Refugee Boy Page 10

  Alem had always avoided disagreement with the Fitzgeralds and he certainly didn’t want to have one on a day like this, so he chose his words carefully. ‘I thought that the barrister will be there to make a good impression for me, so he should be wearing a suit.’

  ‘Very good,’ Mrs Fitzgerald replied, acknowledging Alem’s logic. ‘But this is all about you, you’ll be standing there right in front of the judge, he’ll be looking straight at you. I know these things; a suit will make a good impression, take my word for it. I know how these people judge character.’

  Alem rubbed his eyes again and paused for thought. ‘If these judges are so intelligent, they should know that you cannot always judge by first impressions. They should know that a suit is just pieces of material sewn together and that you cannot judge a person’s character by the pieces of material that they wear. And besides I thought the judge was going to look at the facts – why I’m here and can I stay, things like that. I didn’t think he was going to judge my character.’

  Mrs Fitzgerald looked down at Alem sitting up in the bed; the reasoning of this half-awake mind impressed her. ‘You’re right,’ she said as she placed the suit across the bottom of the bed.

  Alem looked at the suit. ‘So I don’t have to wear it then?’

  She turned and began to leave the room. ‘It’s up to you.’

  Half an hour later Alem looked in the wardrobe mirror and whispered to himself, ‘I hate this suit.’ The sleeves were too long, the legs were too long and the chest was too tight, but he felt that he had to wear it to please Mrs Fitzgerald.

  ‘We have to leave soon,’ Mr Fitzgerald shouted from downstairs. ‘Get yourself together.’

  Alem opened his door. ‘Mr Fitzgerald, do I have to carry anything?’

  ‘No, not really. You’ll be back in no time,’ he shouted back.

  ‘Mr Fitzgerald, can I bring a book?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Mr Fitzgerald replied. ‘You won’t have much time to read in court but you can read on the tube down if you like.’

  Alem went to one of his piles of books and grabbed the one at the top of the pile; he then left the room and went downstairs without looking at what he had chosen. When he entered the living room, Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald were waiting for him. Ruth wandered about in her nightdress. It was the first time they had seen him in the suit. As they looked down, they all gasped as if horrified by some unsightly slime.

  ‘Alem,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said loudly, ‘you can’t do that – you can’t wear trainers with that suit.’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘No, Alem, get real, it doesn’t rock.’

  He searched for more from Ruth. ‘It doesn’t rock?’ he said. ‘It doesn’t rock what?’

  ‘It don’t go, it doesn’t match,’ she said.

  Mr Fitzgerald circled around him as if inspecting a car. ‘Everything’s fine except the trainers.’

  ‘Do you think I should change them?’ Alem asked.

  ‘I think you should,’ Mr Fitzgerald replied. ‘I think you should try wearing your shoes, the black ones we bought for you, they’ll do nicely.’

  After a short bus ride to East Ham Underground station they caught the tube and headed towards the court. Alem had not been outside the East End for a long time. Most journeys, no matter how small, would normally arouse some excitement in him but this morning he was very subdued. Fortunately they had all managed to find seats, but as the train moved closer to central London it began to fill up. By the time it had reached Mile End, the train was packed; there was standing room only, and very little of that. As the bodies filled the carriage, the temperature rose and Alem began to sweat in his heavy suit. The train rocked from side to side and forwards and backwards as it was braking and accelerating, and as it did so the only part of Alem that remained still was his feet, weighed down by his heavy shoes.

  Alem wondered why the people on the train were trying so hard not to be noticed. Some would just stare at the advertisement boards as if they were trying to see through them, some read newspapers or books as if they were being forced, some tried to go back to sleep, and others listened to music on their Walkman. But no one was making eye contact with him and no one smiled. These were the employed people, he thought, those that had left school and obtained jobs. They were not starving, they were not at war but they looked miserable. I wonder, Alem thought to himself, are they all going to court? There was nothing else for him to do so he opened his book.

  The book turned out to be a collection of war poems by Wilfred Owen. Alem had not read much poetry but he soon tuned into what was in front of him. He quickly picked up on the big stories behind the sometimes short poems. He held the book tightly with both hands close to his chest, trying to minimise the amount of movement caused by the train. At times he would stop reading and look up to digest a verse, only to find that some of the faces had changed in the carriage but they were still pretty miserable.

  Alem and the Fitzgeralds got off at Borough Underground station and walked to the court in Swan Street. It was a very old building, grey and lacking in colour. Alem felt that there was something menacing about the building, yet it had a timeless beauty about it. It looked as if giants had carved it by hand out of one solid piece of stone. They entered the building and were directed to the noticeboard, where Alem found his name along with many others.

  ‘I found my name,’ Alem told the others, who were still searching the many names.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Mrs Fitzgerald.

  Alem took a moment to read it through to himself, then he read it aloud. ‘Case Number C651438, Appellant – Alem Kelo. Respondent – the Secretary of State. Ten o’clock, Court Number Nine.’

  All four turned to look for signs giving directions. In this part of the building everybody looked as if they knew exactly where they were going, everybody looked so confident.

  ‘Oh, I know where it is,’ Mrs Fitzgerald exclaimed. ‘It’s upstairs, I know exactly where it is.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Alem asked as they all began to follow her.

  ‘I’ve been here before with little Themba.’

  ‘Who is little Themba?’ Alem was trying to keep up with her as she strode up the stairs. Mr Fitzgerald lagged way behind.

  ‘Themba was such a nice boy. He stayed with us a long time ago. We came here because they wanted to send him back.’

  ‘Back to where?’

  ‘Back to South Africa,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said almost as if Alem should have known. ‘His mother and father were there but they didn’t want Themba to grow up in a country that was officially racist. Nor did I.’

  By now Alem was struggling not to burst into a run. ‘Did he have to go back, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  Mrs Fitzgerald slowed down as they reached court number nine. A large figure 9 hung over the door. ‘Now that’s a long story. The court allowed him to stay, so he stayed for a while. Then, when Nelson Mandela was freed and things began to change, he went back and now he’s a computer programmer. He still phones me sometimes.’

  Outside courtroom number nine there were two other families. Both families looked anxious and both spoke languages that Alem couldn’t recognise. There was just enough room left on the bench for Alem and the Fitzgeralds to sit. Alem looked down the corridor where he could see other numbered signs hanging outside courtrooms, with other families sitting in front of them. In this part of the building the people didn’t look as though they knew where they were going, and these people certainly didn’t look confident.

  Small children walked up and down, some would try to communicate with others through touching and offering to share toys. Many of the adults smoked nervously. When Alem heard people speaking, he seemed to hear a different language every time. He sat and watched two small boys, one black African and one white European, colouring a book. Unable to communicate verbally, they smiled and made noises to each other as crayons magically left their colour on the pages. Suddenly, Alem heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello, A
lem – Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Hello,’ Alem replied.

  It was Sheila; she was with a man in his late twenties with very short brown hair and a goatee beard. His grey suit, grey tie and white shirt all looked as if he had bought them that morning. He smiled.

  ‘This is Nicholas Morgan,’ Sheila said, ‘I told you about him.’

  ‘I hope she’s told you some good things too,’ he said, flashing his perfect teeth and his clean-cut smile.

  Sheila had heard that one before. A little embarrassed, she began to introduce the family to Nicholas. ‘This is Alem and this is Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald, his foster parents.’

  Nicholas kept smiling. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He shook everyone’s hands and then sat precariously on the bench next to Alem. As he spoke, he looked directly at Alem; his voice was clear, soft and sympathetic.

  ‘Alem, I just need to chat a little about what’s going to happen this morning. This case has arisen because the Secretary of State, in other words the government, has doubts about your reasons for being here. What we have to do is convince the adjudicator that the reasons you put in the statement you made are legitimate. Now, today nothing much will happen. The adjudicator will ask you if you are Alem Kelo; the person that represents the state will stand up and say why he thinks you should go; and then I’ll stand up and say why I think you should stay. The adjudicator should then ask us to go away and prepare our cases. It should be as simple as that. Do you have any questions?’

  Alem looked around. ‘Who are these people? Will they be in there too?’ he asked with a slight nod of his head in the direction of the other people seated on the bench.

  ‘No, these are other cases that will be heard after you. I think they’re Polish Romany people, probably in a similar position to you,’ Nicholas replied. He looked at his notes and pointed to something that he had spotted. ‘There is an interpreter available if you want one but I’ve been told that you’re happy without one. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll be OK. Do you think my English is good enough?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you’ll be fine,’ Nicholas said as he reached out and touched Alem on his shoulder.

  Nicholas stayed with them until a woman came from the courtroom and called out Alem’s name.

  Mrs Fitzgerald jumped up as if startled by a ghost. ‘Oh, that’s us!’

  Nicholas led them into the courtroom. Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald went to the family seats, and Nicholas led Alem to his seat. Directly opposite was the adjudicator’s seat. It was big, red and empty, and stood on a raised platform, which Alem immediately thought was to symbolise superiority. Mounted on the wall above the seat was a large gilded crest. It portrayed a large lion and unicorn facing each other; above them was a golden crown and below them were the Latin words ‘Dieu et mon droit’. In front of Alem to the left stood Nicholas, making last-minute notes, and to the right of him stood the representative of the Secretary of State. Underneath the adjudicator’s platform sat the usher who had called Alem in, and to the left of her sat the clerk. The walls of the room were high, panelled halfway up in a rich, dark wood, but from there on up to the ceiling they were painted in cheap magnolia. Alem admired the panelling but noticed that the top half of the room had been neglected; the magnolia paint was flaking and cobwebs stretched from the corners and light fittings as if protected by a preservation order.

  Suddenly, everyone stood up. Alem was taken by surprise; he was the only one left seated. He looked towards Nicholas, who signalled with his hand and mimed the words ‘Stand up’. Alem stood up. The adjudicator walked in and sat in his seat and everyone sat down, except Alem. Nicholas signalled him down with his hand and mimed the words ‘Sit down’. Alem sat down.

  The hearing began as predicted. The state representative spoke first.

  ‘The state believes that the appellant faces no personal threat if he were to be returned to his country. We are of the belief that if he were returned, he would live a relatively peaceful life.’

  Next Nicholas stood up and said his piece. ‘My client believes that he has much to fear if he were to return home at this time. He has in fact suffered persecution there in the past and the political circumstances in both Ethiopia and Eritrea have not changed since then.’

  Alem watched the adjudicator as he read from some of the papers in front of him, and knew that he was reading about him. The adjudicator then turned to Alem, took off his spectacles and began to speak. ‘What I am going to do is adjourn this hearing so that reports can be prepared. Do you understand?’

  Alem was nervous, his reply was barely audible. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  The adjudicator continued. ‘Until you come back before me, you will stay with your foster parents at 202 Meanly Road. Is that agreeable?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alem said more positively.

  ‘Very well,’ the adjudicator concluded. ‘Do you have anything to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alem replied.

  There was a look of surprise on the face of Nicholas. He had no idea what Alem could possibly want to say; he just hoped that he wouldn’t say anything that would jeopardise his case. The Fitzgeralds looked at each other, not knowing what was going to happen next. Alem wasn’t working to the script.

  Alem looked around the courtroom and said, ‘I would like to wish you all a happy Christmas.’

  A smile came to the faces of all in the courtroom and the clerk noted his remarks.

  The adjudicator’s tone changed, and he leaned forward and spoke to Alem as if he was genuinely trying to help him. ‘It’s difficult to tell whether you mean that in retrospect or are speaking of the Christmas to come. You see, we have just had Christmas.’

  ‘I know,’ Alem replied, ‘people were very nice to me at Christmas, but today it is Christmas in Ethiopia and Eritrea and many other parts of the world, and I think that if Christmas makes us nicer to each other, we should celebrate as many Christmases as we can.’

  There were smiles from all in the courtroom and quiet laughter from some. Mrs Fitzgerald smiled as tears rolled down her face.

  The adjudicator laughed the loudest. ‘Not only have I learned something new today, I have also been made wiser. I would like to thank you for imparting your knowledge to me and I would like to take this opportunity to wish you a happy Christmas.’

  Alem smiled at the adjudicator. The adjudicator put on his spectacles and continued. ‘This hearing will now be adjourned until 15 February on the condition that the appellant resides with his current foster parents. I hope by then that all the relevant reports can be prepared.’

  The two representatives nodded. The adjudicator stood and the whole court stood. This time Alem followed the crowd. The adjudicator turned and left, whereupon the courtroom filled with talk as everyone began to leave.

  The Fitzgeralds headed straight for Alem. Mr Fitzgerald shook his hand and said, ‘You had us worried there for a moment.’

  Mrs Fitzgerald hugged him, kissed him on his forehead and said, ‘Alem, you were great! Happy Christmas!’

  Chapter 13

  ˜ Loved and Lost ˜

  The next day Alem was back in school. His English was improving by the day and he was tuning in well to the accent of east Londoners but he hadn’t come to terms with the weather. Sometimes he would find himself shivering because of the bitter cold but he would not complain, he just told himself that one day he would get used to it.

  Two days later Alem woke up as normal to the smell of breakfast being cooked. Thanks to the twin radiators the room was warm enough for him to push the quilt aside and have a good stretch. He jumped up, sat on the bed and reached down to pick up a book. The book that came to hand was A History of the East End, a book of large old black and white photographs with very little text. He flicked through the pages and would stop at certain photos that caught this eye. The first was a photo of Boleyn Castle. The picture had no people in it and the quality of the photo was poor. The words underneath claimed that Anne B
oleyn had lived there, and Henry VIII courted her there in secret trysts. Then Alem turned to a picture taken in 1905 of ‘The Ladies of the St John Ambulance Brigade’. They were all dressed in white frocks with black capes, and stared into the camera as if they were afraid of it. As Alem looked at them he wondered what they were thinking at the time, and who was St John? He flicked through pages of photos of old churches, famous people and industrial buildings, ending up on a picture of Beckton in the Blitz. A bomb had hit a row of houses in a street; they had been reduced to rubble. Alem looked deep into the photo and began to notice small details, which at first were not visible among the mass of bricks and piping. He saw shoes, a doll, a radio, a handbag and a couple of hats, one of which looked very much like the hats that were worn by the ladies of the St John Ambulance Brigade.

  Alem put the book down and went to the window. ‘Gosh!’ he shouted loudly as he looked outside. ‘That’s something else!’ Outside was foggy, frosty and cold.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgerald!’ he shouted. ‘Have you seen outside?’

  She shouted back, ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Is there something wrong with the pond?’ shouted Mr Fitzgerald.

  ‘Yes,’ Alem replied, ‘the pond is disappearing, everything is so white.’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ shouted Mr Fitzgerald. ‘You should see it when it snows. It doesn’t happen much nowadays, but that’s when it’s really white.’

  At the breakfast table Mr Fitzgerald explained that England was like that. ‘You could get four seasons in a day sometimes,’ he said trying to make it sound like an original observation. He went on to give a lecture on how unlucky the kids were now, and how when he was young snow would be around for weeks and they would make sleighs and snowmen. ‘But not now,’ he said, ‘it’s that global-warming thing, it never really freezes for long and if you want a snowman nowadays you can go and buy a blow-up one in the shop.’