Writing for Fun
April 2018
The Immigrant - Anne Wilson
He sighed deeply as he watched the water swirl down the plughole then, rinsing his hands under the tap, he reached for a towel and dried them thoroughly – a routine he knew well and did automatically. He glanced sideways at the stacked plates, if not exactly sparkling, then at least free of any remnants of food and ready for tomorrow’s diners. Tomorrow he would be doing the same thing and the month after that and next year too unless he did something about it.
Nick The Greek they called him. It wasn’t his real name of course, which was Nico but that didn’t stop the easy, unsolicited familiarity by which people addressed him and he suspected they said worse behind his back. He didn’t like it but gritted his teeth because he knew he was an outsider in a small English town where the inhabitants were insular and set in their ways. To have protested would have implied that he thought he was being patronised because he wasn’t English and he wanted so desperately to be accepted as one of them. Whilst he laughed and joked with them, there was still hope that one day he would be so.
A film called ‘Zorba The Greek’ hadn’t aided his cause and resulted in an additional nickname for him. Some of the town’s inhabitants were not old enough to remember its initial release but, even if they didn’t, its indigenous music having the field virtually to itself meant its theme tune continued to resonate in Greek restaurants throughout the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. It didn’t sit too well with him. He was half the age of its star, Anthony Quinn, at the time it was made and, in his view, twice as good looking. His tanned skin, luxuriant dark hair and big brown eyes melted the hearts of several of the local females. Not that his physical attributes got him past the front door of their homes. They were content for him to take them out and spend money on them, his intense eyes boring into theirs, but not to introduce him to mother. He remained forbidden fruit.
A round face stuck its head through the kitchen door.
‘All done, Nick?’ it said briskly. ‘Can I lock up now?’
‘Can I have a word, Mr. Brown?’ asked his employee, emboldened by a need to rapidly unburden his lack of job satisfaction with the owner.
He detected a reluctance in the response. Mr. Brown moved towards Nico waving his keys in the air.
‘Well, I’d really rather it waited until tomorrow.’
Nico was undeterred. Opportunities for one to one discussions did not always present themselves.
‘It’s just that I would like to wait on table and I heard a vacancy might be coming up,’ he ventured.
It was true. One of the waiting staff was moving away from the town before the month was out. The cherubic face looked taken aback, gazed down at his shoes as if seeking inspiration from his footwear and hesitated slightly before he spoke.
‘Sorry, Nick’, he blustered. ‘You’re too valuable behind the scenes.’
‘I wash up,’ Nico responded sullenly.
‘Look, can we talk about this some other time?’ Mr. Brown turned away from him and made rapid headway towards the door.
‘I need to know now,’ the valued behind-the-scenes washer and dryer of dishes insisted.
There was another pause and Mr. Brown turned back towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He knew he had to word his response very carefully, otherwise he could be in serious trouble.
‘Nick’, he reasoned. ‘You know what people are like here. They don’t like change. They’re very old-fashioned. They might make you feel uncomfortable.’
It was true. The town had not moved forward since the 1950s and could not remotely be described as cosmopolitan. The Women’s Institute, its members of that particular branch comprising the comfortably off grey-rinsed brigade, was one of its dominant forces. The three churches (two non-conformist and one C of E) filled their pews with the middle classes and a sprinkling of the upper classes – all eager to welcome only their own kind into the flock; the pretence of being welcoming and inclusive a total sham. The immigrant population numbered just one – the person standing opposite him.
Nico was sensitive to prejudice and knew its every nuance, having an unerring ability to de-code things that were only half said.
‘I am in England,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Therefore, I am English.’
Mr. Brown’s visions of peace at the end of a hard day’s work looked remote and impatience to get home and put his feet up made him speak less cautiously than he might otherwise have done.
‘Nick, wouldn’t you be better moving to somewhere like London?’ he said – maybe a shade too eagerly. ‘There are no Greek restaurants here, but many in London and you would be amongst your own people too. People nearer your own age,’ he added hastily to justify the possibly offensive tone of the rationale.
‘I have young friends here,’ Nico responded with a secret, self-satisfied smile as he recalled the effect of his dark eyes on the opposite sex – one of whom was a certain Miss Lavinia Brown – daughter of the man who was now trying to dissuade him from bettering himself. Not, of course, that his employer was aware of their clandestine relationship.
In truth, when he had arrived from Greece during its recession in 2009 he had been advised to try London first but had avoided it; reasoning in advance, perhaps incorrectly, that he would be herded together with other people of the same nationality and that this would then limit his horizons. The reality had proved to be a disappointment and infiltration into the typically English town on which he had set his heart, had proved impossible.
They bade each other a frosty goodnight.
Days elapsed and Nico seethed and simmered. He was berated by Mr. Brown regarding the lack of cleanliness of the plates and the stained cutlery and not least his surly manner but obstinacy made him relentlessly continue with the job – perhaps out of a determined desire not to ultimately be thwarted. Fate can sometimes be kind and in Nico’s case, it suddenly extended the hand of friendship with a vice-like grip.
His meetings with Miss Lavinia Brown had always been furtive and away from prying eyes. She was rebellious enough to be amused by going behind her parents’ back and consorting with her father’s hired help but not audacious enough to run the risk of them being found out. The restaurant was always closed on a Monday and on that evening Nico usually embarked upon his romantic trysts.
He was enjoying the delights she had to offer against the wall in a dark, secluded street when she suddenly pulled away from him and cried in her shrill, affected voice, ‘Isn’t that Daddy in the car over there?’
He looked across. Parked on the opposite side of the road, only a few yards away, was a car with a registration number he recognised. In the driver’s seat was the back of a portly head he knew equally as well: that of his boss. However, the person in the passenger seat over which the portly figure was unmistakeably engaged in an activity well known to the Greek lothario, was a blonde haired female who was definitely not Mrs. Brown.
Lavinia was noticeably upset.
‘What’s he doing in there with that woman?’ she said in a tearful voice. Her own instinct for self-preservation took precedence though and despite now being armed with unexpected family ammunition of her own, she suggested they part company for the evening and go off in opposite directions; still in fear of her mother’s disapproval.
Nico did not argue. He did not want Lavinia to be aware of his next course of action.
The next day, Mr. Brown, as was his usual custom, wandered into the kitchen and waved a hand in greeting. He was smiling a secretive, self-satisfied smile, but not for long. It vanished when Nico told him he had seen him the night before.
‘Now look here,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s not what it looks like. I was trying to console an old family friend.’ It was an unoriginal, unconvincing remark and Nico knew enough about the opposite sex to be certain that a conciliatory, avuncular arm around the shoulder would have sufficed in the old family friend’s hour of need.
‘I wonder if you’ve had time to reconsider your decision about the job,’ he asked impassively. ‘I enjoy working here very much. Everyone is so pleasant. I saw Mrs. Brown in the street on the way to the restaurant and she waved to me. She is such a nice lady, your wife.’
There was an awkward silence and he noticed Mr. Brown’s ample forehead glistening with beads of perspiration.
‘Well, yes, I can see now how suitable you would be for waiting on table,’ he agreed.
They smiled at each other. Nico did not intend their newly found understanding to be bound by limitations. He was already sizing up additional options, such as periodic bonuses and invitations to the Brown household as the guest of their daughter. As if by telepathy, his mentor sensed his thoughts.
‘Now look here,’ he wheedled. ‘We’re men of the world, aren’t we? We understand each other and I know I can rely on your future discretion.’
‘Oh no, Mr. Brown,’ responded Nico impassively. ‘That is for English gentlemen. I, on the other hand am Greek.’