This Is Where I Am

by Karen Campbell

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Slan-ji-va. It means good health in Gaelic.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ I raise my magic pills. ‘To my very good, very well-managed health.’

  ‘Will you do me a favour?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No matter what the doctor says – or doesn’t say to you; don’t stay on those things for too long, OK?’

  I don’t ask why. Already, I sense a muffling in my clarity, which I don’t like. There was a window where I could see so clearly, where I knew I was passing through one place and had come out into the other side and it felt cold and clean, the way water does when it splashes. But that window is obscured. I feel warmer now, yes, but a little slow and fuzzy. Debs pours me water instead of wine. Thirsty too. The pills make me thirsty but I don’t think I said and I don’t think she asked. I like that. Our silence resounds in generous laps. I am so comfortable here, with Debs. She is an extra eye for Rebecca, an extra hand for me. Did I ask for her? There are times when God hears me, many more when He doesn’t. But my need for Him to listen never leaves me. Father Paolo’s description of God is that of a parent who knows what’s best for us. I lift my water glass to God, who knew it was best to have Azira die. Paolo says our human brains can’t comprehend His greatness. Perhaps this is the fault of the designer.

  ‘Will you tell me about your husband, Debs?’

  She starts as if she’d been sleeping, shifts higher in her chair. I mirror the movement. Is asking disrespectful? I want only to . . . I am hungry for – would perspective be the right word? No, I don’t know what I want, my fine brain is woolly. I am a stupid refugee. But her lips part, and there is a fond curve to them. ‘Tell you about Callum? Well, he was the love of my life, I guess. We met at uni – he was a wee bit older, but I think he’d always’ve seemed older, whenever I met him. Even if we had been the same age. You know what I mean? He was very . . . serene.’

  ‘Serene.’

  I see Azira’s eyes before me, in the full low quiet after we have made love. ‘You mean like Loch Lomond is?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly that. He was this calm space at the centre of all these frenetic students getting pished and debating the meaning of life and stuff. He’d just sit there, you know? Absorbing it all. But see when he finally spoke, everyone would listen. He wouldn’t have to raise his voice, he’d just say something slow and considered and eminently sensible and they’d all fall silent – usually whatever he said had folk nodding in agreement.’ She pours more wine. ‘A born professor.’

  A song drifts in through the window. Wayhooway. It’s a simple hum that catches in my throat and ignites a flare of memory, of swaying in a dark smoky room . . . Debs has her arms folded tight across her body. Protecting it from contempt or pity? She is eyeing me intently, demanding I pay attention.

  Hoowa hoowa.

  ‘He was only thirty-five when he was diagnosed. I was thirty-one. We’d lost . . . we’d lost quite a few babies before our son died and we’d decided to wait before we tried again. We’d wait a year and then we’d . . . but then I ended up not being very well. Had to have an operation.’ She grips herself so hard I’m sure it must be uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, I was fine. But not long after, Callum started to get sick. Really tired all the time, and he was dropping stuff and falling . . . Oh Abdi – I was so angry, you know? One bad thing after another. I felt so cheated we weren’t going to live the life we’d planned. I don’t just mean angry, angry, I mean like my insides twisted to a bitter crisp. I know I pushed folk away, folk that were only trying to help us. I couldn’t bear seeing people being happy; people in the shops, at the pictures. My own sister. I’d be thinking: who the hell do you think you are? You bastards. And the worst of it was –’ she hides her mouth behind her hand, ‘I got angry with Callum, too. Because he was meant to look after me.’

  Hu waaya hu waaya.

  There is a bubble in her nostril, she is going to cry and dull panic rushes in because I don’t think I could cope. But she composes herself. Wipes the bubble with the back of her hand.

  ‘After Callum’s death – after my son’s death, really – I felt I was dangerous to people. That I did them no good. Ever since . . . you know. It was all my own bad luck – I had made it, but it was the people I loved who suffered.’

  My heart aches for her, and for the music that is rising over everything. For an instant, I glimpse Debs as she was when she was little: I see the five-year-old her, shy and searching, and the twelve-year-old who is blossoming and has her arms folded tight across her breasts.

  Hu waaya hu waaya.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And you feel guilty that you have kept breathing when they are not, and over and over you see them only at the point when they are dying. You forget all the liveness of them that was good.’

  Hu waaya hu waaya, hooyadaa ma joogto.

  I get to my feet. Too much sleep has made me stiff. ‘I’m sorry – but what is that?’

  ‘It’s Rebecca. She sings it all the time.’

  From nowhere, the music shines through competing rumblings, pulsating, coming so close I can feel . . . can see it, taste it: high and flat and shimmering. Azira sang that lullaby to Rebecca. I shuffle to the open windows, each step stretching me, releasing my cramps. My bare feet finding the floor more firmly, more firmly. Toes gripping like a monkey on the little step. Debs is at my side. Together, we watch Rebecca dig with the handle of the paddle. She makes a hole in the earth, the loamy smell breaking upwards as she grinds the handle down. She’s working hard, there is a whole drill of holes in a straightish line behind her. Humming now, to the same tune, she walks along the line, squatting at every hole to drop something in. There are two holes to go, when she stops and turns back. Tramps across the garden to a patch of unkempt soil, which is dotted with jagged leaves and cloudy globes.

  ‘Uh-oh. She’s found my dandelion patch,’ whispers Debs.

  ‘Are they good to eat?’

  ‘Actually, you can eat them, but we don’t usually. They’re just weeds.’

  ‘Too wee?’

  ‘No, weeds. What we call rubbish plants. Plants in the wrong place.’

  Rebecca picks one of the globes and holds it to her mouth. Then she blows, so all the seeds float into the air. A fine grey haze of them dancing round her head, lit by evening sun. Her hand pinches the air, capturing some seeds, and she returns to her toil. Even at five, I can see Azira in her. It’s there in the patient bending and planting, in how she pats and smooths the earth.

  ‘Abdi. Did Rebecca see it all? All the stuff you told me?’

  ‘Not my mother and sister and my grandfather. But . . . Azira. Yes. She saw everything. More than I did.’

  ‘Will you please let her see my sister’s friend? That assessment centre I told you about, Lara’s a psychologist, she works there. But it doesn’t have to be official, she can just –’

  I’m drumming again, drumming, drumming, but I have nothing to drum on so I seize the top of Deborah’s arm and knead and knead and whisper: ‘Mummy’s head. That is what she saw. That is what she told to me.’

  The air darkens, and it is pushing into my mouth but it’s not air, not air that will fit into my lungs. I am breathing mud not mud; my face is in Deborah’s sleeve.

  ‘OK. Ssh. OK, Abdi. Deep breaths.’ She breathes with me. ‘All right? Do you want to go back inside? You want your medicine?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head too vigorously. Dizziness smacks. I tighten on Debs’s arm. ‘See? If I have any more of my inflating-me pills, I will fly up in the air like those seeds.’

  Back at the dandelion patch, Rebecca turns to wave. We wave back. A lazy bee glides through the cloud of spores.

  ‘Bee!’

  ‘That’s right,’ calls Deb. ‘Bee.’

  Again and again, Rebecca blows her seeds. It gives me an idea. My father’s people were nomads. When we buried our dead, there was no coffin, only perfumed adar then a shroud. We would make a parting in the shroud near the right side of the face, so it
could touch the earth, then we covered the body, first with grass and leaves, then wood, then soil. Before we placed the wood on, we would retrieve some of the leaves from the grave, and scatter them on the wind. So the nomad soul was free to roam.

  Debs has linked her arm through mine. ‘Abdi. You know how hard this is for you . . . and Rebecca’s speech is coming on in leaps and bounds. I just think if she was able to express how . . .’

  ‘How she feels? How does that work, Debs? Does it give her her mother back?’

  ‘I just worry she’ll be storing up more problems for the future. Lara’s very professional – I’ve spoken to her already.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her? About us?’

  ‘Abdi, I promise Lara will be very discreet. Just an initial chat – not an assessment, no recommendations. No intervention if you don’t want it, I swear to you.’ A little squeeze. I stare at her hand; her wedding ring glints as her fingers move. Milk skin pressing on my black skin.

  ‘Your counselling is helping a wee bit, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is pick-pick picking away. I suppose.’

  ‘Then give Rebecca that same chance. Before it gets as bad for her.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Just let me try. Please. Lara won’t force her to say or do anything she doesn’t want. But maybe she needs to talk to a person that isn’t you.’

  ‘You will go with her then? I cannot listen . . .’

  ‘I will go with her. I will stay with her if she wants or sit right outside the door. And I’ll bring her straight back to you.’

  I nod and the nodding slips and in one swift movement my chin is at the top of her head, and I am kissing her there. Her hair smells like the bubbles in the bath. It is so very warm and soft. It is earth and undergrowth, it is spring-packed moss and safety. I have slept in a place like this. Debs goes rigid beneath me. Have I offended her? But I needed to.

  ‘Come,’ I say and take her hand. We go over to Rebecca.

  ‘Hey there, mucky pup. What you up to?’

  ‘Fairies,’ she says solemnly.

  ‘Fairies?’

  ‘They’re like, little spirits? Magic creatures. I told her these were fairy flowers . . .’

  ‘Well, that is perfect then.’ I stoop to pick two globes, pass one to Debs. ‘Close your eyes,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’ There is an edge of panic there. That kiss was not a good idea.

  ‘Trust me. Close your eyes and hold your flower. Now. I want you to think of your happiest memory. With Callum, I mean. Think of him when he was at his finest and you loved him best.’

  In my heart, I do the same.

  ‘OK? Can you see him? Because that is where he is.’

  I wait and wait. No answer. Open my eyes. There are tears on her cheeks which tremble.

  Stupid refugee.

  And then I see Rebecca is staring up at us both. ‘Hey, mucky,’ I lift her on my hip. ‘You OK?’

  Her hands grip round my neck.

  ‘All right. Now, you have to do this too, yes? You were singing Mama’s song, weren’t you?’

  A little shrug. She turns her head away from mine.

  ‘All right, all right. Well, it was beautiful. And I want to hear you sing it more, OK?’ I shake her gently. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she whispers.

  ‘Good. Now you think of Mama singing and I’ll think of Mama singing and Debs will think of her ninka. And then we will blow our flowers and we will remember them like that. Because they are free – just like your little seeds are, yes? Ready? One, two . . . blow.’

  A perfect feathered globe. Each spore is an umbrella turned inside out, or the wild rushing in a woman’s hair as she runs smiling with her arms towards you. Over land and air and light and shade, they twist and flutter up. They scatter from the centre. Find their own drift, the current which will deliver them on.

  I think I want to go home.

  Part Three

  Home

  17. September

  The Barras

  Consistently voted ‘top of the shops’, Glasgow’s stores are unrivalled for choice and quality. Wander through specialist enclaves, enjoy the city’s stately department stores and find your high street favourites in trendy shopping malls. As befits Scotland’s City of Style, there’s a wealth of unique boutiques and artistic outlets too, and – for lovers of a quirky bargain – head east, where the eclectic wares and colourful characters of the Barras Market await.

  Situated in the Calton, Glasgow’s very own flea market was founded in the 1920s by a young woman with a smart idea. Having made a success selling fruit, Maggie McIver started hiring out barrows to other traders. Even in the Depression years, Maggie’s Barras flourished, particularly when she had her site permanently covered. The unstoppable Maggie then established the famous Barrowland Ballroom, whose glorious neon starburst still lights up the east end today. The venue is now a hugely popular concert hall, attracting rock stars as well as the dealers, pedlars and punters for which the Barras was built.

  Open every Saturday from 10am to 5pm, and with a farmers’ market once a month, admission to the Barras is free. But do watch out for pickpockets – and the occasional police raid! Just do what the locals do: shrug, and keep shopping!

  *

  ‘Kyle! no! Come here this minute!’

  The lady pulls her little boy away, is glowering at me. Change my mindset, change my mindset. She is frustrated, she is tired. Her look is not directed at me, a lanky black man who has the glazed stare of an addict. What was it Mrs Coutts said? You’re lookin right glaikit the day, son. When you stopping they daft pills?

  Soon, Mrs Coutts, soon.

  There’s no rush.

  I hold a copper coin. My thumb conceals the queen-face, my index rests on a feathered plume. Work or college? I can do one but not the other, my doctor tells me. Too much will ‘overload’ me, and it’s not fair on Rebecca. He’s right, of course. I pretend I have a choice. I haven’t officially lost my apprenticeship yet. In fact, Mr Maloney has telephoned me twice.

  ‘We’ve no filled your place, Abdi. There’s no rush, no rush.’

  I can’t believe that. People are watching my interactions with my child now; they’re hardly going to let me loose with knives. Debs says she will speak with her brother-in-law, but I don’t want that. I know he must have told Mr Maloney everything already – no person is that accommodating of their own volition.

  Not where there’s knives involved.

  My doctor is right. Accept. Process. I forget the other one.

  College will start this month. A warm, dry classroom and searching minds, a crèche for Rebecca – if I lie about her age. (Debs and I are still arguing about this, but I like the notion of Rebecca being in the same building as me.) What is this preoccupation with age? She will learn when she is ready. And Debs will mellow when I bring her my gift. I have an excellent idea, you see, to show her my appreciation. For all she does for us, I mean.

  I let the coin drop. It is, as they say, a moot point. I enrolled at the college this morning. An Intermediate in Italian, Higher Mathematics and Higher English. Mrs Girdwood has presented me with the collected works of Shakespeare already. I wanted to do a science subject too, but I am not to overload. Yes, the world is oily and slow once more. Nice slow, like Deborah’s bath oils. We have a rhythm, where I am threaded to my groupwork and my therapy, to Mrs Coutts’s house and my new parade of shops and, once a week, to Deborah’s house for tea. It’s a pleasant web and its filaments give me structure. On a Saturday – which is today – Debs takes Rebecca to soft-play. They are in a club there, they meet others, have lunch. And I have a day of drifting. I have not felt strong enough for church, which is strange because I’m praying every day. It is the public nature of it, I think. The sympathetic hands I’ll have to shake. My minister understands.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he tells me.

  No rush at all.

  I could go to the Somali Centre, I suppose, but it seems so far
away. Anyway, do I want to talk about home, over and over again? What is comforting can end up suffocating. When I was very small, I remember huddling with my mother in our aqal. Poles stretched with skin and cloth, light to carry, but it stinks when the rains teem down. The air sags and drips until you are desperate for unlidded skies.

  After the rainy season is over, the ground is malleable. I think of my days as warm soft mud. When I had signed my name at college, I walked here, to the supermarket. I’ve been here a while now, watching the shoppers come and go. Old ladies with wheeled message bags, single men who leave with cigarettes and drink. Smart people in big cars, who load up with their sunglasses tipped on to their heads. As they bend into their boots, the glasses sometimes slip, land awkwardly on nose or ground, and they will scowl to check who has seen. The joke is, it’s not even sunny.

  I fill my lungs with fresh air. Pick up my coin and my bag, and go inside the supermarket. Mr Maloney is at the fish counter.

  ‘Can I help you – Abdi, son! How you doing?’

  He grips my hand with two slimy palms, pumping and spilling fishscales. We laugh; I don’t know what we’re laughing at.

  ‘Good to see you, Abdi. Good to see you. Here, Cammie, Sam,’ he shouts. ‘Away through the front a minute.’

  The plastic curtain parts and Cammie takes the stage. ‘Abdi! Nice one! Let you out, did they?’

  ‘Cammie! So, what you been up to, Abdi? Cammie, where’s Sam?’

  ‘Eh . . . he’s away for a slash.’

  ‘You mean a fag?’

  Cammie assumes a look of innocence. ‘I wouldny know, Mr Maloney.’

  ‘Um . . . I have come to say thank you, for your nice cards. Um . . . and to say thank you for . . . for all of this. And to bring you this back.’ I take the freshly laundered white coat from my backpack. ‘I have ironed it so the little tabs on the pockets don’t stick up any more.’

  ‘So you’re no coming back to join us then? Sorry –’ Mr Maloney snaps his gaze to the left of me. ‘Yes, sir. What can I get you?’