Red Leaves

by Sita Brahmachari

  ‘Here’s a young one coming, but this one’s happy as a skylark! Listen to that song, sweet as feathers, soft as honey.’ The old woman knocked her hand against her head as if that could make her brain work better. ‘Soft as feathers, sweet as honey – Happiness chimes the same in every language.’

  Zak started to back away down the path. He could feel the heat of the old woman’s gaze as he collided with a girl in a blue headscarf. She stopped singing abruptly and shot a questioning look from Zak to the old woman who was now scattering breadcrumbs over them both from the branches above. A cacophony of crows swept in. The girl hurried away, brushing her headscarf and shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry, dears,’ the woman called, gathering herself. ‘Just feeding the birds. Must feed the birds . . . some have flown a long, long way, further than Elder has ever roamed.’

  The girl turned back and exchanged a bemused look with Zak, before shrugging and carrying on her way.

  ‘Sticks and stones and broken bones and even words will hurt you, but sometimes the loneliness is the worst . . . Hey, boy!’

  Zak found himself running, but no matter how fast he ran the old woman’s chants kept pace, crackling through his mind and refusing to fade away.

  At the exit on to the road he brushed the breadcrumbs off his blazer.

  Loneliness is the worst . . . Her words continued to echo through his head as he took his first steps up the impossibly steep hill that led to his new school.

  Zak had been at his school for almost a month and he’d decided that it felt weird being among only boys. In primary he had preferred the girls in his year. They were easier to talk to. Now that he went to an all-boys school he felt as if half the world was missing. There was always someone who wanted to prove how much stronger and tougher they were than you. Maybe it was because he was younger than most of the others in his year. And he was definitely smaller . . . as one or two of them had been keen to point out. If they only knew how small he felt inside, they wouldn’t bother trying to bring him any lower.

  As he walked up the hill a memory of when his dad had still lived with them floated through his mind. The two of them had hooked up a rope swing in the back garden of the old house and Zak had spiralled and twisted so fast that his dad had turned into a spinning blur and it had taken ages for him to form back into the familiar lines of his tall, sturdy body. Those ‘I’ll always be there for you’ outlines that Zak had believed in, back then, with that big, broad, happy smile that everyone said father and son shared. Is that what Dad will be to me in the future . . . just a distant, blurred memory?

  He thought of the homeless woman dropping breadcrumbs . . . and of the girl with the blue headscarf singing her way through the wood. There was something about her voice, and the way she had seemed to almost dance away from him, that reminded Zak of what it was to feel happy.

  In a courtyard directly outside the school stood a dark granite war memorial. Zak registered the long list of names. ‘Fallen heroes . . .’ All boys who had once attended the school or lived around here who had grown into young men and then been killed. What was the point in that? What’s so heroic about dying? Zak thought of his mum over in Syria, and all the other war zones she’d reported from, and not for the first time he wondered what he would do if he was ever called up to fight for something. He felt a great lump of emotion in his throat and swallowed hard to stem the tears. As if I don’t feel bad enough already without that mad old homeless woman and her creepy doll doing my head in. I couldn’t even catch that leaf! Maybe it’s a sign that something’s happened to Mum. He checked his phone for a news feed. Nothing. No texts or voicemails either. He sat down on the steps of the war memorial and the thought crossed his mind that with both his parents now so far away he was as alone as the homeless woman talking to her doll. If only when Mum set off she could just tell me the date and time when she’d be coming back. But I can hear her voice now, ‘you can’t plan anything in a war, Zak.’ Well I hate war and I hate not knowing how long I have to hold my breath till she comes home. I hate it, I hate it.

  Zak stood up and kicked the bottom step of the memorial.

  ‘Show some respect!’ Mr Slater shouted over to him from across the courtyard. Zak picked up his bag and followed his form tutor through the enormous wooden doors into school. He looked up as he passed the gruesome bug-eyed gargoyles that sat in watch over the archway. Whose idea was it to put those at the entrance to a school? What kind of welcome is that? Zak wondered whether they were meant to make him feel watched over.

  ‘Late again, Zak. You’re getting yourself quite an impressive record, but I must inform you there is no certificate for one-hundred-per-cent unpunctuality!’ Mr Slater attempted to raise a smile as they walked along the corridor together. Zak suspected that his tutor had been informed about his ‘family problems’ and was attempting to be gentle with him.

  Mr Slater brushed the last of the leaf mould off Zak’s blazer. ‘Come on, Zak, spruce yourself up, best foot forward!’ he said, patting him on the back in a comradely gesture as they walked into class together.

  Great! Now they’ll think I’m teacher’s pet.

  Mr Slater was reading out a soldier’s testimony about conditions in the trenches. Zak sat at his desk and closed his ears to the grimness of it, filling his mind instead with the gentle voice of the girl in the wood, as he began to sketch in the back of his exercise book. First the leaf canopy, then the girl’s strong high, cheekboned face appeared on the page. He drew her large almond-shaped eyes – what colour were they? A sort of hazel-green, he thought. He added in the determined shape of her jaw, framed by the thin silken scarf . . . She reminded him of a girl his mum had interviewed once.

  Zak slid his phone slowly out of his pocket, held it under the table and checked his news feed again. Still nothing. He should take Shalini’s advice and try to stop this obsession with tracking his mum’s movements any time of the day or night.

  ‘So, please make sure that this letter is signed and returned by next week. I’ve been on this trip to the trenches myself and I can tell you it’s an incredibly moving experience. To think that only a hundred years ago 900,000 men, some of them not that much older than you, were killed in just four years. The Second World War memorial at the entrance to our school –’ Mr Slater nodded pointedly at Zak – ‘is also a reminder of the harsh reality of war. Believe me, this’ll be a trip you’ll never forget.’ Mr Slater tapped Zak lightly on the shoulder. ‘But forgive me for boring you, Zak, you clearly have prettier things on your mind.’ He picked up the book, catching sight of Zak’s sketch of the girl, but before he could examine it more closely Zak snatched it away. His iPhone slid from his lap and lit up. Mr Slater grabbed that instead and raised an eyebrow as if to say, I’m waiting for an explanation . . .

  ‘You’ve no right to take my phone!’ Zak shouted as his teacher held it well out of his reach.

  ‘It’s confiscated. Mobiles are not allowed in the classroom, as well you know.’

  Zak opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. What was the point? How could anyone here understand what it felt like to have to say goodbye to your mum and not even know when you were going to see her again.

  ‘Have you even heard a word I’ve been saying about this trip, Zak?’

  ‘Why would I want to go to a stinking graveyard? People die all over the world, every day, fighting and killing each other,’ Zak said from between clenched teeth.

  ‘So if you’d been called up to fight, would you have been a conscientious objector?’ Mr Slater asked, keeping his voice even so that it was impossible to tell whether he thought this was a good or a bad thing. When he got no response, he prodded a bit further. ‘Would you say you’re a pacifist, Zak?’

  ‘More like a coward. They’d have shot you, Wimp!’ whispered a spiky-haired boy who, in a matter of three weeks, seemed to have decided that Zak was fair game to needle at every opportunity. Zak had already felt the boy’s elbow between his ribs a few times and he
got the distinct impression that this was just a warm-up. The others called him ‘Spike’ – probably because of his hair – but Zak had given him a name he thought suited his character much better – ‘Spite.’ So far Zak had done as Shalini had coached and ignored him completely, but as the now familiar sharp elbow bruised his ribs, something in Zak snapped and he found himself grabbing the boy by his blazer and pinning him to the back wall of the classroom.

  Spite was thick set and at least a head taller than Zak, but he’d been caught off guard and, by the way his eyes popped, was clearly surprised by Zak’s strength.

  ‘Not a pacifist, then!’ Mr Slater struggled to pull the two boys apart. ‘That’s quite enough. I will not tolerate violence in my classroom.’ The teacher raised his voice. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ he warned Spike leading him, by the shoulders, back to his seat. ‘And as for you, Zak.’ He marched him towards the door, ‘I think you’d better take some time to cool off.’

  ‘That really makes sense! No violence in the classroom, but we’re supposed to celebrate war? I’m not going on any useless trip to the trenches with him or any of you. What do I care? History’s a pile of crap anyway!’ Zak yelled back.

  The general disorder in the classroom was replaced by an ominous hush. As soon as the words were out of his mouth Zak knew that he’d gone too far. Why am I freaking out at Mr Slater, when he’s the only teacher I actually like? Reading the expression of disappointment on his tutor’s face he wished that he could take the words back. He knew that the people he would really like to rant and rave at were his mum, who he couldn’t even speak to, and his dad, who was a whole Atlantic Ocean away.

  ‘I’ve already explained to you. It’s not a celebration, or a glorification. We’re simply offering you an opportunity to commemorate and pay your respects . . .’

  Zak refused to meet Mr Slater’s eyes, instead staring stubbornly into the distance.

  ‘. . . Very well, carry on then . . . Ignore me if you want but I can tell you that this is not the way to ingratiate yourself with me.’ Mr Slater continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, ‘but I’m sure your father will be delighted to hear your thoughts on the subject. I gather he’s a historian.’ He placed a firm hand on Zak’s shoulder and escorted him out of the classroom.

  After school Zak waited for the others to pour out into the courtyard, to pile on to buses, mucking around, pushing and shoving each other. ‘Friendly banter,’ the teachers called it. Zak didn’t get it. When they had all finally dispersed he made his way down the hill, emptying his untouched packed lunch into a bin so he wouldn’t get a grilling from Shalini. She would only worry. But he couldn’t eat at school because his stomach felt tight as a drum there, as if it would burst if he forced food into it. At least the tension was starting to ease now. He slung his blazer over his shoulder, loosened his tie and pulled his shirt free from his trousers. The sun had hardly shone all summer holidays, but now that they were back at school the weather was ridiculously hot; a sultry heat that seemed to hold in the pollution and make it hard to breathe.

  Despite the late sunshine, the trees were turning an impressive palette of amber, russet and gold. Zak walked past the great line of oak trees, whose branches formed a thick leafy canopy along the road as if protecting the wood from the world outside. He passed through the railings at the entrance where the ‘Welcome to Home Wood’ sign hung and came to a small clearing. Leaves floated gently down, meandering their way from between the high branches – earth-bound. This time Zak did not attempt to catch one. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to change. Dad’s not coming back. Mum’s in some war zone and Lyndon’s living it up at uni. It’s only poor Shalini who has to put up with me and my moods, and I know she’d rather be back in Sri Lanka with her own son.

  Compared to his morning’s walk the light was softer and the shadows longer, but the warm sunlight did at least make him feel welcome as the sign had promised. He threw his jacket on a bed of leaves, flung his school bag aside, rolled up his shirtsleeves and lay down on his back. He stretched out his arms, feeling the light breeze play over his skin. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift through the events of the day. He was in no hurry to face Shalini. The message from Mr Slater to his dad – the eminent Professor Johnson, Head of Contemporary History at Columbia University, New York – would have been transmitted by now, and sooner or later he would have to face yet another ‘I am so disappointed in you . . .’ Skype. Zak crushed a handful of leaves in each fist, then opened his eyes and caught his breath . . . The homeless woman was staring down at him. Zak sprang up, his heart racing as he backed away and collided with the broad trunk of an oak tree. The woman still cradled the doll in her arms.

  How had she managed to appear without him hearing – or smelling – her? She kept approaching until she was close enough for him to feel invaded by her stench, a combination of mouldy damp, urine and something like stale biscuits.

  ‘Thought you were dead.’ She held out her hand towards him, to shake. He hesitated for a moment and then felt ashamed. How can she hurt me? She’s just a lonely old homeless woman. He allowed her to take hold of his hand. She squeezed it in hers for a moment and smiled. At his touch something appeared to clear in her, as if this tiny moment of human contact had brought her back to herself.

  ‘My name is Elder,’ she confided in him.

  Strange name. Zak felt a sudden desperate urge to pull away from her. But instead he found himself following her lead and mumbling his own name back at her.

  ‘Zak . . . That’s a name to keep safe. I’ll write it on a leaf and add it to my wreath, like my Crystal’s and the others.’ She stroked the doll’s cheek and creaked her way to kneeling, then lying on the bed of leaves where Zak had been resting. She curled up, closed her eyes and hummed as she cradled the doll-baby close.

  ‘Red leaves flying, earth stars shining, baby crying, hush now, Crystal, don’t you cry . . .’

  She had blocked him out with her chanting as if there had been no exchange between them at all. As Zak retraced his steps to the path the weirdest notion entered his head. I shouldn’t have told her my name. It’s like she’s taken a part of me away with her. It was the first time Zak had really given much thought to a homeless person. He’d passed them often enough in the street, but he’d never actually stopped to think, How did you get like that? Somehow knowing Elder’s name made it harder to sweep the memory of her aside. It was fine to live outside now, in this warm weather, but where would someone like Elder go in the middle of winter?

  When he was at a safe distance he turned and looked back at the woman. The fiery strands of her hair bled into the leaves and she seemed to melt into the earth.

  Zak sniffed his hands and grimaced. The old woman’s stale stench clung to his skin. He decided that he would take a shower as soon as he got back – if it was working that is. With the builders in, he never knew when the water would be switched off. Elder, that homeless woman, had pricked his conscience though; every time he felt a grumble coming on, another competing voice entered his head: Well, lucky you! At least you can take a shower!

  But now a new scent was wafting towards him on the breeze . . . cinnamon, ginger and spice. His belly rumbled and he regretted dumping his lunch. If nothing else, he should at least have given it to Elder. When had she last eaten? Maybe he would do that tomorrow.

  Zak followed his nose to another clearing, where a group of girls were sharing a picnic on a huge rug. They all wore headscarves and talked and laughed together . . . Maybe in an African language? A plump woman with white-grey hair and a raucous laugh was handing out food in little metal containers. Zak’s belly rumbled again, but he felt something else too, a sort of hunger that was not about food. This group looked more like a family than anything he’d experienced in a long time. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting in a wood with Mum, Dad and Lyndon, having a picnic like we used to. Zak felt his eyes well up with tears. Try not to think about the past. What good does it do? Instead h
e focused on what was going on in front of him.

  What he noticed now was that occasionally, as they opened the stainless-steel tins and handed out food, the girls would switch from their own language into English.

  ‘Even Anjero pancakes! Where did you learn Somali cooking?’ a girl asked the plump woman with white-grey curls, who was acting as if she was mother to them all.

  ‘From those recipes your mum gave to me, Muna. If I’d done this for all my foster-children I might have turned into an international chef by now! Nothing like cooking from your homeland to make you feel welcome.’ As she chatted on Zak warmed to her sing-song voice with its light trace of an Irish accent. ‘Now, where’s my Aisha got to?’

  The woman peered in Zak’s direction and spotted him immediately. How embarrassing was that? Zak closed his eyes for a moment. He was sure that it would seem as if he’d been spying on them.

  ‘Hungry?’ the woman called over, smiling kindly at him.

  The girls looked up and started chatting among themselves. One of them said something in Somali, wolf whistled and then set the others off giggling. Shalini was always saying ‘what a handsome boy’ he was, that he would ‘shoot up taller any day soon’, but he didn’t believe her. Spite and some of the others had already taken to goading him over his growing Afro. He wasn’t really sure about it himself, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of shaving it off in case they thought he was only doing it to fit in.

  When he looked in the mirror he saw someone who was living in a not-boy-not-man body. This is all I need now to round off the perfect day, these girls having a joke at my expense! He went to move away, but then felt someone approach close behind him.