Apple Pickers

Copyright Oggbashan November 2019

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

Most of the conversations are assumed to be in Spanish but retold in English.

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On a warm June Sunday evening about ten pm I was sitting outside our town's independent coffee shop sipping a cooling cup of coffee when the evening coach from London arrived. It stopped here on the way to a major coastal town. Usually only one or two locals got off, returning from a rare shopping trip to Oxford Street.

I was very tired, hoping the coffee would keep me awake to make my evening meal. My father and I had been picking and packing apples on his farm since dawn and we were failing to deal with the early cropping varieties. We didn't normally work on a Sunday but had been unable to recruit any seasonal workers this year. We were missing my mother who had died of breast cancer three years ago. The two of us were not really enough to run our farm even though we were working seven days a week from dawn to dusk and often beyond. We had no life beyond the farm.

A group of eight young women got off the coach, all carrying heavy back packs. As the coach drove away, they looked lost, unsure where to go. I left my coffee and walked across to them.

"Can I help?" I asked.

I was assailed by a torrent of Spanish from almost all of them.

I held up my hand and said in Spanish:

"Please, one at a time, and slowly."

I pointed at one woman who seemed to be trying to get the others to shut up.

"Please, can you tell me how I can help?"

She introduced herself as Dolores. She and her friends had come to England from a small Spanish village inland in Southern Spain with the promise of well-paid farm work. They had taken a coach to Madrid, another one to Paris and finally one to Victoria Coach Station in London. There they were supposed to be met by an agent who would direct them to the farm where they would work. When they arrived at London he had not been there and was not answering the mobile number they had been given.

One of them had done a search on his name to find if there was any other way of contacting him and had found that he had been arrested yesterday charged with running a scam to recruit Spanish women to work in brothels. Their village and surrounding area had high unemployment for younger people. They had been surprised that the Spanish agent who had visited the village had only selected the eight women after interview and none of the men who had applied had been chosen. Now they knew why.

But having arrived in London to find work that didn't exist they were nearly out of money. Dolores who spoke some English, unlike the others, had asked where there might be a need for farm workers. A Polish man suggested this town, where he had worked before. They had just enough money for the coach fare to here, and now they were stranded, broke and hungry. Did I know any farmers nearby who needed farm workers and had accommodation for them?

I laughed, which annoyed Dolores.

"Me," I said.

"You?"

"Yes. Me. My father and I have hectares of apples that need picking and packing now. We used to use Polish workers but now they have found work in Poland. You eight won't be enough but you could do much more than my father and I could do alone. We can provide accommodation and pay you ten pounds an hour if you become skilled enough, and eight pounds until you have proved yourselves. What do you think?"

The eight of them went into a huddle to discuss my offer. It didn't take them long because I had spoken in Spanish which they had all heard.

"We agree," Dolores said. "But we are tired and hungry now."

"OK," I said. I pointed at the local MacDonald's which the townspeople had tried to stop opening.

"If we go there I will buy you all a meal. While you are eating I will fetch the farm bus and take you to the accommodation. It is only ten minutes' walk from here but I can take you and your packs there in a minute of two."

They were able to use the touch screen to order. I paid for all eight meals with my debit card. The total wasn't much. Dolores asked whether the cost of the meals would be deducted from their pay. I said not because recruiting staff had a cost, and eight meals were much lower than I would normally pay.

I cycled back to the farmhouse, told my father who would get the mobile homes ready, and drove the farm's minibus back to MacDonald's. The eight women were still eating. When they had finished I drove them the half mile to the farm where my father was waiting. We formally introduced ourselves as my father George Owen and me, Tom Owen, his son.

The two of us showed them the mobile homes which they would use with two women in each. My father had switched on the electricity and Wi-Fi. The gas bottles were already full. I gave each of them a postcard showing the farm's full address, telephone, email and Wi-Fi name and password. I asked Dolores to assign a couple of women to go with me to the local supermarket to buy food and milk for breakfasts. I would pay.

Again she was worried that I was paying out before they had done any work. She was afraid of running up a debt before they started earning. I reassured her. The items for breakfast would be at no cost to them. Again the cost was not excessive.

Back at the farm I told them to be in the packing shed, about fifty yards from their mobile homes at eight next morning for an introduction and training before starting work.

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At five minutes before eight all of them were present and dressed for work in jeans and sweaters. It took about half an hour to issue each of them with formal contracts and then my father and I showed then which apple trees to pick from and how to pack them in crates. I walked around for the first half an hour and was very impressed with their speed and accuracy. At twelve noon I told them to stop. My father and I had been driving the tractor and fork lift truck loading a trailer with crates of picked and packaged apples. Both he and I were astonished at the amount they had done in just over three hours.

I took then to the local supermarket's café and bought them lunch at my expense. At two o'clock they started work again and worked until six when I told them to stop. My father had already driven one trailer load to the wholesalers and another one was full and ready to go. The eight of them had done more in one short day than my father and I could have achieved in a week.

I assembled them in the packing shed and told them that my father and I were very pleased with their work rate today. We had decided that they deserved to be paid at the full qualified rate of ten pounds an hour for the whole eight hour day. They were startled and Dolores objected that the first hour when we were sorting out the contracts and showing what should be done shouldn't be at the full rate but my father and I insisted and paid them in cash. I hadn't told them but it was in the contracts that the hourly rate was after deductions.

When I gave Dolores her day's earnings she burst into tears. It was some minutes before she composed herself to explain.

"When we got off the coach last night, Tom, we were broke, tired and hungry. We had nowhere to go and no money. Between us we had less than five pounds of English money and no Euros. You have fed us, given us somewhere to live and work, and now paid us. Even in one day we have earned enough money to pay our fares back home. Yet you want us to stay and pick apples for longer -- a week? In that time we would have earned more than we had expected in a month."

"A week? No, Dolores. We have started on the early cropping apples. You have at least two weeks' work to finish them and then the other varieties of apples will be ripe. We need you for at least four months."

"Four months? At eighty pounds a day? We would be rich."

"And there is more work than the eight of you can do. We usually have twenty or more seasonal workers but the Poles aren't coming this year. And one other thing. How much was your coach fare from your village to here?"

"Fifty Euros, Tom. It took us a lot to find that much spare money. Some of us had to borrow from our families."

"When we recruit from Poland, we pay the workers their travel expenses, both ways."

I looked at my father who nodded.

"So we will pay you fifty pounds for coming here and another fifty pounds when you finally leave. OK?"

Dolores burst into tears again as I added fifty pounds to the eighty each of them already had.

Another woman, Maria, asked:

"You want more workers?"

"Yes, Maria," I replied, "at least twelve more."

"So if we asked our friends, and our boyfriends, you might pay for them to come here?"

"If they are prepared to work as hard as you eight? Yes."

"We are all used to harvesting olives, Tom, but the pay is not good and is piecework. This year the olive harvest is very poor so picking is difficult. Even the best of us could barely make a Euro an hour picking olives. But there are far more young people wanting to pick olives than the farmers need. Apples are much easier and for us, the pay is fantastic."

"OK. I suggest you contact your friends in Spain and ask them to send their CVs, which can be in Spanish because my father and I can read Spanish, and we will see how many we can use. If suitable, I will send an email acceptance on Sunday and book them to travel on next Wednesday when it is cheaper and less crowded next week. If there are more than twelve we will ask you for your recommendations."

"Us?" Maria queried.

"Of course. You know them. We don't."

"I suppose you speak Polish too?" Dolores asked.

"Of course. We have been employing people from Poland for years."

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I took the eight of them to the local supermarket so they could buy items for self-catering. While they were going around the supermarket they were discussing who to contact back home as potential apple pickers.

They worked very hard for the rest of the week. We had harvested, packed and sent off about one-third of the early crop but despite their hard work we weren't keeping up with the availability of apples.

By the Saturday morning we had received fifteen CVs by post from Spain. I sat down in Dolores and Maria's mobile home with all eight women and reduced the fifteen applications to twelve. They included seven boyfriends of those already here, two more couples and to my surprise, Dolores' mother. I was told that there might be another twenty or so applications on the way. I thought if we couldn't, other local farmers could employ them.

I also told them that Sunday was a day of rest. They could go to church if they wanted to. Their reaction was to have a party on Saturday evening since they did not have to start work early tomorrow and after church on Sunday they wanted go to a shopping mall if I would take them. Some of them needed working boots and possibly more clothes. I suggested that Monday afternoon might be better at the mall because more would be open including the banks.

They had a discussion between themselves before they agreed that yes, Monday afternoon shopping would be better, but only if they worked Sunday afternoon instead. Most wanted to send money back to Spain to repay loans from relatives, or to credit their Spanish accounts which had been very low when they left.

"Tom, there is a guitar in the packing shed," Dolores said. "Can you play it?"

"Not very well," I replied.

"Can you play Flamenco?"

"Again, not very well, Dolores," I said.

"It is only for tonight. Next Saturday, Maria's fiancé Carlos will be here and he is a near-professional on the flamenco guitar."

"What about your boyfriend, Dolores? Is he coming?"

Dolores's face fell.

"I don't have a boyfriend now. He took a job in a coastal hotel and got engaged to one of the waitresses. It took him four months to tell me I had been replaced. I'm well free of him. He has behaved like a randy goat. His new fiancée is three or more months pregnant and they have nowhere to live with a baby."

"Ouch! I'm sorry, Dolores."

Dolores stroked my cheek.

"No need to be, Tom. I can flirt with my employer instead. You haven't got a girlfriend, have you?"

"I've had no time. Being a farmer's son is all work and no play."

"Until tonight. You're dancing with me, Tom."

"And how can I do that if I'm playing the guitar, Dolores?"

I had a sudden thought.

"Have any of you got flamenco music on your phones, Dolores?"

"Yes. I have. I think some of the others might have. Why?"

"There is a stereo system in the packing shed and an older computer. If your music can be linked by a USB cable -- I don't have to play guitar."

Dolores and I tried the link to her phone. It worked but she wanted me to at least start playing my guitar. They eight of them had arranged to cook and eat together with the cooking shared between them. Dolores invited me to and my father to join them for this evening's paella.

My father asked why Dolores mother was going to be one of those coming to help pick apples.

"My father died of a heart attack just over a year ago. Since then we have been in real bother financially. We have just about afforded to pay the rent to our landlord but had little money left for anything. Much of the village is the same. Our landlord owns almost every house in the village but he isn't rich. He can't charge much because a quarter of the houses are empty and none of us has any money. The eight of us have earned more in a week than the cash income for the whole village for a year. Most of us survive on home grown produce and barter. If there are twenty of us from the village we will make a real difference to our existence next winter, and if my mother and I are working we can pay off our debts -- particularly for my father's funeral. In fact, if I send money on Monday, we will have no debts. That's amazing, George, and we are really grateful."

"So are Tom and I -- grateful that is. We were faced with losing most of the early crop, and unless we got some workers, most of the rest of the later crops as well. We could survive but it would have been a bad year. Even with just you eight we have made a profit so far."

"Paying us ten pounds an hour?" Dolores queried.

"Yes. Not only have you saved the crop. Your picking has been of the best examples for which we have made a premium price. They are great early apples and your selection, packing and presentation has increased the value by thirty per cent on last year's takings -- already. By the end of the season if you and the others work as hard and well this will possibly be our most profitable year."

My father and I set up a barrel of last year's cider in the packing shed before my father went back to the farmhouse to rest in front of the living room fire watching television. Even though we had had help for a week, the two of us had been working hard to keep pace with the apple pickers. Even I was feeling tired; my father felt exhausted.

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I sat down in the packing shed and tuned the guitar that I hadn't touched since last Christmas. The eight women arrived in their jeans and sweatshirts. All except Dolores were shaking out floor length cotton gypsy skirts that had been stuffed in their back packs. Each skirt was massive with multiple frills and at least a full circle. They had tie waists or elastic waistbands. They pulled the skirts up over their jeans and twirled around to show just how large the skirts were. They added shawls or mantillas usually over their head and shoulders. In a couple of minutes they had changed from any working women to Spanish gypsies ready to dance flamenco.

They looked exotic in the packing shed. But Dolores was slightly different. Instead of a large skirt she had a wrap-around dress with ruffles down the front and a small flounced train. She swung it around herself before tying the waist belt.

I expressed my appreciation of the change -- in Spanish of course -- and was surprised by their response. All eight of them tried to hug and kiss me simultaneously. Maria took my guitar away to give them more access to me. Their skirts swirled around me until Dolores pulled my head into her cleavage and I lost awareness of any of the others while between her breasts.

Before I started playing we had some cider. I warned them to be careful with it.

"We are used to drinking wine," Maria objected.

"Maybe," I said, "but this cider is stronger than some wines and deceptive."

Each of them started with a half-pint. They refilled their glasses during the evening and I was worried they might all have hangovers on Sunday morning.

I started to play. My playing was distracted by skirts twirling around me. After three tunes Dolores decided she wanted to dance with me and switched to the stereo system.

After about an hour of increasingly energetic Spanish dancing in which the eight women swirled around me, and they drank more cider, Dolores switched the music to some South American music. They repeated a tango with one or more women pressed tightly against me, giving me ideas I hadn't had for years. With a woman in my arms and another hugging my back I knew that I was with some delightful young ladies who were missing their boyfriends and arousing themselves against me.

My arousal was almost painful when Dolores pushed my partners aside to hold me very tightly. Halfway through the tango she undid the belt of her dress, pulled it apart and then wrapped it around the two of us. She kissed me as the dance ended and dragged me off to sit on a bale of hay while she kissed me much more.

When the dance ended I was still wrapped inside Dolores' dress as she dragged me off to her mobile home and on to the double bed. Although we remained dressed, she made it clear she wanted me to be more than a dance partner. At the end she pulled my head down to rest in her cleavage before stripping off her sweater and nuzzling my head with her bra-covered breasts.

Eventually she unfastened her dress before covering herself again. She took me to the door of the mobile home and kissed me goodnight. I left, feeling slightly frustrated until Maria and some of the others hugged and kissed me before I could make my way back to the farmhouse.

In my bed I dreamed of Dolores, which was probably her intention. In the dream we made love for hours. I woke with a wet patch on my sheets.

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On Sunday morning I took the eight women to the Catholic Church in the next town. The priest had been startled last year when I arrived with twenty Poles. This year, eight Spanish women, dressed in their long skirts with mantillas on their heads were welcome.

The priest spoke to me as they made their way into the church.

"No Poles this year, Tom?"

"No. They are able to find work in Poland. These eight are the start. There should be twenty from our farm next Sunday, and possibly more Spaniards at other farms in the following week."

"How is their English?"

"Poor to non existent."

"As is my Spanish," the priest admitted. "Are you staying for the service, Tom?"

"As a member of the Church of England, I shouldn't, but I will to translate for them."

"Thank you, Tom. By the end of last year's season I had picked up some basic Polish but I'm lost in Spanish. Maybe some of the congregation have been on holidays in Spain and may know a few words but they wouldn't be fluent."

"It is enough for them to know they are welcome."

"They are. If they are anything like the Poles they will brighten up everyone."

I was remembering last night's dancing and the women surrounding me as we danced.