Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  Now he was kneeling on the ground and proceeding to weed the flower beds. He only stopped when I told him Anne had prepared a meal for us all and he needed to come in.

  Once he had stepped into the kitchen, I took him aside. I explained, in the simplest words I could find, that, for the moment, he should try to avoid contact with our elderly neighbours - Stephen and Marion Rigden on one side and eighty-five-year-old widow Linda Morrison in the adjoining house. Yusuf looked blank.

  ‘Bob means you stay with us, lodge with us,’ Anne explained gently.

  ‘If anyone asks, you’re the lodger,’ I told him.

  Yusuf gave a quick nod.

  ‘Oh, I see. Lodger,’ he repeated. It was clearly a new word for him.

  After the meal, we all sat in the living-room. This was a twenty-seven feet long room with an oak-beamed ceiling and inglenook fireplace.

  As I watched television, Anne took it upon herself to try to improve Yusuf’s English. She wrote down some basic English sentences in an exercise book and then showed it to him. She read each phrase to him, explained in turn what each one meant and then invited him to repeat them to her.

  Finally, he went off to the motor-home and later told us he spent an hour learning the phrases Anne had taught him before he went to sleep.

  After Yusuf had been with us for more than a week, the three of us settled into a steady way of life.

  Our day would begin with breakfast on the terrace outside our living-room patio doors. We enjoyed extensive views across farmland.

  Sometimes I would go on a cycling trip to the town and back while Anne would teach Yusuf some English. On other occasions, Anne and I would go shopping or visit some of my teaching friends. We would often return to find our visitor had carried out some tasks in the garden. We realised he was doing this work to impress us and to convince us to let him stay at Fairview.

  Around this time we gave him a front door key so that he could go into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich if we were out.

  When I returned from visiting the school on Tuesday, August the eleventh, Anne greeted me with a kiss and said she had something to tell me.

  ‘Bob, dear, we can’t go on like we are - providing Yusuf with meals and accommodation,’ she said as we stood together in the middle of the living-room. ‘He needs a job. I’ve just the idea. Why don’t we contact one of the fruit farms? There are lots round here and they’re crying out for labourers. I’ve been phoning round and there is one just up the road in Sissenden. They were very interested when I told them about Yusuf. He could work part-time if he wants.’

  ‘Great idea!’ I said. ‘We’ll have a chat with him later in the week after you’ve done your research.’

  On Wednesday August the twelfth, Anne finally found time to return to the library where she had once worked. There she spent more than three hours huddled over books and peering at a computer screen, trying to discover how an immigrant like Yusuf should set about claiming asylum.

  On her return, she found me in the living room and explained it was a lengthy process.

  ‘You contact an office in Croydon and they call you in for a biometrics check a week later in which they note all your physical features,’ she said. ‘They also carry out medical tests - including checking your blood pressure, blood cholesterol and blood glucose. A week or two later you get your first interview. You must bring your passport, birth certificate and proof of address. They then take up to six months to make their minds up.’

  ‘I imagine there is some kind of fee involved,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes, it’s not cheap. It costs nearly a thousand pounds and at your first interview they decide whether to detain you or release you while they ponder their decision. But right now you’re extremely unlikely to be detained. They just haven’t got the staff.’

  ‘Don’t asylum seekers usually have a lawyer to fight their corner? I think Yusuf might need one,’ I said. ‘After all, Britain might not want him. He’s penniless and single. If he was in touch with his mother and living with her, he would probably be in a stronger position, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but actually he has got one really strong card - he’s Eritrean. Of course, he’d have to convince them he’d face persecution if he returned. He’s meant to apply as soon as he can and he’s not really meant to work till it’s all sorted.’

  ‘The authorities will never know the exact date when he came here - because of the way he arrived,’ I observed. ‘I think we should let him take this farm job and have a couple of months working in the sun. He’s had an exhausting journey and he needs to raise a bit of money so he can apply.’

  ‘That all sounds sensible,’ Anne replied.

  ‘If the police or anyone comes knocking, we’ll say he came as a lodger. We won’t mention how we accidentally brought him on our chassis! Would they necessarily believe that anyway? I think we need to have a heart-to-heart chat with him. We need to find out what he wants to do with his life - where he sees himself going. I was wondering if he wants to improve his education, for instance.’

  I was due to return to my post at school at the beginning of September and my life would then become extremely hectic. I did not want to burden Anne about this, but the September term was stressful and I knew I would have less time over the coming weeks to concern myself with Yusuf.

  Just at that moment, I noticed through the front window our guest was sitting in a green wicker chair, sunning himself in the front porch.

  ‘Yusuf!’ I called. ‘Could we have a chat?’

  He walked hesitantly into the room with a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘Yes, Bob?’ he asked.

  Anne and I sat down on the settee and we invited him to make himself comfortable in the armchair.

  ‘We’ve been talking about you and your situation,’ I began. ‘Anne’s heard that a farm near here might be able to give you a job picking fruit.’

  At first Yusuf was cautious when we mentioned the prospect of him picking and packing fruit. He told us he had heard most workers on Kent fruit farms were from either Romania or Bulgaria and he wondered how he would be accepted by them.

  ‘I don’t want to do that,’ he insisted, making a gesture simulating a man breaking a stick with his two fists.

  ‘No get on,’ he said. ‘They greedy and fight.’

  ‘We can’t offer you work here. We can’t afford to,’ I said.

  ‘I work for you,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You work for money - at the farm.’

  Eventually, he realised Anne and I were adamant and, when he realised he would have the chance to earn good money, he quickly warmed to the idea of farm work.

  ‘I am so thankful to you, Bob, and to you, Anne,’ he said.

  ‘That’s good. We have enjoyed having your company,’ I told him. ‘Look, we’re willing to let you stay on in the motor home for a few weeks. But eventually you’ll have to claim asylum and sort your situation out.’

  He was about to rise from the armchair and return to the porch, but I stopped him.

  ‘Yusuf,’ I said quietly. ‘How d’you see your future? D’you want to study at all?’

  ‘Yes, I like to study. But I also need to find mother,’ he declared. ‘Now we’re having summer. Maybe I work on the farm and then maybe go to find mother.’

  Anne interrupted.

  ‘We know you’ve had a rough time,’ she admitted. ‘But we feel that, in around two months’ time, you should apply for asylum. I can explain what you’ve got to do. I will help you. We will phone the immigration people in Croydon and get an appointment.’

  ‘Thank you, Anne. Thank you, Bob. You have been a great help to me. Where is this Croydon?’

  ‘It’s a town about sixty miles away where the asylum centre is based. I can drive you there.’

&nb
sp; ‘I will go. Bob, Anne, I am so grateful to you. Even now, in the middle of the night, I am crying for my friend Yonas. But I stop crying when I am thinking how good it is to be in England after everything I have been through. It wouldn’t have been possible without you and your kindness.’

  Anne added: ‘Your asylum claim may be turned down in any case, but at least this way you get a nice summer holiday in England.’

  I said: ‘If the authorities make a fuss about your case, you can always plead ignorance.’

  We had gradually become used to his ways and, in my heart, I suppose I was afraid of losing him to some detention centre - although I think we both realised that, strictly speaking, there should be no delay in his applying and what we were doing was essentially wrong.

  That night, after Yusuf had gone to bed, Anne and I continued talking about our new friend.

  ‘The situation in England’s crazy,’ I told her. ‘Asylum seekers are turning up in the backs of lorries all the time. I even read about two found in the engine compartment of a school coach when it returned from France.

  ‘Often, when the police catch them, they’ve no way of taking them to a detention centre. Sometimes they’re simply given the address and told to make their own way there. Of course, many of them disappear en route.’

  On Thursday of that week, we decided to buy Yusuf some clothes. Until then, he had been sharing my rather limited wardrobe. This was becoming increasingly challenging for me and, when I returned to the academy, I would have to focus fully on my work. I did not want to begin a school day without being able to find a suitable shirt or pair of trousers to wear.

  On August the twelfth, the three of us set out in the Mondeo for the shops of Canterbury. We bought him underwear in Marks & Spencer. Then we trawled round the charity shops. We found him two smart white shirts, four casual shirts, two pairs of trousers and a dark-blue winter coat. The total cost was around fifty pounds.

  5

  Early in the morning, two days later, the sun rose in a cloudless sky. I glanced from our bedroom window. The pink foxgloves and white daisies in the lane tossed and nodded their heads in the gentle breeze.

  Anne had made an appointment for her and Yusuf to visit a farm two miles away in the next village of Sissenden.

  Finch & Davies, first established in 1953, was one of the largest farms in Kent. They grew apples, pears and plums for supermarkets and the wholesale trade.

  Yusuf’s appointment was at ten am, but two hours beforehand he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’ve an idea where he might be,’ I told Anne. ‘You wait here in case I’m wrong.’

  There is an idyllic spot a few hundred yards from our cottage. You walk a short distance towards Chasehurst village and then take a turning on the right through the woods. After a brief woodland walk along a public footpath which crosses a stream, you come to a clearing overlooking open fields. A smart brown wooden bench had been installed there in honour of a former chairman of the parish council, now deceased. If you sit there, surrounded by wild flowers, you can see for miles across East Kent.

  It was a place where Yusuf liked to come and think. Sure enough, on this occasion, I found him rapt in thought, sitting on the bench.

  ‘Don’t you want some breakfast?’ I called out as I approached him.

  ‘I’m no hungry,’ he said. ‘I think I stay in village today.’

  I knew Anne would be annoyed with him. She had spent some time the previous day, phoning the various farms located in our part of East Kent. They were all desperately in need of fruit pickers. She knew, if Yusuf borrowed my spare bicycle, he could make the daily journey to Finch & Davies in just ten or fifteen minutes. She did not want him to lose the opportunity.

  Eventually, with some reluctance, he walked back to the cottage with me.

  After Anne spent a short time discussing the matter with him, he finally agreed to accompany us to the farm. He put on a white shirt and black trousers Anne had pressed the evening before. I gave him one of my old ties - a dark-blue tie I had hardly worn but no longer cared for.

  At a quarter to ten, we all jumped into the Mondeo and, with Anne at the wheel, we set off for the farm.

  Finch & Davies has more than five hundred acres of land, most of which have been turned into orchards. They also have several huge barns which are used as pack-houses and storage areas.

  We noticed apple trees as far as the eye could see. The green fruit of late summer were gradually ripening before us, bringing, here and there, the dash of a reddish hue to the maze of green-coloured branches and leaves and the brown trunks of the trees.

  The main office was in the original farmhouse built in the middle of the nineteenth century. We parked in the large car park behind and then pointed out the reception area to Yusuf.

  As we approached the main door, I cracked a joke at Yusuf’s expense - referring back to his journey into Britain riding beneath the motor-home. I told him: ‘When the tractor hauls a full load of fruit back to the farm, be sure you travel ON TOP of the cart.’ My joke, once explained, failed to impress Yusuf, although it made Anne smile.

  Anne introduced herself to a well-dressed lady who was standing by the door, the managing director’s secretary, Sue Wickens.

  ‘This is Yusuf Osman,’ Anne told her. ‘And this is my husband, Bob.’

  ‘We were so glad to receive your call, Mrs Shaw,’ she said. ‘We’re so desperate for pickers. So this is Mr Osman? Yes, he’ll do fine, provided he’s got all the necessary paperwork. And this is your husband?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We’ve brought his passport,’ said Anne, indicating to Yusuf he should display it. He began to slip it from his pocket.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said the well-spoken secretary. ‘What I want you to do is see our Mr Edwin Moreton, the site manager. He can tell you about the pay, the hours, the accommodation and things like that. Mr Osman’s your lodger, you told me?’

  ‘Yes, he’s staying with us for the moment. He’s a very willing worker.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Now you just go out of this office and into the next building. I’m afraid it’s a bit cold in there! Ask for Mr Moreton. Anyone’ll tell you. Good luck!’

  We left the main office, crossed the car park and entered the huge pack-house through a half-glazed metal door. A Romanian worker in a blue protective coat and transparent plastic cap went to fetch Mr Moreton. As we waited, Anne mentioned that she had an inkling she knew the manager.

  ‘If it’s the man I’m thinking of, he’s a regular library user. He reads a lot of technology books,’ she informed me.

  After ten minutes, a stern-faced Englishman wearing similar blue overalls and carrying a file of documents approached us.

  ‘Hello, Anne!’ he said. ‘I’m not in trouble, am I? I phoned and they said I could have the book for another week.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Moreton,’ she replied with a smile. ‘I’m not working at the library any more, I’m afraid. ‘

  ‘Oh, I see. I’d heard about the cutbacks, of course. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Not to worry. Look, this is Yusuf Osman. Mrs Wickens asked us to introduce him to you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. So you’re Yusuf, are you? I’m guessing you’re not Romanian, are you?’

  ‘He’s from Eritrea. Show him your passport, Yusuf,’ said Anne.

  ‘We’ve got to be careful. We had the immigration people down here last year.’

  ‘We’ve found him honest and very hard-working,’ Anne assured him. ‘We can both vouch for him.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mr Moreton. ‘He’ll have to go in the office to sort out the paperwork. If you’re prepared to work hard, son, we pay the minimum wage of six pounds seventy pence an hour. Obviously, you don’t get paid during any breaks such as lunchtime. But last year some of our top workers took away ni
ne pounds an hour on piece rates.’

  ‘That’s cool, isn’t it?’ said Anne, looking to see Yusuf’s reaction. He remained stone-faced.

  ‘We’ll need him six days a week - maybe seven,’ said Mr Moreton. ‘The work’ll be picking to start with. If we choose, we might give him a turn in the pack-house. If you work hard, you can earn good money, son. You’ll make lots of friends. The accommodation’s quite good. We’ve got a fleet of fairly modern caravans.’

  He added: ‘Are you into football, son? There’s a soccer pitch and we’ve got some table tennis tables. It’s like a holiday camp here.’

  ‘He’ll be staying with us for the moment,’ Anne explained. ‘We’re only in Chasehurst.’

  ‘Oh OK,’ said Mr Moreton, nodding his head. ‘Look, we’ll take him. We’re desperately short of people. We’ll do this, Anne, because we know you, but I must be frank with you. If he steps out of line, he’s out of here.’

  ‘You won’t have any problems,’ I said. ‘I’d bet my life on it.’

  Mr Moreton turned to Yusuf.

  ‘My parents called me Edwin, but everybody knows me as Ted,’ he explained. ‘Now I have to ask you this. How d’you feel about going to bed early and getting up early? The best time to pick fruit’s when it’s cool, very early in the morning. We’ll need you at four-thirty am. Will that suit you?’

  ‘That’s all right. There’s a bicycle he can use,’ said Anne, who was surprised at hearing the early starting time. ‘Is that all right, Yusuf?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I take it you’ve no allergies to fruit, bees or wasps, son? And you’re not colour blind?’

  Anne turned to Yusuf. ‘He’s asking whether you become ill -- become sick -- if you touch fruit? He’s also asking if you become ill because of a bee or wasp attack and if you’ve got any problem with your eyes?’