More Than Love Letters

by Rosy Thornton

  So totter I did, in the direction of the café at the Corn Exchange which was her suggested venue for our grand-avuncular tryst. The pavements were pretty crowded, by East Anglian standards, at that time of day, and as we walked side by side through the semi-throng it would have been the most natural thing in the world (according to a persistent voice in my head) to take hold of her hand, or at least to tuck a gently steering palm just beneath her elbow. Of course I didn’t, but she did move very close to me a couple of times, to avoid on-coming pedestrians, so that there was light shoulder-bumping (she is tall, so we are almost of a height) and I could almost smell her hair. I even caught myself wishing it would rain so that she would have to lean in close under my umbrella – until I remembered that I don’t possess an umbrella, and that I am not Jo’s professor from Good Wives.

  I poured, as any self-respecting great-uncle would. Some of what I had been hoping was girlish shyness but feared was deference, which had so far hung around her, evaporated into the steam as she hugged her cup close to her chin with both hands, and she began to talk. Really talk, quietly, but with a passion which set the air between us zinging, about the Albanian girl, Nasreen, and what she has come away from. I was mesmerised, not so much by what she was saying – although I genuinely did want to listen, and to understand and share her concern – but by the sheer ardour which trembled in her voice and shone from her eyes. I found myself considering their colour again – they really do repay careful study. They have a chameleon quality. Sometimes they seem the palest of greys, like the soft underneath of a tabby kitten, but in the café, through the steam from her teacup, they were pure, fathomless twilight. My God, Mike, listen to me – see how far gone I am! Anyway, I tell you this whole toe-curlingly embarrassing tale in order to bring you some way towards understanding what I did next, idiot that I am. She was leaning forward over the table in her earnest desire to make me comprehend the extent of Nasreen’s suffering and valour, and her hair, which was loose and tumbling like a curtain at one side of her face, looked in imminent danger of falling in between me and one of those spell-binding eyes. And before I even knew what I was doing, I had reached out, and taken hold of a thick curling strand, and was brushing it back from her cheek in the direction of her ear – behind which, I suppose (had I thought this through), I would have tucked it.

  The recoil was instant, and unmistakable. It wasn’t just surprise, or awkwardness, it was quite decided – a door shutting in my face. She went on talking, but her voice had slid into neutral, and her eyes dipped, so that instead of that glorious full beam I was getting half-lids (fringed, I have to say, with the densest profusion of not-quite-black lashes). Suddenly I knew she couldn’t wait to get away from me.

  And then it got worse. It was when she mentioned Durrës, and I suddenly realised, Nasreen is from Albania. I mean, she’s not just an Albanian, she’s an Albanian Albanian. I’d always assumed she was from Kosovo (I’ve no idea why) – but of course Albania is on The List! So I had to break it to Margaret: that this created a strong presumption that there could be no ground for an asylum claim, that Albania is deemed to be a ‘safe’ country. All her earlier passion returned then in a blaze of righteous anger, directed at a government (and by association, any elected member of the governing party) which was so blind as not to recognise other forms of oppression than political tyranny by the state. All I could do was sit and be buffeted by the blast, and watch the wreck of my pretensions crumbling before me.

  Even so, I just wanted to stay and stare at her indignant, unattainable face until they threw us out on the pavement. I knew I couldn’t, and I told her that I had to get back to London tonight for a division – and then hated myself because it sounded such a pompous line, me the big-shot politician, just when politicians were to her the lowest form of pond-life.

  HELP!

  Richard.

  Richard Slater (Labour)

  Member of Parliament for Ipswich

  From: Michael Carragan

  [mmcarragan@hc.parliament.uk]

  Sent: 16/5/05 22:19

  To: Richard Slater [rpslater@hc.parliament.uk]

  And this is the madwoman who sent you the anthrax, right? You’ve certainly got it bad, Richard old son . . . Stay where you are. I’ve got a bottle of single malt and I’m coming straight over.

  Michael.

  Michael Carragan (Labour)

  Member of Parliament for West Bromwich West

  From: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Sent: 16/5/05 22:36

  To: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Dear Becs,

  I’ve got to tell you the latest about Nasreen’s case. I’m so enraged about it I can hardly think about anything else! It all started off so well. You know we were meeting Mr Nicholls from the housing department? I mean Richard Slater and I, we were going to see him together. Well, the meeting went very smoothly – Mr Nicholls said he was happy for Nasreen to stay with us and receive her funding. Richard was brilliant – he seemed to know Mr Nicholls quite well and said all the right things. All I had to do was sit there and nod, really. And then when we came out Richard suggested we go and have a cup of tea, so sweet of him I thought, and also sort of businesslike. We went to the café at the Corn Exchange, and it was funny walking through the streets with him – I mean, me, walking through Ipswich with the town’s MP! I kept wondering if people recognised him, from the TV and the papers.

  It was in the café that everything went wrong. The first thing was, I was telling Richard about Nasreen’s situation, all about Gjergj, and her brothers’ threats I mean, and suddenly he put his hand out and touched my hair. I suppose it must have been in his way or something. And it was awful because suddenly all I could think of was those head-lice, and how I still hadn’t had a go at them with the tea tree oil, so of course I jerked my head backwards really sharply – I am sure he thought I was completely mad. And I couldn’t rid myself of the creeping fear that maybe he had actually seen something moving in there, and that is why he was touching my hair, to try to flick it out, thinking it was a little spider or something. God, Becs, I can’t tell you how mortifying it was! Up until that point, I think I could quite happily have sat there babbling on all evening, but now all I wanted was to be out of there in order to purge both my embarrassment and any uninvited insect life. I just couldn’t meet his eye any more. I tried to cover up the embarrassment by telling him some more about Nasreen, but all at once he wasn’t so much Richard, more Mr Slater MP again, and you could tell he was offended, because he went all sort of distant in his replies.

  And then . . . well, I suppose I hadn’t explained things properly before, but he suddenly asked if Nasreen is really from Albania, not a Kosovo Albanian – and, oh, Becs, it’s awful! It turns out that Albania is on a statutory list of so-called ‘safe’ countries which the Home Office keeps, and if you are from a country on the list you have almost no chance of being granted asylum, because you are deemed not to be at risk of persecution. It’s completely crazy! Just because the Albanian government isn’t actually locking up dissidents, and there is no civil war or genocide going on there, Nasreen is presumed to be safe to go back, even though her family are threatening to beat or kill her if she ever sees Gjergj again, and quite possibly even if she doesn’t. It’s as if there is only one kind of oppression that counts, and that is oppression by the state. But what about women’s oppression? What about dowry killings in India, a country which has been judged to be ‘safe’ since January? (I looked up all this stuff on the internet when I got home. First thing I did, after I’d washed my hair with tea tree oil.) Are those women safe? Is Nasreen really safe? It makes me so angry!

  I’m afraid I may have given Richard rather an earful – you know what I’m like when I get going. He seemed to take it quite well, but afterwards I was left feeling vaguely uncomfortable – I mean, it’s hardly his fault how international human rights instruments have defined entitlement to refugee status. And when he
left, to go back to the House – he seems terribly dedicated – I remembered that I hadn’t really properly said thank you to him for sorting out Nasreen’s housing situation (even if it does turn out to be short-lived). I found myself wishing that he was still there so I could thank him and, rather more obscurely, that he would touch my hair again.

  You were having dinner with D and E at the weekend, weren’t you? What happened?

  Love and hugs,

  Margaret xx

  From: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Sent: 16/5/05 22:59

  To: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Hi, Margaret – what a bummer about Nasreen and this stupid rule about Albania. I’d like to see the Home Office official who made the list go and live in Albania and face a good going over.

  Yes, Declan, Elliot and I all had dinner at Declan’s flat on Saturday night. Declan did his signature dish of chicken vindaloo (well, actually, it’s his only dish), and he thoughtfully provided me with a large bowl of yogurt to dilute the heat with, on account of my lacking the Y chromosome and therefore not particularly enjoying having the roof of my mouth napalmed. I should have seen the warning signs when Elliot asked Declan if there was any chilli pickle to go with it. Boys competing over curry heat endurance levels is the equivalent of rutting stags locking antlers over the hapless hind at the dinner table. I was breathing pure testosterone fumes. And indeed, when Elliot and I were washing up at the end of the night while Declan was checking on Zoe, he got quite unnecessarily close and flicked me playfully on the bum with the tea cloth. And the worst of it was, I quite liked that I could feel the heat of the vindaloo on his breath . . . But Declan is so great, he really is! I am a weak and wicked woman, and will be going straight to hell.

  But, Margaret, hon, this whole Richard hair-touching thing – what was that all about? Because I’m really not sure it comes under the heading of expected behaviour from an MP towards a constituent, like shaking hands a lot, or kissing babies. How did he touch it exactly?

  Big hugs,

  Becs xx

  From: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Sent: 16/5/05 23:03

  To: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  I don’t know, he just reached out and touched it. Does it matter? At least I am not teetering on the brink of the stygian abyss.

  Margaret xxx

  HANSARD HOUSE OF COMMONS DEBATES

  Wednesday 18 May 2005

  [Mr Speaker in the Chair]

  Oral Answers to Questions

  ENVIRONMENT, FOOD AND RURAL AFFAIRS

  Climate Change

  Mr Richard Slater (Ipswich) (Lab): First of all, may I say how delighted I am that the government has taken the necessary steps to implement the EU Emissions Trading Directive. Could the Secretary of State please comment upon the progress currently being made towards the renewable energy target of 10 per cent by 2010?

  The Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Ms Sandra Harcourt): Substantial moves have already been made towards achievement of the 10 per cent target. By the end of 2005, for example, Britain will have over five hundred offshore windmills generating clean, renewable electricity. The government is leading the way by effecting changes on its own estate. The target (set in 2001) of 5 per cent renewable energy use by government departments by March 2003 has already been met, and good progress is being made towards achieving the target of 10 per cent by 2008.

  Mr Slater: I thank my honourable friend for that reply. But is it likely that the national target of 10 per cent energy use from renewable sources by 2010 is going to be met?

  Ms Harcourt: Um . . . I am pleased to report to the House that three government departments have so far set an excellent example by developing on-site Combined Heat and Power (or CHP) systems, to meet 100 per cent of their own space heating needs.

  Mr Slater: Well, defra certainly generates plenty of hot air . . .

  Ms Harcourt: A number of further inland sites for wind farms are also under consideration, subject to the necessary public consultations with local residents. Additional government funding is also being directed towards research into wave power and geo-thermal energy sources.

  Mr Slater: I am delighted to hear about these initiatives, but aren’t the results likely to be long term? Don’t we need to be reducing our dependence upon fossil fuels rather more quickly if we are to meet our Kyoto obligations?

  Mr Colin Harrison (Epsom) (Con): Didn’t I read something about an alternative fuel oil made out of sugar-beet? Maybe the honourable member for Ipswich should be putting that in his car.

  [Laughter]

  Food Labelling

  Mr Christopher Parker (Wolverhampton North) (Lab): Could the Secretary of State please comment upon stories in the press that under new EU regulations, all prepackaged pizzas (other than those made in Italy) are required to be labelled as dairy-topped tomato dough roundels?

  WITCH

  Women of Ipswich Together Combating Homelessness

  Extract from minutes of meeting at Margaret’s house, 19 May 2005, 8 p.m.

  News of residents

  There was a long discussion about Helen, who has been feeling increasingly desperate, and has suggested that she may need a full-time hospital admission for a while, rather than the current arrangement of weekend respite stays. Margaret pointed out that it is bedtimes that are the worst, which is why she finds it difficult to cope in Witch House, given the staffing hours. Alison came up with a plan whereby members of the support group would, at least for a short trial period, provide more than the usual emergency telephone cover, and would take turns to go out to Witch House to sit with Helen for an hour each weekday evening at around 10.30 p.m., to help her get to sleep. This was agreed, and Alison volunteered to draw up a rota.

  News of former residents still receiving support

  We were sorry to hear that Marianne has lost her job at the newsagent’s. When Mrs Bhandari noticed that her concentration had been dipping after breaks, Marianne admitted that she had been sniffing Tippex in the storeroom. Emily and Pat T. have been trying to find a place for her on another rehab scheme.

  Any other business

  Mrs Robertson from number 27 attended a house meeting last week, and afterwards Pat T. and Emily explained to her something about the project. She seemed a little mollified about noise and nuisance in the street, and has offered to lend Carole her dry foam carpet cleaner.

  42 Gledhill Street

  Ipswich

  22 May 2005

  Dearest Pete,

  Another eventful week to report on here! First Margaret had that meeting with the MP and the man from the council as well, and I think that went OK, except that she then found out that poor Nasreen hasn’t much hope of being allowed to stay in England, because of where she comes from. Apparently Albania isn’t somewhere that we take refugees from any more. Poor Margaret took it very hard – she was talking about it half the evening, I don’t think she could quite believe it. And it does seem very hard, to send the poor girl back into a situation like that, after she’s had the courage to get away: she’s sure to be punished for it, if she tries to go back home. Anyway, that was Monday, so on Tuesday I bought us both a nice piece of sirloin steak each for supper, as a cheer-up for Margaret (over ten pounds they cost me). I did chips and all the trimmings, grilled mushrooms and halved tomatoes – just the way you like it, Petey – and she seemed quite touched.

  Then on Thursday Margaret’s hostel support group had their meeting here. I gave them the sitting room, and came to sit and read in the kitchen, and then at half past nine I took them in some tea and a packet of Hobnobs, and stayed to chat a bit. They really do seem very nice ladies, and of course I had heard a lot about them all from Margaret. It felt as though I knew them already! Over the tea, one of them, Persephone (I think that’s how you spell it, but you say it as if it ended with a y) was talking about starting some evening classes in herbalism, and you kno
w me and all my herbs in the pots out the back, so I said that sounded interesting. And do you know, she’s given me the details and we are going to start the classes together! I’ve sometimes thought about doing some classes, but I’ve never felt quite brave enough on my own somehow, and gardening does sound like my sort of thing, don’t you think? It’ll be every Tuesday at seven thirty.