This Is Where I Am (32 page)

There are no gardens at Leverndale. Construction work is taking place at the perimeter, the clink of scaffolding and mixers churning, and the ground is pitted with tyre-ruts, filled with muddy water. Before I can stop her, Rebecca charges for the biggest puddle, jumps in with both be-wellied feet.

‘Yaaaaay!’

It is an unbridled shout of happiness; I can’t quell that, not even as filthy water drills her cheeks. It hits her new coat, joins the fine rain falling, the mild sky padded out with clouds. Shaded ochre, the clock tower is actually quite beautiful, in a sombre way.

‘C’mere, you!’

She shrieks as I chase her, pink boots flying. Then stops. Jumps again and taps the ground with her heels. Does it again, to confirm the noise emanating from the wet rubber really is that rude. Compressed air, I guess, working against the friction of her feet.

Rebecca beams at me. ‘Like jobbies comin’!’

‘No, not like jobbies! Who told you that word?’

That’s the downside of parks and soft-play. Other people’s weans. The bogies and the bad words, the boy whose exuberance is too big for the ball-pit. But the upside is seeing her chatting, sometimes even laughing as she copies them and dives head-first down the chute. On the way home last week, we met Mrs Gilfillan, out in her strip of front garden. She was gathering hydrangea heads, gone fawn and lacy, but still with tinges of desiccated blue. As we approached, she stopped snipping.

‘What a beautiful child you have there.’

A silly puff of pride about me. I could take no credit for the line of Rebecca’s nose or the nascent cheekbones that would be high and fine once the babyfat dropped away. The haze of hair I sympathised with, and struggled to contain. I couldn’t make it neat the way that Abdi did. But the wellies and the chocolate-smeared chin were all my own work.

‘Who does this belong to then?’ Mrs Gilfillan raised her spectacles above her nose. ‘Or have you stolen her?’

‘This is Rebecca. Say hello to Mrs Gilfillan, Rebecca.’

‘ ’Lo.’ Swinging on my trenchcoat as she said it.

‘Rebecca and her daddy are friends of mine. She’s staying with me for a wee while.’

‘And where are you from, Rebecca?’

‘The flat.’ Twisting the loose edge of my belt. The snap of an elastic band going off inside me.

‘She lives in Cardonald now – but from Somalia originally.’

‘Ah, Somalia, of course. Very fine features. My best friend was a Kenyan, you know. Well – you must bring her round for tea. Rebecca – stand up, don’t slouch. You have lovely long bones. Now. Have you ever had Dundee cake?’

The wee soul was rigid to attention. ‘No.’

School. She was so in need of school. The more Glaswegian she got, the less obedient she would become –
which is no bad thing in a child, reveals ex-teacher in shock admission
.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Gilfillan, ‘I make the best Dundee cake in all the world. So there.’

‘Debba makes nice pancakes.’

It was the longest, most structured sentence she’d ever said.

‘Oh really? Tell you what then, you bring the pancakes, I’ll supply the cake. How’s that?’

‘Good!’

It was. Delicious actually.

‘This is it,’ I tell Rebecca. All the wards at Leverndale have sturdy Scots names, like Balloch and Balmore. We press the buzzer, step inside. It’s tepid, dim, with odd whorls of abstract art, and the pale slop of half-moon lamps illuminating the canvases. Don’t be fooled by the swirly bits – they clearly run a tight ship here. There is a canvas, then a door, a canvas, then a door; five of each, on either side. Designed so there really is light at the end of the tunnel, the corridor stretching bleakly, coming to rest under a single, high window. In hospital, light is time. It passes and dims and wakes and falls. How cleverly they’ve blanked this out. We are in a wipe-clean womb.

‘To see Mr Hassan?’

A bright nurse waits to escort us through. Abdi’s in a single room. He is sitting on the edge of the bed. A moment of bewilderment when he looks up, then it’s blasted as Rebecca hurls herself up to his lap. Her little feet kick my shins, not meaning to, but they are blind and desperate.

‘Aabo! Aabo!’

She bends herself to Abdi’s shape. He corresponds, so they are head-to-head. Big hand, little hand. Kissing. Crying. It’s not my place to . . . it’s just not my place. I go back outside to wait.

Even with your eyes no longer smarting, once they’ve readjusted to the gloom, these paintings are simply splodges. Angry blue seas of nonsense; I do not understand modern art, the slapdash random self-importance of it, there’s no concession to the casual viewer, it makes you feel ridiculous, a bystander who’s not in the gang because you don’t get how a pair of dirty knickers and half a shark are –

‘Debba!’ Rebecca’s shouting on me. ‘Debba! Aabo is awake!’

Does the wee soul think he’s been sleeping for three weeks? I must not be so literal, must . . . I’m scared to see that blankness . . . if he’s gone what do . . . my bum is being shoved forward . . . no, yes . . . I’ve to hug him too. She’s trying to make me sit:
no, darling. Not on his knee. I think I’d squash him
. Abdi stands, before I’m forced to straddle him
.
We’re permitted an inch between us. He holds up his hand, not salute, not touching my face.

‘Deborah?’

I echo his spread-out fingers, tip against tip. His bigger hand engulfs mine.

‘Hello, you.’

‘Hello, Deborah.’

I get the Abdi half-smile. Shy and soft and slow and lazy, but it’s his own. He is neat and firm inside his head. I’m sure of it. More gaunt, certainly, but he is strong. I think it’s safe to ask.

‘How are you?’

‘Tired.’

Rebecca shoots him an anxious glance.

‘Did Rebecca give you her card? She made it herself.’

‘Hey? No. Let’s see it, mucky pup.’

She drags a crumpled envelope from her coat pocket. It too is splashed with mud. The card inside is perfect. It’s a drawing of a spreading tree. It has a thick trunk and blossoms; each blossom is a series of red petals, joined like grapes on a vine.

‘Isn’t it beautiful? Rebecca spent ages on it.’

She did, she spent meticulous hours drawing and shading, so that all the strands of colour are contained within the lines.

‘Put it here, Aabo! Put it here!’ She pats the windowsill, scattering the other cards already propped there.

‘She sounds all Scottish!’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, it is . . . good. It is her voice.’

‘Nice cards. Did you get one from Mrs Coutts? She asked me for the address.’

‘Yes. It is the one with the kitten.’

‘Oh, yes. Pretty. Ooh – you got fruit too?’

A lavish basket with a purple bow offers oranges and grapes and tempting, rosy orbs. Mangoes maybe?

‘From Mrs Girdwood, my minister’s wife. Yes, you may have an apple, Rebecca. They send me a card also. So did Mr Maloney. And I got this one. He, he. Read this one.’

There’s no flowery couplet inside. Instead, three different hands have penned their own messages on the white space. In order:

Mine’s a pint when you’re back on your feet, pal

Still on for the football whenever you’re up for it. Take care x

Baloney
says you’re on the mince counter when you get back!

This scrawl’s accompanied by a wee smiley face. I look at the front of the card. It’s a cartoon of a grizzly bear with an axe, chasing a lumberjack.

‘It is from the boys at work.’

‘So I see.’

‘Should I laugh?’

‘If you plan to keep living in Glasgow, then yes. It’s what we call gallus banter.’

Rebecca’s rearranging the cards. I lower my voice. ‘How are you really, Abdi?’

‘Like a bloodletting,’ he whispers. ‘Sometimes, we drink from camels? Not kill, just drink, you understand. When you cut them, they struggle and go crazy. Then it flows, and they calm. They just wait.’ He closes his eyes.

‘Knock knock!’

A doctor pushes the door. You know the term a shock of hair? Well, it really is; it’s big and white and woolly. Like someone’s stuck a daud of cotton wool on when he wasn’t looking.

‘Ah, Mr Hassan. May I come in?’

‘Please. This is my friend, Deborah.’

‘How do you do?’ The doctor’s voice batters round the room. ‘Ah, you’re the mentor lady I spoke to on Monday?’

‘Dr Boon? Yes, that’s right. With the Refugee Council.’

‘Excellent. Excellent. So. How are we today, Mr Hassan?’

‘I am wonderful. Look, sir. My daughter is here.’

He nudges Rebecca forward, who is suddenly bashful. It’s the whiteness of the man’s coat, I think it scares her. Or, more probably, his bouffant hair. Says me.

‘This is Rebecca.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Rebecca.’

She clings to Abdi’s waist.

‘Ooh, is that an apple? Is that to keep me away? Ha!’

I laugh a wee bit too, so the doctor doesn’t feel lonely.

‘So. Well, we’ve already discussed the nature of your care plan, haven’t we, Mr Hassan?’

‘Yes, sir. Rebecca – excuse me, please.’

Rebecca has let go of Abdi’s leg, is now tunnelling beneath the bedclothes. A train, a ghost? I’m not sure. But every so often she goes ‘Woo-woo!’

I leave Abdi to grab her, which is fine because I think it’s me the doctor’s actually speaking to, half in and out the door as we’ve positioned ourselves. Doctor Boon leans in close, bringing sandalwood and pipesmoke with him. ‘We’re talking about a mix of collaborative interventions. Therapeutic and physical. He’ll have his medications, of course – that’s all included in the care plan, but our clients are encouraged to engage in a holistic, individualised approach to . . . well, recovery, ideally. There’s a good project specifically for refugees which I’m referring him to. COMPASS. Damn good people there. I was at a conference with . . . um. Doesn’t matter. Horrific, though, just horrific.’

‘Is there likely to be a recurrence? You said it was a flashback started this.’

Abdi is letting Rebecca name all the fruit, all their shapes and all their colours. She is even setting them out in order of height, and I can hear her chatter about our garden. Flinging this out at Abdi, who strokes her hair, blinks and listens.

‘Hard to say,’ says the doctor. ‘The fact that he was able to function well enough up till now, and it was a specific trigger that . . . well, we’ll just need to wait and see.’ He’s already explained to me about patient confidentiality. What Abdi has said in the confessional is sacrosanct, and how I must never press him.
Leave that to the professionals, my dear!
But he reiterates it, obliquely from the side of his mouth as we watch Abdi with his daughter. ‘Trouble is, conventional talking therapies don’t always help. Trauma involves part of the brain not accessible through language. So our experiences get trapped where the brain controls emotions. Which means they don’t get processed. Instead of being filed as a memory, they persist as if they’re happening now. That’s why he’ll continue to have a full programme of professional support. Ongoing counselling, CBT . . .’

‘What can I do, though?’

‘Listen if he wants to talk, but don’t initiate a conversation. Accept that he may be tired or withdrawn, seem agitated or depressed – these are all emotions he’s been repressing. Obviously, if he displays signs of aggression . . .’

Abdi is biting into a pear, presenting each heart-shaped morsel to Rebecca, so she can access the white flesh. She loves pears, but doesn’t like the ‘chewy’ skin.

‘You know Social Work will continue to monitor the situation? What with the wee one.’

‘Of course. But I promise you, he’ll not be on his own.’

‘No.’ Dr Boon smiles at me. ‘So, you’re with the Refugee Squad, eh? You must see a lot of this type of stuff. Tell you, I don’t know how much they pay you people, but it’s not enough –’

‘I’m a volunteer.’

‘Oh. Well.’ He plays with his stethoscope.
There’s
a doctor who’s not been on his hand-hygiene course. ‘I take my hat off to you, young lady.’

Young
lady. I want to hug him. He’s like a jolly polar bear.

‘So.’ The good doctor strides full into the centre of the room. I saw him coming, but even I jump at the loudness of his hair, his voice, his walk. ‘What do you say, Rebecca? Will we get your daddy ready to go home?’

Rebecca considers this, still unsure of the booming Mr Boon. Finishes chewing her pear and decides to respond.

‘Ma wellies fart.’

16.

I climb from the car. I have the bones of an old man, the brain of a child. But my lumberings are forgotten as I stand, look up, look up. Deborah’s house is dazzling. So tall, mountain-stone tall for one person to live – I count three floors of windows which are hers alone. My new shoes ring on the staircase, in the hall which is laid with tiny stones. A repeating pattern of triangles. On a table below a wide mirror is a silver bucket, in which Debs has put white flowers. We take tea in the lounge room, on pillowy divans, then I am led upstairs. Rebecca was going to give me a full tour, but I am tired, the house is vast – and she is transfixed by something loud on television.