Chasing Freedom Home (Malinding)

CHASING FREEDOM HOME.

Chasing Freedom Home

by

Tom Ireland

Acknowledgements and thanks

Firstly to the people of The Gambia for their good humour and willingness to answer my many questions with a smile and infinite patience.

Next, to the members of Vale Royal Writers, for listening to my readings from draft after draft of the Malinding books, and for their helpful suggestions.

And to my wife Joyce, for being.

Finally to Gladstone's Library, Hawarden; a residential library with comfortable beds, good food and the exact conditions to nurture readers and writers.

Income from the sale of this, and all other Malinding books, is paid directly into the bank account of the charity GOES (Gambian Occasional Emergency Support), the activities of which may be discovered by reading   gambiaGOES.blogspot.com

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Published by GOES, for the benefit of that charity, 2014.

Other books in this series are:

Empty Bananas,

The Mechanical Girl,

Mussukunda,

&

The Alkalo.

Stories for Gambian Children may also be of interest.

1

Ed-Lamin Edwards leaned back as far in the chair as was possible to attract the attention of his partner in the conservatory.

‘Hi! Jane! You want some tea?’

‘Only if you cook some proper Atayah, with mint. I’m sorry I ever showed you how to use a tea-bag.’

‘It might rain. I can’t cook Atayah in the kitchen. It’s a fire hazard. Earl Grey, with lemon? There’s a couple of mince pies left?’

‘A couple? There should be dozens of the little darlings. I baked enough to feed a family.’

‘You did, and they did. They were delicious. Before you say it – I am your family, well, until Sprog appears. Any more thoughts about names?’

‘Plenty; Fatou, Lamin, Samantha, Perigord, Elspeth, Fletcher, Constantine – ‘

‘Where are you getting those from?’

‘This row of books on the window ledge. Fletcher-Elspeth has quite a nice ring to it. Seventeenth centuryish. Fletcher-Elspeth Edwards-Ceesay-Brompton. How does that sound?’

‘Where did the Brompton bit come from?’

‘There’s a Brompton folding bike for sale in the paper. It’s lime-green. With seven speeds and a dynamo.’

‘How many speeds is the dynamo?’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll have a pot of Yorkshire tea and the remaining mince pies. Pretty please.’

‘You’ll be fat.’

‘I am fat. You like me fat. You made me fat and in five weeks I’ll be thin again. Fairly thin. Hopefully. You likie me thin, remember?'

‘My memory doesn’t go that far back. Doesn’t seem possible, does it? Just over another month and we’ll have a third competitor eating the mince pies.’

‘I don’t think they eat mince pies at first. Not for a while, at any rate.’

‘They? How many have you got in there? An army, a regiment, a platoon?’

‘It seemed like it this morning. There they all are, stamping around, swimming butterfly crawl, and pounding the beat. I’m dreading the birth – they’ll just put their heads down and charge for the gate. Maybe it’s a giant centipede. How do you change a centipede’s nappy?’

Ed-Lamin walked into the conservatory, balancing a tea tray on his left hand.

‘When did you brew the tea? You’ve been talking for ages. You can’t multi-task, you’re a man.’

‘I made it before I asked you what you wanted. See, I can read your mind. I didn’t need to multi-task three mince-pies; they were there already, just for you. Unless you invite me to have one, perhaps?’

‘No chance, sunshine. God, I am fat. Are my feet still down there? It’s been months since I last saw them. They were wearing high heels. Months. How can you still love me? Did you like making me fat? Was it worth it?’

‘Worth it? Best day’s work I ever did. Day’s work? Nights and nights of toil; months and months, night and day, bonking for England. Lord. I need this cup of tea, I’m exhausted, and a mince pie. Woman! You’ve eaten the last one. I didn’t even see it go, I didn’t have time to wave it fare-well.’

‘Wasn’t me. A centipedy hand reached out and grabbed it. Just put your hand on my belly, just here – you can feel it munching away.’

‘Yep; munch munch munch. If it’s a girl centipede will she want high heels? High heels and designer jeans? Hundreds of them? Or will she be content just to have fifty different pairs and wear them on different legs every day? Or will just the back legs need jeans and the rest can manage with leggings? How many legs will be arms?’

‘No. Stop it, Ed, please. Suddenly it’s not funny. I want just one beautiful, normal baby. I lie awake at night, listening to my tummy rumbling, and wondering who’s in there. I want one ordinary, wonderful, lovely baby boy or baby girl. I want her or him to have a normal happy life and fall in love like we did and live a long, useful and contented life and, oh shit! I’m so scared. Hold me. Hold me. Tell me it’s going to be all right.’ She closed her eyes to shut out the darkness. He pulled her to her feet and embraced her, whispering, stroking her back, assuring and reassuring her as best he could.

‘Our baby will be fine. We’re young and healthy and we get good care. It’s normal to worry, I expect, and to be concerned. You’re a fit English thoroughbred and I’m a, well, I don’t know what I am; I’m a mixture of excellencies; our baby will be as beautiful and intelligent and fit as both of us put together. If anything had been wrong it would have been detected long ago. Both your parents are in bustling good health and humour – well, until they see me. My dad lived to a ripe old age and my mum’s indestructible. Her granddad lived to be a hundred, and that’s in a country with limited resources. Come on, let’s go for a drive round the lanes, then you can put your feet up and I’ll sing you to sleep. How’s that for an idea?’

‘Promise no singing?’

‘OK. No singing. Promise.’ He hovered anxiously as she put her coat on and lumbered to the door. The day was warm, gently mild; the kind of day when romantic poets wooed their disenchanted lovers. He had already rolled the fabric roof of the little yellow car back in readiness for the trip. She settled herself in and allowed him to fuss with a rug round her knees, and tolerated him checking that if he closed the door it would not trap any part of her anatomy or clothing. Heavens, she longed for him to accept she was not made of chocolate icing, likely to melt or crumble or shatter if a breeze or a dragonfly or a speck of dust ventured too near. He started the engine, double checked the mirrors, looked over both right and left shoulders and pulled carefully out onto the deserted road. He glanced at her. She was the loveliest, sexiest woman on the planet. She slipped her arm across his shoulders as he drove, stroking the nape of his neck with one finger and smiling to see him smile. He turned back to his chauffeuring with a wide grin on his face. He drove carefully, avoided overtaking anything faster than a bicycle and returned his precious passengers an hour later, refreshed and sleepy, to their front door.

The crunch of broken glass underfoot alerted them to disaster. The daubed obscenities across the fresh white paintwork disgusted them, and the parcel of excrement that had been flung through the broken window had them staring in frightened horror at one another.

They stared at the desecration of their lovely home.

‘Why? Who could do this? What’s the point? What have we ever done to deserve this?’ They had no answers. Jane reacted first.

‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll call the police.’ She dialled, waited a moment, and then gave, Ed thought, a very calm description of the scene. The calm evaporated quickly. ‘What do you mean, nothing to do with you? Of course it has, it’s vandalism. Our home’s been attacked and you can’t do anything? It’s a racist crime, it must be. Please, you’ve got to help us.’ She listened a little longer, staring open-mouthed at the ‘phone.

‘They won’t do anything. They say the law’s been changed and if I continue to pester them they’ll arrest me for harassment and wasting police time. If we’re not happy living where we do we should move.’

‘Go and lie down, love. I’ll clear this filth away then we’ll share a bath. Go on. Nice bath, candles and scented soap. It’ll be as if it never happened in the morning.’ He helped her climb the stairs, settled her on the bed, kissed her, and went down to cleanse the hall.

He resolved not to tell her about the message written on the sheet of paper wrapped round the excrement. He managed to wash most of the graffiti off the white paint of the front door and he found a piece of hardboard to cover the broken window.

He took a shower to make him feel clean, then ran a bath. He lit the candles, poured a little fragranced oil onto the hot water, closed the curtains and called to tell Jane the bath was ready. He undressed her gently, kissed her belly and helped her into the tub. When she was settled comfortably he climbed in behind her.

‘Told you this Victorian replica would prove useful. The Victorians knew what life was about. Two in a bath – economic, practical and sensuous.’ He washed her back, and tried to reach round far enough to help with the interesting bits. She leaned back, heavily, on him.

‘Don’t be getting any ideas, boy. You’ve had your fun, now you’re in thrall to me. Out you get, now. I need tea.’ He climbed out, dried himself and pulled on a dressing gown.

Downstairs, as he waited for the kettle to boil, his ‘phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘You got the message, boy? Time to move out.’

Number withheld. He made the tea, found a few biscuits, and climbed slowly back upstairs.

‘What’s happened? Ed, talk to me. Something else? Look, this concerns all three of us. Talk to me, love?’ Ed thought for a moment, then nodded.

‘While I was making the tea I got a ‘phone call. Just a voice, a man’s voice. Quite well spoken. Told us, or maybe just me, to get out. “Time to move out” was what he said. Maybe he’s right. I think I know what this is all about.’

‘What? What, for fuck’s sake? What justifies smashing windows, vandalising someone’s home? What justifies making threatening ‘phone calls? Bugger it. We stay here.’

‘Jane love, think for a moment. Remember your call to the police.’

‘Yes? So? I got a jobsworth on an off day.’

‘Maybe you didn’t. Did you vote in the last General Election?’

‘What are you talking about? No, I didn’t. Nor did anyone else I know. Bloody politicians and their duck houses. What have they got to do with anything?’

‘I didn’t vote either, and I spoiled my ballot paper the time before that. Do you know how many people did vote last time?’

‘Of course I don’t. Come to the point.’

‘Twelve per cent of the electorate voted, that’s all. Remember who they voted for?’

‘No. Oh, yes I do. Some racist looney? Can’t remember his name. Oh. Shit. You don’t think?’

‘I do. Some racist looney organised his voters and became Prime Minister because the rest of us were too disillusioned or too idle or whatever to get off our bums and put a cross on a piece of paper.’

‘It couldn’t happen. Not in England. It wouldn’t happen. We can’t let a few nutters control our lives. We would have noticed any stupid laws being passed. It would be all over TV and the papers.’

‘The papers? What papers do we read? We used the get
The Guardian
or
The Indy
. But they closed down; they were bought out, weren’t they? And we refused to get any of the others? Redtop rubbish, I think you called them? There aren’t any news programmes now on TV and as for the Internet nowadays; porn, porn and more porn.’ There was a sound of breaking glass from downstairs. Ed rushed to the window; a black Range Rover was speeding away in the direction of the town. A siren and a blue flashing lamp helped to clear its way.

‘When you were on the ‘phone to the police did you tell them our address?'

‘No, I didn’t get that far. Why?’

‘I think they knew already. That was a police car that drove off just now. Ironic really, it being black.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at me, Jane. What colour am I?’

‘What colour? You’re a lovely shade of …’

‘Of black, my love, of black. I think I know what one of our new laws is.’