I look away. “I’m sorry, sir. I should not have lost my temper.”
Mr Kavanagh leans back and sighs. The awkward silence is broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall, which seems to get louder with every second. “You must have been through a lot to get here to the UK.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised by this sudden turn in the conversation, not sure what to say. “Yeah, I guess.”
“And there are a lot of very ignorant things being said about the refugee crisis and Syria in certain quarters.”
I nod. This really isn’t how I imagined this conversation going at all. I thought he was going to tell me off but he’s acting as if he knows what Price said, like he might even be on my side.
“A lot of eejits crawling out of the woodwork to spew their hate,” Mr Kavanagh continues.
I’m not sure what eejit means but I like the sound of it and I’m guessing that Price is one of them.
Mr Kavanagh goes over to a kettle in the corner of the room and switches it on. “Cuppa?”
“Er – OK.”
“I was your age back in the eighties,” he says as he pops a couple of teabags into mugs. “And if you haven’t already guessed from my Celtic accent, not to mention charm, I’m from Ireland originally. My parents came here when I was eight years old, right at the height of the Troubles. Are you familiar with the Troubles, son?”
I shake my head. He takes some milk from a tiny fridge on top of the counter.
“It was a time of great conflict in Northern Ireland and some of that conflict spilled over into terrorism.”
At the sound of the word terrorism, my skin prickles. Where is he going with this?
The kettle stops boiling and Mr Kavanagh pours some water into the mugs. “Milk? Sugar?” he asks.
“Just sugar. Two, please.”
He adds the sugar and gives it a stir. “There were terrorists on both sides of the conflict but the Irish Republicans carried out several attacks over here. They once almost killed the Prime Minister with a bomb in Brighton.” He hands me the drink. “So by the time I was your age a hell of a lot of people in England hated the Irish. And with my name and accent I was a prime target for their hate. Seriously if I’d had a pound for every time I was called a terrorist or mocked for being as thick as … well, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be on a yacht somewhere, drinking a pina colada.” He looks straight at me. “I know what it’s like to be wrongly accused of something, son. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a racist’s ignorance and it’s feckin’ crap. Am I right?” He’s grinning now.
The tension in me dissolves and I find myself grinning back. He understands. He gets it. He knows something of what it’s like to be me.
“Yes, yes it is.”
“So, you have a choice.” He sits back in his chair and takes a swig of tea. “Either you let it get you down – and you let them win – or you do whatever it takes to prove them wrong.”
“Like what?”
“Like standing your ground. Like speaking the truth. Like not letting the eejits get you down – or make you lose your temper.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I really wish I hadn’t.”
He puts his mug down and leans forward. “Do you want to report him for what he said?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I don’t tell tales.”
He sighs. “OK. Hafiz, you are a really gifted footballer. Seriously. I’ve never seen someone your age with so much skill. Your passing is excellent and when you make a run…” He whistles through his teeth. “I want you on our team. We need you on our team. And I’m thinking that maybe – maybe you need us too.”
I nod.
“The thing you have to remember is that the true idiots in this world are few and far between. Most of the kids here, in this school, are good kids. How do you think I know what happened last night? One of your teammates came to see me after the game. He was really angry about what Price said to you. I am too…” He breaks off and looks away. “So much of this kind of thing is born out of ignorance. I understand that you don’t want to report him but I really think you need to do something.” He scratches his head and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Have you thought about telling the other kids what you’ve been through?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Ms Potts and I agree that there’s no place in this school for hatred or racism of any kind. We feel it would be great if you could share your story – or some of it at least – with the other kids. Help them to understand what’s really happening in Syria and to refugees, so that they don’t fall for the lies.”
“But how – how would I share it?”
“We were wondering if maybe you could do some kind of talk, or presentation, for an assembly.” He looks at me and smiles. “It would be your chance to set the record straight, to get your voice heard.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir.”
“Think about it – think about being able to tell everyone the truth. You can do it, son, I know you can.”
It’s like he’s giving me a pep talk before a big game. And it’s working. I think of finally being able to have my say; of telling people what it’s really like back home and on the refugee trail, and my pulse quickens like it does before a match.
“What do you say, son?” Mr Kavanagh looks at me. “Are you up for it?”
My head nods automatically. “Yes, sir.”
Stevie
I take the long route home from school, past the super-cheap supermarket, where I manage to find some real bargains in the reduced goods aisle. It’s only when I step back outside into the sunshine that it dawns on me that maybe getting stupidly excited over a seventy-seven-p chicken breast isn’t exactly rock and roll. I somehow doubt it’s something Lauren LaPorte would ever do. I feel a wistful pang as I think back to that night in the record store. Back then it had seemed possible that I might make it as a musician one day, lead the same kind of life as her, but now I’m not so sure. How will I ever be able to leave Mum? Who would take care of her? The sunshine suddenly seems over-bright, burning at my eyes, burning away my dreams.
When I get back home I find Mum curled up fast asleep in her armchair. I go into the kitchen and start making dinner. Finding such cheap chicken breasts means we can actually have something resembling a proper meal tonight. I chop the meat into small pieces and start frying them. The smell triggers a memory in me. I’m back in our old kitchen in London, Mum is cooking and Dad is perched on the counter, reading his latest article to her before he sends it off to his editor. I’m sitting on the floor, playing “Justine Bieber” with my Barbie doll. Justine Bieber was a game I invented where my Barbie was basically the female equivalent of my then-hero. She got to tour the world – or our kitchen at least – playing sell-out gigs to a crowd of cutlery and cooking utensils. I was a pretty eccentric kid.
I loved our kitchen in London. It was the opposite of our Lewes kitchen in every way. It was huge and light and bright and always full of music and fun. Often, my parents had what they called “kitchen discos”, where we’d each take it in turns to be the DJ and pick the next track. It was when I kept picking songs by Justin Bieber that Dad decided to make Stevie’s Book of Big Song Wisdom for me. He said he wanted to teach me about “proper music” before it was too late. When he first gave me the book, along with his teenage record collection, I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest. It was only after his death that they became so important to me. The words in the book and the songs were the closest I could get to hearing Dad talk to me. It’s like I’m still able to turn to him for support and advice. Sometimes it makes me shiver to think that he gave them to me just six months before he died. It’s almost as if he knew he wouldn’t be there for me for much longer.
I give the chicken a quick stir and I think of the kitchen in the refugee centre and the women who were cooking there and how happy they seemed, in spite of what they’d been through. It’s weird to think that cooking once made Mum happy too. It�
�s how she met Dad. She used to run a catering company called Eats and Beats that specialized in cooking for musicians while they were on tour. She met Dad while they were both touring with the band Oasis. She was making the food and he was writing a series for NME called “On the Road and Mad fer It”. (Apparently “mad fer it” was the favourite saying of the Oasis singer.) Mum sold her business after I was born so she could be at home to take care of me, but she still loved to cook and carried on catering for small parties. It was only when Dad died that her love of cooking died too – along with most of the rest of her. I hear a sound and turn to see Mum standing in the doorway. She’s got that drowsy, slightly confused look she always has after she’s been asleep.
“Hi, Mum. I’m just making some dinner,” I say, undoing the jar of sweet and sour sauce – down from £1.50 to 99p.
She comes over to the sink and pours herself a glass of water. Then she looks at the pan. “Chicken? How much did that cost?”
“Don’t worry, it was really cheap. I got it reduced. The whole dinner only cost two pounds, fifty-three,” I say proudly.
Mum sighs. “You should have just got beans on toast.”
And you should have just got out of bed and made dinner yourself! I suddenly want to yell. I turn back to the saucepan, angry tears stinging my eyes. I take a deep breath, try and compose myself, remind myself I have some news. “I made you an appointment at the doctor’s for tomorrow morning.”
“What? Why?” The chair scrapes as Mum sits down at the table.
“Well, I looked into your benefits online and loads of websites said that you should go to your GP and get a letter saying you’re not able to work.”
“But I did that earlier in the year. And my medication isn’t due to be reviewed for another couple of months. Surely that proves I’m still ill.”
I leave the chicken and come over to her. “Yes, but maybe you need a new letter – for the new benefits system or something. You know, just to confirm that you’re still sick.”
Mum sighs. “Why does it have to be so difficult? It’s like they’re trying to make me worse, not better.”
“I know, but I’m sure it’ll all be sorted once you’ve got that letter. I can come with you, if you like.”
Mum looks at me hopefully. “Would you? It’s just that I get so stressed having to do all of this stuff on my own.”
“Of course.” I give her a hug. She feels thinner than ever; the sharp angles of her shoulder blades dig into me as the chicken begins to burn.
HAFIZ
When I get into school this morning there’s no sign of Stevie. At first I think she might be late but there’s still no sign of her when the bell rings for first period, which is history. It turns out that neither Price or Priya do history. I make a mental note to always look forward to this lesson. I actually enjoy the subject matter too. It’s nothing like the history lessons we used to do back in Syria but it’s interesting to see the past from the UK point of view. Just like it was interesting to learn about the Irish Troubles from Mr Kavanagh yesterday.
As I jot down some important dates from the Second World War, I think back to my conversation wth the PE teacher. I can’t believe that I agreed to share my story in assembly. When I was chatting to him it felt like the right thing to do but now the thought of getting up onstage in front of the rest of the school fills me with dread. I wonder where Stevie is. I hope she’s OK. She seemed worried yesterday, distracted. I wish I had her number so I could send her a text. I’ll have to ask her for it.
At break I hang out in the library. I log on to a computer and look up the refugee camp in Athens where my mum and dad are staying. It feels so weird to think of them in Greece and me in the UK. For so many years I took it for granted we’d always be together, in Syria – until I grew up and moved out. But the war picked up families and scattered them like pieces of shrapnel. I sit back in my chair and stare at the white huts and tents. I picture Mum and Dad walking through the scene. Mum laughing as Dad gesticulates wildly, telling her some story or other. Or is he? I think back to the conversation I overheard between Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria. What were they trying to hide? What didn’t they want to tell me? This is the thing I hate most about the war – this endless feeling of uncertainty.
Stevie
“Good morning, Mrs Flynn,” Dr Ennis says as we walk into her room. Her long grey hair is swept up on top of her head in a bun. She has a stethoscope round her neck and a pen behind her ear. “Oh, hello,” she says when she sees me coming in behind Mum.
“Hi,” I say, hovering by the door as Mum takes a seat. “I – er – I said I’d come with my mum, as she was feeling a little anxious.”
“Ah, I see.” Dr Ennis taps something into her computer and looks at the screen. “OK, well, take a seat.”
I sit down next to Mum. I feel awkward and embarrassed. Inside the cottage Mum’s illness doesn’t seem so bad but when she’s out it’s suddenly magnified. I guess it’s because I’m seeing her through everyone else’s eyes. Suddenly she seems way too thin, way too grey, like a character sketched in pencil trapped inside a colour movie.
Dr Ennis puts her elbows on her desk, brings her hands together like she’s about to pray and gazes at Mum over the top of her glasses. “So how can I help you today?”
“It’s my benefits,” Mum says. It isn’t just her body that’s shrunk since she got ill, her voice has too, and now it’s barely more than a whisper. “They’re going to stop my benefits.”
“Mum had to go for a meeting about her disability allowance,” I explain. “She thinks they’re going to stop her payments.”
“I know they are,” Mum says quickly. “They tried to catch me out with their questions. I didn’t want them thinking that I was a bad parent. But I’m not well enough to work. I’m not. I can’t.” Her voice is ragged now as she gasps for breath. “I just don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
Her words strike fear into me. What does she mean by that? I push the question away. I have to help her. I have to get us more money.
“But if you wrote her another letter,” I say to Dr Ennis, “saying that she’s still really ill, that would help, wouldn’t it? That would make them change their mind?”
Dr Ennis keeps looking at Mum. “I see that you didn’t go to your appointment with the counsellor.”
I frown. What appointment with what counsellor?
Mum shakes her head. “I’m finding it really hard to leave the house. I’ve been feeling really anxious lately…”
Dr Ennis looks back at her computer screen. Who was this counsellor she was talking about? Why didn’t Mum tell me?
“Is this anxiety a recent development?” Dr Ennis asks.
Mum nods. “It’s been getting worse all year.”
“Hmm. I think we might need to try you on a different medication.” She taps something into her computer. “I’m going to prescribe you a different antidepressant which is also very effective at dealing with anxiety … and insomnia.”
“That sounds perfect, doesn’t it, Mum?” I say cheerily, like I’m naïve enough to believe that the answer to all of her problems can be contained in one little pill. This will be the third medication Mum’s tried since she first went to Dr Ennis. She needs more than pills but I have no idea what.
Mum nods glumly.
“I know it’s frustrating but it is perfectly normal for people to have to try several different medications before they find the right match,” Dr Ennis says. She looks from Mum to me and back again. “But once we’ve found the right one you should start to see improvements within weeks. And it really would help if you saw a counsellor too.”
Mum’s eyes fill with tears. “I know. I’m sorry I missed the appointment. It’s just been so hard lately…”
Dr Ennis nods sympathetically. “Is there anything that’s happened to trigger the anxiety you’ve been feeling?”
Mum nods. “The anniversary – the second anniversary – of Danny’s death.”
<
br /> Dr Ennis takes off her glasses. “It must be very hard – for both of you.”
I feel a lump growing in my throat. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“I feel so lonely – so afraid without him,” Mum says.
I stare at her. She never talks about Dad like this. She never talks about Dad at all. I hardly dare breathe in case she stops.
“He was my – he was my best friend, my partner in crime,” she continues. “We did everything together. Everything. I know it’s stupid. I know there was a time before I met him when I was able to cope with life on my own but it was so long ago I can barely remember it. Now it’s like I’m too scared to do anything.”
“What are you scared of?” Dr Ennis asks gently.
Mum starts to break down in tears. “I’m scared of it happening again.”
“Of what happening again?”
“Of everything ending,” Mum sobs. “Of everything being destroyed in an instant.”
“So it’s safer to stay inside and not do anything?” Dr Ennis says.
Mum nods.
For the first time since she became depressed I feel like I can really understand what’s going on in her head.
“The trauma of losing someone in the way you both did cannot be overestimated,” Dr Ennis says. She puts her glasses back on and looks at her screen again. “Especially the manner in which he died…”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wondering how the details of Dad’s death are worded on her screen. Maybe it’s like the tabloid newspaper headlines: MURDERED BY MUGGER. Or the coroner’s report: FATAL FRACTURE TO SKULL. Or the judge’s verdict: INVOLUNTARY MANSLAUGHTER. I start feeling really dizzy.
“You need to process what happened. Talk about how you are feeling,” Dr Ennis continues.
Mum nods. “I know. And I will. I promise. But what about my benefits?” She starts crying again. “We have no money. Please…”
I put my hand on her arm. “We have my paper-round money, Mum.”
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 12
