Living on Hope Street

by Demet Divaroren

  Mum’s blood was sticky when I touched her face. What if she never came back?

  We walked onto Mrs Aslan’s porch single file, the DHS woman shadowing me up the steps. Mrs Aslan took off her blue runners and left them at the front door. She’d trampled the backs of them so they looked more like the slippers she made us wear in the house. The DHS woman tried to overtake and follow Mrs Aslan inside but I blocked the door while I took off my shoes. Every second that Sam didn’t see her was a win.

  ‘Excuse me, Kane,’ she said, squeezing past me. I followed her down the hall. She stopped near the dining table in the lounge room, sniffing the air like a hound. Mrs Aslan’s house smelled like fried garlic and the woman tracked the smell towards the kitchen door behind her. She surveyed the lounge room, her eyes darting up and down like Mrs Archer’s did when she stalked the school halls waiting to break some balls.

  Mrs Aslan was sitting on the couch next to Sam. ‘You orayt, my Sam,’ she said, kissing the top of his head. ‘No one gonna hurt you.’ She turned the TV on and crouched in front of the DVD player, flipping through discs. ‘You sit, watch Ninja Turtle, I gonna make you honey milk soon.’

  The Ninja Turtles theme song blasted through the speakers. Mrs Aslan stood in front of the woman and eyeballed her heels, which were stabbing the carpet. ‘Here,’ she said, taking off her red slippers and putting them at the woman’s feet. ‘This be more comfortable.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry,’ the woman muttered, taking off her shoes and handing them to Mrs Aslan, who disappeared down the hall. ‘My brother loves the Ninja Turtles too, Sam,’ she said. ‘He always tells Mum to make pizza. It’s all he eats.’

  Sam sat up and peeked from the couch. ‘It’s all good, buddy, she’s going soon,’ I said, winking. His wet eyes shone. Sauce was smeared on his cheek. I remembered his scared face as Dad pushed mashed potato into it and pulsed my fists to control my hands. The woman’s pen was scratching the paper like her life depended on it. Except it wasn’t her life but ours she could be changing.

  Mrs Aslan shuffled back to the lounge room, her arms open. ‘This my house, you see is very clean, very safe.’

  ‘Yes, it really is,’ the woman said. ‘Does anyone else live here with you?’

  Mrs Aslan shook her head and adjusted her headscarf, squeezing the ties under her chin.

  ‘She lives alone,’ I said. Why the hell didn’t she just check her folder and piss off? ‘DHS has all of the answers from last time. Why are you still here?’

  She straightened. ‘Kane, it’s my job to make sure you and your brother are well looked after. I’m not here to make things difficult, I promise you.’

  ‘Tamam, okay, hadi, you ask questions, look my house. These boys very tired, need sleep.’

  ‘Kane?’ Sam’s voice wobbled.

  ‘It’s okay, bud.’

  ‘Everything orayt, my Sam. I promise. This woman she love my house, I give her tour.’ Mrs Aslan waved the woman into the kitchen. ‘What you want to see? Hmm? This where I make food.’ Her hands fanned out as if she’d dealt cards. ‘You want see what food I make? This I feed to boys.’

  ‘No, that’s not necessary.’

  Mrs Aslan lifted the lid off an orange pot on the stove. ‘This soup mercimek, it made from small, orange thing. What this called, Kane?’

  ‘Lentils,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it be medicine for every pain.’ She opened the lid of another pot. ‘And this makarna, with meat. Sam love spaghetti.’

  ‘Smells good,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘It’s similar to Mum’s bolognese.’

  ‘Of course smell good!’ Mrs Aslan slapped her chest. ‘I make this! I give you recipe? Is very easy. First you fry meat, put tomato, onion, garlic and salça.’

  The woman’s smile lingered as Mrs Aslan kept talking, but it was stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Like Dad’s smile minutes before he saw red and started on Mum. Tonight was worse than last time. Mum’s nose was definitely broken but it was the kicks she copped to her stomach that scared me. What if he broke her ribs?

  ‘Can I see where the boys will be sleeping, Mrs Aslan?’

  ‘Tsk. Tövbe, tövbe,’ she said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘They sleep inside bed, where else I put them? Come, I show you.’

  The woman followed Mrs Aslan into the lounge room, past the Ninja Turtles, who were facing off with some gang in an alley. Sam’s chin was resting on a red cushion. ‘She smells,’ I whispered to him, as the woman walked into a bedroom. I waved a hand in front of my nose. ‘She’s checking to see if the bed is special enough for a ninja like you, buddy.’

  Sam buried his face deeper into the cushion. ‘I want Mum,’ he said. ‘Where’s Mum, Kane?’

  ‘Shh, bud.’ I ruffled his hair. ‘Mum’s okay. She’s coming home soon, I promise.’ I’d make sure of it as soon as DHS pissed off.

  I found the woman in the spare bedroom inspecting the wooden bedpost that was covered with stickers. The walls still had ’80s posters of Michael Jackson and Bon Jovi.

  Mrs Aslan was staring at the photo of her daughter on the bedside table. ‘This where I sleep. Boys sleep in my bedroom. Hadi,’ she said, waving the woman out with her hand.

  Mrs Aslan’s bedroom had brown frilly curtains like the ones in drama class. It smelled like mothballs and rose oil.

  ‘This nice big bed,’ Mrs Aslan said. ‘It so big, it fit four people.’ She wriggled four chunky fingers in the air.

  The woman was looking at the cupboards. ‘You want to check her drawers too?’ I said.

  She laughed, shook her head.

  ‘Do you get a kick out of doing this? Butting your nose in people’s business?’

  Her nails were like claws. I knew what those claws felt like around my hand, how strong they were when they were taking me away. There was no way in hell Sam would feel them too.

  ‘Kane, I’m here to make things easier. I know how hard this must be for you—’

  ‘You don’t know shit, okay? We don’t need you people. Just leave.’

  I was itching now; the thought of Mum in the cold hospital bed made my jaw tense. Dad would be on the loose soon, a cyclone heading straight for us.

  The woman hugged her folder. ‘I need to step out briefly to make a call. Excuse me for a few minutes.’

  Mrs Aslan led her out onto the porch. I sat next to Sam. I wiped the sweat off his forehead as Mrs Aslan made a racket in the kitchen.

  ‘I coming, Kane. I making for you both honey milk. Or you want drink tea?’

  ‘I’m right, thanks,’ I said. ‘Hey, bud, which turtle do you reckon kicks the most butt?’

  He shrugged. I focused on Michelangelo’s goofy smile. ‘It’s only a matter of time before this bloke knocks himself out with his nunchucks.’

  When the woman walked in a few minutes later, Sam was sipping his milk in Mrs Aslan’s lap.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Aslan. This arrangement is fine for now. We will be in touch.’

  She left with her folder full of new notes to use against us.

  Mr Aslan, Allah bless his soul, always say that love is like blood. It flow inside all human. He always talk like poem. I smile at his photo on top of TV. I cry no more for him. He with Allah now but he not gone from me. He everywhere. He in this room with me and boys. I hug Sam and tickle under his arms.

  ‘See, Mr Aslan, I tell you Sam big boy, he scared no more.’

  ‘He can’t hear you,’ Sam say. ‘Pictures don’t have ears.’

  ‘Who say I talking to photo? Hmm? Mr Aslan talk to me all the time. Ask Ziya.’

  Ziya, my rainbow bird, sing from his house and Sam look at Kane with big eyes. ‘He understood!’

  ‘That’s a bird with special magic, buddy.’ Kane walk up and down room like man in jail.

  ‘Kane, come sit with you brother on couch. I give you çorba, this make you feel good. Then I make you helva bread so sweet it hurt you teeths!’

  ‘Nah, I gotta go—’

  He look at Sam,
who have sauce on cheek.

  ‘You’re gonna go?’ Sam’s voice small and it make my heart heavy.

  ‘Not now, bud, first we’ll eat and watch some TV together, then I’ll go see how Mum’s doing, okay?’ Still Kane not sit; he just walk walk walk on carpet.

  ‘Kane, hadi, come sit.’

  He look at me with fire, this boy who have pain too big for him. I kiss Sam, wipe his face. His tears sticky from sauce.

  Kane’s face have many lines. ‘I’m going to kill him. I swear it. I’m going to friggin’ kill him.’

  ‘K … Kane?’ Sam say. He feel like scared little animal in my arms.

  ‘Kane make joke, Sam. He don’t know what he say. Kane, you scare you brother. Come. Sit.’ My words hard like when I yell at my daughter Meryem, a long time ago when she was young. But the past never stay very far. It come to me every day like knife.

  ‘I don’t want to sit, okay? Look, we appreciate this, Mrs Aslan, but this isn’t permanent, okay? We’re not charity cases. This shit with Dad is going to stop. I’m making sure of it.’

  I not know what these words, ‘permant’ or ‘charty case’ mean, but I know this boy with beautiful brown eyes fight with sadness and fear. The fire in his eyes reach his cheeks and make his face red. His hands round like he ready to hit. ‘Kane.’

  He stop, squeeze couch.

  ‘Kane!’ screamed Sam.

  He wake up from anger, let go of the couch. ‘Yeah, bud?’

  ‘What if Mum’s dead?’

  Kane run to Sam and I make room for brothers and go to kitchen. I wet cloth to wipe Sam’s face and thank Allah it is sauce and not blood on his cheek. But how long for? It be more than four years since Angie ask me for help and these children come to me like birds with broken wings. Love flow in them, in their mum. But their dad, oh, how he love to drink! Then he love to punch. Many night I hear their screaming, their pain mix with mine in heart. Angie like daughter to me. She know her babies safe here.

  I know this pain. Loss like a rope that squeeze me inside. I bury two babies in Türkiye before I come to Australia. Twins, one boy, Ali, and one girl, Hayat. Their smell still in my nose, like milk and rose. They die in my stomach, before I put them to chest, and I die with them. In village, there be no doctors, no hospitals, just a woman who say to me ıkın, push! push! I on floor, my mum wipe my head with wet cloth. She try to wipe my pain. After, my breasts leak milk every day and cry with me.

  When I come here, I bring the mud from my babies’ grave. Mr Aslan put in backyard and grow red and yellow roses. Every year they open big and when the sun shine, I see my babies’ faces in red and yellow petal. Sometimes, we sit in backyard and have coffee in fincan. I make it with extra froth the way Mr Aslan love. When the wind come, we close eyes and smell almonds, lemon, and rose. Sometimes I cry, and Mr Aslan say a poem. It come from so deep inside, it change his voice. Then Meryem still small, her daughter Ada not born yet. I close eyes, breathe, try to remember Ada smell. Oh! How I miss my granddaughter!

  I have Meryem in Australia, in hospital with white walls, blue curtains and nice bed. I never forget how nurse with sunshine hair smile to me for long time! My ear not understand her words but my heart beat slow when she hold my hand. I cry and cry when Meryem come to my arms warm, her eyes open and mouth red like lokum. Meryem, she have Türk blood but Australian heart from when she born.

  I go back to lounge room with food and wet cloth. Sam lie on Kane’s knees watching TV and Kane watch Sam.

  ‘Hadi, boys!’ I put soup on coffee table.

  Sam sit up. I wipe his face till he giggle. ‘This soup is yum!’ he say. ‘Have some, Kane, or you’re gonna miss out!’

  Kane taste soup and touch brother’s head. Sam’s spoon shake and soup fall on his chin.

  ‘Hang on, bud,’ Kane say.

  He feed Sam, blowing on spoon with soup, and I see love flow between brothers like river.

  The bad man next door roared like a lion and his screaming turned the bread into a rock in my mouth. Grandmother used to say that bad words were like monkeys. They clung to you but their nails were not sharp enough to cause damage. But this man’s words made the bread fall out of Umama’s hand and into the spinach. ‘Keep eating, Gugu. It’s okay,’ she said.

  His screaming had evil in it. I covered my ears to make it go away. ‘He is a bad man,’ I said, rocking like I used to in Grandmother’s arms. ‘What if he burns down our house?’

  ‘Not here, usisi,’ Sicelo said, squeezing my knee.

  ‘Your brother is right.’ Ubaba kissed my head. ‘The bad men are far away. Perhaps it is a man who is very hungry! Like old man Zamani back home in Bulawayo.’

  Sicelo laughed. ‘Uncle Zamani’s stomach was never full!’ he said.

  But Uncle Zamani was funny. His yelling didn’t sound angry like the man next door. It made my heart run very fast.

  The bad man roared louder and Father leapt up like a leopard.

  ‘No, Ubaba! Where are you going?’

  ‘Gugu, I am here, inside our house. I am only going into my bedroom just to see what this hungry man wants.’

  Ubaba’s bedroom was next to the home of the boy with the sky-coloured eyes. His name was Sam. I saw him at school. He always sat alone and talked to his shoes.

  ‘Come, children,’ Umama said, and took us into the lounge room. We sat on the cushions on the floor. The bad man’s screaming made a fire in my stomach.

  ‘We are baobab people. We are strong like the baobab tree.’ I repeated my grandmother’s words until the bad man’s voice was far away. I wished Ugogo was here now to wrap her arms around me like a blanket. She loved papaya and used to say, ‘Look, my beloved, look at its star-shaped heart!’ When she made me and Sicelo papaya candy, her skin smelled like lemon and sugar. Every time I remembered her smell the smoke came too.

  ‘This man must be very very hungry!’ Sicelo said, laughing. He was eleven, two years older than me, but his hands were shaking too.

  A woman screamed and Umama touched her chest. She got up quickly and closed the door.

  ‘Where is Ubaba?’

  ‘He is coming, Gugu. Make room.’ Umama sat in the middle of me and Sicelo, kissed our hands. ‘It is okay. We are safe. Here, we are safe.’ She put her arms around our shoulders. ‘You are my wings,’ she said. ‘Together we fly. See.’ She flapped her arms like a bird and took a deep breath. She sang ‘Shosholoza’, which made my arms prickle. Umama’s voice was loud and Sicelo joined in. ‘Move forward, move forward,’ we sang, and Grandmother’s favourite folk song slowed down my heart.

  ‘I miss Ugogo,’ I said, and Umama wiped my tears. Ugogo was a storyteller and me and Sicelo used to sit at her feet and listen to tales. The Hare and the Rabbit was the scariest one, and Ugogo’s voice went very low when the hare was doing bad things. The hare enjoyed being mean to others. He tricked Rabbit into sitting in a boiling pot. I felt so sad for Rabbit and tried to warn him once. ‘Get out, Rabbit! He’s tricking you!’ and Sicelo laughed and said, ‘Don’t be a dummy, it’s not real!’ At the end of the story, Grandmother used to say, ‘Beware, children, beware of untrustworthy people.’ But they still found us back home.

  When Ubaba came into the lounge his forehead was sweaty. He was carrying an upside-down bucket and pretended it was a drum. The nosy old man who lived next door had lots of buckets in his garden. Ubaba sang a new song and drummed until the sirens were quiet outside.

  The refugees moved in when Mr Bailey wasn’t looking.

  ‘They snuck in,’ he muttered to his wife after dinner. He’d spotted them two weeks ago when he was peering over the fence that divided their homes. Mr Bailey counted four of them, a man, woman and two kids. But he was on alert. These people could multiply at any moment.

  ‘And right under our noses!’ Mr Bailey’s was the kind of nose that did a lot of sniffing. Just like his dog Sunshine, who constantly sniffed that kid Sam from two doors down. Sam lived in the house of commotion where just an hour ago the ambulance and
police came knocking on their door.

  ‘Drink your tea,’ said Mrs Bailey, placing a slice of apple pie on his plate.

  ‘They had no removalists, nothing. Next door’s been empty since the Johnsons took their things and left.’ He put a small spoonful of pie into his mouth and chewed slowly, careful not to dislodge his dentures. ‘You have to wonder how these people live! I mean, what do they sleep on?’

  ‘Better not to know.’ Mrs Bailey patted his hand, refilling her glass of port. ‘Plus they’ll be gone before you know it. People like that don’t last very long in the one place.’

  ‘You said the same about that Mrs Ass … Assla woman. She’s been here for thirty-odd years!’

  To that, Mrs Bailey said nothing. Her eyes were glazed from the port and he noticed that old age hadn’t shrivelled the smile that had won him over when he was a lad of eighteen. They had been at the train station and her full lips, pink like a carnation, curved upwards, making all his limbs shake. It had taken all his will to stay put and not rush over to taste her mouth, which he imagined to be sticky sweet. Back then the world was simple and the only thing washing up on their shores was seaweed.

  Mr Bailey’s eyesight was dimming with age but he reckoned that even if he was half blind it would be hard to miss the people next door. They were giants. Like big black giraffes. Even the children were bigger than the average Aussie kid, their legs like circus stilts. Mr Bailey knew all this thanks to the binoculars that offered him a close-up of the refugee kitchen. He watched them from his laundry window, where he spent a good part of his day trying to get answers to the one question that had nagged him since they crept in next door.

  What were they hiding?

  They arrived empty-handed, he was sure of it. In his opinion, people with no possessions had nothing to lose. Their kitchen didn’t even have a dining table. Four silver pots hung on the wall like bulging bellies. What was wrong with storing them in the cupboards under the sink? The question caught in his brain with the others.