This Is Where I Am (39 page)

At the far end of our crocodile, Abdi gives me a cheerful wave. Our group has been crafted to be ‘representative’. It’s a mix of old and young, of refugees, asylum seekers, volunteers and – in our biggest coup yet – a well-known Scottish soap actress whose mum was nursed by Gamu. How lucky is that? (Not for the old lady, unfortunately, who has since passed.) Gamu stands centre stage, in her uniform. She’d wanted to wear a voluptuous red coat –
it is fire, my love, it will give me courage
. But Caro Winter and I overruled her. Entirely due to the presence of Ms Soap, the television news is here. You can’t blame them – they only have sporadic interest and slots for these stories: if it is a clutch of wonderful angry Glasgow teenagers, or a doe-eyed child whose mummy left her abusive husband and is no longer his dependant and so is no longer entitled to stay.
These
things get folk angry. Gamu is a healthy working woman, with no dependants and an uncompromising frown. Ergo:

There shall be a Scottish soapstar.

Gamu’s MSP is a nationalist, which means he can be as direct and vital as he likes in his derision of the Home Office, of UK immigration policy, in his defence of Scotland’s undeniable need and inalienable right to ‘choose and welcome her own citizens’.

‘Gamu is a woman who has done nothing but good since we invited her to our shores nearly a decade ago. She contributes hugely to the fabric of her community – through her nursing, her volunteer work, her neighbourliness. It’s a testament to this neighbourliness that the petition I’m receiving today has over 3,000 signatures –’

That petition is the fruit of four weekends in a row standing in various shopping centres. Abdi and I took St Enoch’s, unPC Len and his girlfriend did Buchanan Galleries and a couple of Caro’s mates drove out to The Fort and Silverburn respectively. Each weekend, we rotated location, figuring some people might sign twice if they thought it was a different petition. Gamu’s next-door neighbour organised a local ceilidh to raise funds, and I encouraged Abdi to go.

‘Och, you’ve not lived till you’ve done the Gay Gordons.’

‘It sounds painful.’

‘It is.’

I stayed home to babysit, but not before I’d taught him how to ‘hee-uuch’ (an essential sound-effect for any eightsome reel). As regards the actual dancing, Abdi was on his own. Ceilidhs are great fun, don’t get me wrong. I love the way your feet know the airs and dances, some folk-memory revived and reinforced by all those hours in the school gym. But Mrs Coutts’s hip was playing her up and Rebecca was going to stay at mine. Len and his girlfriend would drive Abdi over. We all had dinner here first.

‘Just don’t eat too much before you go. In case all the birling makes you puke.’

‘Remind me again why is it that you’re not coming to this cultural delight?’

‘Oh, I’ve done a fair bit of Stripping the Willow in my time, don’t you worry. And you’ve not, plus you need a babysitter and Gamu needs your support. So there.’

I picked up a tea towel and said they’d better head: Rebecca and I were going to make scones. I’m sorry I missed Abdi’s face as he saw the kilts, that I never heard Gamu shriek as she was swung in a figure of eight. By all accounts, it was a brilliant night – they raised a wad of cash, and got three hundred signatures right there in the hall and the pub next door. But I’m not sorry for avoiding the drink and loudness, the arms linked to spinning bodies that would bump and hold me. I didn’t want to be held. Abdi told me to imagine Callum at his finest, and it hurt so much; all that unseen weight demanding to be made visible. Each tiny seed flying into the air was all the years I’ve still to live without him. All the possibilities, and the decisions I must make. My unreadiness to make them.

Avoiding the ceilidh was a decision. Rebecca and I made luscious scones and did our reading practice – she’s skipped two levels already. When she went to bed, I resumed my search. Every day since I’d written to Father Paolo, I’d anticipated the postman (I think he thought I was stalking him, this disturbing, dressing-gowned creature behind the door). All he brought was the usual round of bills and circulars. Nothing from Paolo – and I’d put my home address, home phone number, email, Refugee Council address and phone number on the letter, so he was spoilt for choice. I’d had a brief reply from the Red Cross, but it was just an acknowledgement of my enquiry. Most nights I’d be on the computer, visiting sites and chatrooms, posting requests for refugees who’d been in Dadaab to get in touch, seeking charities that might carry out searches. That night – with Abdi jigging at the ceilidh, with Rebecca sleeping and the smell of scones in my kitchen – I went as usual to the internet. Opened up my emails expecting the usual dross, and there it was! A message from Father Paolo. He apologised for the delay, apologised all the more for his not-knowing.

I cannot believe that Azira might be dead. We all believed the transition had gone smoothly. I am sickened to learn this is not so. I have written to our charity partners to find out what they know, and why I was not told. In the meantime, I suggest you try to contact a Ms Rose Gray. She no longer works for the charity in question, but was their Kenyan co-ordinator at the time. As she has moved on, I no longer have her contact details. I have asked for them to be provided to me, but perhaps you might also search yourself? I believe she is originally from Donegal in Ireland. The facilities I have in Malawi are somewhat basic & we often lose internet connection – hence my late reply. In the meantime, can you please tell Abdi that I pray for him and his beloved Rebecca, and that I commend both them and Azira to the mercy and grace of Our Lord. I will write as soon as I have news. With God’s blessings on you all.

Fr Paolo Alessi

Rose Gray. Right there, I searched online for the Irish phone book. As if. Like we have a ‘Scottish’ phone book. Then I looked up Donegal. Did you know there was a Donegal in Pennsylvania? My only option was to work through a different city a night. If any similar names came up (and there were five in Dublin, three in Belfast and a Dympna-Rose Gray in Derry), I’d phone them. And I did. And, each time, I drew a blank. I even got my nieces trying Facebook and Twitter. It would help if I’d known what charity she’d worked for, but Father Paolo hadn’t said.

And then he contacted me again. Last night, as I was checking emails with one hand and painting my Parliament banner with the other, I got another email. Still no details for Rose, but the soul had gone to the bother of finding someone who would scan and upload a photo of Azira. I read his email before I opened the attachment.

I have sent this picture to Light of the World, who have still to reply, but I thought also that it may be of help to you. I suspect Abdi will not have such images. This was taken at my house, at Christmas when Rebecca would have been three, I believe – although Abdi is very vague with ages – it is a Somali trait! Please tell him how much he is in my prayers.

I couldn’t, of course.
Why were you speaking with Father Paolo, Debs? Oh, no reason. Just because I think your wife could still be alive, and you left her there.

I clicked on the attachment, and there she was.

Azira.

Black Rebecca-eyes, deep in their sockets. A heart-shaped face, skin sleek across her cheekbones, which were sickle-sharp; holding the light in perfect crescents. The flash had caught the starkness of her teeth, her long forehead, her coffee-cream neck. She was wrapped in some kind of checked plaid. I thought she’d wear a headscarf, but her straight hair hung in a middle parting, uncovered and made into tiny strands. One tendril flicked across her face as if she’d just that minute turned her head, was on the brink of . . .

From the flickering screen, Azira regarded me, her mouth a half-arch. I couldn’t tell if her lips were painted; they seemed too stained to be real. It had to be make-up. To be that bare-faced stunning would be unfair. I touched my fingers to the screen. Whispered, ‘Hi.’

You know when you’re wee and bursting to tell a secret; when it’s so imperative to relieve the pressure? And the other urge that accompanies your need for revelation: that, although you
know
you’re doing the right thing, you need another to confirm it? Or not.

I met my sister for lunch today, before coming through to Edinburgh (clever Caro has arranged an afternoon appointment with our MSP, to catch the tea-time news). Brought Azira’s picture with me, so that Gill would understand.

We ate, we talked, she blanched.

‘Jesus.’

‘I know. And it may be wishful thinking, but it
sounds
real. Rebecca wasn’t play-acting. I thought if I could get her story checked out in some way . . . obviously I’m saying nothing to Abdi. Not yet.’

Gill picked up the photograph again.

‘Yeah, but look at her. She’s gorgeous.’

‘So?’

‘I said
look
at her, you idiot. You of all folk should know what happens in refugee camps. There was an article in the
Sunday Herald
last month – it’s around one in three women, maybe higher –’

‘Shut up. I know.’

‘Well, have you ever thought maybe Abdi didn’t look back on purpose?’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’

‘OK, you know him, I don’t. But from what you and Richard have told me, he’s a very proud man. Maybe he couldn’t cope with the thought of what else might have happened to Azira. And maybe you going digging round where you’re not wanted is a totally crap idea. The guy’s already had one breakdown.’

‘Piss off, Gill. You’re telling me I should just leave her there?’

‘You know, you swear much more than you used to.’

‘Excuse me –’ I ordered another beer. ‘You wanting anything else?’

‘Nope.
And
you’re drinking more.’

‘I’m not, actually. I’m just not hiding it.’

‘Oh sister dear. You’re such a thrawn besom.’ Gill kissed me on the cheek. ‘Gotta go. We have an HMI inspection tomorrow. Joy of joys. Look, you do what you’ve got to do.’

‘I will.’

She got up. ‘Just think about worms and cans, yes?’

‘Mm. You’d better go and cook your books. I’m off to get the train.’

Gill’s hand hung on the back of the chair. ‘How’s wee Rebecca doing, anyway?’

A quiet dazzle inside me. Glad that she asked, that my wee sister really cares and that we come from a family that cares, despite my dad’s protestations. Callum would have cared too.

‘Good. I’ve got her on some Primary Two readers already. I think Abdi’s coming round to the idea of school after Christmas. D’you still think you could swing it?’

‘Leave it to your fairy-sister. If I still have a job after tomorrow, that is.’

‘Ach, the inspectors will love you.
Everybody
loves you.’ I reached up to hug her. ‘Even me.’

Inside the Scottish Parliament, where we are standing, light pours in from the ceiling. It paints us brighter than we really are, enhances profiles and upturned faces with noble glows. The MSP is nearly finished, the cameras are swivelling to the soapstar. Virtually no one is looking at Gamu as she stands quietly to one side, observing her worth being measured. An appeal has been lodged with the Home Office, all we can do is wait. And keep on shouting. I go over and squeeze her hand.

‘Will we go home now?’

‘Yes. Please.’

I have the picture of Azira on the noticeboard, which hangs on the wall to the left of my PC. Beside the noticeboard, in front of my computer, is my window, from which I can see my street. Azira watches me from between a Scottish Economic Society calendar (they send me one every year, bless them) and a carry-out menu for the Golden Tandoor. I can see Mrs Gilfillan moving stiffly in her front room. She is watering her ferns. Next door to Mrs Gilfillan, Naomi’s kids are playing with their new au pair, who is just as smiley and efficient as Rula was. Naomi, when I see her now, keeps her head down and is brisk, trailing out a ‘Hi there’ only when she’s past. I rarely reply. Lovely bouncy Allison is walking with her children; no, now she waits patiently as the wee boy stops to examine his reflection in an oil-rimmed puddle, which is beautiful. Music lifts from the open window of the dance school and the trees are gradually giving up their leaves. All Azira can see is the top of my head – and the wall behind me, which badly needs a paint. I unhook my noticeboard, turn it so it rests diagonally across the corner of the broad windowsill, facing outward, with the edge nearest me balanced on my desk.

What does my little sister know?

In front of me are two letters. I slit open the first one. I can’t make out the postmark, but it’s been franked by the Red Cross. My hands are trembly; the paperknife slips, the bobbly brass head of it (an oversized thistle) dips forward and the knife presses up, catching a fragment of hangnail. Just a totey wee strip of skin, but, man, it stings.

I read. I read it again.

Dear Mrs Maxwell

Apologies for the delay in responding, but I am currently overseas and our mail is being forwarded by the Red Cross. I understand from my former employers Light of the World that you’ve been trying to get in touch with me, in regard to tracing a refugee by the name of Azira Hassan. As you may know, I no longer work for Light of the World, but it’s my understanding that Mrs Hassan travelled with her husband and child from the Dadaab Camp in Kenya to the UK approximately two years ago now. I think it would have been the November possibly? Can I suggest therefore that you contact the Home Office, or failing that, the Red Cross Tracing Service, for information on where the Hassan family were then sent.