by Diana Finley
Of course I always praised him and admired his work. Yet, especially now that Barry is making his way in the world, I can’t help thinking of poor Donal, and how he might be faring with his education, and work perhaps? He’ll be twenty-two, just like Barry, now! Was he clever as a boy like his brother? Surely he must be intelligent too; they’re identical twins after all. Did he attend a good school like Barry? Did his adoptive parents help him to achieve all he was capable of? They’re so well off, surely they could afford the best for him. I wonder if he’s been going to university too, like his brother? My heart aches to know more of him and his life. Is he happy? Does he look exactly like Barry? What sort of a young man is he?
***
It’s a fine warm day, so Erna and I decide to have our morning coffee in the garden. There’s a secluded corner sheltered from any wind, where the heat of the sun is softened, being filtered through the leaves of two beautiful silver birch trees. I put cushions on the seats and accompany Erna out, holding her arm to make sure she doesn’t trip. She is a little less steady these days – she’s over ninety, although you wouldn’t guess it.
I settle her in her favourite seat and show her Barry’s letter. She reads it with a great smile on her face.
‘My goodness, Marie, what a smart son you have. He’s such a credit to you, and the way you’ve brought him up.’
I leave her to read the letter again, and bring out the tray, a woollen shawl over my arm, which I wrap around her shoulders. She’s so thin and feels the chill, even on a summery day like today.
‘Thank you, Marie. You’re always so thoughtful.’ She watches me with her keen eyes. ‘Is everything all right, dear? You seem a little preoccupied lately.’
‘Oh, I’m all right, Erna …’ I begin.
She narrows her eyes and puts her head on one side. She peers at me as if to say ‘Really …?’
‘Well, all right … I have been worrying about Barry a bit.’
‘Hmmm. Not for the first time, I think. But why just now, when he’s doing so very well? His degree, his job. He’s making a success of his life, isn’t he?’
‘Well … yes. But, as you know, Erna, there’s a side to Barry that worries me sometimes. He can be hard; he can be … well, I don’t want to exaggerate, Erna, but almost cruel sometimes.’
‘Certainly I know he doesn’t suffer fools gladly! He can judge other people harshly at times. Maybe that’s a part of being as very able as he is. But cruel, Marie?’
‘Well, not all the time of course, but there’s a tendency to hardness that I’ve noticed in him; now, as an adult sometimes, but even years ago as a young child …’
‘Mmm?’
‘Well, for instance, you might remember I’ve mentioned how once, when he was just a little boy, and Sylvia and I took him to the playground, there was another mum and her twin girls playing nearby? They were barely more than toddlers and Barry a year or two older. He started playing “chasey” with them, but then he seemed to push one girl over …’
‘Yes, I do remember you telling me about it, Marie. I thought you were maybe reading too much into an accidental childish incident. I mean children often try out behaviours, even naughty ones, to see what happens.’
‘Perhaps that’s so, but there’s been a bit of a pattern to these incidents of unkind behaviour … Remember that time when Barry was about seven, and Mrs Holt from next door brought that little new puppy to show him?’
‘Oh yes, I do – it was so tiny. Such a sweet little thing! Barry was delighted with it, wasn’t he? He said he’d love a puppy himself.’
‘Yes, that’s right, and at first he played nicely with it. Do you remember, he rolled a ball for the puppy to chase? Then the puppy got tired, so Barry sat on the sofa with it on his lap, and the puppy went to sleep. Barry cuddled it gently at first.’
‘Oh yes! And then it suddenly gave a loud squeal, and it wriggled out of his lap still crying.’ Erna is looking thoughtful now.
‘It did, and it moved to the other end of the sofa, away from him, and licked its paw. It watched Barry. It was scared of him, Erna.’
‘Mmm, yes, I do remember – Barry said maybe the puppy had had a bad dream … I thought that was quite funny.’
‘Well … he could always think up a clever idea. You know what I worry about most, Erna, is that Barry might have been affected by me having to give up his brother for adoption, and by my constant longing for Donal ever since.’
‘But haven’t you told me that you didn’t feel Barry was ready to hear about that? You’ve never actually told him about his twin brother, have you, Marie?’
‘No. At first I believed he was too young to understand, and then later I wondered if it might make him more insecure and troubled. Perhaps I was wrong not to talk to him about it. I think I was afraid of upsetting him.’
‘Well, it’s not really my business, but I do think you should be open with him about now he’s an adult. Maybe it would help him to settle some of the confusion he may have experienced as a child. And you know something else, Marie? While you have spoken to me about how you came to be pregnant with the twins, you’ve never told me in detail about how you were compelled to give one of them up – what effect it had on you.
‘If you feel able and willing, why don’t you practise telling the story by first describing to me what happened?’
I take a deep breath.
‘All right,’ I say hesitantly.
I close my eyes and think. I picture the forbidding mother and baby home … Immediately, I am transported back to Sister Bernadette’s office all those years ago, a trembling, frightened young girl, a young mother, not yet eighteen. I can picture Sister Bernadette’s hard, scornful face. I tell Erna exactly what happened on that terrifying day. She listens to every word, barely taking her eyes off me, occasionally shaking her head.
At last the story is finished.
‘She was right in what she said, Erna, cruel though it was. In the end, what choice did I have? I couldn’t have cared for Donal as well as Barry. But that decision nearly killed me.’
Erna struggles up from her chair and hobbles towards me. She bends over and hugs me. Our tears mingle on our cheeks.
‘Oh my poor darling,’ she says. ‘You poor girl. You must tell Barry this story. He will understand that all you have done is for love – love for him and love for his brother.’
‘I do want to tell Barry, but I just wish I could find Donal first. I was never allowed any information about the adoption – what his new name is, where he lives, that sort of thing. If only I could send him a little note to say how much I’ve always loved him. Maybe he’d like a photograph of me, and Barry? I wondered if I should try to ask a private detective to look for him. I’ve some money saved from my dressmaking.’
‘Perhaps I can help you there. I would gladly pay for someone to search for your Donal. I believe there are special people who may be able to help trace missing relatives. What with computers these days, it may be possible.’
‘Thank you, Erna, but you’ve already been very generous and paid so much to help me and Barry. I feel this is something I should maybe pay for myself.’
Chapter 16
1996
Robert
The woman from the council housing department tells me her name is Julie. Julie is emphasising the flat’s good points, of course. She refers to it as ‘an apartment’.
‘So this here is the kitchen …’
Like I hadn’t noticed. Or maybe she thinks someone who’s been sleeping on the streets might have forgotten what a kitchen is. But she means well, and I’m not going to give her a hard time.
‘I know it’s quite … compact, but it’s not badly designed and fitted out, is it? Look, here there’s the fridge …’ She opens the door. The fridge could do with a good clean.
‘Oh, with quite a roomy freezer section. That’ll be handy, won’t it?’
She’s really trying, poor lass. She starts demonstrating the gas cooker next, an
d then we continue to the ‘sitting room’, but there’s nothing to sit on apart from the wooden floor. The floorboards look a bit rough and ready – you could end up with a nasty splinter in your bum sitting on that floor.
Julie is enthusing over the view from the window. I humour her by looking out. There’s a tiny, rusting play area and a small, neglected ‘garden area’ as she describes it. It’s more of a yard with some scrubby grass, trampled earth and a sad-looking tree in one corner, its trunk bending almost to the ground, as if carrying the weight of all life’s problems. I know just how you feel, man, I think.
‘It’s communal,’ Julie tells me brightly. ‘So on a fine day you could take a chair out. You might meet some of your neighbours down there for a chat and some company.’
I hope not, but I say nothing. Nor do I mention that I don’t even own a chair. I’m waiting for her to go, so I can settle in and unpack the black plastic sack containing my few pathetic possessions, but she walks through to the bedroom. A lumpy-looking single bed is pushed against the wall. There’s no bedding. Next we inspect a small bathroom. The bath looks like a chimney sweep has been having a good soak in it.
‘Oh dear. Someone hasn’t left it very clean …’ she comments.
‘It’ll be fine, I’ll give it a scrub. Thanks for showing me round the flat, Julie. It’ll be a whole lot better than the underpass. ’Specially when it’s fucking raining.’
She looks shocked for a moment, then pulls her face together and retrieves her smile when she realises I’m making a joke.
‘Yes, at least you’ll be warm and dry in here. Well, I’d better leave you to settle in, Robert. Here’s the key for your front door, and this one’s for the downstairs door to the block. Don’t forget the guys from the “Home In” charity will be coming over tomorrow morning with a few bits of furniture and stuff to help you. If there’s one spare, they might even bring you a telly. Fingers crossed.’
To my relief, she leaves. I stand still, close my eyes, and listen to the silence in my new home.
There’s a kettle at least, and some Nescafé, but no milk, so I make myself a mug of black coffee and start to consider what I’m going to do with the next twenty-six years of my life, or even the next six! I haven’t exactly made a brilliant success of the first twenty-six That’s got to change.
At least I’m off the streets. That’s got to be a positive start, and applying for – and eventually getting – council accommodation was another step up the ladder.
I don’t want to end up like some of those sad geezers I met on the streets. ’Specially the old guys: sick, freezing, stinking, starving, half-crazy most of them, living from one hit of booze or drugs – or both – to the next. Like old Harry, with his mangey dog Skip – his only friend in the world. There’s supposed to be emergency accommodation – night shelters – to crash in overnight, but most of us were too scared to go to those, except as a total last resort. Too many hard men happy to slice you up if you don’t give them some cash, or some drugs.
Nobody needs to sleep rough, is what the council says. I’d like to see them bed down in one of those places.
Slowly, painfully, I clawed my way out of the bottom of the sewer. It was a slow process. I accepted some temporary accommodation, got myself cleaned up a bit. My life became a series of short-term, low-paid jobs plus some voluntary work in a nearby homeless shelter, supplemented by some meagre benefits. Finally I was offered this small, basic flat by the council. It’s not much, but it’s a whole lot better than a pavement or underpass – and it’s going to be my home for a while, so I’d better make the most of it.
I open the bag with my few possessions in it and start to unpack. The first thing I take out is a photograph of Len and Betty, which accompanies me everywhere. I’d put it in a frame years ago. They’re standing at his allotment with their arms around each other, smiling broadly. It brings a lump to my throat. I kiss the photo and put it on the mantelpiece. How soft is that?
The sound of children’s voices outside drifts upwards. I go to look out of the front window. There are three little kids down in the so-called ‘play area’ down below. Basically just two lopsided swings and a rusty climbing frame. A woman who I assume is the kids’ mum is watching them, but then she says something in a foreign language, maybe Arabic, and disappears into the flats. The youngest kid is about three or four. He starts climbing up the fence separating the play area from the road. The older boy and girl are trying to stop him, but quick as a flash he’s hoisted his leg over the top and is down the other side. His brother is calling him to come back, but the little fella’s enjoying himself picking up stones and chucking them into the road. Cars are speeding about an arm’s length from the kid.
I grab my keys, run out of my flat and down the stairs as fast as I can. When I get to him, thankfully the kid hasn’t walked into the road. I pick him up and lift him back over the fence. By now his mother must have heard the older kids shouting as she’s come out and is watching with her hands over her mouth. I think she might be annoyed with me for touching her child, so I start to explain but she grabs my hand and shakes it.
‘Oh thank you, thank you,’ she says, hugging the little boy. ‘You very good man, very good man.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, ‘no problem. He’s a little adventurer, isn’t he?’
Her husband emerges from inside and sees what’s going on.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ he says. ‘Jabril is naughty boy – always escaping. The road is dangerous. Thank you.’
He says something in Arabic to his wife and then turns back to me. They want me to have a meal with them that evening. I tell him it’s OK, there’s no need, anyone would have done it, but they insist, so I go. Their names are Hakim and Faiza.
The family is from Iraq. They haven’t long been in England, so they know how it feels to be outsiders. They’re very hospitable and welcoming. That evening, we have a delicious spicy vegetable stew with rice, sitting in a circle on the floor. Little Jabril insists on sitting in my lap. It feels good to have made some friends.
***
The next day, with my precious benefit money in my pocket, I head to the corner shop for some supplies – bread and a carton of milk. On my way back to the flat, I see an old woman struggling with two lumpy shopping bags. I know she lives in my block – I’ve noticed her before.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Can I help you with those? They look heavy.’
‘Aye,’ she says, ‘they’re heavy, all right.’
She eyes me up and down suspiciously, looking torn between wanting my help and wondering whether I might run off with her shopping, I bet.
‘My name’s Robbie,’ I say. ‘I’ve not long moved in. I think you live in the flat below mine.’
‘Oh aye, now you come to mention it, I think I’ve seen you.’
‘Here, let me take those in for you.’ I reach for the bags. She looks at me and then releases her grip on them.
‘That’s right kind of you, lad,’ she says with a smile. ‘I’m Nora by the way.’ She flexes her shoulders and hobbles along beside me.
‘Well, it’s really nice to get to know the neighbours, Nora, being the new boy on the block.’
‘You’ll find most folk are quite friendly, Robbie.’
Nora rummages in her handbag for the key and opens the front door.
‘Thanks, pet, I think I can manage them from here.’
‘You open the door to your flat, and I’ll just put the bags straight on the kitchen table for you.’
‘You’re a good lad and no mistake. You’ll have to come in for a cup of tea in a day or two.’
‘I’d like that, Nora.’
***
My flat is in a pretty rubbish part of the city: generally run-down, poor housing, cheapo shops, the odd pub, and hardly a blade of grass to be seen, so I even appreciate the ‘garden area’. Still, people around here are OK. Friendly if they get to know you long enough to trust you.
People from all over the
world.
Lots of refugees. Colourful fruit and vegetable shops. I like that. I feel like a permanent refugee myself. What I could really do with is a job. I don’t expect to make a lot of money, with me not having any qualifications, but any money would be a help, and maybe a job would make me feel more settled.
It felt good to help Nora earlier. I quite like older people, and they seem to like me. I wonder if maybe I could find a job helping to look after them somewhere?
That afternoon, I go for a walk hoping to see some job vacancy signs in shop windows, and get some ideas about what might be available. Not a lot, seems to be the answer, but at least I’m getting to know the area.
There’s a library just around the corner, a short way along the high street. Even though I love reading, I can’t remember the last time I read a book. Mr Lewis would be disappointed in me. He was always so encouraging.
Inside the library I stop and look round at all the shelves stuffed with books.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’ A woman behind the counter smiles at me. I get the impression I’m a special event.
‘Yes, erm … I’ve just moved in nearby. I love reading books and wonder if I could borrow one or two?’
‘Certainly you can, that’s what we’re here for. We’re always pleased to have a new borrower. Just tell me your address. Once you’ve got your own library card, you can borrow books straightaway.’
That’s what having a proper address can do for you! The woman says she’s the chief librarian. She produces a printed map of the area for me, and points out various places of interest: a community centre, a swimming pool, a historic church, a walk to the riverside, and the high street from where buses go to the city centre.
‘Thanks a lot. It’s really useful to know a bit more about what this area has to offer. Oh, do you know if there are any care homes for the elderly nearby, where I might get a job?’