The Road Home by Rose Tremain Page A

If Mr. Ashe sees you put so much as a slice of lemon rind in your gob, you’ll be history. So don’t do it. There’s a staff meal at five p.m. It’s light, because we don’t want the workers’ guts weighed down with protein, but you’ll survive. And—if the service has gone exceptionally well—Mr. Ashe is sometimes overcome with magnanimity at one in the morning and he makes crostini for us all. And we open a few beers. And we’re like a family then. You’ll see.”
    Damian smiled his fast-vanishing smile, and Lev said, “Family is good.”
    “Yes, it is,” said Damian. “It certainly is. I expect you’ve got a family at home, have you? That’s what you boys do—I’ve seen it— send all your money home to some village, right?”
    “For my mother and for my daughter.”
    “Yes? Well, you’re a kindhearted bunch, I’ll say that. Is your wife here in England with you?”
    “No,” said Lev. “My wife . . . she died.”
    “Right,” said Damian. “Right. Okay. Sorry. Now come and see your sinks. Here they are. Two sinks and two-point-five meters of steel draining top. State-of-the-art hygiene area. Racks here for service platters and plates. Multiprogram dishwashers here for glassware. Jet scourers. Temperature-controlled rinse faucet. Okay, Olev? You could wash up for a regiment in this facility.”
    Lev stood at the sinks and looked at the length of steel-tiled wall behind them and at the clean-laundered linen tea towels hung up in a neat line on steel pegs. He wished Rudi were here to see all this and be awed. Heard him say, “Jesus, Lev! Take a look at this ravishing shiny shit!”
    Lev would start the following day, reporting for work at four.
    “Don’t forget, Olev,” said Damian, as he walked Lev to the kitchen door, “that a restaurant kitchen operates exactly like an orchestra. Everybody has to focus up and keep time. And there’s only one conductor, and that’s the head chef. So keep alert. Don’t rest. Don’t take breaks. Keep playing your instrument and play it in time. Then you’ll do well. See you tomorrow.”
    Lev came out into the sunshine, rolled a cigarette, and lit it. On the other side of the street, a few drinkers still occupied a pub table, and their laughter was like the laughter of children, unrestrained and loud. Lev sat down near them, and one of the women, a smoker, said flirtatiously, “Hi, Peaches!” and the men turned round to look at Lev, but only for a moment, because their drinks were what they held to and no stranger could part them from their concentration on those.
    Lev ordered a beer. He’d earned this small celebration. He was part of the British economy now. He didn’t have to go back to delivering leaflets for Ahmed. He could send another card to Ina, telling her he had a job paying £5.30 per hour, which was more than he could earn in Baryn in a day.
    But then he remembered that money had a new terror here.
    The room Lydia had found for him in Tufnell Park was going to cost £90 a week. Added to this would be his tube and bus fares, and his food and his cigarettes. How much would be left to send to Ina? Would anything be left? Lev looked at the young woman who had called him “Peaches.” How did she manage to live and grow fat and drink away the hours of a Wednesday afternoon? How did she afford it? The woman repelled him: her bulging belly, the greasy skin of her face flaming in the London sun. He preferred to remain alone, sipping the cold beer. He spread out his Underground map and began to plan his journey to Tufnell Park.
    It was a street of choky little houses, called Belisha Road. Rowan trees cast a deep shade down one side of it. The pavement was cracked and lumpy and stained.
    Number 12 was on the shaded side, and a high privet hedge, overgrown to wide proportions, made the entrance dark. Behind the hedge stood overflowing garbage bins and a bicycle, chained to the window bars.
    Lev rang the top bell, beside a card marked
C. Slane
.
    He