Back in the home he was kept in the staff room, where Sarah Cohen washed and cleaned his cuts and gave him breakfast. Sarah had heard about the fight on the previous night, which Alem was unwilling to talk about; he just insisted on being moved from the home. Soon Mariam turned up with another young woman.
‘Alem, you poor thing!’ Mariam said. ‘What’s wrong?’
Alem sat in a high-backed chair with his bag at his side. ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he replied, looking out of the window down the drive.
The young woman left the room with the other two members of staff, leaving Mariam and Alem alone.
‘So what’s the matter, Alem? Everyone was really worried about you. Why did you run away?’
‘I hate it here,’ Alem said. ‘Nobody talks to me, everyone is so strange, and people want to fight me. I was beaten up in schools in Africa, do you think I want to be beat up here as well? You know, these people are rubbish. Let me tell you something – they love to fight, yes, but these people are not fighting for land, they are not fighting for justice or their beliefs, these stupid boys are fighting for chips. Why should I stay here with them?’ He said all this while still looking out the window.
Mariam couldn’t help seeing it from Alem’s point of view. ‘Yes, you’re right. I heard about the fight and it was stupid, and it is difficult to make friends here, but you must understand that every boy here is here because they have problems at home, and some of them have no home at all. Everyone’s problems are different. People may seem strange to you, but then you may seem strange to them. You’ve been hurt in one way, they’ve been hurt in another way.’
Alem picked up his bag and put it in his lap. ‘I know, you’re right, but I still don’t like it here.’
‘All right,’ Mariam said, raising her tone. ‘You see that lady I came here with? That’s Sheila, she’s a social worker and she is here to help you. We – the Refugee Council – are a support group really, but she has connections, so she can really help you. What she said she could do is to fix you up with foster parents. She’s been working on it since yesterday and she already has a family for you to see.’
‘What is foster parent?’ Alem asked.
‘Foster parents are people who will take you into their home for a short time or even a long time. It’s not a home like this; you’ll be living in a normal house with a family. Sheila will explain more.’
Mariam called Sheila in. She was well dressed and from the West Country. In her well-spoken way she explained to Alem that the family she had in mind knew about him and were willing to take him on for as long as necessary but that it was important that he would get on with the family.
Things were moving so fast that Alem was finding it hard to keep up, but he was sure that he didn’t want to stay in the children’s home and he could see no other option. He agreed to see the family and within minutes he was being taken from the children’s home.
Alem sat at the back of Mariam’s old Volkswagen and Sheila sat in the front passenger seat. As they drove towards London, Sheila would turn awkwardly in order to speak to Alem. It was mainly small talk until she quietly announced, ‘I’m afraid we have a little bit of bad news, it’s not the end of the world but it means we have to stop off for a while.’
‘What is the matter?’ Alem asked glancing from Sheila to the back of Mariam’s head and back to Sheila.
Mariam stayed silent. Sheila continued, ‘I’m afraid we have to stop off at the Home Office in Croydon for a screening. It’s something we have to do but it shouldn’t take too long.’
Alem was very casual about it but he could sense Sheila’s nervousness. ‘What is screening?’
‘In a screening they take photos of you and they also do other things to make sure they know who you are. The government requires all asylum seekers to go through it now.’
‘It’s not very nice,’ Mariam said, without taking her eyes of the road.
Just after an hour they were at the Home Office in Croydon, and after waiting for half an hour Alem went in for the screening, with Sheila and Mariam closely watching every detail. Alem was photographed, fingerprinted, interviewed and given a number. On the way out he was given a piece of paper, which he had to sign to confirm his number.
Alem was humiliated by the process. As they drove deeper into London, Alem asked if he was now a criminal, to which Mariam replied, ‘The system is not fair. There is no one more innocent than you, but look at the way you’ve been treated. Criminals are all over the world but the big difference between a dictatorship and a democracy is that in a democracy the criminals are voted in.’
There was bitterness in Mariam’s voice, as watching the screening process had brought back memories of her own screening. She had to tell herself to stop talking; she didn’t want to bombard Alem with her personal views. So, they continued the journey with Alem staring down at his hands, which were still stained with the ink from the fingerprinting session.
Chapter 8
˜ The Family’s Fine ˜
They arrived in the late afternoon at a house in an area known as Manor Park to the east of the city. Here he met Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald and Ruth, their only child, who was seventeen years old. Ruth had long black hair that she let hang halfway down her back and a slim face with brown eyes. She worked as a sales assistant in an electrical shop. Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were born in Ireland but Ruth was born in Manor Park.
Mrs Fitzgerald had completely lost her accent and now sounded like an older version of Ruth. As she spoke to Alem, she used a yellow cloth and dusted anything that came within arm’s reach. ‘Nice to see you, dear, we’ve heard a lot about you and you’re welcome here. It’s not much, but it’s ours. We’re not rich, but we don’t starve,’ she said, leading them into the front room.
They occupied a three-bedroom house on Meanly Road where Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald had lived since getting married in 1977 when they were both just eighteen years old.
Alem was surprised at how comfortable he felt with the family. Mrs Fitzgerald told him that they had fostered many children in the past, some of whom were teenagers from various parts of the world. Mr Fitzgerald didn’t say much but they very quickly made Alem feel at home without pampering him or seeming condescending. The room that was to become Alem’s was built as an upstairs extension at the back of the house. It had its own television and a computer, and a large collection of books which immediately caught Alem’s attention. So far he had only seen the inside of museums, restaurants, the hotel, the children’s home and the barn. This was his first look into a British home. It was warm and he liked it.
There was no formal interview. The family sat with Sheila, Mariam and Alem. They just talked, mainly about other boys and girls that the Fitzgeralds had fostered in the past, but also about the area, the local schools and the increase in cars now parked on the road. Alem was offered lots of cups of tea and he refused them all, but he ate every biscuit in sight, while Sheila and Mariam drank every cup of tea that came their way.
As he ate, Alem observed Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald. Mr Fitzgerald had a shaven face but was going bald. He still had traces of an Irish accent and was a short, round sort of a man with a belly that made him look as if he was about to give birth. Mrs Fitzgerald was of a similar height to her husband but without the belly, and was a lot more alert than he was. Mrs Fitzgerald explained that her husband had taken early retirement from his electrician job and spent most of his time whispering to the fifteen fish that he kept in the garden. Mr Fitzgerald sat nodding in agreement saying ‘Yes’ and ‘That’s right’ periodically. It occurred to Alem that if he didn’t know that they were husband and wife, he could have taken them for brother and sister.
After the visit to the house, Sheila and Mariam took Alem to the local Social Services offices, where he was asked the big question: ‘Do you want to stay there?’
‘What choice do I have?’ Alem asked Sheila.
‘Well, there are other families and there are other children’s homes.
We know you don’t like children’s homes, and I have checked out the possibility of you seeing other families, but they would take time to sort out. The good thing about this family is that you can move in tonight; all I have to do is sign some papers. But it’s up to you.’
Alem quickly sensed that things could be much worse and that he was on to a good thing. ‘I want to stay with this family,’ he said.
‘Great,’ Sheila replied. ‘I really do think you will get on fine there. I’ve known the Fitzgeralds for ages and they’ve never let us down yet. And look, Alem, you don’t have to stay a day longer than you want to. If you feel that things aren’t going well, we’ll think again, and we will keep reviewing your situation anyway. If there are any problems, all you have to do is tell me or Mariam, and we will try our best to help you out.’
Alem was happy to have succeeded in getting out of the children’s home, but he couldn’t help thinking about the bigger picture. ‘How long will I be staying here for?’ he asked.
‘No one can say, Alem. We could trace members of your family tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t got any family here,’ Alem interrupted quickly.
‘OK, but your parents could turn up tomorrow, or the fighting could stop tomorrow; we just don’t know. First of all we must make sure that you’re safe and secure, then we will look further into your case.’
Early that evening Alem was taken back to the Fitzgeralds’ household, where he received a lively welcome from Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald but a more cautious one from Ruth.
Alem spent the first two weeks doing nothing but watching television and reading books. Mr Fitzgerald hardly ever left the house, except to go to the shops with Mrs Fitzgerald. Ruth didn’t talk to him much; she spent most of her time in her room listening to Brit-pop bands complaining about love and the system, or patrolling the streets with her girl gang. Alem could sense a deep unhappiness about her.
He would get quietly excited when he walked the streets and saw other Ethiopians and Eritreans. He could identify East Africans easily but they didn’t seem to acknowledge him in any way. It didn’t take long for him to realise that this was not malicious, it was simply the way that people lived in London; everybody was minding their own business. There were many Africans and he would go nowhere and do nothing if he was to have a conversation with every one that he saw.
He was slowly getting used to the food, but he didn’t find it inspiring. It was very much the meat-and-two-veg type, but the Fitzgeralds did experiment sometimes and gravy was always available to make the food wet. He was bought warm clothes with the financial allowance that was given for him. Sheila phoned regularly and visited them twice, and on one occasion she brought Mariam along with her. Alem was doing fine but he did lack one crucial thing, which he brought to the attention of the Fitzgeralds over the remains of an evening meal.
‘Do you think that it’s possible for me to go to school here?’
‘Of course,’ replied Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘In fact, I did have a word with Sheila about that and she said that she had already spoken to the local school and that we should apply when you have settled in. We can go any time, they’re expecting us.’
‘I have settled in,’ Alem said gleefully.
‘You can say that again,’ said Mr Fitzgerald, nodding in the direction of Alem’s empty plate. ‘Now would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Biscuits?’
‘Yes, please.’ Alem had developed a strong liking for biscuits, especially the Bourbon type, but he wasn’t keen on tea.
Ruth picked seedless grapes from a large bunch on the table in the dining room. Alem stretched his arm out, holding the plate of biscuits in her direction.
‘Would you like a biscuit, Ruth?’
‘No,’ she said, staring into the grapes.
He asked another question in an attempt to strike up a conversation. ‘Do you like biscuits?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘In Africa we have very strong thick coffee, do you have that here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ruth replied.
‘What I have noticed in England is that so many people drink tea; everywhere you go, people ask if you want a cup of tea. We have tea back home but here people drink it every five minutes, and tea here is so full of milk.’
‘So what?’ Ruth answered abruptly. She stood up and stormed out of the dining room.
Mrs Fitzgerald shouted, ‘Ruth, you come back here now!’
Ruth walked slowly back into the room. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘You know what’s wrong,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. ‘Why are you speaking to Alem like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that, all rude and abrupt. Have some manners!’
‘I’m not rude and abrupt – anyway I’m not feeling well, I have to go to the bathroom,’ she said as she started to walk out.
Mrs Fitzgerald turned to Alem. ‘I’m sorry, sometimes she gets like this. It’s nothing, just ignore her.’
There were no more such outbursts but the tension was ever present. And there was not much for them to talk about. Ruth was into pop music, Alem was into books; Alem loved buildings, Ruth loved clothes; Alem thought Ruth’s parents were interesting, Ruth thought they were boring; Alem was thirsty for knowledge but Ruth thought that she knew it all.
Despite the lack of communication between him and Ruth, Alem did not have a single bad word to say against the Fitzgerald family – at one point he even tried hard to find faults after watching a television programme on the failures of mixed-race adoption. The programme highlighted case after case of white families that had adopted and fostered black kids and failed because of a lack of understanding or of cultural differences. But Alem was sure the Ruth problem wasn’t about race, and he had come to the conclusion that the Fitzgerald family’s willingness to look after him was more important than their lack of African culture. Their lack of African culture was not their fault.
The day before Alem had to visit the school, Mrs Fitzgerald called Ruth into the living room where Alem was sitting. ‘Ruth, tell Alem about the school! It wasn’t that long ago you were there, I suspect not much has changed.’
Ruth sat on the chair opposite Alem. She sighed and crossed her legs and began to pick things off her jeans that could only have been visible to her eyes. Her mother noticed her actions, as did Alem.
‘Well, the school’s called Great Milford,’ Ruth said as she groomed her jeans, ‘there are more boys than girls, the playground’s big, the library’s big, the classes are big, the headmaster talks a lot and the teachers are not bad, and when I was there they boasted that they spoke about twenty languages.’
‘What!’ Alem said, eyebrows raised high in surprise. ‘The teachers are that good, they speak twenty different languages?’
‘No,’ said Ruth, ‘I didn’t mean it like that. They – the teachers – were boasting that there were about twenty different languages spoken by the pupils of the school.’
‘What else?’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. ‘Tell him more.’
‘The building’s about seventy years old, the teachers are about seventy years old, it’s never had a royal visit, and there’s mice in the kitchen. It’s OK, but I hated it,’ she said.
Ruth was serious. Alem smiled. Mrs Fitzgerald said, ‘I knew I shouldn’t have asked you.’
Early the next morning Alem went to the school with Mrs Fitzgerald to make enquiries about his admission. After an interview with the headmaster, they were told to go home and wait. They were assured that the school would contact them very soon.
That night Alem took longer than usual to fall asleep. He was excited about the prospect of going to school; he missed school and was eager to take up the challenge of learning in an English school. When he had thought enough about that subject, he began to look at the photo and think about his family’s situation. Since moving to Manor Park, he had been so busy getting to know the area and getting to know the Fitzgeralds that he hadn’t had
much time to think about anything else. At quieter moments, when he was not watching television or reading one of the many books in his room, he would be playing CD-ROM games on the computer. He was slow at first but he soon learned how to play games such as Treasure Hunt and Euro Racer. When he was not playing he would be working his way around one of the many educational CD-ROMs.
Alem was amazed at the amount of knowledge that was lying around in his bedroom. When he first moved into the room he formed a plan that he had not told anyone about: he wanted to read every book in his room. But in his overeagerness to learn, he hadn’t finished a single one. Instead, at the side of his bed he had four piles of books, each one with a bookmark inside it, each one unfinished. His ambition had changed. All he wanted to do now was to finish one; he only wondered which book he would finish first. His inability to finish a book was not due to laziness, on the contrary, he wanted to know everything immediately, he couldn’t learn quickly enough. There were times when he would sit on his bed reading one book, and then he would stop to mentally digest something he had just read. He would spot another book sitting on the shelves waiting for a mind, a bookmark would be placed in the book he was reading, that book would join the queue at the side of his bed, and the newly discovered book would be taken off the shelf. But it would only be a matter of time before the new love would be cast aside, and Alem would go on another literary adventure.
As he lay on his bed in the darkness, he thought about what was happening back home. He wondered how his parents were and what was happening to his friend Dawit back in Ethiopia. Although people knew Alem’s story, no one really talked about the war back home; London was like another world. Until now life here had been relatively easy; he had had a scrap in the children’s home, he couldn’t quite understand Ruth, he hated the cold, but he hadn’t seen a gun or heard any aircraft fire. He knew a little about the British Empire, still he couldn’t understand how Britain had gained its reputation for being a strong military power because he hadn’t seen a single soldier on its streets. Where were these soldiers? He might not have put great effort into keeping up with what was happening with the war back home but not a day passed without him thinking about his parents. It was hard trying to remember his parents and forget the war at the same time.
Refugee Boy Page 6