Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

by Siobhan Curham

  “Hafiz? Are you OK?” Dad asks.

  I wipe the tears from my face. “Yes. Yes, I’m great. That’s great.”

  “We are on our way to you,” Dad says.

  “Thanks to God.” Mum moves closer to the screen. “Your hair is so long. Oh, my handsome son. It is so wonderful to see you.”

  I start to blush. Then I remember that Stevie and the others won’t be able to understand what she’s saying.

  “‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves,’” Dad says. “Do you remember who said that, Hafiz?”

  “William Shakespeare,” I reply instantly.

  Dad grins. “Indeed. Well, this is what we must hold on to now. We will make it our destiny to be together again. This is all I have been praying for for weeks. That we should see our Hafiz. Did you get my email?”

  I shake my head. “What email?”

  “I sent it to you this morning before we left the camp in Athens. We were allowed to use a computer there.”

  “No – I – I haven’t had a chance to go online,” I reply. “It’s been kind of busy here.”

  “I’ve sent you a story,” Dad says. “I think – I hope – it will help you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ve really missed your stories.”

  He lets out a loud laugh. “Of course you have. I am one of the finest storytellers in the world. One of a long line of renowned Arabic storytellers.”

  Mum groans and Uncle Samir shakes his head.

  “Yes, you are, Dad.” I feel the sudden, overwhelming urge to read his story, so while Uncle Samir talks to Mum and Dad about the next leg of their journey, I say goodbye.

  “We will phone you every day,” Mum says.

  “And we will see you soon, God willing,” Dad adds.

  “Yes, God willing.” I reply, then I head to the door. “My dad’s sent me an email,” I say to Stevie. “I’m just going to go and read it.”

  She nods and smiles.

  I slip out into the darkened café and check the emails on my phone. When I see Dad’s email in my inbox happiness flutters in my ribcage like a bird. For so long I have prayed to see his name there. I click it open and begin to read..

  My dear Hafiz,

  I cannot tell you what a wonder it was to hear your voice the other night. Finally, after all this time. And when you told me that you’d been searching for your story it made me dance for joy. That awful night when we said goodbye, when I didn’t know if I would ever see you again, I was trying so hard to think of something – to give you something – that would make your journey ahead a little easier. A little something that would hopefully help you feel that I was there with you, watching over you, as a father should. And so, now that I know you accepted my gift, I have to share one more story with you. It is a story that will hopefully solve the riddle once and for all…

  THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD

  Once upon a time there was a young man named Hafiz. Hafiz was born into a fine family – his mother was as beautiful as an Arabian sunset and his father was one of the most gifted storytellers of all time, a handsome man and wonderful company. But, in spite of these blessings, Hafiz had one small problem – he didn’t feel truly happy. He felt certain there had to be something more – something that his life was missing. So he tried everything he could think of to make himself feel better. He bought the finest Turkish delight at the souk; he went swimming in the sea; he watched his beloved football team play – but even though the Turkish delight was delightful and the sea was like liquid turquoise and his beloved team won, he still didn’t feel happy. So he journeyed into the city to see if he could find happiness there. For days, he trudged along the alleyways and streets, seeking happiness in fine meals, good music, the smile of a beautiful girl. But still he felt that same emptiness inside. As he was about to give up and make his journey home, he bumped into a wise old man. Sensing Hafiz’s sadness, the wise old man asked him what was wrong. “I just can’t seem to find true happiness,” Hafiz replied. “I’ve searched everywhere but still I feel there is something missing.”

  “Aha,” the wise old man said. “You need to find the happiest man in the world. And when you find him you must ask him to trade shirts with you. Then happiness shall be yours.”

  “Really?” Hafiz looked at the wise old man disbelievingly.

  “You have my word,” the old man replied.

  So Hafiz set off on his quest. He travelled across deserts and through forests and into the heart of bustling cities. And he had many incredible adventures along the way. Everywhere he roamed he asked people to show him to the happiest man they knew. And every time, he asked these men one simple question: “If I were to give you a million pounds would it make you happier?” When each of them replied yes, Hafiz knew he hadn’t yet met the happiest man in the world and continued on his journey. But then, he came across a man in a forest who was chopping some wood. The man was singing a song that was so happy and joyful it put even the birds to shame. Hafiz’s mood lifted. This man sounded truly happy. He went over and introduced himself. “I’m looking for the happiest man in the world,” he said.

  The man put down his axe and smiled. “Then look no further, you’ve found him.”

  “But if I were to give you a million pounds, would that make you happier?” Hafiz asked.

  The man shook his head. “Of course not. I already have all I need to make me happy. Look…” He gestured at the bright blue sky and the wild flowers and the emerald-green leaves.

  Hafiz clapped his hands together in glee. Finally, he’d found the man he’d been seeking. “Please, will you exchange shirts with me?” he said.

  “But I do not own a shirt,” the man replied, undoing his worn jacket to reveal his bare chest beneath.

  “I don’t understand!” Hafiz looked at him in confusion. “I’ve travelled for miles and miles over many years to find you. I was told that I had to exchange shirts with you to find true happiness.”

  “And have you experienced many adventures along your journey?” the woodcutter asked.

  Hafiz nodded.

  “And met many interesting people?”

  Hafiz thought of all the fascinating people he’d met along the way and all the wonderful stories he’d heard. “Yes.”

  “And you never gave up until you found me?”

  “No.”

  “Then you now know that you have the strength you need to seek all that you think you need.”

  As the woodcutter’s words sunk in, for the first time ever Hafiz felt truly happy.

  Then the woodcutter slowly unwound the turban he’d been wearing and Hafiz realized that it was the wise old man who’d sent him on his journey.

  “But why did you not tell me all this the day I first met you?” Hafiz asked. “You could have saved me the journey.”

  “Because there are some things you can only learn through experience,” the wise man replied. “If I had told you that you already had all you needed to be happy, you would never have believed me. Now you know it to be true. And so you are free.”

  My dear Hafiz, have you worked it out yet? Have you understood the riddle of finding your own story? Do you see that it is within you, to be created and lived by you? I wasn’t trying to trick you by making you seek your story in another. I’m hoping that the stories you’ve discovered on your journey have left you stronger and wiser. I hope that now, after all you’ve been through, you’re able to see that you have everything you need inside you. Everything you need to create the masterpiece that will be your life story.

  Your loving father,

  Tariq

  I sit in the darkness, letting the words of the story sink in. I had to learn that I already had all I needed. But I could only do that by looking outside of myself first. I think of all the people I met on my journey from Syria. All the stories I collected, some of them containing great wisdom, but none of them touching me deep inside, in my heart, until this one – this final story. Because now I know it to be
true. I know that I have all that I need inside me. I know that I am the author of the story of me.

  Stevie

  While Hafiz goes into the café to read his email from his dad, and Samir, Maria and Adiam start talking about making some food, Mum sits down at the table with me. Her hands are dotted with flecks of white and her hair is coming loose and tumbling in tendrils over her shoulders. She looks like a little kid who’s just had the paints out at nursery. A very tired little kid who’s had the paints out at nursery.

  “Are you OK?” I ask instinctively.

  She nods. “Hafiz and his dad – they seem very close,” she says quietly so the others don’t hear her.

  I nod.

  “You must really miss Dad.”

  I nod again.

  “I wish he was still here for you.”

  I’m about to nod for the third time when realize I ought to say something. “At least I have the book he made me.”

  “What book?”

  “Stevie’s Little Book of Big Song Wisdom.”

  Mum’s face lights up. “Oh, we had so much fun making that for you.”

  “We?” I stare at her. “You helped him make it?”

  Mum nods. “Yes. We spent practically an entire weekend going through his records together, choosing the subjects for the book and picking out the tracks.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I’m trying to remember which ones I chose for you. I know that one was ‘Don’t Stop’ by Fleetwood Mac. I love that song so much.”

  An image sharpens into focus in my mind: Mum and Dad sitting on the living room floor, in the middle of a sea of records, laughing and singing and chatting as they always did as they made their amazing gift for me. All this time, I’d imagined Dad making it for me on his own. He was the one who’d given me the book; it was all in his handwriting; they were his records – I’d just assumed. But Mum had been there too. Mum has been there too, through the songs, these past few months, when I’ve depended on the book and its wisdom. I hug her and I don’t want to let go. “I love you, Mum,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Oh, Stevie, sweetheart. I love you too,” she whispers back.

  I hear the strum of a guitar inside my head and for the first time in ages some fresh lyrics appear:

  When what you thought was the truth …

  turns out to be a lie …

  and you finally realize …

  that love never dies.

  HAFIZ

  Stevie and I make our way onto the beach, the pebbles crunching beneath our feet. The faint sound of music and laughter drifts across the moonlit ocean from the new pier. We sit down in front of the skeletal remains of the old pier. It’s quieter down here. There’s more space to be alone, more space to think. And I need as much space as I can get for the huge thoughts inside my head. Mum is OK. There was no conspiracy. Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria just didn’t want me to get my hopes up until Mum and Dad’s papers had been processed. My parents are in Macedonia. Slowly but surely, they’re making their way to me. And finally I understand the riddle of finding your story.

  “A chip for your thoughts,” Stevie says, offering me her bag of chips.

  “Why would I want a chip when I have a bag of my own?” I say with a grin. “You have to offer me something I really want.”

  “OK, what do you really want?” Stevie pops a chip into her mouth and gazes out at the sea. There’s barely any wind tonight and the water is mirror-still.

  “What do I really want?” I look up into the sky and have a flashback to last night and how I counted the stars while I waited for Stevie to get home. “I really want you to be happy.”

  Stevie

  He really wants me to be happy. I sit for a moment, enjoying the salty taste on my tongue and the sound of his words in my head. He wants me to be happy.

  “But what about Lucy?” The words blurt out before I have time to stop them.

  “What about Lucy?” Hafiz bounces it back to me, like we’re playing question tennis.

  “Don’t you…? Aren’t you…?” I’m so glad it’s too dark for him to see my flushed face.

  “Aren’t I what?”

  I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the sea. Why did I suggest coming down here? Why didn’t we just stay at the centre and eat with the adults? This is so awkward. It would have been way more fun watching Adiam teach my mum about Eritrean cooking. Actually it would have been way more fun watching the paint dry!

  Hafiz nudges me. “Aren’t I what?”

  “Aren’t you going out with her?”

  “Lucy?” He sounds shocked.

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  I dare to sneak a glance at him. “Really?”

  “Yes. Why did you think I was going out with her?”

  “I saw you – in town – yesterday. You were – she was – you’d linked arms with her.”

  “No.” Hafiz sits upright and shifts closer to me. “She’d linked arms with me.”

  “And the difference is…?”

  “There is a big difference.”

  “Oh.”

  We sit in silence, the quiet only broken by the gentle lap of the sea … and the thoughts in my head all switching themselves to happy.

  HAFIZ

  She thought I was dating Lucy. Another piece of jigsaw-puzzle Stevie slots into place. She saw us together in town before she disappeared on her walk. I can’t help wondering if the two things are connected. I lean back on my elbows and look down at the sea. Somewhere, on the other side of that water, in another part of Europe, my parents are making their way to me. I know that their journey will be long and arduous and I know that it could take months or even years to process their asylum applications in the UK but I have to keep faith that it will be our destiny. I glance at Stevie, who’s staring out at the water too. I wonder what she’s thinking.

  “Ten games on the claw for your thoughts,” I say with a grin.

  “Ten?” She looks at me, eyes wide.

  “Yep.” No measly offer of a penny from me. I want to know what she’s thinking, and I’m pretty certain I know her price.

  Stevie leans back on the stones so she’s level with me. “I was thinking, I’m so glad I didn’t lose you as a friend,” she says quietly.

  “Why would you have lost me as a friend?” I ask.

  “After everything that happened at school – with the shirt.”

  I shake my head and smile, move closer to her so our arms are touching. “Friends like us never lose each other.” I think of the Shakespeare quote and Dad’s email and I gaze up at the stars. It’s true that we have to make our own destiny in life – write our own story – but I think it’s also true that some things, some people, are meant to be. I smile at Stevie. “Friends like us … it is destiny.”

  STEVIE’S LITTLE LIST OF BIG SONG WISDOM

  SONG TO REASSURE YOU WHEN TIMES ARE TOUGH

  “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac

  SONG TO MAKE YOU HAPPY TO BE ALIVE

  “The Whole of the Moon” by The Waterboys

  SONG FOR WHEN PEOPLE LET YOU DOWN

  “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man

  SONG TO HELP YOU TAKE ON THE WORLD

  “The Reckoning” by Nine Miles South

  SONG TO GET READY TO GO OUT TO

  “Heavy Dirty Soul” by Twenty One Pilots

  SONG TO BE A FREE SPIRIT TO

  “Undercover Agents” by Enter Shikari

  SONG TO AIR-GUITAR TO

  “Figure It Out” by Royal Blood

  SONG TO REVISE FOR EXAMS TO

  “Shake It Out” by Florence + the Machine

  SONG TO HATE YOUR NEMESIS TO

  “It’s Not Me It’s You” by Skillet

  SONG TO HAVE A KITCHEN DISCO TO

  “Born Slippy” by Underworld

  SONG TO DREAM TO

  “Cloudbusting” by Kate Bush

  We’ve created a playlist with all the

  songs mentioned in the book.

  Search for Stevie’s
Little Book of Big Song Wisdom

  on Spotify to tune in!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks as always to my amazing editor, Mara Bergman, for your guidance, eagle eye and, most of all, your care and support throughout the writing of this book. Ditto Emily McDonnell – thank you so much for your expert editorial insight. And thanks to all at Walker Books for publishing books about issues that really matter with such passion and flair. It’s a real joy to be published by you. Huge thanks also to agent extraordinaire Jane Willis at United Agents.

  I am massively grateful to Corrine Gotch and all at the Sharjah Children’s Reading Festival for inviting me to come and speak there in 2015. It was while I was in Sharjah that I learned about the Berbers and their theory that we all are born with a story inside us. This planted the seed for Hafiz’s story that would eventually grow into this novel. Thank you so much for the inspiration. My new(ish) home town of Lewes was also a huge inspiration for this book. Thanks in particular to the Union Music Store and Ground Coffee House.

  This book is a celebration of friendship and I’m very grateful for the people in my life I’m lucky enough to call my friends. Tina McKenzie, Steve O’Toole, Sara Starbuck, Stuart Berry, Linda Lloyd, Jenny Davies, Sammie Venn, Sarah Walton, Sally Swithin, I’m talking to you. And to my Jedi brother/fellow Ripple Club founder, Steve Rockett.

  Huge thanks also to my writing friends, especially the Snowdrop Writers – Tony Leonard, Adrian Bott, Michelle Porter, Liz Brooks, Paul Gallagher, Rachel Burge, Angus Walker, Frankie Stanton, Natalie Grahame, Miriam Thundercliffe, Natalie Heath, Jim and Katie Clammer – to name but a few! Thank you for making Tuesday nights so inspiring and such a chuckle-fest. Thanks also to Damian Keyes for teaching me so much about breaking all the rules when it comes to marketing! And to my fellow Facebookers – especially the Harrow and Uxbridge writers, the Nower Hill gang and K-Ci Williams – thank you for making our corner of social media such a fun and supportive place.