Dr Ennis looks at me. “How old are you, Stevie?”
“Fourteen.”
“Shouldn’t you be at school today?”
“Yes but – Mum needed me.”
Dr Ennis nods. “How are you finding things – since your dad’s death?”
“OK.” I bite down on my bottom lip. How can I tell her I’m finding it really hard too? It’ll just make Mum feel even worse.
“Are you sure?” Dr Ennis peers at me over her glasses. I wish she had the ability to mind-read. I wish she could see behind my mask to the fear and sadness. I force myself to smile and nod.
Dr Ennis prints something out and hands it to Mum. “Here’s a new prescription. You need to take one at night, half an hour before you go to sleep. It will really help with your anxiety. And I’m going to refer you again for some counselling.” She takes a leaflet from a pile on her desk and hands it to Mum. “In the meantime, here’s some information about a mental-health drop-in in Lewes. You can call in any weekday and they run some free therapy workshops at the weekend.”
Mum nods. “But what about my benefits?”
“I can certainly write a letter supporting your claim, but you have to understand that my job is to try and help you to get better, Mrs Flynn. And I’m sure that’s what your daughter wants too, isn’t it, Stevie?”
I nod. It’s what I want more than anything, only it’s so hard to imagine it ever happening.
“It’s just so hard to get better when I’m worried about money all the time,” Mum says.
I take hold of her hand. “I told you, Mum, we’ve got my extra paper-round money.”
Dr Ennis types something into her computer and the printer on her desk whirs back into life. She takes the print-out and hands it to Mum. “This might help make things a little easier. It’s a voucher for a food bank.” She reaches into her desk drawer and brings out a leaflet, which she also hands to Mum. “Here’s a list of local food banks. All you have to do is take the voucher along and you’ll be given a few days’ food.”
Mum stares blankly at the voucher.
“Thank you,” I mutter, but inside I feel sick. We’re now so poor we have to beg for food.
HAFIZ
I don’t know if what I’m about to do is really stupid but, if I don’t do it, I’m going to spend the entire evening wondering, What if? And – unlike all the what ifs I have about my family and friends – this is one I can actually answer. What if I just went round to Stevie’s house to see how she is? The truth is, it was crap having to spend a whole day at school without her. Especially as I had to dodge Price and Priya. Not that I had any real problems with them. Priya now seems to be acting like I don’t exist and, in the couple of lessons I had with Price, he didn’t say a thing. I guess he thinks he’s won, after what happened in football. It’ll be interesting to see his face when I come back to training.
I start walking up the steep hill that leads to Stevie’s house. When Uncle Samir and I walked her home the night she magically appeared beneath the street light it was dark and hard to see anything much. But in the late afternoon sun the street looks really pretty. It’s narrow and cobbled and, unlike the tall, thin houses on Uncle Samir’s street, these houses are all short and tiny. Stevie’s especially. I stop outside and take a deep breath. The paint on the door is faded red and peeling. The curtains in the downstairs window are tightly closed. Maybe it was a mistake to come. She’s probably sick. Why else would she not be in school? But now that I’m here…
I knock on the door and take a step back. I won’t knock again. If she doesn’t answer I’ll just go. If she’s ill she probably won’t appreciate being dragged out of her sickbed. I’m about to turn and head down the hill when I hear the door creaking open.
“Hafiz!”
Stevie’s wearing a black T-shirt with DARK SIDE OF THE MOON printed on it and her torn black jeans. Her long hair is down and she isn’t wearing any eye make-up. She looks a bit tired but not ill.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I – uh – I was worried. When you weren’t at school. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” I scuff the toe of my trainer against one of the cobblestones in the road. This is so embarrassing.
“Oh. That’s really nice of you. Thank you.”
I glance at her. She seems genuinely grateful to see me. “I don’t want to disturb you though – if you’re not feeling well – or if you’re busy.”
“I’m fine!” she exclaims, then immediately looks guilty. She steps out onto the pavement, pulls the door shut behind her. “Well, actually, I was feeling ill this morning, but I’m much better now.”
“Great. That’s great.”
She glances back over her shoulder at the front door, like she’s worried at what might be about to come out of it. “Do you want to do something?”
“Sure. Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She looks up and down the narrow street. “We could go to the Grange.”
“The Grange?”
“Yes. It’s just at the end of my road. The gardens there are beautiful.”
“OK.”
“Right. Stay there,” she commands, before disappearing back into the house.
A couple of minutes later, she reappears. She’s tied her hair back and put on a pair of flip-flops.
“OK, let the tour of the jewel in Lewes’ crown begin,” she says dramatically. I know she’s being sarcastic but I don’t care. Going anywhere with Stevie makes life more fun.
Stevie
When I first saw Hafiz standing outside the cottage I was really shocked. But then, when he said that he’d been worried about me, well, it was exactly the kind of killer twist my lousy day needed. Now I lead him past the stone wall of the Grange, round to the narrow gate on the corner.
“Are you ready?” I love watching people’s faces when they first see the garden. Sometimes I sit on the bench just inside the gate so I can watch the dazzled expressions of the first-time visitors again and again and again. It’s one of the few things left that makes me feel warm inside. It reminds me that wonder is still possible.
Hafiz nods and I lead him through the gate. Even though it’s the start of autumn, the garden is still a riot of colour. The flower beds are bursting with poppies and roses, and tall sunflowers stoop and bob in the breeze.
“Wow!” Hafiz exclaims. “You weren’t being sarcastic.”
“What?”
“When you said the thing about the jewel in the crown. I thought you were being sarcastic but you weren’t.” He gestures at the garden. “This is – amazing.”
He automatically assumed I was being sarcastic and I decide to take it as one of the highest compliments I’ve ever been paid. “Thank you. I think it might be my favourite place in all of Lewes – apart from the record shops, of course.”
He nods. “Mine too, now.”
We walk over to a corner of the garden, away from the parents and toddlers that have congregated in the middle, and sit on the dry grass. It feels so good to be outside in the sunshine, especially as Mum went on a major downer after we saw Dr Ennis and I’ve spent all day trying – and failing – to cheer her up.
“I was wondering…” Hafiz says, then breaks off.
“Yes?”
“Could I ask you to help me with something?”
“Of course.”
He rolls onto his stomach and picks a strand of grass. “You know how I had to see Mr Kavanagh yesterday?”
“Oh, yes! Sorry, I forgot. How did it go?”
“It was good. He was really nice. One of the other players told him what Price said to me.”
“That’s great! Is Price being kicked off the team? He should be.”
Hafiz shakes his head. “Mr Kavanagh asked if I wanted to report him but I said no. I don’t tell tales, you know. Mr Kavanagh was OK with it, but he’s asked me to do something else instead.”
“What?”
“He wants me to do a talk in assembly �
�� about what it is like in Syria and what it’s like to be a refugee.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“Does it?” He looks at me anxiously. “I wanted to do it when he asked me but now I’m not so sure. I don’t know if…” He breaks off and looks at a nearby flower bed.
“What?”
“If I want to stand up and talk in front of everybody.”
“Yeah, I get that.” The thought of standing up and giving a talk in front of the entire year makes me feel sick. Like, even if they asked me to talk about the joys of listening to music on vinyl I don’t think I’d be able to do it. But the idea of Hafiz telling his story seems such a good one. Then I have an idea. “Maybe there’s a way you could do it without actually having to get up in front of everybody.”
Hafiz frowns. “How?”
“Maybe you could make a video and they could play it in assembly.”
Hafiz sits up again. “What kind of video?”
“Just you talking about what you’ve been through. Like an interview. I could help you if you want, ask the questions.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment, then slowly nods his head.
“And that way you could edit it too – and only say what you want to say.”
He nods again, this time more enthusiastically. “Are you sure you don’t mind though – helping me?”
“Of course not.” The truth is, I’d love to do it – and not just for selfless reasons. It would finally give me the chance to find out what happened to Hafiz before he came here, without seeming insensitive or nosy.
“Thank you. Shall we – are you free tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I don’t know why I’m double-checking. Tomorrow is Saturday. I have the social life of a cloistered nun, especially on a Saturday.
Hafiz nods. “Maybe we could make a start then. But don’t worry if you’re busy.”
“Er, no. I just have to do my paper round in the morning. Oh, and get some food.” I cringe as I think of having to visit the food bank. “But after that I’m totally free.”
“What is a paper round?” Hafiz asks, looking really puzzled.
“It’s when you deliver newspapers to people’s houses. I do it every morning. To earn some cash.”
“Every morning?”
I nod. “Yeah. I used to just do weekends but now I’m doing weekdays as well. I need the extra money … for my guitar fund.”
“Ah, I see.” Hafiz looks over to the queue of people at the ice-cream kiosk by the Grange. “Would you like an ice cream?”
“Oh – I – I don’t have any cash on me.”
“That’s OK. I’ll buy them. I want to – to say thank you.”
“What for?”
“Helping me with the video for the assembly – and…” He looks away, like he’s suddenly embarrassed.
“What?”
“Being my friend?” He says it like he’s asking a question.
“Who says I’m your friend?” It pops out before I realize that maybe occasionally sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. He immediately looks crushed and I feel like crap. “Sorry, I was only joking. Of course you’re my friend.” Now we’re both blushing. He has the advantage of being able to flop his curtain of hair forward. I really wish I hadn’t tied mine back.
“OK. Good.” He scrambles to his feet. “Let’s – let’s go get those ice creams.”
HAFIZ
This morning, when I come down for breakfast, the kitchen door is closed and I can hear Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria talking. I press my ear to the door and try to make out what they’re saying, but I can only catch the odd word. “Recover” and “journey” from Uncle Samir, and “phone” and “terrible” from Aunt Maria. “Terrible” echoes menacingly around my head long after she’s said it. What’s terrible? Are they talking about the same thing they were talking about the other night? The thing they decided not to tell me? I need answers so I march into the room.
Uncle Samir is sitting at the kitchen table looking at something on his laptop and Aunt Maria is standing at the sink by the window, washing some dishes.
“Good morning, Hafiz.” Uncle Samir greets me with a smile. Aunt Maria turns and also smiles. It’s as if they haven’t just been discussing something “terrible” at all.
“Morning,” I say, sitting down opposite Uncle Samir. “Have you heard anything from Dad?”
Uncle Samir shakes his head. “No, but I have been emailing one of the workers at the camp in Athens and I’ve transferred some money to your dad’s account for the next leg of the journey.”
“When will that be?” I pour myself a glass of orange juice and Aunt Maria brings me a plate of scrambled eggs.
“In a week or so, maybe.”
“A week? Why so long?”
Uncle Samir looks at Aunt Maria very quickly but I notice it. “His papers need to be processed.”
“Oh, right.” I relax a little, thinking back to when I landed on the Greek island of Lesbos and how long I had to wait for my papers to be processed.
“Don’t worry,” Uncle Samir says, smiling at me. “At least he is out of Syria. At least he is on his way.”
“Yeah,” I mutter and start eating my breakfast.
It’s only when Uncle Samir and Aunt Maria have gone out shopping and I’m getting ready to meet Stevie that I realize he didn’t once mention Mum.
Stevie
As soon as I finish my paper round I come home, have a shower and get changed into the closest thing I’ve got to a superhero’s outfit – in that it gives me special powers of confidence. The outfit consists of a vintage Sex Pistols T-shirt that once belonged to my dad, my trusty ripped black jeans, my buckled black boots and an armful of silver bangles. Then I flick through my Little Book of Big Song Wisdom until I get to the page: SONGS TO HELP YOU TAKE ON THE WORLD. I know I’m not exactly taking on the world by going to a food bank but it definitely feels like a huge challenge. I scan the list of songs my dad wrote down for me. I wonder if he ever imagined that I’d one day be needing them because Mum and I would officially be paupers. Somehow I doubt it. I decide upon “Sunday Bloody Sunday” by U2. The minute the opening drumbeat begins thudding from the record player I feel better – stronger – ready to take on anything.
“Thanks, Dad,” I whisper as I start strumming my air guitar in time to it.
Outside, the sun is shining and Lewes is bustling. Everyone’s loving the late summer that’s finally arrived – and now I’m not in my school uniform I’m able to appreciate it too. I make my way along the high street, past the old Norman castle and the grand courthouse and the delis and the coffee shops. The food bank is in a church down on Cliffe High Street, at the other end of town, in the shadow of the huge chalk cliff. It’s got a totally different vibe to my end of the high street. The pedestrian precinct and quirky stores make it a haven for buskers and street performers. As I get closer I hear “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” being played on a trumpet. There’s a farmers’ market on Cliffe today. The stalls were being set up when I was on my way to my paper round earlier, now they’re in full flow as people crowd around, eager to fill their shopping bags and baskets with fresh bread and cakes and meat and cheese. The sight of all the delicious food makes my stomach rumble and my heart sink. I wonder what kind of food you get at a food bank. How does it even work? Is it set up like a supermarket, where you just help yourself? Or does your voucher entitle you to only certain things? The voucher Dr Ennis gave us doesn’t specify what it’s for. I’m starting to feel so nervous I’m not sure I can go through with it. But I have to. The threat of having our benefits cut means that Mum needs to save what little money she’s got for the bills.
I make my way over the bridge and down the cobbled street that leads to the church. It’s a lovely old building. Sometimes I wish I was religious, just so I could get to hang out in a church. They look so peaceful and soothing. At least, old ones like this do. I take a deep breath and turn the handle on the old wooden door. It opens with a
loud creak. I step inside, where it’s cool and dark and smells of incense. The floor is stone and there’s a brightly coloured stained-glass window straight ahead of me. It’s beautiful. Well, it would be beautiful if it didn’t show Jesus nailed to a cross. As soon as I see it I feel sad.
I look around. There’s no one in sight. Just go, my inner voice tells me. Use your paper-round money to buy some food. But I’ll need my paper-round money for the bills too if Mum does lose her payments. I hear a noise from the far end of the church, by the altar, and see an old man with white hair moving some chairs about. I walk over to him nervously. He’s wearing a vicar’s white collar.
“Hello,” I mutter.
“Oh, hello.” He looks surprised to see me. “Can I help you?”
“Er, yes, I hope so. I’m – er – looking for the…” I’m too embarrassed to say any more so I hand him the food voucher.
The vicar looks at it. “Ah, the food bank is in the hall. Come with me.”
I follow him out of the church and round to the side, where there’s a much newer building. He holds the door open for me. We walk into a large airy room. Long trestle tables have been set up along one side, containing rows of cardboard boxes. There’s a man standing by the tables, looking at the boxes. He’s got long, dirty blond hair and he’s wearing dark baggy clothes. He’s one of the homeless men who sits in the doorway by Boots. The one who writes HELP in chalk on the pavement in front of him.
“Is this the first time you’ve used a food bank?” the vicar says to me.
I nod. I don’t feel able to speak. It’s as if all of the sadness I’ve been pressing down inside me has risen up and filled my throat.
“All you need to do is take your voucher to one of the volunteers over there.” He points to a corner of the room but I can’t look. I can’t move. “They’ll give you a box of food. Is it just for you or…?”
“It’s for me and my mum,” I somehow manage to stammer.
“OK. Well, they’ll make sure you have enough for you and your mum for the next few days.”
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow Page 13