Red Leaves

by Sita Brahmachari

  ‘The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.’

  Maya Angelou, All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Q & A with Sita Brahmachari

  Acknowledgements

  Amnesty International

  ‘Here I go, up, up above the elder trees to my bird’s-eye view. Leaves flying everywhere, red leaves full of passion and anger and sadness. Time to light the fires. The year’s turning and the wood’s stirring. Time to unravel the vine back through time.’ Elder, the ancient homeless woman shook a branch and a shower of leaves rained down. She laughed and threw her arms around wildly as if stirring up a storm.

  Aisha placed her key in the lock.

  ‘Sure you can’t come back to mine? Mum’s cooking,’ Muna asked as she leaned on the garden wall.

  ‘Not today. Liliana wants me home. She says there’s something she has to talk to me about.’

  The girls switched to speaking in Somali, chatted for a while and parted with a giggle.

  Liliana winced as the door clicked closed.

  ‘Hi,’ Aisha called to her breezily and walked straight through to her bedroom.

  ‘Hi love!’ Liliana sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by sketching pencils, paper, scissors, glue and a collection of half-drunk cups of coffee. Her hands shook slightly as she smoothed another photo into her foster daughter’s scrapbook. Be rational, be calm, it’s only a first meeting, Liliana comforted herself, but there was nothing rational about the way she felt for Aisha. She set aside the glue and began drawing a detailed pattern of musical notes around the border of the page, stalling again. Perhaps she should have let Aisha’s social worker give her this news.

  Liliana imagined that she was standing with Aisha on a seafront on a cloudless day; Aisha and everyone around looked happy and settled while she alone gaped in horror as a giant wave threatened to engulf them. It’s natural to feel like this, Liliana consoled herself, for she had been bonded to Aisha since the very first day when the little girl with the saddest eyes in the world had tiptoed through her front door, peering in as if she feared that the flat might explode at any moment.

  Liliana clasped her hands together to still them.

  ‘Aisha, come and see! I’ve added some new photos of you and Muna with your band.’

  ‘What band?’ Aisha laughed, stepping into the kitchen and peering over Liliana’s shoulder. ‘Singing together once at school doesn’t exactly make us into a group!’

  ‘Well, you should be. You were by far the best.’

  ‘You would say that!’

  ‘Because it’s true!’ Liliana shrugged, and smiled to herself as she turned the pages of Aisha’s life story book – Liliana had taken to calling it a ‘story book’ and sometimes ‘a scrapbook’, because somehow these names seemed less daunting. Every child she had cared for had one. It was a personal history in words and pictures, made so that they, and future carers, could chart their life’s journey, record progress and give the children a joined-up sense of their own history.

  Some foster-carers she knew didn’t bother too much with them, but Liliana always felt that making sure these little details were filled in was the very least that she could do for the children she welcomed into her home.

  Aisha’s earliest drawings in the book were from the time when she had refused to speak. There was one of Aisha as a baby curled up in a foetal position inside a giant image of her mother. That always choked Liliana up the most. When she had first seen it she’d cried. Who could blame the child for wanting to crawl back inside her mother and be born all over again? Aisha’s ‘life story’ already looked too long and complicated. It was hard to believe that she was not yet even thirteen.

  Aisha’s description of leaving Somalia and travelling to Britain had broken Liliana’s heart. At just ten years old she had managed to convince the authorities that she was twelve. Liliana would never forget the day that the little girl had finally confided in her.

  ‘“It will go better for you if you pretend you are a few years older.” That’s what the guide said to me.’

  ‘And how did you pretend to be older?’ Liliana asked.

  ‘Like this!’ Aisha stood taller and made her face into a kind of expressionless mask that no clouds of emotion could penetrate.

  It had taken a long time before she let down her guard and removed that mask.

  Now Liliana studied Aisha’s smiling face. She was in awe of how far her foster-daughter had come from those painful early days. ‘Sure you don’t want to start writing in this yourself now?’

  Aisha shook her head.

  If I were to write a life story book for myself, I would make so many things different, she thought. No matter how pretty Liliana tried to make the book, with all her decorations it was a constant reminder to Aisha of all the times that she had been uprooted and torn away from the people she loved.

  Liliana glanced at her foster-daughter as she stuck down the last photos of Aisha’s ‘band’ then wrote their names underneath – Aisha, Muna, Somaya, Mariam – and closed the book. This felt like the right moment to raise the subject.

  ‘Can I see?’ Aisha asked, leaning over Liliana.

  ‘Of course! It’s your story!’

  Liliana gently handed the book to Aisha. Maybe she could talk to her as they read over the pages together.

  It had been a while since Aisha had really looked at the book, but now she noticed how Lili
ana had adorned their story so carefully, sticking in little mementos and memories of times they had shared. In fact, Aisha now realized Liliana was working her way backwards through the book, adding her own paintings, sketches and swatches of material from the clothes that Aisha had been wearing in a particular photo on a particular day. Liliana rarely threw anything away. These little scraps of material were the sorts of details that transported you back.

  Aisha reached out to touch the piece of red velvet skirt that she remembered wearing, soft and comforting against her skin, and Liliana patted the cushion on the chair next to her. Aisha sat down and Liliana budged up closer so that they now sat shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘I can’t believe that I’ve been here for two and a half years already.’ Aisha flicked back to the formal, typed entries from before she had come to live here and felt relieved that Liliana had not been tempted to decorate these stark pages. Nothing could be added to that time to make it feel better, she thought as she read over the facts of her own life.

  ‘Aisha arrived at Heathrow Airport alone.’

  ‘Aisha’s first day at Monmouth House care home . . .’

  ‘Aisha’s first day at Bishop’s Primary School . . .’

  ‘Aisha granted Refugee Status.’

  In this section the photos were mostly official passport shots of a shy-looking little girl with long thin plaits who did not want her image captured. Without her hijab, she looked odd even to herself. Looking at her unveiled ten-year-old face, so exposed to the world, so alone, the weight and chill of the cold stone she’d felt lying in her stomach at that time returned to her. Occasionally one of the staff in the home had tried to capture her in a photo with the other children, but Aisha had always stood slightly aside, as if she was living in another dimension. Which was exactly how it had felt as she’d hugged her stomach tight and ached for the heat of home.

  ‘A sad chapter.’ Liliana placed a soothing hand on Aisha’s back as she leafed forward again to the beginning of their time together and Liliana’s own careful handcrafted pages. ‘But look at all of these happy memories!’

  Aisha hugged Liliana close. ‘You made them for me.’

  ‘We made them!’ Liliana corrected.

  In the time that they had been together, everything had changed for Aisha. She had gone from being a traumatized child to a confident young woman, and it was Liliana who had held her hand every step of the way.

  Liliana leaned forward and ran her finger over a sentence on the page.

  ‘Remember? Your first words!’

  ‘“I feel safe here”,’ Aisha read out loud. ‘I would never have said that to anyone except you.’

  Liliana wiped a tear from her eye. She feared that just bringing up the subject of meeting this family who might adopt Aisha would rock her sense of safety. But maybe she was only thinking of herself. She had promised her own children, now grown-up, that Aisha would be her last foster-child, but in her mind she had always imagined that she would keep Aisha with her until she was old enough to go off to college or university. Liliana had even pictured the graduation photos – ‘Such a clever girl’ – and she had no doubt that Aisha would one day fulfil her dream of becoming a lawyer. In her own mind Liliana had decided that the two of them would graduate together: Aisha from university and Liliana from foster-caring into a well-earned retirement.

  Liliana sighed deeply. I should, have learned by now that life isn’t as neat and tidy as that! But who’d have thought that anyone would come forward to offer a home to a Somali teenager with a traumatic past? She shook herself. This is just an introductory meeting. If Aisha doesn’t want to go, no one will force her. Anyway, it might not come to anything. As these arguments sifted through her mind, Liliana felt ashamed of her own selfishness. She attempted to savour the sight of Aisha’s serene, trusting face but the spectre of the mask the child had once worn haunted Liliana and the memory seemed now to cast them both in a long brooding shadow.

  It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow.

  Zak slumped down on the bottom step and stared into space.

  ‘Hurry up! You can’t afford to be late for school again,’ Shalini called to him over the banister. Zak peered up at his nanny’s anxious face, then slung his bag over his shoulder and forced himself to stand up.

  ‘Keep distant from the wood. Make sure you stay close by the road,’ were the last words that Shalini spoke to him as he walked out of the door.

  Or what? Zak asked himself as he entered the rusted metal gates that bordered the woodland. He’d always been happiest in the woods that backed on to his old house, with his dad, hunting for the best place to build a den or pitching stumps for a game of cricket. It hadn’t been that long ago since they’d walked hand in hand singing childish songs.

  A small red leaf wafted down between the branches. If I catch that leaf it’ll make everything go back to normal. He rarely missed a catch. He held out his hand, but just as it was about to land safely in his palm, the leaf caught on the wind and floated away.

  Zak sighed. What’s the matter with me? How can catching a falling leaf change anything one way or the other? Except that was just how he felt these days – like a leaf being wafted on winds that other people had whipped up, with no way of knowing where he would land.

  Zak watched as the leaf settled on a nearby sign. ‘Welcome to Home Wood,’ he read, as a ranting voice rose up from somewhere close by. It sounded deranged. Zak ducked behind a tree and held his breath.

  ‘There, my Crystal, don’t you cry. My belly’s singing you a lullaby! Listen to that hunger-thunder rumble. I’m telling you. It could shake the roots of my Home Oaks.’

  Zak tentatively peered out from behind the thick trunk. Touching distance away from him was an old woman, her puckered face all pinched and chafed, her skin like the flaking bark of an ancient tree. He supposed that she could be about his grandma’s age when she’d died or older, much, much older even. Her hair hung in a mass of wild frizzy curls down her back and had been dyed flame red. She’d threaded leaves through the top strands like a tangled crown. Zak stared at her clothes. She’d piled one piece on top of the other in an eclectic collection of leaf layers. The overall effect was like the rag rug his mum had once brought home from one of her trips to Africa. It was impossible to tell exactly what the old woman was wearing or how small or large she really was underneath all those petticoats that swept the earth as she walked. Everything she wore seemed to have been chosen to match the russet tones of autumn, like camouflage.

  Get a hold of yourself. She’s just a homeless old woman. But Zak found that he could not tear his gaze away from her. She was close enough now for him to hear the hollow rumblings of her stomach.

  ‘There, my Crystal, don’t you cry. My belly’s singing you a lullaby!’

  It was then that he realized that she was swaddling a baby wrapped in a crocheted woollen shawl, more holes than blanket. Despite the old woman’s hushings, the baby hadn’t stirred or made a sound. Zak’s heart clamped in his chest. What’s she doing with a baby? Has she stolen it out of someone’s pram?

  He was relieved to see a young woman walking her dog up a steep connecting path. The nearer she drew, the louder the old woman’s voice seemed to become.

  ‘But here’s a wood wanderer coming. Wafting perfume. Not my kind, gets up my nose. Makes me sneeze.’

  The woman held the baby close and rocked it. No movement came from underneath its shawl.

  ‘Here she comes. What do you think, my Crystal? Will she walk right past? Pretend we’re invisible? How could anyone not take pity on you, my baby?’

  Then she held the bundle up, like an offering. The dog came bounding over and sniffed at it before tossing its head dismissively. The young woman strained to get a closer look, before she too turned and hurried away.

  ‘Could you spare us the price of a cup of tea? No . . . ? Straight past, eyes glazed over, locking us out. Just an old tree stump with gnarly roots. That’s all I am th
ese days.’

  And with that the old woman dropped the baby on the ground, where it landed with a thud and slid from its blanket. Zak gave a sharp intake of breath and was just about to spring from his hiding place when a bald plastic head rolled in his direction, its blue eyes wide and unblinking. What an idiot I am. She’s just a crazy old homeless woman wandering the woods with a doll. Still, Zak felt as if he should DO something. Tell someone. How can anyone so old be left in that state, with no one to look after her? There was a homeless shelter just up the road – surely she could go there.

  Now the woman slumped down on a tree stump and inspected her bare feet. They hardly resembled feet at all, bulging in unlikely places like fungus growths out of earthy tree hollows. She was close enough for Zak to smell her musty odour. Was that stench coming from her feet?

  ‘Count my toes! Make sure they’re all still there! Feel the scrunch of red leaves under me . . .’ She chatted on to herself, then seemed to notice that her ‘baby’ was missing and started hunting around on the ground for her. She shoved the doll’s head back on to its plastic stump of a neck then stroked its cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to drop you, my love,’ she crooned, gathering the doll back into her arms and wrapping her tightly in the blanket. The doll’s feet protruded and she tucked them in gently.

  ‘Earth’s stirring, autumn’s coming, winter’s just around the corner.’ The woman shivered, as if she could already feel the cold biting into her. She turned to Zak’s hiding place and sniffed the air, sensing his presence.

  Has she known all this time that I’ve been watching her? Zak shuddered. Then, without warning, the woman was up on her feet and heading straight for him so that he was forced to stumble out of his hiding place. He backed away as she grinned at him, revealing a higgledy-piggledy collection of rotten and missing teeth. She grabbed hold of a low branch and began to climb slowly and steadily up the tree.

  ‘Here I go, up, up above the elder trees to my bird’s-eye view. Leaves flying everywhere, red leaves full of passion and anger and sadness. Time to light the fires. The year’s turning and the wood’s stirring. Hush now, Crystal.’ The old woman closed her eyes and lifted her face to the warm sun that fell in shadow-shafts between the trees, bathing the wood in a magical amber light. She was leaning forward now listening intently . . . to the sound of a gentle song that meandered along the path. Zak heard it clearly now as a girl singing in another language drew closer. Her voice was low and mellow.