A Distant Shore (33 page)

“There’s a spare room next to Mike’s. It’s not very big, but you can take it.”

The room was small, but very comfortable. However, I could not sleep without suffering bad dreams in which my own mother and father appeared before me with stern faces, warning me of unfortunate events that were sure to blight my life should I choose to remain among these people. I begged my parents to share with me their knowledge of these ill tidings, but whenever they appeared to be about to bless me with an answer, I would wake from my slumber shaking with consternation. I would look around the strange room and once more have to make the attempt to understand where I was, and remember by what means I had arrived there, and only after I calmed down was I able to re-embrace sleep. But sadly, I would once again find myself tossing and turning, for it appeared that my dreams were permanently cursed with the accusatory faces of my parents, who were clearly racked with anxiety over the plight of their “lost” Gabriel. When the woman came into the room and took my arm, I quickly sprang to my defence. However, I was immediately sorry for I could see that I had alarmed her. She held a cup in her hand, which she set down on the bedside table.

“I’ve brought you this cup of strong coffee.” She paused and turned to look at me. “And it’ll soon be time for your dinner. Dad’ll be home any minute, and Mike’s already awake.” She pointed to a towel that was neatly folded and draped over the armchair near the door. “I’ve put a towel over there for you, and the bathroom’s out the door to the right. Take your time, no rush.”

I watched her leave the room. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear music, and then it was replaced by the sound of bells, and then I heard a man’s voice reading the news. It was all very confusing. I reached over and enjoyed a mouthful of the strong coffee.

The house in which I live is at the far end of the street, and it is smaller than the other houses. In fact, Mr. Anderson said that it was originally a storage hut, but once they decided that it was necessary for somebody to live on the estate, they quickly adapted the house so that it blended in with the others. Mr. Anderson moved my belongings in yesterday, but there were few items to transport. They hardly occupied the rear seat of his car, and they were mainly clothes and books that I had managed to acquire. However, now that I am parking my own car, or what used to be Mike’s car, outside the house, I feel as though I am truly arriving here for the first time. Strange, because I have been working in this village for many months, helping with the carpentry and installing plumbing. I am familiar with this village, and this area, but now it is to be my home. I am to be the night-watchman, and my job will be to watch over these people.

Inside the bungalow there is little furniture. I do not need much, but what I need Mr. and Mrs. Anderson have given to me. They purchased new pieces for their home in Scotland, and so the bed, the table and four chairs, and the armchair are gifts from my guardian angels. The developers have made sure that I have a fridge and a cooker. I do not have a television set, but I can survive without this luxury. I have a radio and that is enough for me. I sit in the armchair and I think about Mike’s funeral, and wonder how it is that a man who was so friendly can reach the end of his life with so few colleagues to mourn his passing. But this question would not have troubled Mike, for he never concerned himself with what other people thought of him. Or at least, that is what Mike always told me. (“You can’t be controlling what others think.”) I stand and look out of my window at the cloudy skies. It is still bright, and it is therefore too early for me to take my torch and patrol the area. To begin my job. There will be plenty of time for this at a later hour. Now that it has stopped raining I decide to go for a walk in my new village.

At the bottom of the hill I cross over the road. I see the pub, but I have no desire to once again enter into one of these places, so I follow the pathway beside the water. It was Mr. Anderson who encouraged me to take daily exercise, confessing to me that it was the secret to his own good health at his advanced stage of life. He advised me that “Every day you must take some time by yourself and walk,” and so I have tried to follow his guidance. These walks by myself have helped to change my mood for the better. When I first arrived at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s, I could not sleep, but I now sleep through almost every night like a peaceful child. I discover this water to be a most harmonious place, and it gives me pleasure to notice how the trees bend over the path so that the ground is striped with thin fingers of sunlight. But I know this vision cannot last for much longer, for although it is the English summer, the wind is already combing through the trees and cruelly stripping them of their leaves. In England the weather is difficult, and every day I watch the sun struggling to reach the roof of the sky. It is very sad, but at least today there is a little sunlight. It is my great ambition to once again feel the comfort of the sun on my skin.

Up ahead I see a group of four boys walking towards me. For a moment I consider turning about-face, but I do not wish to turn my back on them for I know they do not desire to use me well. It is better that I can see them. After all, I recognise them. They are strangely almost hairless, with egg-shaped heads and blue tattoos on their bare arms. They all wear polished boots, which suggests a uniform of some kind, but the rest of their clothes are ill-matched. Sometimes they have visited the estate, and other workmen have been forced to chase them away. I have noticed how they look upon my person, and I know that they have anger towards me. They are blocking my way and laughing. In order to pass by I will have to walk within inches of the water, but this is dangerous and I do not trust them. I stop and politely ask them to “excuse me,” but they continue to stare at me.

“What’s the matter?”

I do not answer their leader’s question, and as if to punish me they decide to offer abuse in my direction. I turn and begin to retrace my steps, for I know that should I stand my ground, or attempt to sway this spiteful rabble with entreaties, my efforts will prove useless. But they follow me, and spit at my back, and they laugh. I continue to walk at the same deliberate pace, knowing that if one among them should attempt to bruise me, then the situation will become very unpleasant. They do not know who I am. I am the son of an elder, a man who decided disputes and punished crimes. I am a man who travelled a very considerable distance south and then returned to the bosom of my doomed family, always moving at night, and eating berries and drinking water from streams. I am a man who has survived, and I would rather die like a free man than suffer my blood to be drawn like a slave’s.

When we reach the pub they turn into the garden and release me. I continue to walk back to the road, and then up the hill to my bungalow. It is becoming dark, and it will soon be time for me to take my torch and go out among these people and attempt to protect them. At the top of the hill I pass the girl who, while I worked on the construction site, always seemed to be staring in my direction. She lives with her mother at the other end of the street to my bungalow. Whenever I see this girl, I have noticed how she looks at me. I am sensitive to the weight of her gaze. The girl reminds me of Denise, and like Denise she too lacks the modesty that I would expect in somebody of her tender years. I walk past the girl and resist the urge to turn and see if she is watching me. I keep walking in the hope that she will soon disappear from my life. I have been fooled already and I do not wish to be fooled again. Once I am inside my house, I stand in the living room and study the street. There is a lamp-post outside my window which bestows light in such a way that it is possible for me to see out, but if I stand back and in shadow I do not think that it is possible for anybody to see in. There are also plastic window blinds, which give me further protection. This pleases me, for although I welcome the opportunity to look out at them, I do not wish these people to be able to look in at me.

Mum embraced the challenge of making my status in England a legal one. Each morning Mr. Anderson departed for work, and he left Mum to wrestle with the difficult problem of my situation. Mum informed me that Mr. Anderson was the manager of a company that builds houses and small factory units, so he would often have to leave at five o’clock in the morning in order that he might assess progress and decide what tasks were to be accomplished on that particular day. Should he find himself working close by, then there was a possibility that he would consider returning for his breakfast and to read the newspaper, and then he would return again to his work. However, Mike did not live his life in this manner. Once Mike had departed for his work I might not see him again for many days, for he often drove his lorry great distances. Mike told me that he had once been married, and that he was the father of a teenage son to whom he sometimes wrote short but loving letters. He attempted to see his son once or twice a year, depending upon where his driving jobs might take him, but he described himself as “cured of marriage.” He liked to laugh when he said this. “Been there, done it,” and then he would once again burst out laughing. He had long ago discovered that to ask any personal questions of his new African friend meant that he was likely to be greeted with silence. The situation with Mum was very different, for she seemed to regard it as her duty to question me, but I learned to be tolerant of her habit and I hoped that she did not take offence at my sometimes evasive answers.

At first, while Mike was driving and Mr. Anderson was at work, I would help Mum around the house. I enjoyed accompanying her to the shops, and I quickly grew to understand the buses and the money. Soon I was watching the television programmes, and to my eyes England was becoming less of a mystery. It no longer surprised me when I heard women using foul and abusive language in the streets, and Mum took the time to explain why she always put butter on her fingers before taking off her rings. However, it did continue to confuse me why so many of the English newspapers displayed little more than pictures of women in their underwear. However, I felt that this was not a subject I could share with Mum, so I attempted to banish this confusion from my mind. My only real regret was the lack of anybody from my own country with whom I might talk. My language was drying up in my mouth, and sometimes, when nobody was around, I would place my language on my tongue and speak some words so that I could be sure that I was still in possession of it. Every week Mum gave me an allowance, and she would always ask me if I needed paper and envelope and stamps to write to my family, but I would look at her and thank her, but say, “No.” I would never say anything more to her than this.

Mum must have secretly said something to Mr. Anderson, for very early one morning I heard a knock on my door. I glanced at the window and could see that it was still dark. I assumed that the knocking must be the work of Mike, and that he must have fallen into some kind of trouble, so I whispered, “Yes.” However, when the door opened it was Mr. Anderson, and he was holding a cup of coffee in one hand. He set down the coffee on the bedside table and ordered me to prepare myself, for I would be coming to work with him this very morning. I was surprised because Mum had told me that while the officials processed my application it might be difficult for me to work properly. However, I did not question Mr. Anderson, and I soon dressed myself and moments later I was sitting beside my benefactor in his van. He said very little as we made our way through the cold dark streets, but once we reached his work he introduced me to a Greek man who he said would show me how everything was done. By the end of the day I had learned something about brick-laying and carpentry. By the end of the week I had also gained experience with plumbing and electricity, and although my hands suffered very much during this initial engagement, I felt as though I might one day have enough knowledge that I might build a house by myself. At the end of the week Mum gave me an allowance, but it was a little greater than was common and I understood that these were my “wages.” I also understood that Mr. Anderson was trying to provide me with a trade, although the rudeness of the other men caused me to occasionally suffer from periods of great misery.

After some months of working on the building site, Mr. Anderson began to teach me to drive. Whenever Mike was available he would relieve Mr. Anderson and assume this responsibility of providing me with driving skills, thus enabling my mentor to sit by the hearth occasionally and enjoy his evening pipe in peace. Mike was always disappointed when, after his “lesson,” it did not excite my curiosity to go with him inside the pub. I did not tell him that my first experience of such a place had left me without any desire to repeat the experience, for I did not wish to cause offence. He said that I would like “his” pub because it contained bright mirrors and brass work, and it was a happy place, but I tried to explain. First, I told Mike that I did not drink, but he said that I was free to choose a Coca-Cola. I then told Mike that I was fearful of being among a forest of tongues, but he chose not to believe me. Soon Mike ceased his many invitations for me to accompany him to the pub, and after our lesson he would deposit me at Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s residence and then venture out by himself. None of us would see Mike for the rest of the night, but I would often hear him staggering about before he finally collapsed in a heap on his bed, or sometimes on the floor. Should I encounter Mike the following day he would always laugh and apologise for any noise that he might have made while “bladdered.” Mike was a lonely man who, I believed, must miss his family. I imagined that his drinking was the reason that he was not together with them, but I never questioned him on this most private of subjects. However, it did, on many occasions, occur to me that I never saw Mike drink when he had to drive his lorry. I soon came to understand that the lorry might well be saving his life, for I knew that this drinking could not be beneficial to his health.