This Is Where I Am (47 page)

‘
The empty vessel makes the loudest sound: King Lear
– and Plato, of course.’

‘Ho. Excuse
me
–’

‘
The man that hath no music in himself
–’

‘
Mr
Hussein. That is enough.’

‘I quite agree, Ms Irvine. And my name, as I said, is Hassan. Would you like me to spell it for you?’

‘Sit down.’

‘Or you will what?’ I pick up my back-rucksack, my
Collected Shakespeare
Volume II and my apple for later. ‘I have no wish to continue with this lesson. When you begin to teach literature, I will return. And, in the interim, I think you should apologise to the class.’

Oh the sound of the door whumping shut. The thickness of my breathing, reminding me I am alive, that my simple act of ingesting air will power all this wonderful machinery of pumps and pistons and exploding, thrashing, multiplying cells. The corridor is unusually quiet. It is stripped of ornament so you will not linger, but hurry forward into education. Windows line one side, giving on to a concrete courtyard. I see a reflection of my sneering face, and my pride mutates to humility. What will I do now? My actions seem so flagrant as they deflate. Will I be expelled? I only want to learn.

Behind me comes Sandrine, then Farida. In the corridor we stare at one another. A little startled, a little crazed. A residue of shame hangs about us. The door opens again and out come three or four other students, no five. No seven. Around half of the class is standing in the corridor.

‘Aye well, up yours.’ A girl called Tanya is last to decamp. She slams the door behind her. She has deep-black hair which she must straighten with a flatiron. She has never spoken to me before.

‘Ho! Nice one, Abdi. She’s a cheeky bitch, so she is. You should complain about her.’

‘I should?’

‘Fuck, aye. She canny talk to folk like that.’

‘Perhaps I will.’

‘Good on you.’

Another student, a lad in his late teens, says, ‘You thought about the student council, Abdi? I think you’d be good on it.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘There’s a few positions coming up.’

‘It’s not really –’

‘Look, we’re having a meeting on Tuesday. Why don’t you come along, see what you think, eh? No pressure. Right.’ He claps his hands at the assembled renegades. ‘Seen as we’re all oot early, who’s for a drink?’

Several of the younger ones troop after him. I want to leave before Ms Irvine’s wrath boils over. Farida smiles her goodbyes and follows them. Tanya shoves her folder in her bag. ‘So, what you up to the night then, guys?’

I shrug. ‘Not sure.’

Sandrine shakes her head.

‘Och, well I’m away up to see my mum. She’s no keeping so well. I’m gonny take her up a big bar of Galaxy and a bottle of wine.’

‘Sounds nice. I hope she is better soon.’

‘See you, Abdi. Bye, Sandrine.’ She bounds out. Sandrine and I continue to wait. For what? My limbs are clumsy, my elbow clunks the window frame as I adjust the strap on my rucksack. Sandrine is rounded and petite, she is compact while I spill over. A slow tension unfurls. Should I make some lively remark, or let the conversation wither?

‘You came out also.’

Stupid refugee
.

‘Mmm.’ It is an unformed, urgent sound. Flicks up at the end.

‘Sandrine, what is it? What’s wrong?’

Her brow is creased with the effort of restraint. It’s our blank mask. The one we learn early, behind which we feel terror or despair.

‘It’s nothing. What that teacher said – to phone home?
Phone?
And then she said . . .
she
is going to see her mum. And I can’t do that.’ The smooth composure of her face dissolves. She cries very quietly.

‘Sssh. Please. Do not be sad.’ I let my eyes close momentarily.

‘Sandrine. Would you like to go for a drink?’

23. December

Glasgow Cathedral

Religion could be said to be at the root of Glasgow’s development. The city was founded by a saint; the university established by a bishop. ‘Lord, let Glasgow flourish through the preaching of Thy word’ is the city’s motto. For centuries, people of all faiths – and none – have settled in Glasgow, and this has sometimes led to tensions. Even today, the rivalry of Glasgow’s footballing ‘Old Firm’ and the colourful processions of Orange and Hibernian walks inject a reminder of times past. However, the city is now a cosmopolitan multi-faith community, boasting mosques, synagogues and temples – as well as four cathedrals.

Of these, Glasgow Cathedral is the best example of a large medieval church to have survived the Reformation. The first stone-built cathedral was dedicated in 1136, with the present building consecrated in 1197. It’s believed St Mungo’s original church was on the site of what is now the Blacader Aisle. Mungo died in 603 AD, and his own tomb can be found in the Lower Church. Thousands of pilgrims came to this shrine in medieval times, with the pope declaring a pilgrimage to Glasgow was as meritorious as travelling to Rome itself.

Today, the cathedral is part of the Church of Scotland, with services held every Sunday. Located at the top of High Street, it forms the centrepiece to an enclave of historical sights, including the city’s oldest house, the Museum of Religion and the poignant statuary of the Necropolis, Glasgow’s City of the Dead.

Entry to all is free.

*

‘I should have brought you here before.’

The three of us, in the front pew of the cathedral. Rebecca sits on me like I’m the chair. Her legs over mine, hands resting on my wrists, fine line of her spine between my breasts.
Ba-boom
goes my heartbeat through my flesh. Since Dadaab, I’ve been struggling. I’d let myself be excited by the world again, with all its limitless complexities. Rose thinks
carpe diem
means to reach and strive. I think it means to be content.

Three weeks till Christmas, and the cathedral is resplendent in green. The nave is hung with ivy, fir boughs strung in virile garlands over windowsills, under arches. There is a crisp blaze of tree-bark and peppery pine which hits your nostrils as you move. They must have got a job lot of Christmas trees because they’re sprouting like . . . well, trees. There’s a huge one in the nave, glistening with silver strands. Other trees are potted in front of the stained-glass windows, their packed-green needles unable to compete with garnet, emerald, sapphire. I kiss Rebecca’s plaited hair. She shuffles. Settles in again. Two more trees stand either side of the communion table: pagan evergreen on the altar. Abdi gazes at the ceiling. It is a soar of vast pointed arches sustained by clustered pillars.

‘It is so old. A thousand years, Debs. Nothing in my country is this old.’

Rebecca yawns. We’ve been to see Santa and bought new shoes. School shoes. The polo-shirts and sweatshirts are on order and Mrs Coutts – God help us – is making a grey skirt (I bought a wee pleated one at Debenham’s just in case).

‘Does this not touch you, Deborah?’

‘It’s beautiful, yes.’

‘I mean your soul.’

White Christmas roses shine like lard. Beady baubles glint and wink. Below the purple fall of the pulpit, there’s a nativity scene. Apologetic in its smallness but illuminated by a hidden light. The Calvinists would be birling in their neat plain graves. During the Reformation, icons were smashed here, and burned, stone noses severed from stone faces. You’d probably have been crucified for depicting God in a manger.

‘Why do they have all these trees inside?’

‘Bringing in nature. It’s an orgy of nature, Abdi. To remind us that winter will end. And how small we are. See, if you look at the pillars – they’re meant to represent tree trunks too. And the arching vaults are the branches.’

‘That real tree with all the silver. It makes me think of fishes.’

‘Fish.’

‘Fishes.’

‘Whasan orgy?’ asks Rebecca.

Abdi starts to giggle.

‘Um – a big party.’

Rebecca wriggles off my knee. ‘Can I see the dollies?’

‘There are no dollies, mucky pup.’

‘She means the nativity,’ I say. ‘OK, but don’t run. And DON’T TOUCH!’

‘It’s fine. We can see her from here.’

As she is bidden, Rebecca tiptoes neatly towards the pulpit. So careful is her progress, you could almost imagine she’s mocking us.

‘Abdi. Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘When you became a Christian, it was a priest you had, right? In Kenya?’

‘Yes.’

‘But now you’re here, you have a minister? A Protestant minister, who has a wife?’

‘Mm.’

‘Why the conversion?’

‘No conversion.’ Abdi glances sideways. Rubs his nose. ‘It was the closest church to our house.’

He is laughing. First just him, a grin that bubbles over; now me. Louder and deeper until people start to stare and Rebecca, too, looks up. I blow her a kiss then cross my eyes, and her throaty laugh rings loudest of all.

‘You’re something else, Abdi.’

‘Truthfully, it is all God. He is with us in the dust and the sewers, and in these trees: the real ones and the stone ones.’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe you still have faith. I think the best thing’s to believe in nothing, expect nothing. Do nothing. That’s how you stay sane.’

‘Maybe your faith does not have to be in God?’

He is so forlornly beautiful. I wonder if he knows this? My Christmas gift for him’s wrapped and in my handbag. It was a simple choice: Azira’s photo in a nice gilt frame. Now I’m scared that it’s a terrible idea. I’ll buy him some socks. And a jumper. Rebecca’s present is a little charm bracelet. My sister and I both had them; one charm a year: your birthstone; your first day at school; ballet pumps; your dog. I brought their presents with me because our time is officially up. In January the mentoring scheme is over. Technically, this is our last meeting.

‘Debba!’

Rebecca tumbles towards us, her face on fire with joy and light.

First day at school.

Arrows of coloured light pierce her heart-shaped face.

Your sixteenth birthday.

A tiny strand of hair flicks wide and wide.

Graduation.

And what if you never came back?

Your wedding day.

Ah, but what if? What if you did?

Call it a revelation – it’s not, of course. Call it what you like, but it’s the play of light, it’s a trick of the light, how it seeps and curls, is coloured smoke inside you. How it forms a shape, which becomes a substance. How that substance becomes you.

You.

What if that woman really was you? What if there’s one singular stone left unturned? I know your face, I
know
it.

‘Abdi.’ I stand. Abruptly. ‘I have to go away again.’

‘Why?’

I gather up my bag and gloves. ‘I dunno . . . not for long. A week? Few weeks, maybe.’

‘Will we see you before Christmas?’

‘If I can, yes.
Yes
,’ I insist.

‘You are coming back to us?’

‘We goin’ now, Debba?’ Rebecca jumps to a halt. ‘Ah’m
bouncin’
.’

I pull her into me. ‘Um-um-um. I could
eat
you.’

‘No!’ she shrieks, pushing me off. In her shoving hand I see a pair of feet. A tiny pair of feet are protruding from her fist.

‘Rebecca?’

‘What?’ she says, with wary defiance.

‘Let me see what you’ve got.’

‘Nuffin’.’

‘Open your hand.’

Slowly, very slowly, she unfolds her hand. A fat baby Jesus looks surprised at all the fuss.

Before I left, I went to see Naomi. It was the invite to the cocktail party that did it. Came in a thick cream envelope, gold ink on thick cream card.

Dear Friend

You are invited to join Naomi and Duncan for drinks and canapés, to celebrate our exciting news! Following recommendation from the Lord Justice General to the First Minister of Scotland, Her Majesty the Queen has appointed Duncan as Queen’s Counsel, and we would love to share this happy time with you all. RSVP. Dress: smart/casual. PS – no gifts, please. Your company is all we desire.

I waited until her house was hoaching, countless cars spilling chic little dresses and elegant overcoats – you know, the type with black velvet collars. Slung on my anorak and stomped over.

‘Hey, Naomi!’

She was a confection of cream and gold. Hair stiff with spray and a weight of gold trinkets on her wrist. Big gold boulder round her neck. Yes, Naomi was quite beside herself with jangling.