Refugee Boy (15 page)

Alem thought it was wonderful. The photo had grown to about six times its original size. He stood, jaw
hanging and mouth open, in awe of the technology.

‘You don’t like it? I can wipe it off,’ she said, not sure of how he was taking it.

‘No,’ Alem said, ‘I like it very much! It’s very good, thank you, thank you very much.’

When Alem returned to school, nothing had changed. He thought that nobody had missed him, until school was over and he was speaking to Robert on the way home.

‘So you been having some time out then?’ Robert asked as he lit his cigarette.

‘I had to,’ Alem replied.

‘What, you had to have a holiday?’

‘I haven’t been on holiday,’ said Alem.

‘What, you been sick or something?’

‘No,’ Alem said, not giving anything away.

Alem was a little more serious than his normal self but Robert thought this was about keeping a secret more than anything else.

He began to tease Alem. ‘So you haven’t been on holiday, you haven’t been sick. I get it, you’re in love!’ His shoulder barged Alem, causing him to walk into someone’s garden hedge.

Alem kept cool. ‘I have love in my heart but I’m not in love.’

Robert continued to tease Alem even more, smiling broadly as he spoke. ‘Hey, guy, stop all that wise talk.
Never mind all that “love in my heart” stuff, who you snogging, man, and why you so serious? It can’t be that bad.’

Alem stopped. Robert turned to face him. ‘Go on then, tell us, who it is?’

Alem looked him in the face, took in a deep breath and said, ‘My mother has died.’

‘What?’ Robert replied, genuinely confused. ‘You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that, you know.’

Alem kept eye contact with him. ‘I am not joking. My mother was killed and left on the border of Ethiopia and Eritrea.’

‘Ethiopia!’ Robert said aghast. ‘Eritrea! What the hell she doing there?’

‘That is where she lived.’

Robert was now really confused. He looked into Alem’s eyes, then looked skywards and then back to Alem. ‘I thought you lived on Meanly Road.’

‘I do,’ Alem replied, ‘but with foster parents. I told you that I come from Ethiopia.’

‘Yes,’ Robert answered.

‘And I told you that I come from Eritrea.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert. ‘I couldn’t work that one out, but I don’t know the difference, do I? I thought it was the same place.’

‘Well,’ Alem said as they continued to walk, ‘I am half Ethiopian and half Eritrean. Ethiopia and Eritrea are fighting each other and they are both fighting me,
that’s why I had to come here as a refugee.’

‘And where is your father?’ Robert asked.

‘I’m not sure but he did say he was going to try and come to England.’

Without realising it, Robert had walked to Alem’s house. Alem asked Robert to wait outside the house. He went inside to ask Mrs Fitzgerald if Robert could come in.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘If he’s your friend, he’s my friend.’

Alem told Robert that his foster parents were called Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald. Inside, Alem discovered that Robert could display quite good manners when necessary.

‘Hello, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he said, carefully wiping his feet on the doormat, ‘pleased to meet you.’

‘Hello, young Robert,’ she replied. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

She turned to Alem. ‘Drink?’

‘Could I have a cola please? And can I take Robert into the garden?’ Alem asked.

‘Of course you can.’

In the back garden the two found Mr Fitzgerald replacing broken paving stones around the fishpond.

‘Hello, Mr Fitzgerald,’ Alem said, ‘this is Robert.’

‘Hello, Robert,’ said Mr Fitzgerald. ‘Do you like fish?’

‘They’re all right,’ said Robert cautiously.

‘Look,’ said Alem, ‘look at these ones! And there’s a really big one in there that likes to stay near the bottom, you have to really look good to see him.’

‘What kind of fish are they?’

‘Koi,’ said Alem, ‘and the more water they have, the longer they live.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Fitzgerald. He pointed deep into the pond. ‘That’s the oldest one there.’

Robert looked into the deep and spotted the large golden fish. ‘How old is he?’

‘Nine,’ replied Mr Fitzgerald very proudly as if it was one of his children, ‘and he’s still got plenty of life in him yet.’

‘Tea’s ready,’ shouted Mrs Fitzgerald at the back door.

In the dining room Robert drank his tea in a way that Alem had never seen before. He put five teaspoons of sugar in his tea, blew on it for three minutes and then drank it in one go. Alem looked on in amazement as he sipped his cola.

Mrs Fitzgerald popped her head in from the kitchen. ‘Alem, why don’t you take Robert to your room? It’s a bit of a mess – but it’s your mess.’

Upstairs in Alem’s room Robert was surprised at how tidy it was. ‘This isn’t untidy! You wanna see my room, guy. What’s untidy about this?’ he asked, doing a full turn.

‘That’s untidy,’ Alem said, pointing to the books on the floor, ‘and so is that,’ he said, pointing to the CD-ROMs scattered around the computer.

‘You’re crazy, guy,’ Robert said, shaking his head. ‘Why do you want to read so much after school?’

‘Because I need to learn. I have to catch up with everyone else, and I like reading. Watch this,’ Alem added, turning on the computer. They waited for a while until the computer was fully booted up and the photo appeared.

‘That is my mother and father,’ Alem said with sadness in his voice.

‘Wow, your parents look cool! They look like a king and a queen. Shame about your mum, guy. How did you get the picture on there anyway?’ Robert asked, changing the subject quickly.

Alem took the photograph from the bedside drawer and handed it to Robert. ‘Ruth, that’s Mr and Mrs Fitzgerald’s daughter, she took this photograph, scanned it in, saved it in a file, then she just allocated it to be my desktop picture.’

‘Wow, that’s nutty, guy.’ Robert looked at it for a moment. ‘Don’t you have no brothers or sisters?’

‘No,’ said Alem, ‘just me.’

Robert looked into the drawer from which Alem had taken the photo and could see newspaper clippings. ‘What are you collecting them for?’

‘Because they are about refugees and I have to read
about why people don’t like refugees.’

‘Yes,’ Robert said, ‘but listen, guy. I done history in school and this country is full of refugees, especially here in Newham. Seriously, we’re all refugees here. You wanna know my real name? My real name ain’t Robert Fern, you know, it’s Roberto Fernandez. Spanish name, guy. I came from Chile.’

Robert was surprised at how much Alem was surprised. ‘You came here from Chile?’ Alem asked wide-eyed.

‘No, I was born here, but my mother and father did. In Chile there was this big football stadium and the man who used to run the country, his name was Pinochet, he took people there that didn’t agree with him and he killed them, right in the national football stadium. And my auntie was killed there. She used to work for a newspaper or a magazine or something like that. Anyway, she was killed, my uncle just disappeared, so my mum and dad came here.’

Alem was shocked by what he was hearing. ‘So are your parents all right now?’

‘Yes,’ Robert replied.

‘But why did you change your name?’ Alem asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Robert replied, ‘it wasn’t my idea. My dad said our roots are still Chilean but we would fit in better if we changed our names a little. My mum’s name is Cecile, she calls herself Cilla. My dad’s name is Ricardo, and he calls himself Richard.’

Alem looked horrified but Robert continued. ‘Don’t be so shocked, guy. I know a Birinder called Bernie, an Anula called Ann, a Rajinder called Ray, and I know this other girl, right, she’s beautiful, her name’s Nosayarba but she calls herself Ni. Check it out, guy, people do it all the time.’

‘So who went to war against Chile?’ Alem asked.

‘It’s a bit like where you come from, Chile just went to war with itself.’

‘Do you want to go back to Chile some day?’

‘Go back!’ Robert said loudly. ‘I don’t really feel like I even come from there. My mum and dad haven’t been there for years and they keep going on about returning one day. But me, how can I return to a place that I’ve never been to? Just because I eat a bit of Chilean food and listen to a bit of Chilean music, that don’t make me Chilean. Well, I don’t think so anyway. I’d better go home now.’

They went downstairs to the kitchen, where Robert said goodbye to Mr Fitzgerald in the garden and Mrs Fitzgerald who was cooking. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for a bite to eat, Robert?’

‘No, thank you,’ Robert replied.

‘Another cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Fitzgerald. I have to be home. Is it all right if me and Alem go out together tomorrow after school, Mrs Fitzgerald? It is Friday.’

Alem looked surprised. He didn’t expect Robert to
ask such a question.

Mrs Fitzgerald turned to face Robert. ‘Where are you going then?’

‘I don’t know yet, anywhere, just out. We won’t go far, maybe go visit another friend or something like that.’

‘That’s OK,’ she replied, ‘so long as you’re back by nine o’clock and you don’t get into trouble.’ She looked towards Alem. ‘It would do you good to get out with your friends.’

At the door Alem expressed his surprise. ‘Where are we going tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know but don’t worry, you heard what Mrs Fitzgerald said, it’ll do you good. See you tomorrow,’ Robert said, walking to the gate.

‘OK, Roberto,’ Alem said, surprising Robert.

He turned and took a couple of steps back towards Alem. ‘Just Robert, guy. Roberto confuses me a bit. It’s all right. I’m not ashamed of it or anything, but it just reminds me of someone my parents want me to be.’

After school the next day Alem and Robert went to their respective homes to eat and change their clothes. At five-thirty Robert was knocking at Alem’s front door.

‘Let’s go,’ he said impatiently, rubbing his hands together while lightly jogging on the spot, trying to keep warm.

Alem had been eagerly waiting. He stepped out and shouted goodbye before closing the door. As they reached the street pavement, Alem asked where they were going.

‘I don’t know,’ Robert said, ‘we’re just going out, innit, hanging out.’

‘But Robert, don’t you think it’s a bit cold to just hang out? If we hang out for long enough we will freeze.’

‘I know.’ Robert’s eyes lit up. ‘Let’s go and listen to some music.’

‘What kind of music?’ Alem asked.

‘Some rock, grungy stuff, Buck’s band, yeah. Let’s listen to Buck’s band, they’re rehearsing tonight.’

Alem was hesitant. ‘OK but where do they rehearse?’

‘Not far. Katherine Road, in the basement of a shop.’

Twenty minutes later they were pressing the doorbell but there was no response. They could hear the bell, but because of the music the band couldn’t hear it. Robert waited for a while and when a song ended he quickly rang the bell again, pressing as hard as he could until the door was opened by Buck. He was dressed in flared jeans, a T-shirt with a large tongue on it and a hooded parka.

‘All right?’ Robert said. ‘We’ve come to hear you do some tunes.’

Buck turned and headed back down to the cellar. ‘No sweat, but I’m warning you, geezer, it’s the tunes that are doing us.’

The cellar was damp with whitewashed walls. Various bands who had rehearsed there had left their graffiti tags on the walls, and the carpet was more wet than damp and reeked of stale beer. Buck wrapped himself in his guitar and joined the rest of the band. Alem and Robert sat on the upturned beer crates that represented audience seating.

Buck had his microphone adjusted to the height of his forehead so he had to stretch his neck and turn his face skyward to sing into it. The other guitarist, the bass player and the drummer looked like clones of
Buck, wearing flared jeans, or new jeans that had been ripped at the knees, and parkas or combat-type jackets. The keyboard player was different, she was a girl. She wore clean straight jeans with no holes, a woollen jumper, a warm full-length coat and small glasses that made her look like a young, sensible intellectual.

‘They’re called Pithead,’ Robert said, smiling.

‘Who?’

‘All of them,’ Robert said as the band checked their tuning. ‘The band’s name is Pithead, apparently it’s got something to do with being working class.’

‘Ready?’ said Buck. Band members nodded or made various noises. ‘OK – one – two – three – four,’ and they started the song.

As they played, Alem watched in amazement as Buck moaned over the gloomy, downbeat music. Alem couldn’t understand the words but he thought Buck’s voice matched the music well, he seemed to cry over music that cried. They played three songs one after the other and then stopped for a break. Buck introduced the rest of the band to Alem, but they quickly left to buy something to eat and drink.

Buck sat on a beer crate. ‘What do you think of the noise, Alem?’

Alem nodded his head towards the instruments as if there was still music coming from there. ‘What kind of music is that?’

‘It’s called, indie music.’

‘What, you mean Indian music?’

‘No,’ said Buck, ‘indie music, man, independent music. It’s the sound of the street, it’s our music, the sound of the youth. This music ain’t controlled by men in suits or capitalist fat cats. This music helps free up the minds because the music is free, you know what I mean, independent.’

‘I understand,’ said Alem.

‘Do you?’ said Robert sarcastically. ‘I don’t.’

‘And what do you want to do next?’ Alem asked.

‘Well, we’re trying to sign a record deal with a good record label.’

Alem responded quickly. ‘But signing a record deal with a record label means you won’t be independent.’

Robert began to laugh. Alem was seriously trying to make sense of what Buck was saying, and Buck was a little lost for words.

‘Well, we need money, so if we get the money from the record company, we can afford to be independent and do our own thing.’