Old Shoes
by Dilys Rose
They do not, as Monica imagined, arrive in the dead of night, heralded by looping bats or owls ascending in a slow flap but in the early afternoon, as agreed, just after she’s put the scones on a rack to cool and hung up her apron. They stand on either side of Maud Binnie, who is as gaunt and austere as when she and Ronnie were summoned for interview. The girl is taller and more physically mature, and the boy shorter and scrawnier than the Zoom meeting led her to expect.
Sameera, Hamid—welcome! We meet properly at last!
Beaming, Monica makes to hug the girl but pulls back. Is hugging allowed? She and Ronnie should have been primed about such things. It wouldn’t do to get off to a bad start.
I do hope you weren’t thrown by our never-ending roadworks, she says. But of course you weren’t, you’re bang on time!
She must curb her gushing, lower the pitch of her voice.
The girl is gangly, hunched as a heron, with wide, wary eyes. The boy grins, fidgets, blinks. Of course they’re reticent, apprehensive, and no matter what, she mustn’t, mustn’t pry. Both are kitted out in new jeans, quality jackets and branded trainers—courtesy, no doubt, of the Foundation. It gives Monica pause to realise that their compact backpacks contain the total of their belongings.
Do come in. So sorry Ronnie couldn’t be here to meet you—
No problem, says Ms Binnie, ushering her charges over the threshold. Time enough for that.
Indeed! All the time in the world! Now, children, I expect what you’d like to do first is see your rooms!
Bathroom, says Sameera.
Of course! says Monica. At the top of the stairs, dear. Shall I show you?
I find, says Sameera, taking the stairs two at a time, all knees and elbows.
Your bedroom’s upstairs, too. First on the left. And yours, Hamid. Would you like to see?
The boy nods. His gold-tipped curls bob.
Splendid! Second on the left! I do hope you like it, she says to the boy’s retreating back.
Monica is already warming to the boy a touch more than to the girl. Not that she’d dream of showing any favouritism.
Ms Binnie remains just inside the door, tapping a sleek briefcase, pursing plum lips.
I’ll make some tea, says Monica.
I can’t stay.
But you’ll want to take a look at the children’s rooms before you go?
We have the house plan, she says, and interior design is none of our concern. But please refrain from referring to the young people as children. Sameera is fourteen and Hamid will soon be twelve.
Does that not, legally, classify them as children?
The Foundation requires host families to adhere to the guidelines. She removes a clipboard from her briefcase, passes Monica a pen. Please sign and date. I really must be going.
Monica imagined a more leisurely handover: tea and scones—which turned out rather well—and a chat, though it’s unlikely the Binnie woman goes in for chat—or, judging by her rail-thin frame, scones.
Don’t you want to say goodbye to the—young people?
We prefer to underplay farewells. Sameera and Hamid have all the information they need, and know they can contact us at any time. As can you. So, unless you have any pressing questions—
None I can think of, says Monica, for now.
I’ll be on my way, then. A date for your review will be sent in due course.
Monica waves from the door as Ms Binnie, staring straight ahead, drives off in her mint green Fiat then climbs the stairs and knocks, tentatively, on both doors.
Would anybody like a drink, a scone?
No, says Sameera.
No, thank you, says Hamid.
Should I leave you to settle in, then?
Yes.
Yes, please.
Righto.
Well, that’s that. But what to do while the new arrivals are holed up in their new rooms? She’d planned to show them the house: where things were kept, what they had and had not access to; she’d take them on a tour of the neighbourhood, advising on which shops and cafes were good to visit, and which best avoided, returning home by way of the park. Home. How long would it take the children—young people—to call it that?
Ronnie won’t be back for hours. It’s tempting to update him, but he has the auditors in, and Monica is under instructions not to phone unless there’s an emergency which, clearly, there isn’t. It’s too early to make a start on dinner. There’s no housework needing done, and the cupboards and the fridge freezer are packed to capacity. Ronnie had grumbled about the quantity of groceries she piled into the trolley, not to mention the time she spent cleaning the house from top to bottom. Kids don’t care about all that, he said, and I don’t either. Don’t you have better things to do? They’d argued. What, then, did he consider better than making their home a welcoming place for children who’d been through so much?
Sameera is no stranger to sudden departures, but Ms Maud was mean to leave without saying goodbye. She closes the curtains and the room darkens. Silvery stars glow on the deep purple, picture-book ceiling which is like no night sky she’s ever seen. She kicks off her trainers, flops on the bed. The pillow is soft and smooth against her cheek. The duvet smells like cut grass. Has she ever had such a fresh-smelling bed to call her own? She slides beneath the duvet and pulls it over her head; she hugs herself and, as they taught her to do at the clinic, takes long, slow breaths until the throbbing at her temples subsides, and her eyes close.
Hamid adores his new trainers, which truly feel like walking, running, on air. Ms Maud took them to a huge shoe shop and said they could take their pick. Choose well, she said. We won’t be doing this again. When they got back to the centre, she told them they should throw away those they had on: old shoes carry too much weight. They didn’t know what she meant but nodded all the same. Sameera dropped hers into the bin without a second thought, but Hamid slipped his battered trainers to the bottom of his backpack. Just in case.
It is beginning to get dark. The streetlights have come on. In the park across the road, shadowy figures move across the greying grass: walking, cycling, running for no reason other than to keep fit. Beyond the park, between flats and warehouses, are the solid silhouettes of docked ships, which Hamid wishes he couldn’t see.
Life can only be understood backwards but must be lived forwards. He remembers the words, but not who said them. Was it Jamal? Everybody asked Hamid about the comings and goings—who’d arrived, where they’d come from, who’d left and where they were heading— but Jamalhe wanted more. He’d clamp Hamid’s arm in his pincers, and not let go until he got what he wanted: the names of people Hamid had seen—or heard tell of, rumour was enough—who were breaking camp rules. When Jamal had your name, he’d make you pay for his silence. But no, Jamal didn’t speak in riddles, only in plain, clear threats.
Maybe it was the shoe-mender who said it, the man with the melted face, who never needed a runner to find out what was going on. He called himself Massoud, but people changed their names all the time. Everybody was always on the move, always starting over, telling new lies about who they’d been and what they’d done, who and what they’d left behind.
The shoe-mender had a fine tent pitched near the perimeter fence. It was made out of stitched together rice sacks and lined with parachute nylon, scavenged from air drops. He always had plenty work but even those shoes he fixed up were wary of him. There were rumours: that he’d started a fire, accidentally or on purpose, which caused many deaths and left him disfigured; that if he didn’t start the fire, he’d done nothing to stop it spreading; that if he wasn’t a fool, he was a coward. The rumours may have been false but whatever he did or did not do, he’d have to live with his melted face forever.
Massoud was nothing to him, and he was nothing to Massoud. Like many people, he’ll probably never meet Massoud again. And many others, like Jamal, he hopes he never meets again. Mean men whose names he never knew, and remembers only as the flare of a lighter, a steel toecap sparking off a rock, a rasping zipper, the pah, pah of a puffed cigar. He hates the smell of cigars.
How dark the room has become! Sameera doesn’t feel as if she’s been asleep. Her head doesn’t jangle from the shards of bad dreams; instead, she is calm, empty. When she switches on the light, the room springs up around her, a padded swirl of pink and purple. Who needs so many cushions, pillows? When she opens the door, there is a tantalising waft of spiced meat. Downstairs, the TV is tuned to a noisy quiz show. Whenever somebody answers a question correctly, there’s an explosion of pings and whooshes and cheers. Hamid loves quiz shows, and is laughing and clapping along with the studio audience. Ms Monica is twittering Hamid this, Hamid that.
Ronnie hadn’t intended to be so late back, but by the time the auditors were finished nosing around the rush hour traffic was at its worst, and going for a quick one—which inevitably became two—was better than being stuck in city-centre gridlock. Then there was the kerfuffle at the station which made for further delays, and now they are at the end of a very late dinner.
In honour of the occasion, Monica has brushed up a bit—lipstick, earrings, a sparkly top he doesn’t recognise—yet throughout the entire meal she’s been tense and brittle, firing meaningful glares across the table. But why exactly is he in the doghouse? He texted to say they should go ahead and eat without him, but Monica insisted they wait, though there was no need. As it was, the lamb was charred around the edges and the roast veg squishy inside, but everything tasted good, and the new arrivals ate heartily. Moreover, their table manners were perfectly acceptable; they even complimented Monica on the food.
Here’s to many more grand meals together! says Ronnie, raising his glass of red, He catches Monica’s eye and glimpses a softening.
They clink glasses and she lets him squeeze her shoulder.
Cheers!
The boy grins, his mouth crowded with strong, uneven teeth but, unless he’s mistaken, the girl is rather too sullen for his liking. Does she have a problem with a drop of wine? Alcohol is certainly not proscribed by their religion. This was established well in advance—and was, at least for him, a clincher.
All’s well that ends well! he adds, topping up his glass.
Getting to this point has been a total slog: the extensive personal scrutiny—on a par with today’s auditors—the reams of paperwork, the aeons it took to receive official approval. If this is a humanitarian crisis, he’d put it to the Foundation more than once, shouldn’t the powers that be get their bloody skates on?
When he and Monica rise to clear the table, Ronnie suggests, under his breath, that Sameera and Hamid might help, but Monica won’t hear of it.
You expected Abby to help, he says. Insisted on it. Every night. So why not these two? We’re not running a hotel.
There’s time enough, says Monica. Let them settle in first.
I’d say, start as we mean to go on.
The table lamp picks out Hamid’s glinting curls and the dark bow of a nascent moustache which must, Monica imagines, be softer than it will become when the boy starts shaving—which can’t be far off. She has no idea about school policy on facial hair but surely Ronnie can advise in the razor department.
Before she plucked them away to pencil-thin arches, their daughter had the softest, downiest eyebrows. When the fashion for luxuriant brows returned, she ditched the tweezers but, when they grew back in, the hairs were coarse and no longer nestled against her forehead. As Monica stacks the dishwasher, she feels the cold drip of life’s irretrievable losses—the insignificant, and the life-changing.
Hamid scoots off to the living room and the TV. Sameera remains in her seat, staring at a trail of breadcrumbs on the gingham tablecloth. Monica pulls up a chair.
Is there something I can help with? You mustn’t be afraid to ask. About anything. If it’s … women’s matters—
No. No!
Well, if there’s anything else, just ask.
No. Nothing.
We’re so glad to have you in our home. And hope you’ll be happy here.
With the tips of two fingers, Sameera rolls the breadcrumbs around the tablecloth. Monica marvels at the gleam of the girl’s skin, the elegance of her long, slender hands but realises with a jolt that Zoom hadn’t shown fingernails bitten to the quick or the scar tissue that encircled both wrists.
Monica has felt ready for bed since she woke this morning—very early—but now that she’s finally lying down, with Ronnie shifting and shuffling beside her, sleep will not come.
You spoke her name, she says.
Don’t, says Ronnie. Just don’t.
But why tonight?
I was thinking about her. You were, too. I could tell.
I never stop thinking about her.
Do you really think I don’t?
Flat on her back rather than curled up, with something hard and heavy to hand, Sameera wonders whether it will ever be possible to sleep like this: open, relaxed, unprotected. Everybody wants her to talk. Doctors, care workers, girls at the centre, everybody says talking helps. But whether she wants to talk or whether she doesn’t, she has no choice. To have a chance of being sent back—and it’s still only a chance—she must tell complete strangers, in more and more detail, what was done to her. But she has not told everything, will not tell everything, even to Hamid. How could she, when even to admit such things will bring everlasting shame?
Hamid unpacks his things and lays them out in the chest of drawers, except for his old shoes which he returns to the bottom of his backpack. They smell a bit, but it’s a familiar smell. He flings himself onto the bed, spreads his arms and legs as wide as they’ll go. The duvet crackles. Clean, warm, full-bellied, he’s wide awake. In their room at the end of the corridor, Mr Ronnie and Ms Monica are talking, and the low rumble of their voices makes him think of an old train they once hopped. They were somewhere in Europe, Poland maybe. The train had ripped seats and doors that swung open whenever it rounded a bend in the tracks. At night, for no apparent reason, it would stop for several minutes at deserted, disused platforms. On one there was a station sign, grafittied over so much you couldn’t make out the name, and a lamp with a cracked shade crusted over with dead insects. There was nobody around, and no security cameras. They could have dropped onto the platform and slipped into the encroaching forest, but the middle of nowhere was not their destination.
There are many journeys Hamid hopes he’ll never make again. Across the hot desert, where sand burned through the soles of his shoes and blistered his feet. Across the cold desert, where icy blasts tore through his clothes. Through mountain passes, rocky paths, muddy paths booby-trapped with landmines. Across parched plains, across the seething, bucking sea. He never wants to see the sea again.
The house has its night voices: the bumps and peeps from the fridge-freezer, the rattling window frames, creaking doors, the scrabbling in the attic: ordinary voices of an old house in an old city. But there’s another voice, a trailing wail, like the threads of grief which wound through the camps at night, even amongst the laughter and singing when something good was going on. Does Sameera also hear this or is it just in his head? She hasn’t spoken a word to him since Ms Maud left in her little car. He doesn’t know why she’s in such a mood. This is where they are, now, where they must be. Together. They are young. They must think about tomorrow and the next day, and leave yesterday to the elders, wherever they are. And the dead.
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