“Hello?” I say, not sure I can trust what I’m seeing. Maybe the excitement of everything that’s happened today is causing me to hallucinate. Maybe I’m experiencing some kind of post-busking high…
“Oh, hey, Stevie.” Mum smiles over her shoulder before pulling an old food processor from the cupboard. “Do you remember this?”
“Of course.” As she places the food processor on the table a montage of memories plays in my brain, most of them involving her incredible chocolate cake and the mouth-watering treat of licking the bowl.
“It’s been so long since I baked,” Mum says wistfully, before looking at me. “You’ve got a guitar!”
I nod. Take a deep breath. Prepare to deliver my case for the defence. “I bought it with my paper-round money. But don’t worry, it was an investment. I’ve been busking – in Brighton – and it was amazing.”
Mum frowns. “You’ve been busking?”
“Yes.” I lower my head, pray she isn’t going to get too angry.
“Oh my God.”
“It was fine, Mum, honestly. People were so nice – about my playing and singing.” I glance up at her.
“I can’t believe you’ve been busking.” She sits down at the table.
I feel terrible. She actually seemed close to happy when I first walked in and now I’ve probably gone and ruined it all. Now she’ll get sad again. I can’t let that happen. “I really enjoyed it. Well, after I got over my nerves. And look…” I plonk the shopping bag on the table. “Look at the food I got. And I bought a new school shirt. Well, a second-hand shirt from a charity shop but it’s in really good condition.”
Mum takes a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have to do all of this.”
“But I want to. I want to help.”
“But I’m the parent. I should be taking care of you.” She glances down into her lap and sighs. “I hate being like this, Stevie. I hate this depression. It’s like being sucked into a long dark tunnel and no matter what anyone says or does, I just can’t see any light at the end.”
I want to tell her I know how this feels. That it’s exactly how I was feeling last night. But I can’t.
“I saw a really nice therapist today,” Mum continues, “at that drop-in place that Dr Ennis recommended.”
“Really?” I see a tiny glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel.
Mum nods. “She showed me how certain thoughts I’m having aren’t helping me. She gave me some worksheets to help me challenge my thoughts, see things differently.”
“That’s great, Mum.”
“I want to get better, Stevie. Honestly.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I want to go back to how I used to be.” She looks at the food processor and I realize how much it must mean to her – a symbol of how her life used to be.
I sit down next to her. This is the first time she’s ever said that she wants to get better. And although I’m not an expert, I have a feeling something really important is happening.
“You will get better. You will get back to how you used to be. You still are who you used to be.”
“Am I?” Mum looks at me with the eagerness of a little kid who’s just asked if Santa’s coming.
“Of course. You’ve been ill, that’s all.”
She gives me a weak smile. “Since when did you get so wise?” Then she looks at the bag of shopping. “Let me make dinner tonight.”
“Are you sure?” I know I shouldn’t get excited by what’s happening. Mum’s had good days before and soon gone crashing back down. When I’ve got my hopes up in the past the disappointment’s been crushing. I decide to allow myself to feel happy but with conditions, like the health warnings you get on cigarette packs: DANGER – THIS HAPPINESS COULD BE SERIOUSLY SHORT-LIVED. Today has been a good day for both of us and, as this event is as rare as a total eclipse of the sun, I’d be a fool not to enjoy it. I’m about to help unpack the shopping when there’s a knock on the door.
Mum raises her eyebrows. “Are you expecting somebody?”
“Oh, I – I think it might be Hafiz.”
I see a flicker of tension in Mum’s face and I get that familiar sinking feeling. I won’t be able to help at the centre tonight. I’ll have to tell Hafiz to go without me. I can’t risk doing anything to make her feel down again. I can’t snuff out this glimmer of hope.
HAFIZ
As soon as Stevie opens the door I can tell something’s wrong.
“Hey,” I say. “We’re on our way back to Brighton – but don’t worry if you don’t want to come.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to come.” She steps so close to me she’s practically standing on the pavement. “It’s just that it’s a little difficult at the moment – with my mum.”
“Is she OK?” I think back to Stevie’s mum last night and how anxious she seemed.
“She’s just a bit…” Stevie sighs and steps out onto the street, pulling the front door behind her. “There’s something I need to tell you about my mum,” she whispers. “She’s got depression. Like, so-bad-she’s-not-able-to-work depression, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to leave her tonight.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I really wanted to come.” Stevie looks genuinely gutted.
I hear a car door shut and see Uncle Samir heading up the street towards us.
“Hello, Stevie,” he calls. “Thanks so much for offering to help.”
I’m about to explain that she can’t make it after all when the front door opens and Stevie’s mum steps out.
“Hello,” she says, smiling at me. Though she still looks really tired, she seems better than she did yesterday. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing proper clothes instead of a dressing gown.
“Hello, Mrs … Ms…” I look at Stevie for help, not sure how to address her.
“Sadie,” Stevie’s mum says. “Oh, hello,” she adds as she spots Uncle Samir standing beside me.
“Hi. You must be Stevie’s mum.” Uncle Samir holds out a hand. Unlike last night with me, she actually shakes it.
“Yes. Are you Hafiz’s dad?”
“No, he’s my uncle,” I tell her.
“Ah, I see.”
There’s a moment’s awkward silence.
“You have a lovely daughter,” Uncle Samir says. “It’s very kind of her to give up her Saturday night to help us like this.”
“Sorry?” Sadie asks, looking confused.
“Repairing the damage at Sanctuary by the Sea.” Uncle Samir shakes his head. “It was such a terrible thing. But people like Stevie and their kindness restore my faith in humanity.”
“Oh.” Stevie’s mum half smiles but she still looks really puzzled. Maybe Stevie hasn’t told her what happened.
“Some people attacked the refugee centre in Brighton last night,” Stevie explains. “Hafiz asked if I’d come and help repair the damage but—”
“There’s room in the car for one more,” Uncle Samir says, looking at Sadie. “Are you any good with a paintbrush?”
“I think they might have had other—” I begin to say, but Sadie interrupts me.
“I’m not sure,” she says. Then she looks at Stevie. “But maybe – maybe I could come along anyway?”
Stevie
I feel tense all the way to the refugee centre. I can’t believe Mum wanted to come with us. On the one hand it’s cool because it means I don’t have to let Hafiz down, but on the other hand…
I keep glancing at her next to me on the back seat, checking for any signs of anxiety, but Samir and Maria are so friendly they seem to have put her at ease.
When we pull up outside the centre, dusk is falling.
“That whole window was smashed in,” Hafiz says, pointing to the shopfront.
“But when I called a local window-fitter and told him what had happened he came and put in a new one for free,” Samir says. “There are way more good-hearted people than bad-hearted in this world, Hafiz.”
“I know.” Hafiz l
ooks at me and smiles and it’s such a genuine smile it makes me feel warm inside.
We get out of the car and I look up at the sign. It’s been painted over in yellow but it no longer says Sanctuary by the Sea.
“We need to get a proper artist to come and do the lettering,” Maria says. Then she turns to Mum. “I don’t suppose you have any background in art, do you?”
Mum shakes her head. “No, I’m a … I used to run a catering company.”
“Really?” Maria looks at Samir. “Well, let me know if you ever fancy doing some voluntary work. We’re always looking for people to help run the café.”
Mum doesn’t say anything but she does nod. It’s so nice seeing her out of the house like this, interacting with other human beings again. I can’t quite believe it’s actually happening. What if this day is all some weird dream? Well, if it is, I definitely don’t want to wake up.
“We’ve cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, but I need to warn you about the graffiti,” Samir says as we walk round to the back of the centre. “It’s pretty obscene.”
I prepare myself for the worst as I follow him inside. Adiam is standing in the middle of the room, holding a broom. She’s wearing a beautiful dress with a vivid peacock print. A thin white woman with pale blonde dreadlocks is standing beside her.
“We’ve recruited some more helpers,” Samir says as Maria hugs the two women. “Stevie and her mum, Sadie. This is Adiam and Rose.”
I look at Mum, to check again that she isn’t feeling overwhelmed. But she’s looking around at the walls, her mouth hanging open in shock.
As I read the hateful words scrawled on every wall I feel sick, especially when I think of Hafiz and Adiam and other refugees having to read it. I want to hug them, tell them that this isn’t how most people in Britain feel. This isn’t how I feel.
“I’m so sorry,” Mum says. And for an awful moment I think that she’s apologizing because she wants to leave. But she continues looking around and shaking her head in horror. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”
Adiam walks over and gives her a hug. Mum is so small next to her she almost disappears in her embrace. “Thank you,” Adiam says. “It is very kind of you to come and help.”
Mum’s face flushes. “Oh, no. It was… It’s the least we could do.” She looks at me and smiles. It seems as if something major is happening. Like the story of our life together might be turning the page onto a new chapter.
“Right, where’s the paint?” Samir says.
Hafiz goes over to the corner of the kitchen and starts placing tins of paint on the counter.
“But this isn’t white,” Samir says, picking up one of the tins. “It’s blue.” He picks up another tin. “And this one’s green. And this one’s red. Why did you get red?”
“I got them for Adiam,” Hafiz says, looking slightly embarrassed.
“For me?” Adiam looks at the paint.
“So that we have all the colours for the Eritrean flag.”
Adiam looks at him. “My country’s flag?”
“Yes, I thought it might help you to feel more at home while you’re cooking – and seeing as you are definitely the boss of this kitchen…” Hafiz grins, then he looks at Samir anxiously. “Is it OK?”
“You want to paint my flag in this kitchen?” Adiam’s dark brown eyes widen.
Hafiz nods and points to the wall behind the large stove. “I thought we could paint it here. I bought white for the other walls. What do you think?” he asks, looking at Samir.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Samir replies with a smile.
Adiam marches over to Hafiz and flings her arms around him. “You make me so happy.” She turns to Samir. “He makes me so happy.”
I look at Mum. She’s gazing at Hafiz and Adiam, her eyes shiny with tears.
HAFIZ
We’ve been painting for a couple of hours now. Rose is taking care of the kitchen door, Aunt Maria and Sadie are painting one of the white walls, Adiam and Uncle Samir are working on another and Stevie and I are painting the Eritrean flag. Thankfully the background is a pretty simple design – three bold triangles. I’m not sure how I’m going to do the olive branch motif that goes on top but I can worry about that another day.
As I focus on filling in the red triangle I feel all the day’s tension leaving me. It feels so good to paint over the vandals’ hate with the bright red of the Syrian team. I thought my dream of playing for Syria was over but now I feel it sparking back to life. Football could be my way of beating the hate; of triumphing over adversity. After our game this week Mr Kavanagh said he was thinking of inviting scouts from Brighton and Hove Albion to come and watch me. He thinks I’ve got what it takes to play for a British premiership team. What if I made it big here in the UK, then went back to Syria once the war is over and played for the national team? What if I helped them achieve glory?
“Penny for your thoughts,” Stevie says, standing on the counter to reach the top of the triangle she’s painting green.
“Penny for what?” I zone back into the room. Aunt Maria is chatting away to Sadie about the work the women do in the café. Uncle Samir is coaching Adiam on the English alphabet.
“A, b, c, d, e, f, g,” she sings in her deep voice as she paints, “h, i, j, k, m, l, p, o, z.”
Uncle Samir laughs. “Almost.”
“Penny for your thoughts,” Stevie says. “It means, I’ll give you a penny if you tell me what you are thinking.”
“A penny?” I pull a mock frown. “My thoughts are worth way more than that.”
“Oh, yeah?” She looks down at me and laughs. “OK, two p.”
I dip my roller in the paint tray. Now my thoughts are full of Stevie and how happy I am that she’s here. But I couldn’t tell her that, not even if she paid me a thousand pounds. I see her glance at her mum anxiously, like she’s checking she’s all right. Getting to know Stevie has been like putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and it’s only now that I’m starting to see the full picture – or a big chunk of the picture at least. Her dad is dead. Her mum is depressed – so depressed she doesn’t work. That’s why Stevie has to work so hard with her paper rounds and busking. That’s why she took the shirt from Lost Property. All of these jigsaw pieces and the picture they build only make me like her more. Stevie’s mum laughs at something Aunt Maria says and Stevie breathes a sigh of relief.
“Well?” she says, turning back to me. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I’m starving,” I say. It’s only half a lie. I am starving. I just wasn’t thinking about it.
“Me too.” Stevie nods.
“Maybe we could—”
Uncle Samir’s phone begins to ring. I see him exchange a look with Aunt Maria as he takes his phone from his back pocket. He looks at it, then looks back at Aunt Maria and nods. She looks straight at me. My stomach lurches. I have a sudden sense of foreboding. Like whatever it is that was too terrible to tell me is about to be revealed.
Stevie
There’s something up with Hafiz. The second his uncle’s phone started ringing he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. I stop painting.
“Hello,” Samir says into the phone and now he’s looking at the screen, like he’s taking a video call. “Hello.”
There’s a second’s silence and then the sound of a voice speaking in Arabic.
“Dad!” Hafiz puts down his roller and hurries over to Samir. “Is it Dad?”
Samir nods, then looks back at the phone and starts speaking in Arabic.
“Dad, Dad, I’m here.” Hafiz looks over Samir’s shoulder into the phone. “Dad!”
I wonder how long it’s been since Hafiz has seen him.
“Oh, Hafiz, my son! Oh, my son!” his dad says.
Hafiz leans right in close to the phone and says something in Arabic. It sounds like a question. An urgent question.
His dad replies and Hafiz’s shoulders crumple and he starts to cry. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my
stomach and I look at Mum. She’s standing, watching Hafiz, as still as stone. I go over and link arms with her.
“Where are his parents?” she whispers to me.
“In Athens,” I whisper back. “In a refugee camp.”
Adiam comes over to us. “So sad,” she says quietly. “What this world is doing to families.”
Hafiz gasps and I’m so scared for him I can hardly breathe. Something really bad must have happened, but what?
Then I hear a woman’s voice coming from the phone. She’s saying the same thing over and over again. Relief fills me as Hafiz turns slightly and I see that he’s smiling through his tears. The woman says the words again. And although they’re in Arabic, I’m pretty sure I know their meaning. I’m pretty sure she’s saying, “I love you.”
HAFIZ
“Mum. I thought…”
“Hafiz, I love you. I love you, Hafiz,” Mum says, over and over.
She’s OK. Mum’s OK. I take a deep breath, push my very worst fear from my mind. “How – how is Athens?”
“We’re not in Athens,” Mum says. She looks older. There are streaks of grey in the hair visible beneath her scarf and thin lines creasing the corners of her eyes.
“We have good news.” Dad comes back into view as he puts his arm around Mum’s shoulders. “They’ve processed our papers. We crossed the border into Macedonia earlier today.”
“We didn’t want to tell you until we knew for sure that their papers had been processed,” Uncle Samir says to me. “We didn’t want to raise your hopes.”
So that’s what he and Aunt Maria had been being secretive about. A bubble of joy fills me but almost immediately it bursts as I think of the journey ahead of them. Being herded like cattle on to countless buses and trains. The longing for a bath and a bed. And the walking, the endless walking, the hostile stares of strangers piercing your skin at every step. When I think of my parents in these circumstances it makes me feel sick. But at least they’re not in Syria, I remind myself. At least they are safe from the war.
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