This Is Where I Am (38 page)

Family Tracing Services
.

I know I’m chasing ghosts. Rebecca was what, three or four when she saw her mother dragged away. At that age, you see fairies. You have whole imaginary worlds in which you live. But what if this is not imagination? It can’t hurt to explore the possibility. All Abdi saw was blood, all he heard was Rebecca’s cries. And Rebecca is adamant that she saw what she saw. Lara spent a long time talking to her afterwards. Filling the room with calm. It was like she’d unwrapped Rebecca, then was rebandaging her. Better, cleaner. There were no more allusions to Azira, no false promises. We talked a little about talking, about why sometimes we don’t. Rebecca consented to it all. She let herself be swaddled. Even sat up on my knee. But that child is suffused with fierce intelligence. I know it. And she wants to be heard, about so many things. With Abdi’s agreement, I think we should push for school. There used to be a second entry after Christmas, I can’t see that it’d be impossible to let her start then. In the interim, we could ask for speech and language therapy – though I hardly think she needs it. We might even consider these Freedom people. Might. For now, I will say nothing to Abdi of the strange table-horse and its living cargo, and I don’t think Rebecca will either.

To her, it’s not a revelation. It’s a long-borne fact.

Red Cross provides limited
. . . That was who they mentioned in the conference paper. I click, search, scan . . . there’s a form to be filled in, phone numbers to be called. As much detail as possible, it says. Where you last saw your missing person, when and how and why you lost them . . . I realise I don’t even know Azira’s full name. Mrs Casci is still at lunch. I’m pretty sure she’s the line manager for Abdi’s caseworker, who’s away on leave. Volunteering in Namibia, God love him. There’s no limit to the generosity of some of the people working here. If I were a full-time employee, I’d need a luxury spa break, where the world came wrapped in towelling robes. I ponder, muse, rationalise.

My fingers hover. I succumb.

We can access most of our client files on the database. It’s quiet today. Lunchtime sun is shining, after the cold snap we’ve had. Folks’ troubles ease on a ripe September day; they seem slow and grateful for a glimmer of extra sun. We’ll sook it up, deal with the shit tomorrow. Even the phones are quieter. Into the uncanny stillness flies a rainbow peal of praise.

Blessed God!

It’s Gamu’s tired man, and he’s literally jumping for joy. Gamu’s clasping him to her bosom – against all protocols, but he doesn’t seem to mind. The letter they hold between them drifts palely to the floor. The man dips with grace, swoops it up, and I am witnessing his rebirth as the years and dust shake off him. His height and girth increase; he turns, bows, includes me in his ebullient glow.

‘I am to stay!’ he booms. ‘You have invited me to stay!’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I call, glad for him and for Gamu. Too often, we have to read out bad news to our clients. But the days when you get that letter, when a shaking hand passes you an unread sheet of paper and you say the words out loud:

You have been granted refugee status.

That’s why you do this.

That is why I’m doing this. I return to my computer screen. The files we’ve got here are basic: a log of when and what help clients have received. I type in Abdi’s name, just to
see
. Up it comes: age, address, children. Interactions with SRC. As I suspected, the self-sufficient bugger hasn’t asked for much: help with that perennial, housing; wee bit of advice on learning opportunities; no complaints lodged about his mentor (yet). I scroll down, flicker when I see his wife’s full name:

Azira Samatar Guleed (Hassan)
(deceased).

Why is Hassan in brackets? Were they not really married? Or maybe Somali women don’t take their husband’s name. I should know these things, I’m supposed to be his mentor. I write all four names precisely; there’s no date of birth, no last known address for either her or Abdi’s families. All I have is the name of the camp, and a rough idea of dates. Under ‘contacts’, it lists the solicitor who must have dealt with Abdi’s asylum application, me – which sends another silly ripple of pleasure through me – and not one, but two ministers – a Father and a Reverend. Abdi’s as cosmopolitan as he is smart. He’s clearly hedging his bets. All I know is that he goes to church, and Mrs Coutts goes there too. Fine. If church is a comfort to him, then good but it’s not a crutch I want to discuss. So we don’t. Such is my reductive reasoning, I’ve been limiting his horizons since we met. See Glasgow? See religion? The whole place seethes with its undercurrents. Our schools, our football teams, our whole civic life. In fact, it’s the marker of where the city began. Glasgow Cathedral should have been the very first place I took him to.

‘Goodbye, my wonderful friends!’ The untired man is blowing us kisses. Gamu leans from her little booth, laughing. Laughing and waving until he is out of sight. Would there be any point in talking to Abdi’s minister? I note down the phone number of the reverend, with the 0141 Glasgow code. The number for the priest is unrecognisable . . . ah, that’s because it’s some lengthy postcode that’s spilled across the columns . . . for . . . I scroll back. Malawi. Africa. I reread the entry, see the priest has the first initial ‘P’. Further down, it says Father Paolo Alessi. The friend called Paolo who Abdi lived with, it must be! I copy down the whole address, with its string of numbers and unfamiliar words. Surely Paolo could tell me where to start? I can put in a request to the Red Cross too. With Azira’s full name, the rough date and location, the fact it was an ambush . . . Dadaab can’t be entirely lawless. They must keep records in the camp.

A door swings in the lobby. No one comes in. Gamu is no longer laughing. In fact, she’s crying. Slow, silent crying which she hides behind her hands. There’s only me and her in the office. The whole world’s gone to lunch. I ignore my ringing phone, go over. Funny how it’s the good news that can finally knock you adrift. Grim vigour holding you together until a shaft of pure delight punctures your too-tight skin. Mrs Casci’s office remains unlocked. The silvery handle is tactile, sleek. What extra files would be stashed in there? Whole swathes of Abdi’s backstory, a phone number for the priest? It could be months before a letter gets there. Now that I’m doing this, I want to do it
now
. Jesus God, what if that poor woman really was left behind? If she limped and crawled to hide, or was carried away on a table-shaped horse? What if she’s still waiting for someone to come and find her? The thought shivers in a flu-ache, it impels me to rush and demand, to scour out absolute facts. If it was a raid on the camp, there’d have been bodies, officials to count the bodies, to bury them, surely? Or maybe dead refugees become carrion. An image comes of still-live bodies, and the buzzards circling and my phone continues ringing and there’s poor Gamu, crying. I scooch down to hug her.

‘Och, come on, missus. It’s all right. Just you let it out.’

She folds into me, hot hair tickling my mouth. We sway, me wobbling since I’m down on my hunkers and have terrible balance at the best of times, and – let’s face it – Gamu’s quite a big girl, so I grab the edge of her chair, which is on wheels and it shudders, which makes her laugh again, thank God.

‘Hey, it’s cool, Debs. I’m fine.’ Heel of her hand, scrubbing at her eyes. ‘Fine.’

‘You sure?’ I oof and uff myself upright: I probably have the joints of an eighty-year-old.
Weight-bearing exercise!
I know, I know. More calcium, too, but milk’s such an unpleasant, chalky drink.

‘Mmhm.’ Her reply is unconvincing.

‘Honestly?’

She’s a nurse. She only does this job for light relief. Who am I to counsel her?

‘Uh-huh.’ Gamu gulps. Massively. Like she’s gulping in the sea. Blinks through puffed-up eyes and gulps again. ‘Huh . . . no. Not really. No, I’m not so good today, my love.’

‘What’s up?’

She heaves up her giant handbag. Its patent leather gleams. Everything about Gamu is large and bright. Rummages until she finds a brown envelope, torn at the top. ‘Will you read my letter?’ she asks. Same simple phrase we hear a dozen times a day.

It’s from the UK Border Agency.

. . .
must advise you that we have been appraised of investigations currently underway in relation to your claims in respect of Working Tax Credits . . .

I read the paragraph again. ‘Is this a joke?’ The letter flails as I gesticulate, prodding and pinching air. ‘They’re saying you’re a benefits cheat? But that’s ridiculous. I’ve seen you – you never even put in your travel claims for coming here. I’ll write to them –’

Gamu licks the corner of her lips. ‘I did it all right, you know? I phoned the helpline before I put in my form. Then, one year later, they phone me back – say I shouldn’t be getting this. I even give them the name of the lady I spoke to. Date, time – I write it all down, but they don’t care.’

‘Bullshit. We’ll fight this. No way are you getting labelled a fraudster. I mean, will they want you to pay them back? How much are we talking?’

She makes a weary half-shrug. ‘Don’ matter. Read the rest.’

. . .
came here under the Fresh Talent Initiative, a scheme which has now expired. Consequently, you were informed that your visa would require to be renewed. I am writing now to inform you that your renewal application has been refused
. . .

The slick text crawls across the page. The page is shaking, the shaking is me.

‘Refused? They’re chucking you out because of a mix up over tax credits? No way. No bloody way. Have you appealed?’

‘I only got the letter this morning.’

‘Who’s your lawyer?’ Automatically, I reach over her, for her phone.

‘I can’t . . . Not now, babes, OK? I . . . I thought if I kept busy . . . this doesn’t feel so real, you know? I just need to go someplace, be a little calm. You be OK if I go . . . ?’

‘Sure, sure.’ I help her to her feet. Pass her her gleaming bag, which matches her always-smart shoes. Gamu’s hand clenches the strap, her expression clenches too. Desperation flames like a candle. Is bitten back. And there’s me, mouth on hinges, standing like a chookie. Watching this splendid woman sail out into Glasgow’s streets.

19. October

Scottish Parliament

‘There shall be a Scottish Parliament.’

These words, inscribed on the Mace of the Scottish Parliament, form the opening of the Scotland Act, which led to the establishment of the first Scottish Parliament since 1707, and the creation of the stunning new Parliament building at the foot of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.

A sovereign nation in its own right, Scotland has never been conquered. In 1603, the Scottish and the English crowns united when James VI of Scotland succeeded Elizabeth to the English throne. Each country retained its own Parliament, Church, laws and coinage until 1707, when concerns about unified succession and a disastrous Scottish economic slump led to the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament and political union with Westminster. For the next 300 years, however, the desire for a return to Scottish self-government waxed and waned, culminating in 1997 in a national referendum – which produced a clear majority in favour of Scottish devolution.

The Scottish Parliament reconvened in July 1999, and, four years later, took its seat in the curvaceous building designed by Spanish architect Enric Miralles. Sitting in front of Salisbury Crags, the complex structure is formed from a mixture of steel, oak and granite, and has been hailed as one of the most innovative designs in Britain today.

Open to visitors six days a week, and home to the country’s 129 MSPs, admission to the Scottish Parliament is free.

*

From the outside, it is fair to say the Scottish Parliament looks like a concrete block of flats. To which – in a misguided attempt to ‘add interest’ – some bright spark has appliquéd giant cow-hides, then glued on some garden canes.

Step through the low dull portal, however, and it is magical.

It is your country, your hope and your pride, all bound in sinuous pale oak and shafts of light, in echoing floors and ancient walls and modern vaults that are the fabric of cathedrals. Stairs and spirits rise as you ascend through metallic, marbled layerings. And the art – the spirited art that is the very pores of this place, breathing from walls and doorways in the carving, the paintings, the sculpted joys. Etched words on glass and stone speak of better nations and women’s dreams, the Declaration of Arbroath is eloquently honest, and it hurts your chest. Glass-eyed girders blink above us in the Garden Lobby, which is where we’re to be received, where the harled frontage of Queensberry House, forever walled within the parliament, is the old encompassed by the new.

There shall be a Scottish Parliament.

It all hurts your chest. This place, the fact of it, the procession of marching people – twenty of you, because that’s all they would allow – bearing petitions to your king. Or to your MSP at least: a very nice chap who will make ‘the most earnest protestations’, but
immigration is not a devolved matter
, but what else can we do? Poor Geordie never got this chance. We’re damned if Gamu will go quietly.