Telegram Home

by Kirsten McKenzie

  ‘You have to wait your turn,’ yelled a voice from the counter.

  Samer stood back, pushing to the front would achieve nothing. His time would come. Clamouring for attention within an angry crowd wouldn’t bring his goods back and he didn’t need to attract any attention. When a crowd was angry, anyone out of place could find themselves a target for that anger, and in a matter of seconds the crowd could morph into a hysterical mob, their anger and fear fuelling the situation.

  The time of the appointment the agent had suggested in his telegram now seemed sensible. The crowd in the shipping office never grew any smaller, and Samer’s back ached from the hard wooden bench he’d occupied for the better part of two hours. His ears hurt from the snarls of angry men around him, the tobacco smoke as vile as the heavy scent of fire each man had tramped into the room. Anger has its own scent, which mingled with the sweat, the ash and the tobacco, turning Samer’s queasy stomach. He’d almost given up, the desire for fresh air overwhelming, when a space appeared to the side of him and the familiar face of his agent beckoned him forward.

  Samer wasted no time, springing from his seat, he slipped through the partially opened door into the sweet confines of a long corridor.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Samer, pumping the hand of the weary agent.

  ‘Don’t know if I can add anything else to what’s in the papers,’ his agent said, sliding into a chair behind a desk obscured by folders.

  Samer took a seat opposite and waited.

  ‘It has destroyed everything of yours, and those of everyone of those poor souls out there,’ the agent said, pulling Samer’s manifest from the pile and leafing through the stapled pages.

  ‘There is no blame on your shoulders,’ Samer reassured the man, who looked on the brink of a breakdown. ‘There is nothing I can do, and I only came because I have a question I need answered.’

  ‘Just the one?’ laughed the agent, running his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in ruins, like the warehouse outside.

  ‘The paper had a photograph on the front-’

  ‘Peculiar timing the photographer being there then wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well… I hadn’t considered that aspect, but it’s more the man in the photograph-’

  ‘Meredith,’ spat the agent. ‘Rumour has it they’ve fired him, because of the poor sod who died in the fire.’

  ‘Someone died?’

  ‘Yeah, they don’t know who yet. Still going through the employment lists. No one should have been inside. But Meredith was in there… Investigating a smuggling case…’

  Samer stood up and moved to the window. There wasn’t much to see, the port carried on, cargo still needed loading and unloading. Life went on.

  ‘I don’t know anything about smuggling. Will they question him?’

  ‘They’d rather let him go than invite any scandal to taint the port, that’s the talk.’

  Samer swore under his breath, which said far more than actual words.

  ‘Some of us heard about his vendetta towards you and Mr Williams. And I’m not suggesting that he burnt the place down in retaliation, but others have suggested it. I mention it to warn you in case the papers ask questions. You know how they are, demons from hell some of them.’

  ‘They can be, but that can also work on our behalf,’ Samer replied, pleased that there was no reference to the smuggling accusation, replaced instead by a far more salacious rumour.

  ‘So you want the papers involved then?’ the agent asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I think the photographer is the best place to start, don’t you? Perhaps invite him to take photographs, for insurance purposes. Williams and Kurdi will pay his fee.’

  ‘Right, right, I’ll send a boy to track him down. Excellent idea. Williams and Kurdi. But what of Williams and Ye, do I mention your business partner?’

  ‘No need to quibble over names, we are the same company. Send any bills to my hotel for settlement. I am here for the duration of the Christmas season. And send word of any more you hear about Meredith.’

  The agent scratched notes in his file and escorted Samer back through the throng the waiting room. No one paid them any heed, a foreigner and a clerk, nobody of any importance.

  Samer stood by the gates to wait for a cab and gazed at the destructive force wrought by the fire. He whispered a short prayer for the poor innocent who had lost his life, before relinquishing his mind to the fear that someone had discovered their smuggling, and Meredith of all people. Samer had warned Robert. Like the opium, it was something they’d fought over, and it was the reason Robert was so insistent about going to India to secure new revenue streams. Their business relationship was unravelling, and perhaps their personal one too.

  The Mosque

  Samer spent no more time thinking about Meredith and his interest in him. There was a mountain of work to do to recover the costs of the lost cargo, and everything associated with that. So he retired to his rooms at the North Western Hotel and fired off telegrams to the London office, to Robert in India, and to their insurance company. He drafted letters and checked manifests, several times over, and despite the burden on his shoulders, all he could think about was that this could wait — he had an important social engagement to attend.

  Samer had no trouble making his way through the crowd outside the white-marbled walls of the impressive building the bundled-up onlookers moving aside for the exotic-looking man amongst them. Strangers on the streets was common in London, less so in Liverpool, despite its bustling industry and shipping movements.

  Samer knocked on the door, conscious of the throng watching his every move. A harried face peered out.

  ‘As-salamu alaykum. I’m Samer Kurdi,’ he said before the face at the door could brush him off.

  ‘We’re not ready yet, but soon, soon.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  The door opened a fraction further, the man appraising Samer, taking in the cut of his cloth and the colour of his skin. With no further words he ushered Samer inside, where the chorus of a well known Christian hymn washed over him and added to his confusion as he took in the Christmas decorations adorning the interior of the building and the puzzling mashup of the two faiths.

  ‘Welcome, I am Abdullah Quilliam. You have come at an auspicious time, we are preparing our first Christmas breakfast. The doors will soon open to the city’s poor, and we will feed them on this special day. You are welcome to help.’

  Samer stared at his host, an Englishman through and through, albeit sporting an impressive beard and wearing a taqiyah, an Islamic hat. The name Abdullah was not one he would have associated with the man.

  ‘Thank you allowing me in. I am Samer Kurdi. Here from London on business, and to be honest, out of curiosity.’

  ‘Curiosity is a fine trait, Mr. Kurdi. You will find a warm welcome at Brougham Terrace. Come through to the warmth. The food is almost ready.’

  Samer followed Quilliam through an ornate plaster archway decorated in the Moroccan style into a room warmed by a roaring fire in a cast iron fireplace. Ladies bustled about, slicing slabs of seed loaf and straightening plates of sandwiches and good sized hunks of meat. A young woman, her head covered, pushed a mug of tea into his hands before hurrying away. A small choir closed their hymn books as their rehearsal ended. The organist turned to address the choristers — one of whom was her spitting image, except the organ player wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. For a moment his mind flicked back to The Crescent article, England’s only Islamic newspaper. Were they the sisters from the article he’d read? Englishwomen who had converted to Islam?

  Samer sipped his tea. Coffee was his preference, strong Arabic coffee served with honey, but it was almost impossible to source the stuff, so had become accustomed to the insipid tea the English preferred. Just as he found the courage to approach the woman at the organ, the doors opened and the Brougham Terrace house surged with the poor and under privileged. Before he knew what had happened, he was pouring hot drinks for the visit
ors and asking hungry orphans if they wanted sugar with their tea. The stream of humanity seemed endless and yet the tea never ran out. Huge industrial copper teapots, filled with boiling water, appeared magically at his elbow. And he plopped teaspoon after teaspoon of gritty sugar into the mugs. The whole experience even more surreal as the choir raised its collective voice and sang Christmas themed hymns to entertain the guests. And around him, the wretched and the destitute, eyes wide with wonder, stood talking to other Muslims and among each other, in easy comfort. This simple act of charity, with no strings attached, carried more weight that any efforts to convert or persecute. Compassion and philanthropy, or rather, faith, hope, and love.

  ‘The children like you,’ said a quiet voice at his shoulder.

  Samer tuned to see the organist, now wearing an apron, taking her turn to serve the orphans who would soon live at the Brougham Terrace, in an orphanage attached to the mosque, and funded by Quilliam and his supporters.

  The scarf covering her hair highlighted her dark eyes and flawless skin, and Samer blushed like a schoolboy in her presence.

  ‘They are the least judgemental,’ Samer replied. ‘You played beautifully before. But the choice of hymns…’

  ‘We chose them to make our guests more at ease. We want to be part of the community and it would be impossible to break down prejudices if no one bent a little to fit,’ she replied.

  ‘Wise words,’ Samer said.

  ‘Were you bothered by the music?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. Music speaks a thousand different languages, and yet everyone understands it, regardless of their faith. These people,’ he said, gesturing to the strangers filling the room, ‘They are here out of curiosity, and you have made their transition through your doors an easy one. Maybe they’ll come back, perhaps they won’t. But they will carry this joyous occasion in their hearts. There isn’t enough gold in the world to replicate this moment.’

  She looked at him and smiled, before returning to the copper pot of tea and refilling the mugs.

  Samer lost track of time, measuring his day in increments of smiles and stolen glances. He played parlour games with children ravenous for attention, and a raucous game of Blind-man Buff entertained both the watching adults and the delighted children, with Samer careering into furniture and the audience.

  The melodic strains of the hymn There’s A Friend For Little Children emerged from the organ, and the children’s pure voices took up the song as they gathered around the organ. The adults laid down their mugs and plates, their physical hunger sated and their faith assured, and they too gathered behind the children, lending their voices to the praise of a familiar god. And when they reached the line ‘There’s a home for little children,’ everyone smiled at Abdullah Quilliam, the selfless benefactor, and a saviour of sorts to Liverpool’s orphans.

  The crowd began to disperse but Samer stayed behind hoping there’d be a moment to talk further with the organist, but there was no sign of her. So it was with some reluctance he found himself pressed into washing a never ending supply of used crockery. How this transpired was beyond him, but the mindless scrubbing of cake crumps and smears of grease was cathartic, allowing his mind to wander.

  ‘I didn’t expect to meet you at the sink, Mr Kurdi,’ came a familiar voice.

  Samer found Abdullah Quilliam grinning at him from behind a gigantic black beard.

  ‘It was the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality.’

  ‘Come, leave that to the ladies. There are some gentlemen wanting to meet you,’ Quilliam said, proffering a hand towel.

  Perplexed, Samer dried his hands and retrieved his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, before following Quilliam upstairs to a well appointed study, the lingering fresh paint smell overpowering.

  Four men filled the chairs in the study, none of them familiar to Samer. Quilliam made the introductions and cigars were lit, disguising the paint odour but accentuating the stench of business. That they were conducting business on Christmas Day was a surprise, but he was a businessman at heart, and business was why he was in Liverpool.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming to Brougham Terrace today, the most auspicious of days. Today marks the start of a wonderful relationship between men of faith and the people of Liverpool. We meet here as brothers, and as loyal subjects to the Queen. Mr Kurdi, it is with great joy that we receive you under our roof. We had received word that you had come to Liverpool in response to our advertisement in my paper, The Crescent-’

  Samer started to interject.

  ‘We understand the confusion, but trust that you are not here under any false pretences, although I must make it clear from the outset, my role in this endeavour is only one of guidance in all things legal, I have no other part to play. These gentlemen will enlighten you as to our lofty aims and your hopeful involvement. And with that, I’ll leave you to discuss the finer details. I need to return to the remaining guests downstairs.’

  ‘I feel that I am at a disadvantage,’ Samer announced, pouring himself a coffee, uncomfortable under the gaze of the four strangers, in a room full of pungent cigar smoke. ‘You know who I am, but I do not know any of you, nor why you’d want to meet with me?’

  ‘Not at all. You are looking for a business opportunity, and we are seeking an established business partner. The perfect confluence of wants and needs,’ said the man in the gold-rimmed glasses opposite him.

  ‘We have need of a legitimate importer,’ elaborated a lanky gentleman seated to Samer’s right.

  ‘Williams and Kurdi Limited have been trading for twenty years now. We are importers of goods from around the world, but I guess you knew that, or I wouldn’t be here today?’ Samer surmised.

  ‘Correct,’ replied the portly gentleman with a beard as rotund as his stomach.

  The fourth man nodded, his attention more on his pipe that the conversation.

  ‘We heard of your loss at the port-’

  ‘A terrible affair-’

  ‘And to think they suspect one of Her Majesty’s employees of having started it-’

  ‘A shock. It could have spread to the other warehouses, affecting any one of us.’

  The gentlemen went to great pains to commiserate with Samer, sending tiny alarm bells ringing, although the reason for his unease was unclear.

  ‘I don’t know how the fire started, but yes, we lost the cargo from our last shipment. Our insurance company will recompense us for our loss, but the damage to our business is frustrating,’ Samer responded, holding his cards close to his chest. He didn’t know these people, or what they wanted from him. With everything in life, there was a catch.

  ‘You have other shipments arriving soon though, yes?’ asked the bespectacled man, removing his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief.

  Samer had a vague idea that there were two more shipments arriving in Liverpool in January. And at least two others coming into London. How these men knew, was a worry.

  ‘We have some goods we need shipped to England-’

  ‘Goods which need to come in quietly,’ interrupted the lanky man, his face as long as his body, his fingers steepled under his pronounced chin.

  Samer’s body stilled, and he fancied he could hear his heartbeat above the red flush infusing his cheeks. This happens once you bend the law — one lie leads to another, and another, until the web becomes so tangled that other spiders, bigger spiders, step out of the shadows to devour you.

  ‘I think you are asking the wrong man,’ Samer said.

  ‘Oh, we have it on good authority that you are the perfect company. It isn’t much that we ask, one shipment, brought here into Liverpool, unlisted on your manifest, but stored in a new warehouse we will make available for your sole use, although we will have a key.’

  ‘Our relationship will be discreet.’

  Samer stood up, shrugging off his cloak of civility, ‘You have the wrong man. I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance. Good night, gentlemen.’

  ‘We
’ll be in touch,’ called out the lanky gentleman, his false smile as skinny as his frame and his blue eyes just as narrow.

  Samer stumbled down the stairs, desperate to leave the taint of their indecent proposal behind him, and careened into the woman in the headscarf.

  Ooompf

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ Samer said, clutching his head where he’d knocked it against hers.

  The woman, who’d sunk to the ground holding her own head, laughed, her headscarf askew, sitting amongst the tray of leftovers littering the tiled floor.

  Samer forgot his own pain as he reached down to help her stand. And together they gathered up the ruined cakes and sandwiches, laughing at the absurdity of their clash, apologies falling from his lips.

  ‘I will forgive you if you take me to tea,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s an honour, but how can I take you to tea when I don’t even know your name?’

  ‘My name is Sally Glynn.’

  ‘Miss Glynn, I shall collect you tomorrow for afternoon tea,’ Samer said, his earlier misgivings about the gentlemen upstairs smothered by the look in Sally’s eyes.

  ‘You will escort both my sister and I,’ Sally replied smiling.

  ‘Till tomorrow,’ said Samer.

  The crowd had dispersed and Samer wasted no time hailing a cab to ferry him back to his hotel, unaware that he was being watched from the windows above, and from the blackest of shadows across the street. Even if he had noticed his audience, he would have been hard pressed to state which one of them concerned him more.

  The Lunch

  ‘Oi, where’s the fire?’ a vagabond laughed as Meredith scuttled from his lodgings, his bag clasped to his chest.

  Meredith ignored him. Let him have his fun, the man was a nobody. But still his laughs haunted Meredith as he hurried down the freezing street, chilling him more than the arctic wind sweeping through the city.