Baglin On the Clock

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-917092-11-1
Verlag: Daunt Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 168 Seiten

A voice-driven, penetrating novel of the exploitation and alienation of the working class. In one strand, a young family bumps and scrapes through life. The hapless father balances demanding factory shiftwork, while the mother constantly prioritises the needs of others over her own. But there is also happiness: a trip to the seaside; sibling squabbles, games and laughter; tenderness and support. In another strand, a young woman describes her days working in a burger chain. It is exhausting, repetitive labour, too often peopled by tricky customers and even trickier managers. Hours pass. Days, weeks, years. It is an existence that marks the body and mind and governs a life. What emerges, alive with eloquent detail, is a compelling exploration of social inequality. Writing with nimble nuance, a sly, subtle wit, and a sharp ear, Claire Baglin marks her debut in On the Clock as a blazingly original talent.

Claire Baglin grew up in Normandy and lives in Tours. En Salle (On the Clock) is her debut.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Baglin, Claire

Weitere Mitwirkende

Stump, Jordan

Leseproben

    – And why here rather than elsewhere? I imagine you’ve applied all over, even with the competition.   The car slows down, my father turns on the left blinker. At long last, after an hour of negotiations, the berlingo drives through the entrance, circles the car park a couple of times, and pulls to a stop. My father’s keys are still in the ignition when mama turns around to face us. She’s going to give us a warning, we’re going inside but this is a special occasion and just you make sure you don’t run, you don’t yell. The back door has already slid open, we’re outside, Nico is running, pulling on his coat one arm at a time. His shoelaces are undone, he untied them a few hours earlier, after the third motorway service station. We have to hurry, before the parents change their minds, before they reconsider and come after us. The lamps seem to light up as we approach. Nico soon leaves me far behind, I keep my eye on the door. My nose runs into my mouth, tears fill my ears. The glowing logo promises me they’re open, it reassures me. It says we’ll never let you down, we’ll always be here for you, everywhere. I place all my faith in that flickering light. Nico climbs the steps, his right foot catches on the last one and his face crashes into the glass door. He’s laughing when I catch up with him, his nose flattened. The parents are still far behind us, mama untying the sleeves knotted around her waist to put on her cardigan. My father clicks the remote to lock the car doors, presses the button once, twice. Nico shouts at them, hurry up hurry up, the fried smell comes to us through the door, the smell of celebration, the smell of the parents’ surrender.    – No, no, I know your chain best. I’ve never tried the others.   We go inside and things get complicated. Oof, the people. The lobby’s packed, we don’t know where to order. It’s a Sunday evening, end of the holiday. Mama says wait here but it’s too late, Nico’s already off. He worms his way through the crowd, shoves bodies aside with his little hands, collides with legs and dangling purses. Nico plunges into every gap and I follow after him, shrinking myself down to his size, knees bent, arms straight at my sides. I keep moving, but unlike him I apologise because we’re three years apart. Nico finds an empty space and leaps through it, breaking free of the crowd. The fluorescent lights shine down on him, at last he reaches the counter. They send him back to stand in line. Think about what you want to order while you’re waiting. Nico kicks at balled-up napkins. Sometimes he gets too close to the couple in front of us, as if he’s hoping to change families, and mama’s fingernails claw him back. I stare gravely at the key chain on a backpack. My father’s unbuttoned his jacket, he kneads his shoulder bag and frets, I don’t see anything, where are the fries? is the price the one on the left or the one on the right? Mama looks around as if she’d lost someone. The corners of her mouth are scarlet from salty crisps. When the key chain moves forward and I don’t she gives me a push with her right hand. On the wall I see the new sign forbidding smoking, I read it down to the tiny letters. At the counter, a lady in a black cap asks four questions that my father answers, well, what have you got? He turns to mama, who shrugs. Nico just smiles. Then my father prods me with a glance, I have to make up my mind. On the signs, the burgers and combo meals are all new to me, the drinks twinkle. My father repeats every question the cashier asks, drink? dessert? side? I end up with a kid’s meal and a glow-in-the-dark alien. Once we’re past the terror of ordering, Nico and I watch it all being made behind the counter, sometimes yelling out it’s that one, it’s that one, and finally my father’s turn comes. He says well, well, well and ends up asking for fries. The cashier pounces, she’s going to eat him alive. She offers him the large Coke, the burger that’s perfect for when you’re hungry, and my father answers how big is it? He tries to fend her off with his wallet, but how much does it cost? oh well, maybe not that, then. The lady won’t let him go, if you have it as part of a combo, you’ll get it all for under ten euros. My father’s eyes widen, the burgers are glistening too brightly for him, he’s just about to surrender but makes one last stab at resistance, can I get the normal size? Mama yawns and looks at her watch, which is running slow.   – You’re sure you can get up early? Your alarm clock’s going to work? The boss asks three times, maybe four, and I find myself sincerely wondering. Will I really wake up, can I promise? The boss is sitting across from me with his thirty-something face and his discreet moustache, the kind they let you have in food service. He looks at me wryly, waiting for an unrehearsed answer. He wants to know who I am and what I’m prepared to do for the sake of being on time. He’s expecting me to talk about the honour of joining a team, about an interest in, about a talent for. On his sheet, he’s started a list, four lines, that’s me. He’s added a new dash, I have to give him something, and just as I’m delivering an impassioned condemnation of sleep he tries to catch me off guard. – All right, so you don’t like sleeping in, but wouldn’t you like to go to the seaside this summer? Do something with your holidays?   – Yes, we take holiday vouchers, monsieur. Jérôme flashes a quick smile of relief and zips open his bag. For a moment he’d pictured the children in tears, his wife saying what’s your problem, Jérôme, you could have asked earlier. He’d been dreading the return to the car, Nico threatening never to eat again as long as he lives and it’ll all be your fault, then exploding into sobs at the mere thought of going one more hour without food. He’d imagined driving in complete silence, not turning on the radio, which would be taken as nothing short of a provocation. The silence would have kept up all the way into the kitchen, the children would have drunk big glasses of water to choke down the broccoli, and for them that would forever be the taste of disappointment. Then Sylvie would have gone to sleep on the couch after finishing off the night like you finish off an animal at the end of its life, all right time for bed, you have school tomorrow.   – What are you studying? So you’ll be leaving like everyone else at the start of the term, is that right? The boss looks unhappy. His smile comes back when I answer. At the top of his sheet, he writes mid-September and circles it twice. I’m not just dynamic, motivated, and adaptable like everyone else. Mid-September becomes my foremost quality. My application will go to the top of the pile, ahead of the wafflers, the ones who vaguely said they’d be leaving at the end of the summer holiday. I feel like the interview’s nearing its end, in a moment he’ll be putting a cap on my head and introducing me to my new colleagues, but I sense convincing him requires one last touch. The pen he’s holding between his fingers spins around, counting down, and a family walks past our table, gingerly carrying trays. The children pop balloons and want to go on the slide. I play my last card. – I have a driving licence.   There! Let’s sit over there! The parents follow us to a high table in the middle of the restaurant. We toss our coats onto the stools and they fall off, we open the wrappers but mama stops us, wash your hands first. We run towards the last stop between us and bliss, mama manages to snag Nico by the sleeve. There’s nothing human about him any more. His hair is spiky with static from the coat he’s just pulled off, his cheeks are red, his shoelaces are dragging and his jumper is on the wrong way round, the tag glistening with spit. His face is one enormous disgruntlement, he’s wild, he’s yearning to be done with this. The nuggets he’s glimpsed are still gleaming in his eyes. I push on the bathroom door and Nico holds it back with all his might, we yell because our voices echo. Mama holds the door behind us and turns back, sees my father starting in on his fries, the strap of his bag wrapped twice around his wrist. Nico’s already long gone, I rinse my hands and on my way out, the door smacks into a potted plant, almost knocks it over. Behind me mama gets mad, as she’s so good at in public places, unbelievable, can’t you be just a little bit careful, bull in a china shop.   – I’d say my biggest weakness is I...