Low Hanging Fruit

It was a source of great shame to be seen on the berry bus. The summer holidays stretched out in front of us with no foreign beaches waiting for the likes of us. We knew there wouldn't even be a fraught family getaway in a shabby caravan.

Tired of the luxury of lying in bed all morning my brother and I decided to go to the berries. Fruit picking seemed exciting and paid work seemed glamourous and grown up. We pleaded with our parents who seemed happy to let us go with my brother's assurances he'd look after me, his little sister.

The fruit farm was only a mile or two away which to me as a child was a distance I couldn't fathom, like a size of a black hole or the distance between stars seems to me now. The farm owner sent a bus into town to pick up anyone wanting a days work that didn't have a way to get there themselves. The rickety off white bus was ancient and filthy from years of field workers climbing on and trudging off and had apparently never seen as much as a bucket of water. It was notorious to all the kids in town and screamed shame. Being seen on the berry bus was like being seen wetting yourself.  A shame too far that brought all the kids together to dogpile on you.

Somehow, a day berry picking wasn't shameful. Kids bragged about how much money they made or how much fruit they ate or the trouble they got into, but you absolutely didn't want to be seen on the berry bus. Kids want to fit in to be seen on the berry bus guaranteed bullying and made you a target. It labelled you poor and friendless. The berry bus was one of those childhood bogeymen every town had that represented something greater, something more tragic, we didn't yet understand.

We waited for the bus at the end of our street. I was relieved to see a group of kids waiting already. We were in our oldest clothes, ones mum didn't mind getting raspberries mashed into, meagre packed lunches under our arms. I privately fretted, wondering how I would go to the toilet in a field. It was a cool morning, the sky scantily clouded promising to be a scorching summer day. My brother didn't talk to me much. I was 8 and he was 12. We'd never been close. I just assumed that's how all siblings were. He mostly ignored me. He could be fun. Kind even. Occasionally played with me but more often than not enjoyed the opportunity to bully me up or use his strength to his advantage. I was always on my guard around him.

He sat casually on a fence, jaw hanging loose, elbows on his knees with his hands dangling loosely between his thighs. Always trying to look bored, like he was too cool for all this. But I could feel his anxiety.

The berry bus wheezed loudly into view and my stomach knotted a little in embarrassment. My brother jumped up to be first on. The older kids casually stubbed out their cigarettes I politely waited my turn and got jostled to the back.

The bus was already half full and my brother and I ended up sat next to each other, him yanking my long black pony tail that my mum took so much pride in to grab himself the window seat. The bus pulled out loudly coughing out black smoke behind it and I slid down, wanting to disappear. It drove up into the High Street to collect more fruit pickers. A bunch of lads from my brothers class at school were walking past just as the bus pulled up, swimming kits slung over their shoulders in neon vinyl bags. A blond boy in a fashionable clothes spotted him and pointed and laughed, shouting a nickname I didn't even know my brother had. My brother stared straight ahead, his nostrils flaring. I slid down further in my seat. I wanted to fold inside myself. The other boys joined in. They all had cool trainers. I looked down at my Woolworths plimsolls and felt ashamed. My brothers hands were in fists as the bus pulled away. Suddenly his left hand drew back and he quickly delivered a punch to my thigh. Nobody heard my sharp cry of pain and indignation over the roar of the bus and I sat quietly fighting back tears, sucking my hand until we arrived.

Later at home I pulled down my fruit stained jeans and a livid round bruise like a red apple had ripened on my soft flesh.