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‘No.’
‘And is it a good thing that much of this illegal immigration is run by criminal gangs, who exploit refugees?’
‘Of course not, but Migrant Watch is not part of the problem.’
‘You keep telling yourself that. And while you’re congratulating yourself, think about all of those undocumented migrants who are clogging up our courts, delaying proper asylum claims. Most know they have no hope of staying here, but they game the system, making appeal after appeal, working illegally. And when they’re finally kicked out, they plan their next working holiday.’
‘You are demonising people who are asking for our help.’
‘Nonsense! I am not against immigration, and I believe Britain should take our fair share of the persecuted and oppressed. What I am against is people taking advantage of our hospitality and our welfare system and our courts. Our nation is a mess and I want to clean it up.’
‘You’re right, it is a mess,’ says Florence, her features hardening. ‘But it’s not a mess caused by fruit pickers from Romania, or Nigerian nurses, or Syrian cleaners, or Polish nannies, or Estonian car washers, or Vietnamese manicurists. It’s a mess because the financial elite avoid paying their taxes, and failed banks get bailed out by the state, and the richest one per cent hold more wealth than seventy per cent of the population. Migrants didn’t make councils stop building council houses, and they didn’t drive down wages or cut funding to the National Health Service or cause inflation at double figures or increase our energy prices or vote for us to leave the EU. Yet they get blamed because it takes the focus away from the real architects of the mess. People like you.’
Buchan blows out his cheeks, impressed rather than annoyed. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks.
‘I was born in Zimbabwe.’
‘Did you come here to study?’
‘No. My parents are lawyers. They claimed asylum.’
His lips curl into a half smile. ‘Of course they did.’
Florence bristles with indignation. ‘Our house in Harare was fire-bombed and my parents were arrested because they exposed corruption and vote-rigging.’
‘And we gave them a new home. I hope they appreciate our generosity.’
‘Why?’ she asks, looking ready to kill him. ‘I’m sick of being told I should be grateful. My parents are both trained lawyers, but they arrived here with nothing. They shared a three-bedroom house with four other families. They worked multiple jobs, double shifts, in dry cleaners and factories and restaurant kitchens. They paid taxes. They obeyed the law. They earned the right to be here and made sure that I would never have to struggle the way they had to. Yet all the time they were told to be grateful and never complain and to bow and scrape to people like you, who treated them as culturally inferior. So, pardon me if I don’t genuflect and say, “Thank you, master.”’
Lord Buchan seems unsure whether to argue or applaud.
‘You are a very impressive young woman. What does my brother pay you?’ he asks.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Come and work for me. I’ll give you five times as much.’
‘I think I’m the wrong colour for you.’
The comment lands like a slap.
‘Whatever you may think of me, young lady, I am not a racist.’
‘No, you’re a hypocrite.’
Almost before Florence utters her next sentence, I want to warn her that she’s said enough. But her blood is up, and she has this man in her sights.
‘Where are these men from?’ she asks, pointing to the beaters who are sitting in the shade, some of them eating sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, and sipping on bottles of cordial that have come from the kitchen.
‘A local employment agency.’
‘Are they documented?’
‘I assume so. That’s the law.’
‘But you don’t know for sure?’
‘Mr Collie handles the staffing of the estate.’
