by Jane Davis
More than ever, what Nina wanted was for her daughter - her beautiful grown-up daughter - to come home, so that she would know she was safe. But, accepting that wouldn’t happen, she made a decision to transfer her concern to a stranger. A boy who would provide a link.
Suddenly it seemed very important that Shamayal knew he was welcome. “My daughter tells me you’re handy with a paintbrush. If lilac isn’t your colour you could do something about that. When you’re feeling up to it, of course.”
Shamayal looked from Nina to her daughter - whose mouth was open - and back again. “I’m -”
“Well, darling! You did say that you don’t need your room any more. Why don’t you show Shamayal upstairs? Use the bathroom if you’d like. There’s plenty of hot water. And Ayisha, I was serious when I said I wanted you to have a good rest. You can use the guest room.”
Ayisha was blinking at her. “What will Dad say?”
What indeed? “Oh, I’ll just tell him how Shamayal saved Abalendu from the heron’s beak,” Nina said lightly. Not just any fish. It would have to be his prize one.
She watched as, hand on his shoulder, Ayisha ushered an uncertain Shamayal into the hall and up the stairs. Her daughter looked down over the banisters and smiled. And, for now, her look of gratitude was reward enough.
CHAPTER 49: JIM - JUNE 2011 - THE STRAND
Looking over the heads of thirty or so pupils, Jim saw Ayisha standing on the pavement. She had volunteered for this trip: “An opportunity to see you in action,” although he suspected she was keeping an eye on him, perhaps rightly so. No marathon running for him, he tired easily. He wondered if she regretted her decision. As soon as she had chosen where to sit on the train, a game of musical chairs had commenced; girls diving into position, ending up piled on each others’ laps. Hemmed into her seat by teens with pony tails and hooped earrings, she was quizzed mercilessly about her relationship with ‘Sir’. He heard her reply, “Mr Stevens is my colleague,” hard ‘k’. A small Shamayalism. They got no more out of her, despite attempted bribery with Pringles and compliments about her knee-high boots that seemed to please her - something Jim had never dreamed of commenting on, taking her excellent taste for granted. She had sat back, self-contained and smiling to herself, apparently eavesdropping on snatches of conversation taking place behind her.
“I went, like, shut up. Shut up!”
“I was, like, don’t talk about that!”
Girls from the other side of the tracks spoke another language these days.
“If someone else goes, ‘don’t like them,’ then, like, you’re going to be, ‘I don’t like them either.’ I know it’s awful…”
So many words, so little meaning. Jim was standing, holding onto a handrail above his head, being given similar treatment by a cluster of boys.
“Haribo, Sir?”
“Thanks.” He dug deep into a bag, examined what he held in his hand - a snake, shiny and rippled - and then bit its head off.
“Straight in there. I told you he’d be a head-first person, din’t I? I win!”
He feigned shock. “I hope you’re not gambling.”
“I don’t get why we have to walk to The Globe, Sir. What if it rains?”
“I want us to approach it from north of the river. And it’s not going to rain. The forecast is good.”
“But what if it does?”
“If it does we’ll get wet, I suppose.”
“Listen up!” Jim was speaking over the hiss of a bus as it let off steam. He was distracted by a loud, “Oi, wachoo -” Ayisha had removed a set of headphones from one of his class. Eyes darted furiously at her before they softened. “Aw, Miss.”
It was not that her presence made him nervous, but he wanted to impress her. This was what he did. It was important. A chance to engage those who didn’t respond in the classroom. “This road linked the world of politics to the world of finance and commerce. It was lined with grand houses and, in Tudor England, it was the only place to live if you were anyone.”
One girl’s hand shot up. “Sir, Sir!”
A question, already. They were taking the bait. “Yes, Jeanette?”
“Can we go to Covent Garden, Sir?”
He already had her down on his ‘difficult’ list. Disappointingly, this confirmed it. “No, Jeanette -”
“But I just saw a sign, Sir. It’s that way.”
“This is a history field trip, not a shopping expedition.”
“His-tor-y.” She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her puffa jacket and kicked the pavement with the toes of her shoes.
“Ignore the traffic, ignore the shop windows and ignore McDonalds. Instead, I want you to imagine that the church you can see standing in Trafalgar Square - St Martin in the Fields - is in open countryside.”
“In the fields, Sir?”
Halleluiah, someone was listening! “Thank you, Dean. There are cattle grazing and women are laying their washing out to dry on the site of Leicester Square. Yes, Fiona?”
“About the washing, Sir. That’s sexist.”
“Not in the sixteenth century, it isn’t. I’ll tell you what, I’ll swap you your laundry for my job.”
“What’s that, Sir?”
“I’m a gong farmer. I do my daily rounds of the private houses to empty their privies. Does everyone know what a privy is?”
Sour-faced expressions suggested they did.
“Then I dump their contents outside the city walls. Except that no one wants to see me do my job so I work at night. And I smell so bad, no one will live anywhere near me except other gong farmers. And as for my chances of getting married…”
“No, you’re alright, Sir.”
“I thought so. Now, does anyone know what the word Strand means?”
Curtis danced. “It’s like a piece of string.”
“No it’s not!” jeered his neighbour.
“What do you know? It’s like a strand of hair, innit?”
“That’s one meaning,” Jim intervened, trying to prevent a full-blown argument. “But Strand also means ‘the shore’. The Thames used to be far wider than it is now. Everything between here and the edge of the river is man-made. OK, everyone. We’re going to walk towards Fleet Street and look at where some of those great houses stood. Try and keep together and let’s not block the pavement so that no one else can get past.”
One of the girls from the train was cozying up to Ayisha. “You like all this history stuff, Miss?” No doubt trying to encourage her to form a breakaway shopping party.
Between protests, insults - Oi, gong-farmer! - shoulder-barging and stragglers, the group managed to amble the short distance to the top of John Adam Street and down towards the Embankment.
“Over here -” Jim pointed “- was where the Catholic bishops had their great palace called Durham House. Its private apartments looked out over the river with views of what was then called Surrey. The palace passed to the Crown during the Reformation. We talked about the Reformation last week, if you remember -”
“I remember Jonathon Rhys Meyers in The Tudors. He’s proper buff.”
“Did you see the bit when they burned the bishops? Man, that was harsh!”
Another echo of the boy. Ayisha complained that her mother didn’t seem to be able to praise Shamayal enough. Succeeding where she failed, he has introduced her to the internet. Apparently, ordering her weekly shop on-line was a revelation. From texts received, Ayisha said she knew the old Shamayal isn’t buried too deep: he has just added her mother’s so-called secret recipes to his repertoire. It was as if she envied him the easy relationship they have struck up. Ayisha’s image of her mother as a difficult woman had been shredded, and she was struggling to adjust.
“I seen the scene with the red hot poker.”
“Thank you, Sunta; thank you, Trevor! Queen Elizabeth I made a gift of the palace to the men of her court who were rumoured to be her lovers. A story goes that Sir Walter Ralegh” - Jim risked glancing over at Ayisha - “was smoking t
he latest drug called tobacco when a servant threw a bucket of water over him, thinking he was on fire.”
“Tobacco’s not a drug, Sir.”
“Course it is, bonehead. It’s, like, addictive.”
“Who you calling bonehead? It’s not illegal or nuffin.”
“Then can I have a fag, Sir? I’m gasping.”
“No, and you shouldn’t have them on you -”
“But we’re outside…”
“Yeah, and it’s rainin’.”
“It’s raining, Sir. Literally.”
They were right. The few drops he had tried to ignore were rapidly turning into a downpour. Jim let out a frustrated sigh. “Alright, alright. Let’s head back to the tube. Wait just inside the entrance!” He skirted the group and bent his head towards Ayisha’s ear. “I was hoping to show off,” he whispered.
“It might clear up.” Her hair was damp. “We could come back this way after the tour.”
In front of him, Ayisha hesitated at the top of the escalator, then she took an unbalanced step forwards. After the cold blast of air, the slight feeling of fairground elation, they joined the noisy descent, adverts for theatre productions and abortion clinics passing them by. Faces with chewing-gum eyes. Looking at the backs and occasional fronts of heads, Jim tried to keep track of his class, issuing reminders to stand on the right. Then the lonely sound of a saxophone reached him, an old track that took a moment to identify. Something by Supertramp. Breakfast in America, perhaps? Sour faces sailing upwards eyeballed his rowdy teenagers, whose conversation was punctuated with bass shouts and descant shrieks. Jim responded with a look he hoped said, Yes? I’m in charge. When the tune reached the point where the chorus kicked in, he got it: The Logical Song. Congratulating himself, Jim was smiling as he neared the bottom of the escalator, and a woman travelling in the opposite direction seemed to single him out, her eyes lingering, her expression turning into a question mark. He experienced the same nauseous and suffocated feeling he did when a tube was stuck down his throat: amber eyes; a frame of unruly curls. He would know her anywhere.
Fighting to get the words out, he reminded himself to breathe: “Mrs White! Mrs White!”
Shuffling round, Jim was in time to see her mouth fall open before her face twisted away from view. He started back up the escalator with exaggerated movements of knees and elbows, offering apologies, ignoring protests: “Mrs White!” Past and present were washed away. Jim was consumed by one simple need: to reach her. It didn’t matter that he had no idea what he would do or say when he did.
Pain now gripping his chest and twisting, breath ragged, he remembered wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like as he ran towards a shiny front door, pounded on it with his fists. Tapping the reserve of energy he saved for the final sprint, Jim pressed on. But upwards she continued, having swapped from the standing lane to the walking lane, one elbow gripping a small neat handbag tightly. Even her determination not to engage couldn’t put him off.
“Jim!” A frantic voice broke through the pounding blood in his ears and he realised he had been hearing it for a while: Ayisha. “EVERYONE! WAIT AT THE BOTTOM!”
He remembered his class, the risk assessment he had written for the trip, himself. Pursuit was hopeless, he could see that. But to give up… Chest heaving, he glided back down, at first facing upwards, refusing to let the woman out of his sight, just in case… just in case… And then turning to see Ayisha walking up a couple of steps to meet him, her dark eyes anxious, her voice school-teacher stern. “Bloody hell, Mr Stevens. I hope you’re not thinking of doing a runner.” She overlaid one of her hands on his. “Whatever this is about, it had better be good.”
“Aimee’s mother,” was all he could manage, pointing over his shoulder. It took all of his remaining strength to hold himself upright and suck in breath.
“Where?” Frowning, Ayisha leaned out, squinting.
“Blonde, curly hair.” His voice came in fits and starts as he turned his head. “Green coat... just stepping off... top of the escalator...”
Ayisha was frowning. “Your maths isn’t up to much. That woman’s no older than us. Christ, Jim. Look at you.”
“I’d know her anyw-” As Ayisha’s eyes widened, it dawned on him: when the woman opened her mouth, he had seen her tongue. Pushed into the gap in her front teeth.
“What? It helps me to concentrate.”
Whoosh! The thunderous ten-tonne wall of power slapped Jim smack in the face, jolting him backwards, as if a ghost were passing clean through him.
MISSING TEENS: THE FACTS
One in ten children run away from home before they reach the age of sixteen, a massive 100,000 every year. Shockingly, a quarter of those young people are forced out of their homes by parents or carers. Two-thirds of children who run away are not reported to the police. These children are highly vulnerable and at risk of substance abuse, sexual exploitation and homelessness. The use of mobile phones and social networking sites has made it easier to target vulnerable children.
Help for teens is available from:
Runaway Helpline - free, confidential and 24/7:
Call 0808 800 7070
Text 80234 ( even if you have no credit left on your mobile phone.)
Email [email protected] This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
They will talk to you in confidence to explain your options and try to get you the help you want. They won’t tell anybody you have called unless you want them to.
Help for parents is available from:
Parents and Abducted Children Together (PACT)
And for those who wish to help:
The Children’s Society campaign to provide a safety net for runaways www.makerunawayssafe.org.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I visited several wonderful websites when looking for inspiration: www.barnowltrust.org.uk not only provided me with descriptions of barn owls but also beautiful and moving photographs that left me with a very clear image of what I wanted to try to convey. For local history, I used www.british.history.ac.uk, but nothing prepared me for the wonder of discovering St Mary’s Parish Church at Beddington on my doorstep. I turned to Anna Beer’s account of the life of Lady Ralegh, Bess. Although many of the places described are real, the fictional Ralegh Grove is based on my experience of living on a South London council estate. Kes is an adaptation of Barry Hines’s wonderfully gritty novel, A Kestrel for a Knave, published by Penguin Modern Classics. Thanks are due to Spike Milligan Productions Ltd for their kind permission to quote from the poem RAIN by Spike Milligan from Silly Verses for Kids. Aimee quotes from Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Writers’ Workshops provided inspiration and Debi Alper, editorial advice. Credit is due to the fabulous Gillian Davis for coming to my rescue with medical details and to Jack Naisbett for coming to the rescue with IT support. As always, many thanks to all of my beta readers and proofreaders, especially Matt, Cleo Bannister, Helen Enefer, Sue Darnell, Joe Thorp, Karen Begg, Sarah Marshall, Mary Fuller, Harry Matthews, Anne Clinton, Daniel Davis, Tina Edwards, Amanda Osborne, Delia Porter, and, last but by no means least, Louise Davis, who provided much of the finer detail from the 1990s that completely passed me by.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Davis’s first novel Half-truths and White Lies won the Daily Mail First Novel Award and was described by Joanne Harris as ‘A story of secrets, lies, grief and, ultimately, redemption, charmingly handled by this very promising new writer.’ Compulsion Reads have championed her two subsequent novels, I Stopped Time and These Fragile Things, writing ‘Davis is a phenomenal writer, whose ability to create well rounded characters that are easy to relate to felt effortless.’ Jane lives in Carshalton, Surrey with her Formula 1 obsessed, star-gazing, beer-brewing partner, surrounded by growing piles of paperbacks, CDs and general chaos.
For further information, or to sign up for pre-launch specials and notifications about future projects, visit th
e author’s website at www.jane-davis.co.uk.
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