by Tony Bassett
SMILE OF THE STOWAWAY
Tony Bassett
Smile of the Stowaway
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2018
Tel: +44(0)1227 472 874 www.theconradpress.com [email protected]
ISBN 978-1-912924-49-3
Copyright © Tony Bassett, 2018
The moral right of Tony Bassett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by:Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.
1
‘Who the hell are you?’ I asked.
He was a brown-skinned man in his early twenties. He had short, black, curly hair. His clothes were tattered and coated in dust. But he was smiling. I shall never forget that. He was smiling.
My wife Anne ran round the back of our motor-home after hearing my shouts. She just stared at this strange apparition of a man crawling out from beneath the vehicle. The man clambered to his feet.
‘He must be a stowaway,’ I thought.
It was just after seven in the evening on July the thirty-first. Three hours before, we had been queuing at the port of Calais to board a Dover-bound ferry. Crowds of asylum seekers had been scurrying around the lorries and cars, seeking any opportunity of a free passage to England.
Somehow this man must have attached himself to the underside of our vehicle and travelled with us on the boat. Then he must have been our secret passenger for the final twenty-mile stage of our journey from Dover back to our village.
No wonder he was smiling. He was alive.
He may have sustained cuts and bruises. He may have been vigorously shaken about and left bathed in sweat. But he had arrived safely at his cherished destination of England.
Anne looked at him with a kind of awe, then turned to me.
‘He’s an asylum seeker!’ she whispered. I thought she was probably right. The man was wearing a red check shirt and black trousers tied round the waist with a piece of white string. On his feet were a pair of cheap brown sandals.
Underneath my shirt, I felt myself tensing my arms. I felt confident that, if he had been aggressive towards us, I could have coped. He was a couple of inches shorter than me and quite lightly built.
‘Please, I’m good man,’ he said in a halting voice. Then he added: ‘Me... Yusuf.’
Anne, who, at thirty-two, is two years younger than me, turned to Yusuf and, speaking slowly, said: ‘Hello, Yusuf. I’m Anne and this is Bob.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Anne, Bob,’ he said. ‘Hello.’ Anne glanced at me and I glanced at her. Then she took me by the arm and led me a few yards away towards the front door of the house.
‘Bob,’ she said in a hushed whisper. ‘We’ve got to call the police.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But let’s at least give him a glass of water. He must have had a dreadful journey.’ She glanced back at me and gave me a couple of quick nods.
I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. It brushed against a small mound of mail that had collected during our three-week cycling holiday. A faint musty smell could be detected since all the windows had been closed during our absence.
I rushed into the kitchen and found a straight pint glass. I ran the cold tap for a while so that the water would be fresh and not stale. Then I walked quickly back into the garden and handed it to Yusuf. Anne gave me a sudden reproachful look as if she had resented me leaving her alone with him - even though it had only been for a minute or so.
As Yusuf gulped down the water with enthusiasm, Anne went inside to put the kettle on. I quickly scooped up the letters lying on the hall carpet and dropped them on the hall table, next to the telephone.
Anne came out of the kitchen. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked in the same hushed whisper.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But we can’t leave him out there in the garden, can we? He looks harmless enough. We’ll make him some food and then find out more about him.’
‘Bob, I don’t really want him in our house, but I suppose you’re right.’
I gave her a nod. I loved Anne completely and I shared her unease but on the other hand I felt a genuine concern for Yusuf already. I went outside into the garden.
I noticed Yusuf was standing in the doorway, watching me.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You can come in. We’ll make you a sandwich.’
But he seemed nervous, anxious about the situation and reluctant to cross the threshold of our home. I found it reassuring he had concern for our feelings. ‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Just come in, please.’
Gingerly, he followed me down the passageway and into our medium-sized kitchen. Anne quickly made him a cheese and tomato sandwich which he ate very quickly while we all sat round the small table. I did not know what to say, so I just said the first - hardly very original - thing I could think of saying: ‘Where are you from?’
He looked puzzled.
‘I mean, what country are you from?’
‘Eritrea,’ he said.
I knew almost nothing about his homeland except it was in East Africa and I had a vague recollection it had been occupied by the Italians at some point in the past. I teach English History at a Canterbury academy, but my historical knowledge is not entirely insular.
‘Anne, darling,’ I said. ‘Could we give him another sandwich? The poor man’s ravenous.’
Anne gave a nod, smiled at me rather awkwardly then furnished Yusuf with a second cheese-and-tomato sandwich. He gobbled it down with as much enthusiasm as the first. All the while he smiled, often saying: ‘Thank you, thank you.’
I did not know what to make of him, but I found myself beginning to warm to him. I knew next to nothing about his journey except that, somehow, he had managed to squeeze under our motor-home and stay there for several hours.
I did not know for certain but assumed he had climbed underneath when we were still in France. He must have been there while our vehicle was in the ferry’s car park, during the crossing and during the thirty-minute journey back to our home from Dover. I couldn’t help but admire his courage. Or was it courage? Perhaps it was simple desperation to get to Britain, where he presumably hoped his dreams of a new life would be fulfilled.
I knew I could not just keep thinking and looking at him. I had to say something.
‘Why have you come to England?’ I asked.
He frowned and replied: ‘Sorry, your English. You speak too fast. I’m not understanding.’
‘Yusuf, why have you risked your life to come to England?’ I asked, speaking slowly but clearly, hoping I was not talking too loudly.
He still looked puzzled. I even wondered whether he understood the word ‘England.’ So, rather foolishly I suppose, I opened my arms wide as if to indicate a large space - hoping that he would understand I was referring to the country in which he had arrived. It seemed to have the desired effect because suddenly he smiled.
‘Work,’ he said. ‘Work, money, new life, Bob. Better than back home.’
I could not help but admire his courage in following his dream and coming to England.
Anne said: ‘I don’t know much about Eritrea but I’m sure there must be lots of poverty there. I imagine the children begging in the streets almost from the moment they can stand up.’
Yusuf made no response to this. I doubted he’d fully understood what my love had said. Then, for no apparent reason
, he reached into his trouser pocket with his right hand and pulled out a photograph. It showed the face of an attractive mixed-race woman who could have been aged between eighteen and twenty-five.
‘Mother,’ he said proudly. ‘In England. I look for her.’
‘Your mother’s in England?’ I asked, astonished. ‘Which part? Which area?’
Little by little, we coaxed out of him that his mother, whose name, Asmarina, was based on the name of the country’s capital and was now aged forty-six, was believed to be living somewhere in England after her relationship with Yusuf’s father broke down. However, Yusuf had no idea of her exact whereabouts. His father remained in Eritrea, caring for his remaining family.
‘You want to find your mother,’ Anne asked. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. I look. I look,’ he said. We noticed tears were forming in his eyes.
‘What’s the matter, Yusuf?’ I asked. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘I’m from poor family,’ he said as if he were about to start crying. ‘We’re eight children. Me, number five. My father work on the farm. My older brother and five sisters work on the farm. It’s hard. Sometimes we’ve no food and go to bed hungry. Two of my sisters need the medicine, but we’ve no money for the doctor. My younger brother Hamid and I knew what we had to do. We had to leave. Two less bellies to feed, and we’ve the hope of getting the money. We’ll send to my father.’
‘Where did you learn English?’ I asked him.
‘I go to school in my village and I watch films sometimes.’
I was relieved his English was better than I imagined.
Yusuf explained haltingly how his family lived in a village just outside Asmara. They evidently had a small-holding and kept several animals - mainly chicken, donkeys and goats. He, Hamid and Yusuf’s friend Yonas had decided in January to leave their homeland and seek their fortune in England.
‘We not telling our father we’re going,’ he revealed. ‘We don’t want to make him cry. We pay the people...’
‘People smugglers?’ suggested Anne.
‘Yes, the people smuggler. We save for them. We pay five hundred dollars.’
‘How did you get that?’ I asked.
‘I work long hours in factory in Asmara,’ he replied. ‘All three, we go on the camel through Sudan. No one’s to know or my family will be suffering. We go by night.’
I interrupted to ask: ‘Where did you want to go to?’
‘Europe,’ he said. ‘But it’s hard journey. Bad people run my country and they have spy. If we’re catched...’
‘You mean caught,’ said Anne.
‘Sorry. If we’re caught, our family will be punished.’
‘That’s right,’ Anne agreed. ‘I think they’ve got a dictatorship in Eritrea. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Yusuf. ‘But the world do nothing. Then we go by bus to Khartoum. We meet smuggler man from my country. We pay him five hundred dollars so we can journey to Libya. This takes many days - sometimes over desert. My friend Yonas is sick but we’ve no doctor. We’re with strangers who cannot help. We now have no money. We hide in a truck of food going to the seaport.’
He fell silent for a moment before going on: ‘Then luck comes. We find a fishing man and he gives us the work. We fish in the light and sleep on the beach by night. This happens for weeks. Then we have money. We must go to the Tripoli. It’s four hundred miles, but we take bus and sometimes we walk.
‘When we arrive, thousands of people are at the seaport. We sleep inside lorry, but policeman finds us. We must pay him money or he takes us to police station. We all have to pay him one hundred dollars. It’s too much, but we’re not having the choice.’
This immediately reminded me of my own brush with the law a year earlier. I was one of ten thousand teachers who marched through Central London calling for better pay and pensions. A friend of mine was struck by a police baton and knocked to the ground. When I tried to help him, I was struck too.
I made an official complaint about the policeman concerned and a belligerent sergeant threatened to charge me with criminal damage. I could completely sympathise with our friend.
Continuing his story, Yusuf said: ‘We must take a boat to a place called Lampedusa and go to Italy. We find the smuggler man from our country. We pay him a thousand dollars.’
I exclaimed: ‘What? Each?’
‘Yes. Yonas pay, Hamid pay and I pay. But the fishing boat’s no good. We have coat to protect but we’re forty and we have children also.’
‘Life jackets,’ Anne whispered to me.
Yusuf put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. He sat like this for nearly a minute. When he removed his hands and looked up at us, he was red-faced and we could see tears streaming down his cheeks. I put my arm round his shoulder to reassure him.
‘We’re in the boat,’ he went on. ‘We’re nearly arriving. We see the land, but the pump’s stopping. The engine’s stopping. The water’s coming. We try to call for people on other boats to help. No one’s coming. The boat’s sinking. Hamid and I find the mast to hold, but Yonas is nowhere. I call for him. I call for him.’ Our guest’s sobbing became louder.
‘He’s gone. Twenty are lost to the sea. Hamid and me, we’re saved. We swim. We find the land and go to the seaport. Then we got on the back of a lorry and travelled to Calais. I think Hamid is still there. We’re crying a lot for Yonas.’
As Yusuf paused again to reflect upon the loss of his friend, I remarked: ‘I know a little more now about what you’ve been through. You’ve obviously had a terrible time.’
I wanted to ask Yusuf how he managed to remain beneath our motor-home for so long without falling onto the road, but I felt certain he would be grateful to have an opportunity to lie down after such a gruelling journey. Also Anne was concerned about a cut on his left forehand. She placed a flannel under a warm tap, washed the wound, applied some ointment and covered it with a plaster.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That should heal fairly quickly. D’you want to come into the living room and sit down?’
‘Thank you, Anne. You kind,’ he replied, as he slowly followed her into the next room. ‘Some people they find a man hiding under car. They get angry. You don’t get angry. You give me food. You give me medicine. You and Bob, you kind.’
‘Thank you, Yusuf,’ Anne replied.
She made him comfortable in one of our living-room armchairs. Within seconds, our guest was asleep.
As we returned to our seats at the kitchen table, Anne suddenly laughed.
‘What is it, darling?’ I said.
‘I wish I’d taken a photograph of the moment Yusuf’s head emerged from under the van,’ said Anne, who was still wearing the red T-shirt and white denim shorts she had travelled home in.
‘How on earth did he manage to cling on for so long?’ I said. ‘He must’ve tied himself to the chassis in some way. It must’ve happened while we were stuck in the traffic queue in Calais or waiting in the car park before we boarded the ferry.’
‘You’ll probably find some rope on the ground when you move the van,’ she agreed. ‘Anyway it’s time to call the police. He’s an illegal immigrant. We’re likely to get into serious trouble if we don’t report him. We don’t want to risk getting into any trouble. Yes, I think we should call the police. Who’s going to make the call - you or me?’
2
In six years of marriage, my wife and I had barely exchanged a cross word. But I sensed that an argument was about to erupt between us over the fate of the stowaway.
‘I don’t think we should call the police,’ I said. ‘At least, not for the moment. Think what he’s been through. He’s travelled more than five thousand miles. He’s been cooped up in Calais with thousands of other migrants. Then somehow - don’t ask me how - he’s attached himself t
o our vehicle. What he did was incredibly dangerous. What if he’d fallen onto the road when we were in fast-moving traffic? He’d more than likely have been killed or seriously injured. Can’t you see how desperate he must be to settle in England? So let’s have a think about it. Let’s... well, let’s at least wait until tomorrow. You see, I think we should give him a chance. We shouldn’t just shop him to the authorities.’
‘What?’ said Anne. ‘We let him stay here?’
‘Why not? It’s only for a short while. He’s had a terrible time. He doesn’t want us to call the police. He wants to work and earn money for his family. He’s obviously come over here to better himself and to look for his mother. His sisters are sick. We should let him stay for a while until he finds work.’
‘I suppose he doesn’t want to claim asylum right now because many of his fellow-countrymen have been turned down,’ said Anne, glumly staring down at the table. ‘Or he’s not telling us the full story.’
‘I feel sorry for the guy. He seems so genuine,’ I said. ‘He wants to help his family. He’s had a nightmare journey. He was nearly drowned and then could’ve so easily been killed on the A2 coming up from Dover. Let’s give him a chance. I know there are a lot of people who don’t have any sympathy for asylum seekers and yes, we have to have some kind of control over immigration. But he’s a human being.’
‘Yes, but he could be a criminal,’ Anne suggested. ‘Don’t you remember the case of the family from the Midlands who invited a homeless man into their home? It was on television. He went mad with a knife. He murdered the woman, who was fifty, and her thirteen-year-old son. Her husband only survived because of life-saving surgery.’
My darling Anne looked distraught and was breathless.
‘They’d fed him,’ she said quickly. ‘They’d given him a job and let him stay with them. Then I can remember, about six years ago, a nurse in the North of England was stabbed to death by an asylum seeker from Iran. Police failed to warn her he’d killed a previous girlfriend.’
‘All right, but I think I’m a fair judge of character. He doesn’t seem to have any of the characteristics of a criminal. I think we should put him up for a few days. But look -- I won’t let him stay unless you agree one hundred per cent. And if he puts a foot out of place, we immediately call the police.’