Red Leaves

by Sita Brahmachari

  The memory of the day that she had arrived in this country returned to Aisha like a slap in the face. Back then the whole world had seemed to tower above her like a giant shadow. She looked around the little bedroom that Liliana had decorated so beautifully for her. She would never forget the sweet smell of that welcoming vase of lilies her foster-mother had placed on the table. In those first traumatic days something about the flower scent wafting around the room had comforted her. Since her friend Muna had given her a copy of the Quran and a prayer mat, this room had become a constant comfort to her. Until Liliana had spoken of the possibility of this adopted family she’d felt as if she had everything she needed here in this room, except for her abo. Liliana had even installed a corner sink so that she could wash before praying. Aisha removed her precious prayer beads, turned on the tap and let the water stream over her hands. When she had completed her cleansing ritual she covered her head, knelt on her mat and began to pray, placing her forehead on the ground.

  Afterwards she replaced her necklace and took comfort in the warmth of the beads against her skin. This was the only precious thing that she had brought from Somalia: the prayer amulet made of jet that had belonged to the mother she had never known. The central bead was the largest, made of engraved silver containing a miniature scroll of the Quran. Her abo had given them to her before they’d said their last goodbyes. Since the day she left Somalia she had never taken these beads off, except to wash and bathe.

  ‘You know, this jet was alive once too, made of ancient trees from the forests,’ her abo had told her as he’d placed them around her neck. The thought of her hoyo wearing these same beads against her skin made Aisha feel closer to the mother, who, in giving birth to her, had lost her own life. She could picture her father now, proud and tall, with his white cap covering the crown of his head, his warm, bearded face looking at her with patient dark eyes, full of love. He had always made her feel as if he could put things right. She felt so close to him that as she summoned up his memory she almost believed that they were together again – that she could reach out and touch him.

  ‘Wearing these will always connect you to what has gone before,’ her abo told her as he placed the prayer beads over her head.

  ‘Why do you want me to have them? Didn’t you hate me when I was born? Every time you look at me or hear my name, you must think of my hoyo.’

  The expression in her abo’s eyes was one of pain.

  ‘Hate you? Why do you think I called you Aisha? “Full of life and joy . . . alive and well.” I was so grateful, bismillah, that you could be saved.’

  ‘But I took her life.’

  ‘She gave you life.’ Her abo held her in his arms and cried. She had never seen him weep before.

  ‘When I think of the day that you were born, it only makes my heart ache with love for all that I have and all I have lost,’ he told her as he buried his face in her hair.

  Aisha wiped away her tears and tried to bring herself back into the present. She walked over to her window and stared out through the darkness. Liliana’s garden always helped. She had often thought that it was a kind of portrait of Liliana: small, loud and plump, full of surprising clashing colours that worked well together. Her garden was unlike any of the others on the street. Liliana and the old man who lived in the flat next door had knocked down the fence between them to form a communal courtyard garden, and their landlords had not complained because she had transformed two concrete yards into beautiful natural habitats full of wildlife and birdsong. Liliana’s garden never seemed dull or empty – she managed to keep flowers blooming all the way through the year – but Aisha’s favourites would always be the lilies.

  There’s no point even going to the meeting with this family. If they force me, I’ll run away and then maybe Liliana will see how much I love her, how I need to stay here.

  There was a gentle knock on her bedroom door. ‘Your social worker understands that you need time to get used to the idea, so they’ve moved the meeting to next Thursday. Just give this family a chance, Aisha, and we can go from there. No one’s going to force you into anything,’ Liliana pleaded from the other side of the door and listened intently for any small response. None came. ‘Goodnight, Aisha!’

  She was met by a wall of silence.

  Zak lay in bed, eyes open, not daring to sleep again. There was no way he could risk getting stuck inside another nightmare. It had left him with a feeling that he was going to have to do something instead of sitting victim-like waiting for things to change: for his mum to call, for his dad to Skype or for Lyndon to leave a message. He scanned his bare, clinical room. He supposed he could start to unpack the boxes, but if he did that, it would be like accepting that he was here to stay, that his dad was never coming back to live with them, that their old house, their old life, was gone forever.

  Zak waited to hear Shalini’s familiar sleep-wheeze through the bedroom wall, then he laced up his Converse and headed back down the stairs. The house felt different at night, lit only by the dim glow of the street lights. The dust had settled and the empty rooms were still and peaceful with the builders gone. Zak wandered around, trying to imagine what the place would be like once they’d unpacked, but he found it impossible to see beyond the piles of rubble swept into every corner. He stepped into what would one day be the living room, but he couldn’t imagine a time when he would ever lounge in here with Lyndon and their mum and dad, eating a pizza on a Friday night like they’d used to.

  Who did his parents think they were kidding when they said they saw no reason why their divorce shouldn’t be ‘amicable’? Even the word made you stumble and falter – it felt like it had nothing to do with friendship and even less to do with love. Zak kicked at a pile of rubble angrily, and as he did so, something caught his eye. He bent down and found it was just an old piece of plasterwork and was about to throw it back on the pile when he realized that this fragment was unbroken. He turned it over and was able to decipher faint lettering that he ran his fingers over: ‘Albert Bainbridge, 1903’. There was something slightly unsettling about touching something this old. He smiled to himself . . . here was a piece of history in the ‘pile of crap’ that he’d been mouthing off about. If he was to tell Shalini about it she would say that this was ‘karma’ – that the house was trying to teach him a lesson. But he didn’t believe in any of that stuff. Zak wrapped the plasterwork in a tea towel and walked over to the last remaining wall separating the kitchen and the living room. An enormous white cross had been marked on it. Zak reached out and touched it, letting his hand rest there. The strangest sensation came over him as underneath the skin of plaster he felt a faint pulse beating steadily. He pulled his hand away. I must still be half asleep. But as he looked at the wall the thought occurred to him that if history was so important to everyone around here, how come they’re so busy blasting away all traces of it?

  Zak carried the piece of plaster up to his room, placed it on his desk, unwrapped it and switched on his laptop. It took him a few attempts but finally he found a ‘house history’ site and began his search for 48 Linden Road. A photo of the house came up with some dull estate agent’s details about how much it had been sold for at different times. Zak was surprised to find that it had belonged to only five owners since 1903. That didn’t seem to be many, but none of the names listed was Albert Bainbridge. He typed in the name and the date and was amazed to see a black-and-white photo appear of an old man wearing a tweed hat, baggy cotton shirt and waistcoat, a bulging leather toolkit rested by his feet. He was pointing to a stained-glass window, a look of pride on his face. There were no bright greens and blues, or deep reds shining out of this black-and-white picture but the pattern looked identical to the stained glass in the front door of this house. Underneath the photo was written: ‘Albert Bainbridge, master builder and craftsman’. Zak felt charged with a need to find out more. He glanced around his room. What had changed? Nothing, but it didn’t feel quite as empty as it had, now that he could picture the man
who had played a part in building this house and, from what he was reading, most of the other houses on Linden Road too. Then another photo caught his eye. Here was the same man with his arm around the shoulder of a boy of maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. The label read ‘Albert and Edwin Bainbridge (Carpenter and Son-Apprentice). They were both smiling at the camera. There was something familiar about the pose. All his own photos were still packed away, but it reminded Zak of one of him and his dad standing outside the old house. That image of his dad with his arm slung over Zak’s shoulder captured a time when Zak had believed that the two of them were as sturdy and unshakeable as one of the giant oaks in the wood. Zak placed some photo paper in his printer, and watched as the postcard-sized image of the old man and his boy slowly processed. Whirr by whirr, father and son emerged. Zak caught them before the paper fell to the ground and held them in his hands until the ink dried. As he studied the image it felt curiously like he was bringing them back to life. Albert Bainbridge and his son Edwin wore that same expression of solidarity that he and his dad had once worn. A lump of emotion formed in Zak’s throat. Maybe there was something in Shalini’s karma theory after all; perhaps finding this name in the plasterwork was meant to lead him to an understanding – but he had no idea of what? Zak placed the photo on his desk and shut the site down. What am I doing? It’s not as if any of this can make a difference to how I feel about living here. He wrapped the plasterwork back in the tea towel, the photograph too, and placed the bundle under his bed. He checked the time; already three in the morning. No wonder he felt sick with tiredness. He lay down and closed his eyes but his mind hovered over all the happenings of the day, until it began to settle on the white cross painted on the wall of the living room below.

  Zak got back up, switched on his lamp, felt under his bed and once again unwrapped the piece of plasterwork and the photograph. Albert and Edwin. Lucas and Zak. Surely not everything from the past has to be thrown out as if it’s worthless. Maybe if he could find a way to bring his mum and dad back together they might be able to mend things piece by piece, like renovating an old house that was on the verge of collapsing. In the watery world of early morning, where ideas float like great beasts in the deep blue ocean, an idea formed in Zak’s mind as the rest of Linden Road slept. An idea that seemed to Zak in his sleep-deprived state to be entirely logical. If he could persuade his mum to leave intact the wall where he’d found Albert’s name, then maybe things would be set right again. If only he could speak to her. He checked his watch. His dad would be awake. Maybe this wall is the way to get Mum and Dad to start talking to each other again! For the first time in ages Zak felt the stirrings of hope. He clicked on Skype and dialled. After a few moments Lucas’s face appeared on the screen.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ His dad’s forehead creased with concern.

  ‘Can’t sleep.’

  ‘Well then, good morning to you, son!’ Lucas smiled at Zak and yawned. He rarely held a grudge. ‘I tried you a few times before your bed time, but there was no answer. Guess you were all wiped out.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Zak muttered under his breath.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ Lucas smiled warmly. Zak got the impression that he meant that he was sorry for everything, not just last night’s argument. Here was his moment to ask.

  ‘Dad, if someone was about fifteen in 1903, what sort of things would have happened to them in their life?’

  Lucas’s faint smile grew to its widest straight-toothed grin.

  ‘What’s brought this on? Is this some project for school?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Zak lied.

  ‘What sort of someone are you thinking of?’

  ‘A builder’s son.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser! Well, World War One, trenches maybe. If he was very lucky he would have made it to the Second. Then who knows? Odds weren’t exactly stacked in his favour.’

  ‘That’s grim!’

  ‘Yeah! Listen, son, if this is your way of saying sorry—’

  ‘It’s not . . . Dad, there’s this wall in the kitchen downstairs and I found a name in the plasterwork. I looked it up and got an old picture of the builder of this house and his son . . .’

  Lucas peered closer into the screen as if trying to analyse Zak.

  ‘The thing is, the builders have put a cross on the wall where I found the name and that means they’re going to knock it down, and I’ve just got this feeling that they shouldn’t.’ Zak paused and stared down at his hands. As he spoke the words aloud the logic of his plan began to sound shaky even to himself. He swallowed hard as he picked up the black-and-white picture of Albert and Edwin. That was how it was supposed to be – father and son, working together, building dens, playing cricket, it didn’t matter what, just together in the same place, in the same country. Now he and his dad couldn’t even be in a room together to share things like this discovery any more. I wish I was Edwin, Zak thought to himself. At least it looks as if his dad really loved him.

  On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean Lucas sighed deeply and tried to work out what Zak was really saying. He opened his mouth a few times to interject but then thought better of it.

  ‘Go on, son . . .’

  ‘I just don’t want them to knock the wall down, that’s all. Please tell Mum not to . . .’ As Zak spoke he realized how odd this must sound and he found himself speaking words that he had never planned to. ‘Just come back, Dad . . .’

  Lucas placed his hand against the screen, as if that could somehow comfort his son.

  ‘I’m sorry, Zak, it’s not going to work. I’m sure you’ll hear from your mum soon though, and it won’t be long till you come visit me.’

  ‘You’ve heard from her then?’ Zak asked.

  ‘No! But I’m sure she’s all right. Jessica can look after herself.’

  ‘You always used to call her Jess.’

  Lucas nodded.

  Even the way he said her name these days had a coldness about it. Like she was someone he had known in another life. Zak’s mind was thick with a fog of sadness as he watched Lucas mouth words about them all having to come to terms with change, words that were meant to soothe. He couldn’t even remember saying goodbye to his dad or walking back over to his bed, lying down and finally drifting off to sleep.

  Zak was woken by a great crash. It felt as if the earth was shifting under him. He hurled himself down the stairs and into the room he’d been standing in just a few hours before. The entrance to the living room had been cordoned off and a large dust sheet hung in the doorway. Zak pulled it back and stared at the place where the solid wall with the painted white cross had stood just hours before. The builders were now covered in a thick layer of dust.

  Shalini called down to him. ‘Zak! You’re not supposed to be in there. We’re going out for breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Why did they have to knock the wall down?’ Zak whispered to himself, as the masked builders ushered him out of the room. ‘It is not safe,’ they told him. Shalini came downstairs, stared into the kitchen and held her hand over her mouth. She placed an arm around his shoulder, but Zak shrugged it off. As he walked away he turned and stared at Shalini and the ghostly silhouettes of the builders shrouded in dust. At that moment his iPhone buzzed.

  Sorry I can’t speak but, all being well, will be home by Monday, Love you my Zak, Mum X

  And there it was – that warm wave that always washed over him as soon as he heard the news that she was coming home. Shalini placed a hand on Zak’s shoulder as she read it too. A sparkling morning light streaked through the door as Shalini opened it. Zak looked back into the building to find the sun-bathed builders waving to them through the dust. He felt like laughing with joy as he read over his mum’s text again and again just to make sure he had not imagined it. This’ll teach me not to fill my head with all this bad omen, karma nonsense! Zak waved back to the men and stepped into a pool of sunshine.

  It was supposed to be silent reading time in the library, but every few minutes Muna
would look up from her book and fire another question at Aisha. She was bubbling over with excitement at just the idea of this adoption.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You were the one going on about how she won’t let you fast at Ramadan,’ Muna whispered.

  From time to time Miss Sealy, the librarian, looked up from under her glasses and hushed the girls, but it was only a few moments until Muna started with her musings again.

  ‘I mean, Liliana and her family are kind and everything, but if you had a sister of your own, how good would that be? As long as they live around here though. They’re not going to take you away from us, are they?’

  Aisha felt a chill weight grip her stomach – the thought hadn’t even occurred to her that she might have to move area; that she might have to face leaving Liliana, her friends and changing school. How could Liliana even think of putting her through that?

  Aisha shook her head. ‘I don’t know where this family live or anything about them.’ She wished now that she had kept the whole thing to herself. Muna was probably her best friend in the group of girls that she hung out with at school. She was the one who had come over to ask her to sit with them in the canteen on the day that she’d worn her hijab for the first time. Aisha still remembered how happy she had felt at the invitation, as if she’d found a place in school where she truly fitted. Being with these girls stopped her feeling that her memory of home was fading. It was partly the trauma of leaving that had made her forget so much about life in Somalia, and blocking out the horror made the good memories fade too, as time passed and Aisha was afraid that who she had been before she came to this country might just slip away. Muna and her family had done so much for her. Just speaking Somali with them all was a comfort. Her mum having her over for traditional Somali meals, even sharing recipes with Liliana, giving her a Quran, taking her to the mosque and teaching her how to make wudu – to cleanse and pray at the different times of the day.