Honour

The pickers have almost cleared the small orchard. They are uneasy. The owner of the crop, a man who draws their eyes to his corduroy pants by swivelling the garment and hitching it up, is certainly going to carry away the last of the crop without paying them their money. For had the pickers not watched, aghast, as he made several practice escape-runs in the lane, where he gunned the van and returned leaning from the open door to see his way back? And besides, he'd robbed them for days on end now, and this morning this pretending not to notice one another, employer and labourers (as if the corduroy wasn't reminder enough) was going to change nothing. The crop owner scoops the scales into the crook of his arm. After a long silence, for the pickers are apparently occupied in gathering their belongings, he is forced to step towards the nearest woman, and though she is not looking at him, say: "I'll go and get the money then." Sitting quietly they wait. One of their number begins to collect the few small and half-eaten fruit left on the branches. The rest of them get up also. On the way back, these useless thefts are returned to the long grass by the lane or tossed over hedges. A way before the village, the pickers spring apart, wordless, and take their separate tracks.