She nods, willing to be proved wrong by Tim’s eternal optimism. Clamping a pair of large sunglasses to her face, steeling herself to ignore everything but her husband and son, Lottie stomps back out into the garden. They set themselves up under the parasol and the occasional breeze that stirs is a blessed relief. Josh has been placed on a blanket on the floor, surrounded by toys to distract him, a sunhat pulled down over his head like a helmet.
At first, all seems well. Both parties are able to continue undeterred, though Tim and Lottie tense and flinch at every buzz and clang and shout and curse. Eventually though, they manage to tune it out or at least reduce it to background noise. But then one of the younger guys on the site changes the cheesy radio tunes to his own Spotify playlist. Soon, loud, X-rated rap music can be heard and Lottie is sure she catches him smirking at his workmates.
As the racist, misogynistic lyrics blare out across the warm afternoon air, Lottie’s jaw contracts as she tries to block out the words. She wants to place her hands over Josh’s ears (not that he understands any of it but it’s the principle) and when she looks at Tim he gives a small shake of his head.
She knows this is all aimed at her; to mock, insult, to get under her skin. To threaten the precious purity of her perfect family unit. Tim would probably say that she is paranoid or overreacting but as a woman, she has grown up with these many micro-aggressions all her life. As these thoughts swirl around her head, one of the men on the site starts singing along, shouting out the words and laughing.
‘That’s it,’ says Lottie. ‘I’ve heard enough.’
She stands and walks over to the makeshift divide between the two gardens.
‘Hey,’ she shouts. ‘Hey you!’
She waves to catch the attention of the one who changed the music. He is wearing nothing on his top half and his jeans are so low slung, she can see the waistband of his underpants, the dark ladder of hair leading down to his groin. It is so inappropriate, she thinks. Why do some men feel it’s okay to wander around half naked just because the sun is out? No one else in any other line of work would be allowed to get away with this in public. And surely it’s not safe.
‘Oi,’ she shouts over the music. ‘Slim Shady! Do you fancy turning that down a bit?’
One of the men laughs at this and a couple of others latch on to the joke. But the bare-chested one frowns at her before telling everyone to ‘shut the fuck up’.
At this, Lottie sees a pale, lanky man she hadn’t noticed before, move towards the source of the music. She recognises him as one half of the couple she had seen leaving the hotel a few days ago. He appears to be working here now. Bravely, he turns the volume down a notch on the nearby speaker.
‘Woah, what do you think you’re doing, mate?’ says the other man, squaring up to him, pushing out his bronzed torso like a silverback gorilla. ‘Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you, eh Pedro?’
‘My name is Petras,’ replies the other in a quietly non-confrontational way.
‘I don’t care where you’re from or what you’re called, mate. All I know is you’re not from round here. So don’t touch my fucking stuff, okay?’
Petras swallows and then nods, returns to his position by the cement mixer.
Then the other man casually strolls over to the speaker and turns up the volume so it is even louder than before. Now all Lottie can hear is a tirade of obscene lyrics about someone smacking his bitch up and whoopin’ her ass.
Enraged, she crosses over onto the site, picks up the speaker and to everyone’s astonishment, throws it over the back wall. It sails high in the air, the strains of the hip-hop diminishing, before it hits the asphalt of the road and smashes.
A moment’s pause, a shocked silence as everyone takes in the scene, listens to the clatter of plastic shattering.
‘Ohhhh, you did not!’ calls out one of the younger men.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ says another looking away, shaking his head and returning to his work.
The owner of the speaker stands with his arms raised, hands clamped to the back of his head, staring in the direction of the roadside like a devastated footballer who has missed a shot at goal. He turns to Lottie.
‘What the hell? Are you crazy? You’ll pay for that, you will.’
Lottie is briefly gratified to hear the warbling note of upset in his voice, which belies his age; all his bravado suddenly gone.
‘Leave it, lad,’ comes a gruff voice of authority and Lottie twists around to see the site foreman has joined them. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he says to her. ‘They’re just youngsters, trying to make a living.’
‘You should keep them under better control,’ replies Lottie with a sneer, casting a glance at the rest of the men as though she is surveying the primates’ enclosure at the zoo.
The foreman stares at her coldly. ‘Oh, is that right? Well, I’ll decide how I run my site.’
Lottie snorts. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you lot to the police. Or the council. You’re clearly breaking all sorts of health and safety regulations. What are you paying them? Cash in hand, is it? All legal and above board, I’m sure!’
A muscle tenses in the foreman’s cheek before he turns away and tells everyone to get back to work. With that, Lottie retreats, the wind leaving her sails as she realises how quickly the situation escalated. How she has lost her temper again and acted without restraint. But, still, she feels justified. She has the moralhigh ground. As she backs away from the building site, the pale, dark-haired man called Petras looks at her with pleading eyes.
‘Lady,’ he whispers. ‘Do not tell the police. Please. I need this job. Me and my wife, we need the money.’
Lottie stalls, listening to the inflection of his accent, looking into his thin, shadowed face.
