by Ellen Wiles
Now Joe – Yonas, sorry – wasn’t in my class to begin with. It was a mixed adult group. The standard was supposed to be intermediate, but that proved to mean pretty weak: most of them needed very basic help with speaking English and couldn’t begin to write it. I think I had a couple of Eritrean women and one other Eritrean man, and then there was an Algerian, a Gambian, a Colombian and two Zimbabwean men, a Pakistani woman and an Indian woman. Quite a mix! So I asked them to introduce themselves and tell me one thing about their life that nobody else would know. And a few of them rolled their eyes, and the first two shook their heads and point-blank refused, and I thought, oh dear. But then Pablo told me how he had run away and sneaked on board a ship when he was just fifteen, and Padma said she used to be a professional singer, and Chido said he tried out for the national football team but didn’t get in – I mean, fascinating things started coming out!
Once they’d relaxed a bit, I tried to improvise a comprehension class, but only Padma and Millicent engaged before Bandele put up his hand and said, apropos of nothing, that he’d bought some furniture from a company on credit which had broken and he wanted to return it but they wouldn’t let him and they were charging interest, and could I help? He pulled out a huge bundle of letters from his bag, held together with an elastic band, and I said, well, of course I’d like to help him if I could but that I couldn’t really do it in class time. But then Padma said could I help her understand a letter she’d got from her son’s school? And Rabah piped up – could I help explain his solicitor’s letter? And so on. I didn’t have the heart to refuse. So my class ended up involving a vocab lesson for the first half-hour, and then a problem-sharing session for the second half-hour, followed by about three hours after class helping people individually with some issue or other.
So anyway, one day Joe – Yonas, sorry – turned up, and he stood out by miles. He’s a striking young man – skin like milky coffee, and tall with lovely big eyes and lashes like we used to stick on our lids back in the sixties (and lose most of our natural ones, ripping them off again). He looked bored stiff for the lesson, but afterwards he came up to me and confided in very good English that he had hoped it would be a literature class, and did I know of anywhere he could study that! Well, I said of course I’d be happy to look into it, and when I mentioned I used to be a literature teacher myself, his eyes lit up.
The first time he came over he looked rather in awe, and it was a bit embarrassing – you know, realizing the home you’ve always thought of as a very ordinary house on an ordinary street seems unutterably grand through someone else’s eyes. He beelined for my bookshelves, then he inspected my ornaments and photographs, and asked where my paintings were from… and that did make me feel momentarily anxious. But I decided he was just curious.
He accepted a cup of tea, so I made a pot of Barry’s. I put out a little bowl of sugar, and he took four heaped spoonfuls, nearly finishing the lot, and drained his cup in seconds! I poured him another and put out some biscuits, and he ate the whole dish. I offered him some fruit, an apple and a banana, and he devoured both. I remember I asked if they had apples and bananas in Eritrea, which was clearly a silly question because he laughed and said ‘yes’. But then when I asked him tentatively if he still had family living there, he went serious again and just said ‘some’.
So I went ahead with the lesson, and fortunately as soon as he started talking about books he became much more animated. ‘Now, Joe,’ I said, ‘tell me, I’d love to know – what’s your favourite book? What single book would you take with you to a desert island if you had to…’ And then I trailed off. I mean, how silly of me – of course, for him, that’s effectively where he’d ended up, in a sense, and he probably hadn’t even been able to bring one single book with him from home! He said it was hard to choose, but for an English-language book, he would probably take To Kill A Mockingbird, because his father liked it; his father was a playwright, apparently, but as a young man he’d studied law in America, and he always told his son how this novel by a white woman who lived in a small town in Alabama somehow still managed to say a lot about the kinds of human values that a free Eritrea should be all about. Then Joe – sorry, Yonas – went quiet again. I asked if he was okay. He said that even though Eritrea got the independence his father fought for, they had ended up with a flag only, not real freedom. I told him I was sure he wasn’t the only young Eritrean who wanted his country to get better, and surely things would improve in time. And he gave me this polite, acknowledging kind of look, which I could tell was masking him thinking: you don’t know what you’re talking about.
So I told him I’d love to learn a bit about Eritrean literature, and was there a writer he’d recommend me to start with? Well, he said that not that much was translated, and a lot was poor quality, but that there was a strong oral literary culture. And then he modestly mentioned his university dissertation on – now, what was it – yes, how a British colonial newspaper had sowed the seeds for their national printed literature and how quickly it had developed a life of its own. Nowadays, most Eritrean novels were quite didactic, he said, but there was one brilliant writer he’d love to translate some day, who did interesting things with form as well as ideas, and he’d actually wanted to write his dissertation about this writer but wasn’t allowed – too controversial, apparently. What was the name now? It’s on the tip of my tongue. . . Anyway, I started to wonder if I should encourage Joe – sorry, Yonas – to apply for a scholarship to do a Master’s here in the UK, but time was getting on, so I invited him to pick something from my shelf to read before we met again.
He had a gander, then pulled out Pride and Prejudice. ‘I’ve heard of this,’ he said. Funnily enough, as I told him, that book made a real impact on me as a young girl stuck in the Irish peat bogs, for the very reason that the society in it seemed as foreign to me as Eritrea, almost, but even so, Lizzie felt to me as if she were me, just transplanted back in time. Which surprised Joe – sorry, Yonas – he’d assumed I was English! Hadn’t picked up on my accent. ‘When did you arrive?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I actually came for the first time to protest, after Bloody Sunday – that was a terrible day during the Troubles in Ireland, when the British army slaughtered a lot of defenceless people who were peacefully protesting about internment – but then I stayed a bit longer, and found myself falling in love with a British man, despite myself. Ironic, really!’
He was so surprised to hear that people had been interred by a British government so close by. And he asked me more about what it was like for me, back then, being in London for the first time. I told him a bit about it, and that seemed a good way in to ask him gently how he ended up over here. He said it was a kind of protest for him too. He was so angry about the regime and its censorship that he sneaked into internet cafés to write articles about the situation to send to foreign countries, and they threw him in prison!
My jaw dropped, then, literally. It just felt unbelievable, to be sitting there in my cosy kitchen in London talking about writing with a man who’d risked so much to write. I found it so hard to imagine this quiet, polite student, who wanted to read Pride and Prejudice, languishing in prison in a place like that. My skin crawled to think what he must have gone through.
Now, I hadn’t told Quentin anything yet about J – Yonas. But I thought perhaps if he actually met somebody like this, he might reconsider some of his assumptions about asylum seekers. But then I thought how… Yonas (I’ll get there in the end!) must come across to people like Quentin. And to prospective employers. Scruffy, would probably be the first thing. I offered to give him some money for new shoes, and even a set of clothes, but he refused. Said he didn’t need charity. But I did persuade him to do some jobs for me. He turned out to be a whizz at carpentry and he built me shelves and things using George’s old toolbox. And then I let slip about him to Nina.
She immediately started nagging me to check his ID – she said I had to if he was working for me, and issu
ed all these dark warnings that he could be dangerous and could take advantage of me and steal things. And she foresaw catastrophe with Quentin’s election campaign because he was so focused on immigration, and if it came out that I’d employed an illegal immigrant he’d look like a hypocrite and be pummelled by the media and so on. ‘Look, darling,’ I said, ‘I appreciate your concern, but Joe is a very talented and intelligent refugee writer, and he’s had a terrible time of it, so books are a solace for him, and I’m certainly not going to deny a student like that with a hunger to learn.’ And she said her point was that I shouldn’t be paying him. And I said, ‘Well, I’ve used my judgement here, and I’m afraid you’re being over-anxious and fretting unnecessarily, as usual.’ But I put my foot in it with that, and she hung up on me. Of course, that was before she’d met Yonas herself – but I expect she’ll tell you all about that when you meet her, won’t she?
Chapter 11: Yonas
TAKING US FOR A RIDE: £100K OF YOUR CASH BLOWN BY CHARITY ON DAYS OUT TO HELP REFUGEES ‘INTEGRATE’
Yonas shifted from foot to foot at the bus stop. The charcoal sky was tinted orange from the city’s lights, and he felt a sudden craving for real darkness. Darkness was the worst and the best thing about the desert flight after their prison break: it had made them stumble blindly over rocks and into acacia thorns that shredded their skin, but it had also revealed the breathtaking splendour of that bejewelled panoply of stars, spread across the velvety blackness above their heads. Here, every last star was smothered by luminous smog. Come on, bus.
It had been a long day of cleaning, and he had been up most of the previous night too, moving the contents of an office block from Borough to Mudchute – loading a van with printers as heavy as cars, shelves of files and personal bits and pieces. On one desk, Yonas had found a long chain of silver-framed family photographs, a cluster of blond children framed by ski slopes and swimming pools and restaurant tables, their faces bronzed, beaming, oozing delight, and couldn’t help sitting down for a few moments to gaze at them. Now his muscles were shivering with fatigue, and he sat down on the bus stop bench, but it was too thin and slippery to lean back on comfortably.
At least he had a lesson with Molly to look forward to in a few days. Being welcomed into her house with its polished wooden floors, soft carpets and an unlimited supply of tea was surreally pleasurable. It felt so good to be in a proper home. The kitchen, with its shiny pots and pans arranged in neat rows, reminded him of his family’s back in Asmara, complete with his grandfather’s shelving unit with hooks for the pots and pans, his scalloped dresser for crockery, and the best thing of all, the huge walnut kitchen table, twice as big as Molly’s, with its half-moon feet, at which Yonas had spent so many hours eating, drinking, doing homework, reading, singing, drawing, helping to feed the twins, bickering with Melat… After their parents were gone, that kitchen table seemed to retain a residue of all those times.
‘Do you have children?’ he’d asked Molly one day, and she’d said yes – one still alive. Her first had died when he was a tiny baby, but her daughter was all grown up now and had a daughter of her own. There was a sadness in her voice as she told him this. He’d guessed they didn’t see each other much. Perhaps that was why Molly was helping him, he thought: she was just lonely.
The red, reassuring face of the bus finally trundled around the corner. Yonas climbed on, fell heavily on the back seat and lolled his head against the back cushion. He wished he could lie across the seats for a nap, but it would draw unnecessary attention. A bunch of teenage boys got on at the next stop, wearing hoodies and blaring tinny music from their mobile phones, and a drunken couple began making out on the seat in front. He closed his eyes.
He awoke to the driver shaking his shoulder, and a crick in his neck. ‘Final stop, mate.’
When he finally made it back to the cut-through passage to the warehouse, craving his pillow, he stopped at the sound of running footsteps. Pressed himself against the fence. But as the footsteps got nearer he recognized Emil with Udaze.
‘Hi!’ he called out, relieved, but Emil stopped, peering about in panic. ‘Hey, it’s just me, Joe – what’s going on?’
‘Police,’ Emil hissed.
‘Let’s go,’ Udaze said, and carried on running.
‘What? Where?’ Yonas asked Emil.
‘Raid – warehouse – any fucking minute now.’
‘What? How do you know? Where are you going? Can you wait? I’ve got all my things there.’
‘Everyone has gone already, got to get out, I’m heading south.’
Yonas’s mind raced. ‘But my things…’ He sounded like Gebre that day. At least he had his rooster in his pocket. And his other things didn’t add up to much – his diary and workbook, his spare clothes and towel and blanket. But he couldn’t afford new clothes, his workbook represented all the progress he had made, and the diary was definitely not for the eyes of anybody else. Especially not the police. It was full of clues. They would use it track him down, and Molly too… ‘No, I’ve got to go back,’ he said.
‘Seriously,’ Emil said, ‘what stuff can you have that’s so important? Oh yeah, your precious library books! I’m sure police will return them for you and pay your fines. Anyway look, I gotta go. I’m staying with a friend – I can write phone number down for you, if you want, but you might as well come. Sure? You’re crazy. Gimme your hand.’ He pulled out a ballpoint pen and scrawled. ‘Good luck, Professor, okay?’ He ran off along the alleyway.
Yonas carried on nervously, and turned onto the warehouse road, wondering if he was being foolish, but there were no police cars there yet – or not that he could see. He went up to the entrance, stood behind the gatepost and looked through. All was dark. Was there really going to be a raid? But why else would Emil and Udaze have left like that? His heart thumped as he remembered the internet café doors being kicked open, the stocky policeman grabbing his arms and pulling them behind his back.
He decided to enter the warehouse by the side window, just in case, and trod softly along the edge of the yard. A clatter made him jump, but it was just a discarded Coke can. He stopped. Nothing moved. He carried on to the window, pushed it open and clambered in. As he swung his legs down inside he caught his shin on the corner of the darkened table and smothered a yelp. He limped along the corridor and up the stairs to the sleeping room. He could see in the gritty half-light that most of the guys had taken their stuff already: sleeping mats, bags – even those M&S lingerie posters that Boris had taped to the wall. Only rubbish was left: an old McDonald’s box, a ripped plastic bag, an empty cigarette packet. He grabbed his cloth bag, shoved his other bits and pieces inside, and put his blanket, towel and clothes in a bin bag. He’d have to leave the books behind.
He was about to leave the way he’d come in when he heard a car approaching. It was a dark colour… did it have a light on top? He u-turned, shoved the stiff back door with all his weight which made a horrible scraping noise as it opened, lobbed the bags over the back fence, then scrambled up, rattling and jingling like a tambourine. The wire spokes at the top stabbed into his sweaty hands, and he lost his grip, falling to the ground on the other side, winding himself. He recovered his breath, staggered to his feet, and sprinted through the industrial estate.
Out on the other side, he slowed down, panting, then found a phone box and called the number Emil had written on his arm. No answer. He hung up the receiver and retrieved his coin. So, here he was, alone again. Homeless again. It felt like he’d just struggled up a muddy slope, only to slide right back to the bottom. Except he did have Molly’s house to go to now… but it was too late to knock on her door unannounced. On the other hand, she was kind, and he was so tired at this point, his bone marrow seemed to be dissolving. He would try it, he decided, and headed for a bus stop.
It didn’t take long for a bus to arrive, and the cosy, bright interior was mildly comforting. Drops began to patter against the windows, making slanted patterns. After he got off at Molly�
��s stop, one of two women walking ahead of him popped open an umbrella festooned with flamingos, and they linked arms underneath. Yonas felt a pang for Gebre that made him wish momentarily that he hadn’t left the factory. But he reminded himself what it was really like there. And that there was no point in regrets.
When he got to Molly’s driveway, the lights in her house were off. Typical. He walked slowly up to her doorstep and the porch lights flicked on, making him start. He sat down. The rain was slowing now, and the tiny droplets danced in the air. After a while it ceased, inky cloud blotches separated and drifted into fragments, and a fingernail moon floated above the rooftops. Lights were on in other houses, illuminating couples curling up together in front of the TV, drinking wine, eating dinner, washing up. A fox slunk across the front corner of Molly’s garden. Yonas wasn’t sure whether or not those things were dangerous, but he’d often seen them prowling around with light feet and dipped shoulders as if their very existence were illicit too. He pulled his wooden rooster out of his pocket and looked into its beaky face. I’m right to have come, aren’t I? And then her car crackled into the drive.
He sat up. Had she got a new car? The door opened, and the slim silhouette of a woman in tight trousers got out. He froze. Not Molly.
She was peering into her handbag, fumbling for something. Had she got the wrong house? Had he? He opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish. There was no way he could get out of here without the woman noticing, screaming for help, calling the police… As she reached the steps, she finally lifted her head. Stuck for other options, he just grinned inanely.
‘What the…? Who are you?’ She sounded as shocked as he’d predicted, but her voice had a wavery quality, as if she’d been crying. A mess of burnt orange hair framed a peaky face. She was short – barely up to his shoulder.
