No Place of Safety

by Robert Barnard

  There was a pause. Mehjabean’s incipiently beautiful face registered the pressures of differing emotions and impulses. Finally she said: ‘All right.’ All of them conscious that she didn’t have a great deal of choice. She knew they would not want to throw her out, but equally she knew she needed to retain Ben’s goodwill.

  Getting in touch with the refuge for Asian women proved not to be child’s play. Ben remembered a journalist contact on the Bradford Telegraph and Argus, but when he finally found him at his desk the man was adamant that the phone number was something that simply was not given out, not even to a trusted friend. Ben kept his cool, and finally the man came up with a compromise.

  ‘Look, the number’s sacrosanct, just as the address is. You don’t have to be Albert Einstein to guess why. But I’ll give them your number and get them to call you. I’ll tell them you’ve got a pretty urgent problem – they’re run off their feet as a rule, but they are eager to help anyone in that situation, and I’m sure they’ll get back to you as soon as they can.’

  So they had to be content with that.

  It meant that Ben had to potter around number twenty-four all day, doing a succession of non-urgent jobs. Alan and Katy recognized that he was the one who would have to handle the matter, though they hoped they would be allowed to have an input in any decision. It was clear that Mehjabean intended to have an input too. She stayed around on the ground floor for that purpose, but making herself very useful. It was remarkable, but fortunate too, that the girl faced with this sort of threat should be such a formidable individual. She and Ben talked a lot during the day, on neutral topics mostly, and really got to know each other. She promised to teach Katy and Alan to make an elementary and non-time-consuming sort of curry. They wondered whether the Centre’s inmates would like curry, but Midge said that everyone liked curry these days, and they’d certainly like hers. On reflection Alan and Katy realized that curry and rice would save some of the time spent on peeling vegetables.

  The call came from the refuge for Asian women towards five o’clock. It was Ben who took it.

  ‘Good of you to ring,’ he said. Then, courtesies over, he began to summarize the case.

  ‘The situation is this. We run a short-term hostel for kids on the streets. Unofficial. Last night we had someone come who’s outside our normal categories. She’s an Asian girl who’s being strongly pressurized by her family to marry a much older man whom she loathes. It’s not a problem, frankly, that we know how to handle.’ It was good that Ben could not see Mehjabean’s face at this point. She did not like being discussed as a problem. ‘We wonder’, he went on, ‘whether you could take her on, and her case.’

  The reply went on for some time. His face fell as he listened.

  ‘Could you put her on the waiting list then? . . . Weeks, I see . . . No, as far as I can tell there’s no family member that she could go to. They’re part of the pressure, in fact . . . It’s not just a question of giving her somewhere to stay – not primarily that, in fact. It’s getting her good advice. She hasn’t much idea about her rights, and the truth is, we haven’t much either . . . Stay put, simply refuse to go with him. Yes, that makes sense. What about the legal aspect?’

  It was at that point in the conversation that Ben’s face began to brighten up. He took a ball pen from his pocket and reached for a pad from the shelf under the telephone.

  ‘So we can have her name and number, can we? She’s just a normal solicitor, right . . . Yes, I’ve got that. And her telephone number? Well, that is a help. A big help. And, just in case the thing hasn’t worked itself through to a solution, if you could add her name to the waiting list. Mehjabean Haldalwa . . . I really am very grateful to you.’

  He put the phone down.

  ‘I am not a problem,’ said Mehjabean.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Ben calmly. ‘You’re not a problem, you’re a person. Don’t get on your high horse. Actually you’re a problem and a person. A lot of people are. Let’s not quarrel, and let’s try to solve the problem that you have – right?’

  Midge nodded. It had really been no more than a formal protest.

  ‘You probably got the gist of that. Places at the refuge are at a premium – there’s a long waiting list. What the poor women do while they’re waiting I can’t imagine. Anyway, she’s given me the name of a solicitor who has special expertise in this kind of case. I’ll give her a ring tomorrow. Meanwhile she says stay put, resist any pressure on you to go back to your family – ’

  ‘What if the pressure is force – physical force?’ demanded Mehjabean

  Ben thought.

  ‘We’ll just have to keep the doors locked day and night and be very careful who we open the door to. Careful about keys too . . . I wonder if we ought to inform the police too. They might turn out to be on your side, and they might be a help if there was any question of force being used by your family.’

  ‘DC Peace was pretty helpful and sympathetic in our case,’ put in Alan. ‘You might be able to ring him up and talk to him – privately, as it were.’

  ‘Good idea. Do you think he could be tactful as well as sympathetic?’

  ‘Could be, I should think. Pretty frightening, if necessary, too.’

  ‘I was wondering about a warning to Midge’s father, not to try anything. That might pay dividends.’

  Katy was standing by the windows, glad that the thing was being discussed and that Ben was not just handing down a decision. She wished she had more of a contribution to make, over and above her great wish to have her new friend stay long, as long as she needed, forever, maybe. Idly her eyes took in things happening in the street outside: two children playing in the front garden, a woman shouting to another woman across the street. There was an Asian man talking to the householder in the pokey pre-war semi just across the way. But though Katy had registered that Bramsey was a predominantly white part of Leeds, she did not realize how rare an Asian visiting a Bramsey home was, so she didn’t mention what she had seen till much later.

  CHAPTER 7

  Closing In

  A meeting with the solicitor was easy to arrange. Ben simply rang up next morning and fixed a time with her for late afternoon. The woman was English, but she had a partner from the Pakistani community.

  ‘She doesn’t want to spend her life on Asian women’s problems,’ she said, ‘but she’s here if we need her – if there’s anything in the case I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘It seems a fairly straightforward matter,’ said Ben, trying to avoid using the word ‘problem’.

  ‘Nothing is that, when you have a clash of cultures – different values, different expectations. But I’ve had enough experience by now to avoid most of the pitfalls. See you at four.’

  So that seemed to all of them hopeful.

  Mehjabean was going down well in the refuge. Though her clothes alone showed she was not in the usual category of youngsters staying there, no one asked questions; they accepted her, just as most of them accepted the existence of the Centre without asking how or why. She was beautiful, she was smart, she was different. These things in themselves were sufficient to make most of the rest happy and pleased to have her around. She talked a lot, and laughed, and generally brightened up the atmosphere. Katy thought she was wonderful, and she was not the only one. Even Bett Southcott came out of her shell and had a long conversation with Midge over the washing up. And Zak, coming back with Pal after a fortnight sleeping rough, could hardly take his eyes off her.

  Mehjabean put on her smartest clothes to go and see the solicitor. She was going to an interview with a professional person, and it seemed natural to her to do so – as it would not so long ago have seemed natural to a white English person to put on his or her best in the same situation. Ben had paint on his trousers and a fleck of white in his rich auburn hair which looked rather distinguished until you realized what it was. Mehjabean was too polite to make any comment. At a quarter to four they left number twenty-four, walked to Ben’s five-year-old red
Cortina, and drove off. Neither of them was conscious of being watched, but watched they were.

  The meeting with the solicitor, overshadowed though it was by what happened later, was useful. Sally Short was cool, practical and experienced. She could tell Midge what her rights were, what had worked well in the past with other and similar cases, what had seemed sensible but had proved counter-productive to the person under pressure. She suggested that, without imprisoning herself, Midge should avoid going out alone, should as far as possible disappear, so as to give her family time to think things through. When she discussed the law it was as a last resort, but she did think a talk with a friendly policeman could only be helpful. Forcing someone of Mehjabean’s age and circumstances to go home was something the police were most unlikely to attempt.

  Both Ben and Midge were feeling happier on the drive home. They talked about getting in touch with Charlie Peace, keeping within the protective shell of the refuge, and what Midge could do for the place while she was there. She claimed to be a dab hand with the sewing machine, and she pointed out that most of the rooms in the Centre either had no curtains or leftover ones from the previous occupants. It had not been a high priority hitherto, but the need for greater privacy made efficient curtaining desirable. Ben thought he could run to several yards of cheap material.

  They had to park the car two or three doors down from number twenty-four, and they got out still talking and laughing.

  Before they had got to the gate of the Centre they had been intercepted by a large, threatening shape, and Midge felt a strong familiar hand gripping her shoulder, though it was Ben whom her father was shouting at.

  ‘Who are you, eh? What you do with my daughter? Why you take her away from her family?’

  As she struggled, Midge heard Ben’s voice come, cool and calm:

  ‘Mr Haldalwa? Would you let go of your daughter, please. I haven’t taken Mehjabean away from her family. I run a refuge for homeless youngsters, and Mehjabean came here two nights ago for protection – ’

  ‘My daughter is not homeless! She not need protection!’

  Ben’s voice stayed calm and level.

  ‘I think she does need protection. Mr Haldalwa, will you let go of your daughter?’ At that moment, as Midge made an almighty twist that occupied her father’s whole attention, Ben brought his hand down in a karate chop on his arm that had Razaq Haldalwa bellowing with pain, so that by the time he had got control of himself again, Midge and Ben were both within the protection of the Centre and listening to him banging with his good arm on the locked door.

  Once inside, Ben lit a rare cigarette, told Katy to put on the kettle, patted Midge encouragingly on the shoulder, then went back to the hall and took up the telephone.

  ‘Is that police headquarters? I’d like to speak to DC Peace if he’s there.’

  By the time he was talking to Charlie, who was promising to come round as soon as he could get away, the banging on the front door had stopped and he had heard the gate click.

  • • •

  Dickie Mavors was not used to dealing with people who were not English by birth and white by colour. He was perfectly amiable, in a benign, old-chappish sort of way, but faced with the rage of Razaq Haldalwa he felt himself to be distinctly at a loss, sometimes speechless, sometimes deciding he had to interrupt the flow of outrage when he caught some words that seemed to promise stepping-stones through a flood.

  ‘Your daughter, you say? How old is she?’

  It was when the interview – or audience – had been going for some ten minutes that he caught a word that interested him.

  ‘ – he says he runs a refuge, what for my daughter needs a refuge, she has good home – ’

  ‘Refuge, did you say, old chap? Now would that be the place in Portland Terrace?’

  ‘Yes, Portland Terrace. I go there, I see them together, is not good house, very old – ’

  Dickie raised a finger.

  ‘Now, I’ll tell you who to go and see. One of our very active local workers – could be the next councillor for Bramsey. Her name is Ingram, Alicia Ingram. She’s been very concerned about this refuge, and I know she’ll be interested in your story. Now, I’ll give you her address . . .’

  When he had gone, Dickie Mavors, who was never backward in self-congratulation, awarded himself a double measure, and a malt Scotch to boot.

  • • •

  Charlie was round at the refuge less than half an hour after their phone call. He greeted Alan and Katy as old friends, and they introduced him to Ben and Mehjabean. Sparks of fellow-feeling flashed between him and her – two strong, resilient, satiric spirits. But then Charlie sat at his ease in one of the old armchairs and let them tell him the whole story in their own way. Mehjabean’s account of the pressure put on her was restrained, but the strength of her feeling showed through. At the end Charlie sat thoughtful for a minute or two.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend it’s an easy matter,’ he said at last. ‘We’re into all sorts of grey areas here – and not offending the “ethnic minorities” is just one of them.’ He turned to Midge. ‘Don’t you just love being an ethnic minority?’

  ‘I’d hate to be a boring old majority,’ she said. ‘Though I hate being lumped together with everyone like me, like when people talk about “Pakistani women”, as if we were all alike.’

  ‘Well, at least no one assumes you’re a potential mugger,’ countered Charlie. ‘Anyway, I’m not disguising it would be easier if you were a bit older, if you were white or Afro-Caribbean, and so on. There’s definitely a limit to what we can do.’

  ‘The first thing you can do is register the problem – register the situation,’ said Ben.

  ‘I do, I do. And I’ll pass the information on.’

  ‘We’re just terrified that she’ll be . . . like, taken,’ said Katy. Charlie nodded.

  ‘I can see you must be. At least you can get straight through to me if that happens . . . Somehow I don’t see her as being easily taken,’ he added, and the spark flew between them.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Midge.

  ‘On the other hand, her father is forceful and strong,’ put in Ben. ‘Like I said, I had to use karate on him to get her away. And with other family members to help . . .’

  ‘Of course – I wasn’t suggesting you should relax for one moment. I agree with all your solicitor’s advice, but the fact that you’ve got people coming and going all the time here can’t make things easy.’

  ‘We’ve thought of giving everyone a key with strict instructions – ’

  ‘Keys can be duplicated, and poor people can be bribed,’ Charlie pointed out forcefully. ‘People come back here for their mail, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s an address they give the DSS.’

  ‘Do they have keys?’

  ‘No-o,’ said Ben. ‘But some have gone missing, so some of them probably do.’

  ‘I think for the moment, whenever possible, you should keep the place locked, and have all the residents let in as they come home. Withdraw all keys, and have a chain put up. That means a doorman must be here all the time. Not ideal, but you can explain to them why.’

  ‘Yes, we can,’ said Alan. ‘Most of them are very sympathetic and interested in Midge. We’ve always had the place open during the day before, but they’ll understand.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie, getting up. ‘Well, it looks like you have a meal to cook, so I won’t keep you.’ He turned towards Ben. ‘Do you think I could have a few words with you alone, sir?’

  Ben nodded, and, watched by the other three, they went out to the hall and then in to the dining room. Ben gestured with his hand and they sat at one of the tables already set for supper. Charlie took in the thick, healthy mass of hair, the far-seeing blue eyes, the youthful, almost handsome set of the face. It was easy to see women falling for him – not just fifteen or twenty years ago, but now. What was less easy was fathoming him. The women who had fallen for him did not seem to have been made particularly h
appy by him.

  ‘I thought I’d have a word in private,’ Charlie explained, ‘because I’ve heard whispers of a campaign getting under way against this place.’

  Ben nodded, confidence undimmed.

  ‘I’ve always known it’s inevitable. We’ll just have to try and give them no handles to hang the campaign on.’

  ‘That’s probably easier said than done. Not all homeless people are angels. I know you try not to take addicts –’

  ‘Not because we’re unsympathetic. We just couldn’t handle the problems involved.’

  ‘But how can you be sure they’re not addicts? You’d hardly want to frisk them every time they come in and out, search their rooms morning and night, inspect them for puncture-marks.’

  ‘No, certainly not,’ agreed Ben. ‘But though I’ve no qualifications or particular experience, I’m not completely naive. I think it would become apparent quite quickly if we had an addict, and then I’d get rid of him, one way or another.’

  ‘Drugs is the obvious handle, and in fact the neighbours have tried that already, as you know. If the campaign gets nowhere on that, it’ll be something else.’

  ‘We’ll face up to it when we know what it is,’ said Ben, with serene confidence. He had said he wasn’t naive, but Charlie wasn’t so sure. He seemed too able to ignore the wickedness of the world and its ways.

  ‘How did you come to start this place?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d always wanted to do something for the homeless. It’s a sore on our society. We’re just throwing away our young people. When I got a biggish win on the National Lottery, I sank it into this place.’

  Charlie’s antennae which often told him when people were lying did not twitch. Was it because Ben Marchant was telling the truth, he wondered, or because he had a blandness which neutralized those sensitive little indicators?

  ‘When did you involve your children in what you are doing?’ he asked. The googlie did not get beyond Ben’s defences.

  ‘Ah – they told you?’