Red Leaves

by Sita Brahmachari

  ‘Zak! Zak, is that you?’ The silhouette of a small figure appeared through the intricate stained-glass panelling. Even though Liliana could see the woman, she got the feeling that she was being monitored through the screen of the state of the art intercom. She wasn’t at all sure how something like this worked.

  ‘No, sorry, my name’s Liliana. I live up the road. I came about Zak. I’ve met him once or twice . . .’

  The door was flung open by a woman in a pale green sari who now grabbed hold of Liliana’s arm with surprising force.

  ‘Where? Where did you see him? What day was this?’

  It took Liliana a long time to get the woman to understand her reason for calling round. When she finally managed to explain why she’d come, she grew calmer.

  ‘So you are a carer too. My name is Shalini. Sorry to meet in these circumstances. But how can this happen?’ she cried, wringing her hands so tightly that Liliana found herself reaching out and touching her arm to comfort her.

  ‘I have my own son back home. Now I feel as if I have failed everyone. You know, I love Zak like he was my own boy.’

  Liliana did know. She nodded slowly as the deep well of her own sadness threatened to overwhelm her again.

  ‘And have you heard, his mother’s missing too?’ Shalini placed her hand on her head as if she could not take in the words that she herself was speaking. ‘The only good is that she knows nothing about this.’ Shalini shook her head sadly and bit her bottom lip. ‘I think that was the final straw for him. The poor boy was so desperate to see her, and then at the last minute she was caught up in some trouble – we don’t really know.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand . . .’ Liliana interrupted.

  ‘No, no, I am sorry. I am not making any sense!’ Shalini took a deep breath. ‘Zak’s mother is Jessica Johnson – maybe you have seen her on the news? Reporting from war zones mostly . . . She’s in Syria right now.’

  Liliana thought that she might recognize the name. An image of a thin, strained-looking woman with cropped hair and a soft Scottish accent came to mind.

  ‘I can’t believe this – mother and son missing at the same time. Lucas, Zak’s father, has come back to UK. He’s talking to press about Zak and waiting for news of Jessica at the same time. Poor man.’

  ‘Doesn’t he live here?’ Liliana asked.

  ‘New York. They’re divorcing,’ Shalini explained.

  Liliana nodded. It was hard to take it all in. How could people’s lives have got so complicated? But then her own marriage had not worked out either. She sighed as she remembered those faraway turbulent times. She longed for the peace and simplicity of her flat, sitting at her little table with Aisha and sticking photos in her story book. Seeing Shalini so upset made her falter – but she knew she must persevere to see if this family could bring their influence to bear in the search for Aisha. Perhaps they could do what she had failed to and make the media cover this simple human story of two missing children from the same street.

  It was after midnight when Liliana finally left, with Shalini’s assurance that she would tell Lucas about Aisha and try to get a journalist to pay her a visit.

  The two women hugged on the doorstep, holding each other tightly, as if they both feared falling if one of them let go.

  Aisha tried to give Conker the ‘wait’, ‘come here’, and ‘sit’ orders in Somali and English. When she spoke to the dog in Somali it tilted its head from one side to the other as if desperately trying to work out what was being demanded of it. Aisha supposed that Conker might feel like she did when she’d first started learning English and people would fire streams of words at her that she couldn’t decipher. It had sometimes taken her ages to pick out enough to piece together what was being said. She remembered feeling as confused in those moments as Conker looked now. But the animal that had once made Aisha shrink away in fear now made her laugh, and the sound of her own laughter eased her sense of being alone.

  I’ll stay here until the food runs out, and if they find me before that, I’ll go back to Liliana. By then maybe she’ll understand how much I need her. Aisha stroked Conker’s head as the dog burrowed her soft pointy nose under her arm. I swear this dog understands just how I feel. If Liliana appeared right at this moment, Aisha would run and burrow into her too. How can I love anyone new the way I love Liliana? Aisha spoke her question out loud. Conker lifted her head and stared up at her. Was she trying to tell her something? She knew it was possible to go from fear to trusting and eventually to love, as she had with Liliana but she had no energy left to do that all over again. For the first time the thought came to Aisha how hard it must have been for Liliana to suggest the adoption.

  She climbed on to the roof of the air-raid shelter, walked up the small slope to the stream and studied her shifting reflection in the flowing water.

  Zak opened his eyes and stared around the den. It was quiet and peaceful here now. He felt as if someone had removed a great burden from him. He shook his head again in an attempt to assemble his thoughts into some kind of order. Now he could piece it all together more clearly – he had run away into the wood and somehow got hurt. That homeless woman – Elder – must have found him and brought him here. But where was she now? He sat up warily and was relieved to find that his head no longer ached. He held his hand up to his forehead. When had she put the bandage on? Some details were beginning to come back to him now. Had she been here last night, or maybe this morning, or one or two days ago . . . ? Time had concertinaed confusingly. His last memory was of her forcing him to drink a bitter-tasting medicine. He remembered what had passed through his head as she’d ladled it into his mouth. I may never wake up again. He scanned the den, looking past a washing line of pegged-out doll’s clothes. She must be crazy. Then, under the washing line, he recognized his rucksack. How weird that he knew that this bag was his even though he still couldn’t manage to connect his own name to himself. The old woman had told him that he was called Zak, and yet the name seemed to float somewhere out of reach refusing to belong. Whoever I am, and whoever she is, I have to get out of here, before she comes back.

  Liliana peered at the photos on the noticeboard. Mrs Kalsi had cut out the article about Zak from the national paper and pasted it up next to the piece on Aisha and the one about the homeless girl’s missing dog.

  Mrs Kalsi joined Liliana and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘What a business. Two lost children, and the dog too. I was saying to Ashok only yesterday, this whole thing–’ Mrs Kalsi pointed to the posters – ‘it has unsettled us all, you know?’

  Liliana nodded, but continued to stare at the image of Aisha as if concentrating on her picture could bring her back.

  ‘But what am I thinking? You look so pale. Come, Liliana, why don’t you sit for a moment and take some tea?’ Mrs Kalsi indicated the little metal table and two chairs on the pavement. The ones she’d bought so that Iona wouldn’t have to sit on the ground to sell her magazines. But Mr Kalsi joked that his wife spent so much time sitting and nattering with her friends that they should just open a cafe and be done with it! Mrs Kalsi still remembered the day she had set out the table and chairs and invited Iona to make this her pitch.

  ‘I don’t need all this! I’m happy to sit on the floor,’ Iona said.

  ‘But you need to look professional; you are doing business and this is your place of work,’ Mrs Kalsi insisted. Iona surprised her by jumping up and placing a kiss on her cheek.

  Mrs Kalsi had never spoken of it to anyone, but that was the first time she had felt a motherly affection for the girl begin to grow inside her. So what if it was because she had never been blessed with children of her own? What did it matter why she felt this warmth towards this awkward, lost girl? On that day of setting out the table and chairs she had decided that no matter how difficult Iona was, she would try to help her whenever she could.

  ‘I thought I would go for a walk in the woods and see if I can find that old homeless woman.’ Liliana sighed
. ‘You never know – she might have seen Aisha.’

  ‘Elder? It’s possible. She’ll be coming to see me soon to pick up her poppies. Always does at this time of year. Poppies, pins and gold pens. Don’t ask me why – never tells me what they’re for no matter how many times I ask – but always she has to have the same metallic gold ones, medium tips. Very particular about everything!’ Mrs Kalsi laughed and made a precise little gesture joining her thumb and first finger together as she twisted her hand this way and that. ‘Same with poppies. She says no red poppies for her, only white will do. Usually we get just a few for Elder and the traditional red to sell at the till, but actually Ashok is stocking a box of both this year. He likes to debate the difference in meaning of the white and red poppies with customers. The other day I came in and he was telling how his Sikh ‘brothers’ fought in both world wars! I said, “Ashok, they only come to buy milk and bread!” “That is where you are wrong,” he tells me. “Man cannot live on bread and milk alone!” “Well,” I say, “if you would stop talking, they might buy something else too!” Only thing he could think to answer was “That is rich coming from you, my dear!”’

  Liliana smiled. It always made her feel a little better, coming to talk to the Kalsis.

  ‘I’m the one who hennas Elder’s hair for her, you know. She’s been coming for my hairdressing services since the 1970s!’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No joke. She won’t stay in the homeless shelter. Says she cannot stand to be inside concrete walls, so I do what I can for her, you know? I found out years ago she liked my henna treatment, so when she comes I clear the creepy-crawly lice and sometimes she even lets me near her feet if I use the special elder balm she brings me. Surprisingly good for hard old feet like mine.’

  ‘Don’t! You’re making me itch with your talk of lice!’ Liliana groaned and began to scratch her own head. ‘But you’re a saint, Mrs Kalsi! I could do with some of that henna and foot balm myself . . .’ Liliana sighed, running her hands through her own wiry hair.

  ‘No! No! No saint!’ Mrs Kalsi protested, biting into a slice of flapjack. ‘Only simple woman with sweet tooth, who likes to help a little – that’s me!’ She grabbed hold of one of several rolls of fat around her stomach and laughed.

  Liliana joined in, though it was obvious that Mrs Kalsi was only trying to distract her from her misery.

  ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll ask Elder if she’s seen your Aisha. I’m telling you, I have a positive feeling. How do these New Age people say? Good vibes, isn’t it.’

  Liliana squeezed Mrs Kalsi’s hand. ‘It makes me feel ashamed – a woman of Elder’s age without a roof over her head.’

  Mrs Kalsi rested her head slowly from one side to the other in a gesture that seemed to say that she didn’t quite agree. ‘What is Elder’s age? I don’t know. She is offered shelter, but she says she cannot live inside. What to do? And how do you know she doesn’t have somewhere she calls home?’ Liliana smiled. Mrs Kalsi’s best stories always started with questions. ‘Elder was the first person through our door the day we opened. I remember it like yesterday. She came into the shop and asked for “green tarpaulin”. Ashok only had blue in the back room. He said, “I’ll give it you for nothing,” but she insisted only green would do!’ Mrs Kalsi knocked her hand against her head in mock-frustration. ‘We were crazy busy setting up the shop so I told Ashok to tell her this is not a hardware store, beggars can’t be choosers, nah? But he got it into his head that if he did as she wished, then our business would be blessed. How could I argue with that?’

  ‘With difficulty!’ Liliana laughed.

  ‘Exactly, so off Ashok went to buy green tarpaulin, and next time Elder came in he gave it to her. She was so happy! We asked her where she was taking it, but she started chanting and didn’t say. We think she’s got a home somewhere around here. Maybe in the woods.’

  Liliana also remembered when Mr and Mrs Kalsi had opened their store. She was already bringing up her own girls alone by then and the couple had been so kind. Later they had taken the time to get to know every one of Liliana’s foster-children, and once Mrs Kalsi had even asked Liliana how she might go about fostering herself. The couple were so much part of this community now, she couldn’t imagine the area without them.

  ‘I’ll ask Iona. That girl’s out all day and night roaming the streets, looking for her dog. You never know – she might come across her.’ Mrs Kalsi pointed to the faded chalk drawing of Red. ‘It’s worth a try – though this girl can be a little rude, you know. But how do you say – her bark is worse than her bite.’ She laughed but Liliana’s heart felt too heavy to rally.

  Mrs Kalsi went on. ‘I’ve sent the picture she drew of her dog for the missing poster into the Royal Academy exhibition. Little naughty of me, I know, but how can she understand how a life can turn around if she won’t accept any help?’ She placed a finger to her lips. ‘But don’t say a thing to her – she has no confidence in herself.’ She nodded to Iona, who was straggling along the pavement towards them smoking a cigarette.

  ‘No luck finding Red?’ Mrs Kalsi called out to her.

  Iona shook her head dejectedly and drew deep on her cigarette.

  ‘Why are you spoiling young lungs with this poison?’ Mrs Kalsi tutted.

  ‘You sell them!’

  ‘Not to you, and never to children!’ Mrs Kalsi looked outraged at the suggestion.

  ‘Well, I’m not a child, am I?’

  ‘You’re not an adult either,’ Mrs Kalsi told her.

  ‘I’m nineteen!’ Iona replied, sticking out her pierced tongue.

  ‘Hah! So you say! You know I don’t believe this – you are making up as you go . . .’ Mrs Kalsi shook her head. ‘How old are you actually?’

  Iona shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters OK. Why don’t you tell the police you are just a child? Then they will make sure you are looked after.’

  ‘I don’t need to be looked after! Get off my case, will you?’ Iona ground the butt into the pavement.

  Mrs Kalsi walked inside the shop, muttering. ‘I know I need to be looked after. Mr Kalsi too – isn’t that so, Ashok?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mala!’ Mr Kalsi’s laughter reached them outside the shop before his wife reappeared with a dustpan and brush, a sandwich and a carton of juice.

  ‘What makes you so different?’ she asked.

  Iona didn’t answer but reached for the sandwich. Mrs Kalsi indicated the cigarette stub and handed her the dustpan and brush instead. Iona sighed and swept the little bit of pavement.

  ‘Now go wash your hands,’ Mrs Kalsi ordered. Iona raised her eyes to the sky and disappeared into the shop, grumbling under her breath and almost colliding with Mr Kalsi as he came out and placed an extra chair at the table. When Iona returned, she grabbed her sandwich and drink and sat cross-legged on the pavement, leaving the chair empty. As she ate, she traced her fingers over what was left of her chalk drawing.

  ‘Sorry about your dog going missing,’ Liliana said quietly.

  The girl looked up at Liliana and sneered. ‘What do you care?’

  Mrs Kalsi tapped Iona on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you speak to my friend like that, madam! You’re not the only one with troubles.’ Mrs Kalsi pointed to the picture of Aisha in the window. ‘Her child is missing.’

  ‘Not much like you, is she?’ Iona laughed. Liliana flinched at the harshness of the girl. She had never seen so many piercings in one ear, but it was the ones through the tongue and lips that made her feel queasy. Still, Liliana thought, the pain of getting those done was probably child’s play compared to what she’s suffered.

  ‘I’m her foster-mother,’ Liliana explained.

  ‘So you don’t have to care then,’ Iona snapped back.

  ‘I don’t have to, but I do. Just like Mrs Kalsi here looks out for you.’ Liliana watched the expression on Iona’s face soften.

  ‘Fair play. I’ll keep an eye out.’

  ‘And fo
r the boy too,’ Mrs Kalsi asked, pointing to Zak’s picture.

  Iona stared at the photograph of Zak and frowned. ‘What am I now – Kiddie’s Neighbourhood Watch?’ Iona finished her sandwich, jumped up and headed off down the road without so much as a goodbye or backward glance.

  ‘Not selling your magazine today?’ Mrs Kalsi called after her. ‘Customers will fall off, find another seller maybe . . .’

  ‘No one’s interested in buying anyway, not without Red by my side!

  A siren sounded and blared on and on. People were running through the woods and a little boy stumbled down the steps of the shelter, followed by an older girl. ‘Come on, Grandad,’ she called, and a woman guided an elderly man inside on shaky legs. The little boy sat on a bench, swinging his legs.

  ‘Can we play a game, Grandad?’

  As the old man struggled to get his breath, he took a small pouch from his pocket and tipped out a ball and some little metal things with prongs. He scattered them in front of him and bounced the ball then gathered up as many of the silver prongs as he could before catching the ball in the same hand. ‘Beat that!’ he challenged the boy.

  He got up, walked over to the wall and drew a line down it. He wrote the name ‘Eddie’ on one side and ‘Albert’ on the other, and the date:

  ‘If you have to play, give our Eddie a fighting chance!’ the woman laughed, and the old man seemed to grow sad.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy, didn’t mean to upset . . .’

  The old man shook his head and wiped his eye.

  ‘Up to ten?’ He asked the boy who nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m going to win you Grandad!’

  This time the boy threw the ball again, scooping up all ten of the scattered metal objects and catching the ball. He handed the pen to the little boy, who proudly scored his point on the wall.

  ‘I told you I’d win you!’