Illusions in the Sky by Jan Dale
5 November 2020 { General Fiction }
Deb heard Beth’s key scrape in the lock.
‘Mum, it’s me.’ She spoke softly so as not to wake Emma and Tom, and gave a weary sigh as she popped her keys into the bowl by the door.
‘Hi, sweetheart. Cup of tea?’
‘That’s be great, Mum. Just what the doctor ordered.’
‘How’d it go, then?’ she asked, reboiling the kettle.
‘Oh, you know, so-so. The usual. My feet are killing me.’ Beth prised off her trainers.
Deb smiled. ‘It reminds me of what Gran used to say: “Those pumps’ll draw your feet.” Pumps!’
‘Yes, I just about remember pumps,’ she responded with a grin. ‘We used to manage, but I couldn’t do what I’ve done today wearing pumps. They were checking my pick rate again. And that pillock Greg was dogging my every step!’
‘Never mind, love, you can only do your best. Here’s your tea.’
‘Thanks.’ She meditated as she cuddled her Mum birthday mug, warming her hands.
‘Something up?’ Deb leant against the sink.
Beth looked over at her. ‘Greg told me if I don’t make my targets they could lay me off next week.’
‘Can they do that? You’re working like a slave as it is.’
‘Well, I can’t move as quick these days, and my knee’s still bothering me.’
‘You never said.’
‘Well, didn’t want to worry you.’
Beth was worried herself – worried enough for two. Since she’d been made redundant and then spent all those months traipsing round trying to find another job, she’d been so pleased to get a trial period at the Orinoco warehouse. Dot gave her a bit of cash occasionally for a few hours casual at the Cod ’n Chip, but that didn’t stretch to much. She’d thought she would manage to the end of the year at least, and keep things as normal as possible for the kids. But the targets were going up and so her wages were going down, as she could never fulfil her quota. So the threat of termination was continually hanging over her. Then she was trying to prepare the party as if everything was normal. Emma had already complained that she was never there and Tom had started wetting the bed … her head was a jumble of thoughts, and although she kept on telling herself things would be better tomorrow, tomorrow never came. How would she cope? Their birthday treat was coming up in a couple of weeks. Some of Emma and Tom’s classmates always came to the party and this year, as it had been a difficult one, she’d got her eye on the bumper fireworks pack at Lo-Cost. At least the fact that both their birthdays were in early November always made it easier to decide on a theme. But fireworks weren’t cheap. The baked potatoes the kids loved were easy, but it wouldn’t be the same without fireworks.
‘Sorry I didn’t get to see the kids before bedtime.’
‘Yes, they missed you too. I suppose you’ve eaten?’
‘Yes. All I want to do now is have a shower and fall into bed.’
‘OK, love, I’ll go for my bus then. Same time tomorrow?’
‘Please, Mum. And thanks a million.’ Once Deborah had found her coat and bag, mother and daughter embraced and Beth saw her saviour out. What would she do without Mum, now Alan had gone?
***
Xang Bao felt himself being roughly shaken. It was still pitch black.
‘Bao! Six o’clock. Time to get up!’ His mother’s loose sandals slapped away into the kitchen.
He sighed wearily and blinked himself awake. How could another day at the factory have come round already? How he wished he could roll over and go back to sleep.
Bao had left school the previous term as his father had died after many years with TB. His mother could no longer afford the fees, which in any case had risen steadily. In Hunan province this was not unusual; he could not even begin to count the number of his fellow pupils who now spent their days at the Liuyang factory. Here they scooped black gunpowder into cardboard tubes for hours on end, to be rewarded with a miserly pittance. At one time the siblings’ earnings had gone to pay their fees, but this was no longer enough, apart from which the children were far too tired to combine their studies with work on a crude assembly line.
But now Bao’s job was under threat, together with those of his sister and former classmates. Fireworks were big business in China, as they were an age-old tradition. They were supposed to frighten evil spirits away with their loud bangs, and as they symbolised happiness and prosperity, were used at every celebration, from New Year and birthdays to numerous seasonal festivals or the opening of a new shop or restaurant. Not to mention the worldwide exports. But now a mixture of anti-pollution crackdowns and tighter safety regulations meant that fireworks had been banned in several cities, and it was only a matter of time before the child workers would be laid off. The irony of it – regulations leading to improvements in the children’s wellbeing would in fact lead them into poverty and misery, and firecrackers would no longer be seen or heard in the country that had invented them. But only last year five children from Xi’s class had been killed in an explosion at the factory, and once, on the rough patch of ground where they all played, surrounded with stacks of firework shells waiting to be assembled, his sister Mei-Ling had been burned when a shell accidentally fell on her during a rough game of hide and seek.
Bao often wondered where some of the fireworks ended up. Most would be used here in his own country, but he knew some of the rockets, Catherine wheels, sparklers and cherry bombs he made would go to distant lands of which he had no knowledge, giving wonder and enjoyment to other children far, far away. His imagination ran free when he saw the fireworks blossoming overhead, their beautiful, shimmering colours promising untold wonders, and heard their thrilling explosions, but he did not equate these with the dull black powder packed into grey cardboard tubes. He had no part in the wrapping and packaging processes, and as far as he was concerned, when he saw the gaudily coloured boxes piled up on the stalls in the market, they had no connection to his daily life. How wonderful these other children’s lives must be. He had heard vaguely of benevolent rulers elsewhere in the world and was sure that they would never let children go hungry. There, he would be in the classroom instead of the factory, where the dull, repetitive work coarsened his fingers and the fumes gave him a headache.
After splashing himself with cold water, he pulled on his trousers and tunic and went to join his mother in the kitchen. His mother Mei was busy cooking the rice porridge for their breakfast and doled out a large portion into Bao’s bowl. His sister, already chewing her porridge, looked at her elder brother adoringly. In her eyes, he was almost a grown-up!
‘Mum, you should take more for yourself,’ Bao protested, as she wielded the ladle.
‘I’m not that hungry, son,’ she replied. ‘You need your strength more than I do.’
Bao didn’t think that was the case but knew not to argue. He didn’t want to make things more difficult. He knew how hard she worked in the paddy, as she was always tired. When his father had died all her joy had died too. He couldn’t wait to grow up so he could take his father’s place in the household, but he hoped it wouldn’t come too late.
At the factory that day Bao tried hard not to daydream. If he was slow or made mistakes Gong Zha would berate him and complain at his work rate, and he might be dismissed. He tried hard to concentrate.
**
Beth had finally caved in. It was something she had been trying to avoid, but with the possibility of her contract ending hanging over her, the weekly texts threatening her with eviction, and the struggle to make sure the kids were clothed and fed … They’d had hardly any treats all year, apart from the Easter eggs, and they’d be so disappointed if there were no fireworks. So she got a referral and collected her three days’ supply of ‘nutritionally balanced, non-perishable food’. She got chatting with another woman at the food bank and was surprised to find that she had a steady office job, as did her partner, but she still had to resort to the food bank to make ends meet. Beth thought that it only existed for the unemployed. There was a prevalence of tinned beans, pasta sauces and sugary cereal in the bags she took home, which wasn’t particularly helpful. It would have been nice to have chosen her own food; the children had their particular favourites. Never mind. She tried to think of the starving children all over the world, children who were even worse off. But it suddenly struck her – those countries were poor, weren’t they? So how come children were going hungry in a wealthy Britain? She couldn’t understand it.
Scraping together all the spare cash she could find, and borrowing a tenner from her mum, she had managed to buy the Bumper Bargain Box. When she got it home she admired the beautiful names indicating the contents: Golden Silverflower, Happy Bird, Morning Glory Torches, Double Dragon, Green Willow. The illustrations on the box were bright and gaudy and these, together with the names and ‘Made in Hunan’, conjured up an exotic place far away. It was a place she could hardly imagine.
The day of the party finally arrived. Beth had managed to get back at a reasonable time and her mum had started the potatoes. Geoff from two doors down had promised to deal with the ‘incendiaries’, as he liked to call them, referring to his army days. He was already setting everything up when she got in.
‘Hi, Geoff, got all you need?’
‘Yes, thanks, duck, your mum’s made me a brew. I’m just attaching these wheels to the fence and I’ve cordoned off this patch for the serious stuff. You got some good ones here! Did you know that most of the fireworks in the world come from the factory that makes these?’ He pointed to the box. ‘I’ve read about it on the computer.’
‘Is that right?’ she laughed.
Geoff was always a fount of information. Beth was pleased to see he was relishing his task as usual, selecting the right spot to place each particular firework and judging where the children should stand, both for their safety and maximum enjoyment. She didn’t realise that Geoff had, in fact, been doing a bit of reading up about fireworks and he’d found out that a lot of them were made by children. He didn’t mention his misgivings though, so as not to spoil the occasion. And he had to admit that the spuds were delicious.
Emma held Beth’s hand tightly as Tom and his friends held their sparklers, weaving them about and making stardust patterns in the air until they fizzled out abruptly.
‘Ooh, look, Mum!’ Emma cried out. ‘They’re soooo beautiful! Just like fairyland!’ She looked up into Beth’s eyes with delight. She had to admit they had been worth every penny. And she was relieved the party was a success. As her tired eyes looked up into the sky Bao’s handiwork exploded into hundreds of tiny stars, fell to the earth, and died. If only Bao knew that the hopes and dreams he’d packed into the cardboard tubes together with the gunpowder would give so much happiness to other children. If only Bao knew that these hopes and dreams would come to nothing in the end.
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