?" Morran muttered.
"What do you think, young Zesh?" Mrs Cobson asked. "Kids are still brought up the old style in Notruf, I hear."
Zesheyek hesitated. She was conscious that Morran had introduced her to the group, that Morran had first found her the sewing commission. And that on this occasion she didn't precisely agree with Morran. "I guess you've got to be careful of, of really hurting the child…" she began diplomatically.
"That ain't the point," Morran snapped. "You've got to stay in control. Dryden ain't. He loses it every time. Stonnie's old enough to spot that now. Every time he gets hit, he loses a bit more respect for his dad. An' that ain't the worst. Stonnie's getting bigger an' stronger. Soon he's gonna be bigger than Dryden. An one day soon he's gonna get right up, hit his dad back an' put him down. You can see it coming. An' then where the hell are we gonna be? How are we gonna keep him under control then?"
There was a silence, filled by the clatter of colliding knitting needles. "Well," Mrs Cobson said eventually, "Guess that'll be the time for your Stonnie to leave, won't it? He'll be out of school soon, getting a proper job. Can't keep him at home forever."
"That shouldn't be the reason why he leaves. Just 'cause his dad can't control him anymore."
"Got to go sometime," Mrs Cobson said phlegmatically.
"Why don't you sort out your Stonnie?" Mrs Chorley ventured. "If his dad-"
"'Cause it's the dad's job," Morran said. Her annoyance grew when she noticed Mrs Cobson nodding agreement but she continued anyway. "That's the way it works. The dad takes care of the sons, the mum of the daughters. Dryden's got nowt to complain about. I've got twice the work he has."
"Aye, but I reckon Stonnie's twice as much work as your two girls together," Mrs Cobson said, almost smiling.
"Now, maybe," Morran replied darkly. "We'll see when they get to his age. An' when they start keeping the company he does."
"You think that's the problem?" Mrs Amecco asked. "The company-"
"Course it is," Morran interrupted. She rarely let either of the identical knitters finish their sentences. Few people did. Both quiet and self-effacing, Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco tended to get casually bullied by stronger personalities. "Plain as your boots. Look at that little Marksen thug. Stonnie's gotten twice as bad since he started hanging around him. You know that Marksen, don't you?" she asked Mrs Cobson. "Bloody hooligan."
"I know him. Know his whole family. They've all gone to bad."
"Aye. Dad's up at the New Reystone Prison an' here's hoping they never let him out. An' the son's following right in his footsteps. That Cepu Boldan's been sniffing around him, I hear. Reckons he could be a fine new member of his gang, no doubt. So a great example he'll be setting for our Stonnie. You know," Morran added, feeling she and Mrs Cobson had been in agreement for slightly too long, "You're always banging on about folks moving here an' causing trouble. But some of the ones already here, the Markens an' the Boldans, they ain't no angels either."
"Ain't saying they are," the older woman sniffed. "Just that we don't need any more devils. You prefer your Stonnie to be hanging round the East Zabric?"
"Why not? Least they might teach him how to cook."
Zesheyek laughed. She had sensed Morran's unhappiness at having her own son's problems analysed by Mrs Cobson. That little victory, however trivial, had been important to her. Seeking a question which was relevant but not too upsetting to her friend, Zesheyek eventually asked, "Is Stonnie leaving school next year then?"
"Looks that way. Even if we had the money to keep him on, he ain't interested. He's got the brains but if he don't use 'em, what can you do?"
"More and more kids are staying on till seventeen," Mrs Amecco said incautiously.
"An' the bulk of 'em still ain't," was Morran's angry reply. "Anyway, it's not your education that counts, it's the job you get at the end of it. Our Saska might stay on," she continued more evenly. "She's keen on the idea. If we pinch a few coppers an' this keeps bringing in the money-" she nodded at her stitching – "I reckon it's possible. I ain't worried about Stonnie leaving though. That place he's working weekends now, he says they'll take him on full time."
"A warehouse on Leighman Way," Mrs Cobson said with disapproval. "Asking for trouble."
"Aye, well, the twenty thousand pubs next door might be a bit of a temptation for some. But one thing Stonnie ain't shown signs of becoming so far, that's a pisshead. I checked this place out before I let him set foot in it. It's OK."
"Deal in funny goods, some of them warehouses."
"An' this one don't," Morran said firmly. "'Cause it's OK. Stonnie's a good lad at heart. He just needs to keep his head together. An' stay away from thugs like that bloody Marksen."
"And Cepu Boldan," Zesheyek said.
"Aye, well. He knows about Boldan. An' he knows that if he goes anywhere near him, he won't just have to leave home. He'll have to leave bloody town. 'Cause I will take care of him myself that time an' I'll give him the biggest bloody thrashing he's ever had."
"And once thrashed, he'll stay thrashed?" Zesheyek asked. She was mimicking one of Morran's phrases but doing so supportively. Her reward was a grateful nod.
"Damn right."
Zesheyek smiled. She was glad to see Morran's usual aura of combative self-assurance fully restored. At the same time, the conversation depressed her a little. They had so many of these in the sewing group. Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco brought similar tidings of their children, Mrs Cobson of her grandchildren. They had such limited dreams for their sons and daughters. They just accepted it. That their offspring would be tossed from the fabled Triple Cities education system at the earliest possible opportunity onto whatever menial tasks they could land upon. Which seemed to Zesheyek far beneath the rural labours which her own family carried out. They weren't helping things grow, helping animals breed or die, producing anything truly of value. They were stacking and polishing. Carrying out tasks which somebody had decided, probably arbitrarily, ought to be done. It was an existence, not a living.
And even these menial hopes were always threatened. The fears of the women were the same too. Of the darkness which not just surrounded Jakks Way but had penetrated it. Boys like Marksen, men like Boldan. Zesheyek had met Marksen a few times and he did unsettle her. Only twelve years old, he had already learnt the traits of cunning and false courtesy. He was always polite to her. He was polite to everyone. And she knew that the moment he passed from her hearing he would start spraying insults about her. He would be encouraging boys like Stonnie, who were far too impressed by his sly intelligence, to do likewise. She thought she also knew that his pockets, where his hands were permanently buried, always held a weapon; and he would produce it given any encouragement.
As for Cepu Boldan… Zesheyek had only heard of his reputation. She thought some of it must be exaggerated. The numbers of men he had killed or banks he had robbed. Not so the accounts which really frightened her friends, however. Of how he seduced promising neighbourhood boys, whispering of the money they could earn in his gang, the power they would accrue, the revenges they could enact. Dragging them in further and further until they were too far from the light to ever escape. Boldan was getting very good at that, the women said. He practised at it.
Only Zesheyek was different to them. Her son would have a chance of escaping. To rise above the meaningless drudgery of Jakks Way and the servile status of her own family. It was small, it carried a risk of making his life far worst. But while the chance existed, she had to pursue it for him. She sensed a trace of jealousy in Morran that her friend's son alone had this opportunity. The envy had erupted as a tiny geyser when Zesheyek first told her and still emanated a few tiny dribbles occasionally. The fountain was almost dry, however. Morran was too strong to heed it. Instead she had put almost as much faith as Zesheyek into the chance which the tiny, unborn boy had. She would, if necessary, fight just as hard to preserve it. Because it had somehow become hers as well as Zesheyek's as well as her husband's. The baby was the best hope they all had.
"I ain't saying that-" Morran began.
"Just not a slap, eh? Didn't think you were one of those, Morran."
"I ain't, an' I ain't saying-"
"Sometimes it's the only language kids understand. 'Specially the lads. Too many parents nowadays not raising their hand to their kids. Ain't modern enough for them. An' look what we end up with. Kids everywhere running riot, not listening to a word anyone says."
"I ain't saying Dryden were wrong to hit Stonnie," Morran protested, trying to keep her temper in check. "But there's ways of doing it an' he chose the wrong one."
"How can there be-" Mrs Amecco began and was glared at ferociously by Morran.
"You give your kids a slap or two when needs be," she was informed. "You don't belt 'em in the face like you're some drunk in a pub fight."
There were five women sat in Morran's flat that morning. From the outside they looked like that middle class cliché, the sewing circle. Neighbouring wives clustered together to gossip, busy themselves, fill an otherwise vacant morning. And the quintet did gather regularly to keep each other company and exchange news mostly about families and neighbours. They worked feverishly as they talked, however, and on items much less refined than a wealthy lady would touch. This was their livelihood; Mrs Cobson self-employed, the others thrown commissions by contractors. Mrs Cobson was mending holes in grimy socks, fastening buttons back to tattered shirts. Mrs Amecco and Mrs Chorley, two battered and rangy women who looked like sisters and may indeed have been related given the tangled thickets of Jakks Way's older families, both knitted relentlessly. Zesheyek was stitching sequins into lengths of cloth to form rather unenthusiastic brocade. Morran, meanwhile, was trying to liven up drab dresses by fastening aged strips of lace to hems and necklines.. She had first formed the circle. She also encouraged the women to offer up any problems they were having regarding pay or supplies. These were usually solved communally, albeit also surreptitiously. The tactic would not have pleased their contractors, who used domestic labour primarily to avoid the problems of a unionised workforce.
"Don't see how the method matters," Mrs Cobson declared. "So long as the message gets hammered in. My dad used to take his belt to me, I recall, an' a damn heavy one it was too. Twenty strokes of that we got sometimes, right on the bare. An' it did me no harm in the long run."
"You reckon?" Morran muttered.
"What do you think, young Zesh?" Mrs Cobson asked. "Kids are still brought up the old style in Notruf, I hear."
Zesheyek hesitated. She was conscious that Morran had introduced her to the group, that Morran had first found her the sewing commission. And that on this occasion she didn't precisely agree with Morran. "I guess you've got to be careful of, of really hurting the child…" she began diplomatically.
"That ain't the point," Morran snapped. "You've got to stay in control. Dryden ain't. He loses it every time. Stonnie's old enough to spot that now. Every time he gets hit, he loses a bit more respect for his dad. An' that ain't the worst. Stonnie's getting bigger an' stronger. Soon he's gonna be bigger than Dryden. An one day soon he's gonna get right up, hit his dad back an' put him down. You can see it coming. An' then where the hell are we gonna be? How are we gonna keep him under control then?"
There was a silence, filled by the clatter of colliding knitting needles. "Well," Mrs Cobson said eventually, "Guess that'll be the time for your Stonnie to leave, won't it? He'll be out of school soon, getting a proper job. Can't keep him at home forever."
"That shouldn't be the reason why he leaves. Just 'cause his dad can't control him anymore."
"Got to go sometime," Mrs Cobson said phlegmatically.
"Why don't you sort out your Stonnie?" Mrs Chorley ventured. "If his dad-"
"'Cause it's the dad's job," Morran said. Her annoyance grew when she noticed Mrs Cobson nodding agreement but she continued anyway. "That's the way it works. The dad takes care of the sons, the mum of the daughters. Dryden's got nowt to complain about. I've got twice the work he has."
"Aye, but I reckon Stonnie's twice as much work as your two girls together," Mrs Cobson said, almost smiling.
"Now, maybe," Morran replied darkly. "We'll see when they get to his age. An' when they start keeping the company he does."
"You think that's the problem?" Mrs Amecco asked. "The company-"
"Course it is," Morran interrupted. She rarely let either of the identical knitters finish their sentences. Few people did. Both quiet and self-effacing, Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco tended to get casually bullied by stronger personalities. "Plain as your boots. Look at that little Marksen thug. Stonnie's gotten twice as bad since he started hanging around him. You know that Marksen, don't you?" she asked Mrs Cobson. "Bloody hooligan."
"I know him. Know his whole family. They've all gone to bad."
"Aye. Dad's up at the New Reystone Prison an' here's hoping they never let him out. An' the son's following right in his footsteps. That Cepu Boldan's been sniffing around him, I hear. Reckons he could be a fine new member of his gang, no doubt. So a great example he'll be setting for our Stonnie. You know," Morran added, feeling she and Mrs Cobson had been in agreement for slightly too long, "You're always banging on about folks moving here an' causing trouble. But some of the ones already here, the Markens an' the Boldans, they ain't no angels either."
"Ain't saying they are," the older woman sniffed. "Just that we don't need any more devils. You prefer your Stonnie to be hanging round the East Zabric?"
"Why not? Least they might teach him how to cook."
Zesheyek laughed. She had sensed Morran's unhappiness at having her own son's problems analysed by Mrs Cobson. That little victory, however trivial, had been important to her. Seeking a question which was relevant but not too upsetting to her friend, Zesheyek eventually asked, "Is Stonnie leaving school next year then?"
"Looks that way. Even if we had the money to keep him on, he ain't interested. He's got the brains but if he don't use 'em, what can you do?"
"More and more kids are staying on till seventeen," Mrs Amecco said incautiously.
"An' the bulk of 'em still ain't," was Morran's angry reply. "Anyway, it's not your education that counts, it's the job you get at the end of it. Our Saska might stay on," she continued more evenly. "She's keen on the idea. If we pinch a few coppers an' this keeps bringing in the money-" she nodded at her stitching – "I reckon it's possible. I ain't worried about Stonnie leaving though. That place he's working weekends now, he says they'll take him on full time."
"A warehouse on Leighman Way," Mrs Cobson said with disapproval. "Asking for trouble."
"Aye, well, the twenty thousand pubs next door might be a bit of a temptation for some. But one thing Stonnie ain't shown signs of becoming so far, that's a pisshead. I checked this place out before I let him set foot in it. It's OK."
"Deal in funny goods, some of them warehouses."
"An' this one don't," Morran said firmly. "'Cause it's OK. Stonnie's a good lad at heart. He just needs to keep his head together. An' stay away from thugs like that bloody Marksen."
"And Cepu Boldan," Zesheyek said.
"Aye, well. He knows about Boldan. An' he knows that if he goes anywhere near him, he won't just have to leave home. He'll have to leave bloody town. 'Cause I will take care of him myself that time an' I'll give him the biggest bloody thrashing he's ever had."
"And once thrashed, he'll stay thrashed?" Zesheyek asked. She was mimicking one of Morran's phrases but doing so supportively. Her reward was a grateful nod.
"Damn right."
Zesheyek smiled. She was glad to see Morran's usual aura of combative self-assurance fully restored. At the same time, the conversation depressed her a little. They had so many of these in the sewing group. Mrs Chorley and Mrs Amecco brought similar tidings of their children, Mrs Cobson of her grandchildren. They had such limited dreams for their sons and daughters. They just accepted it. That their offspring would be tossed from the fabled Triple Cities education system at the earliest possible opportunity onto whatever menial tasks they could land upon. Which seemed to Zesheyek far beneath the rural labours which her own family carried out. They weren't helping things grow, helping animals breed or die, producing anything truly of value. They were stacking and polishing. Carrying out tasks which somebody had decided, probably arbitrarily, ought to be done. It was an existence, not a living.
And even these menial hopes were always threatened. The fears of the women were the same too. Of the darkness which not just surrounded Jakks Way but had penetrated it. Boys like Marksen, men like Boldan. Zesheyek had met Marksen a few times and he did unsettle her. Only twelve years old, he had already learnt the traits of cunning and false courtesy. He was always polite to her. He was polite to everyone. And she knew that the moment he passed from her hearing he would start spraying insults about her. He would be encouraging boys like Stonnie, who were far too impressed by his sly intelligence, to do likewise. She thought she also knew that his pockets, where his hands were permanently buried, always held a weapon; and he would produce it given any encouragement.
As for Cepu Boldan… Zesheyek had only heard of his reputation. She thought some of it must be exaggerated. The numbers of men he had killed or banks he had robbed. Not so the accounts which really frightened her friends, however. Of how he seduced promising neighbourhood boys, whispering of the money they could earn in his gang, the power they would accrue, the revenges they could enact. Dragging them in further and further until they were too far from the light to ever escape. Boldan was getting very good at that, the women said. He practised at it.
Only Zesheyek was different to them. Her son would have a chance of escaping. To rise above the meaningless drudgery of Jakks Way and the servile status of her own family. It was small, it carried a risk of making his life far worst. But while the chance existed, she had to pursue it for him. She sensed a trace of jealousy in Morran that her friend's son alone had this opportunity. The envy had erupted as a tiny geyser when Zesheyek first told her and still emanated a few tiny dribbles occasionally. The fountain was almost dry, however. Morran was too strong to heed it. Instead she had put almost as much faith as Zesheyek into the chance which the tiny, unborn boy had. She would, if necessary, fight just as hard to preserve it. Because it had somehow become hers as well as Zesheyek's as well as her husband's. The baby was the best hope they all had.
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