Saif was late up the hill to the little school at lunchtime, which wasn’t strictly speaking Mrs MacCreed’s fault. In the normal scheme of things, he didn’t mind at all when she went on about her bunions. She came as often as their appointment system would allow, told him cheery stories about her grandchildren and how well they were doing, brought him a pie and beamed at him as he gave her foot a cursory examination. Then he reissued her prescription. He’d told her it could be done automatically either at reception, or, even more simply, delivered straight to the pharmacy, but she had got a very hurt look on her face and he realised that he was simply part of Mrs MacCreed’s social rounds. Her children were on the mainland and her husband was long in the ground – the men worked themselves to death; the women, small and wide and wiry, somehow carried on, bent into the wind, for an incredible length of time – and she was lonely, and he hadn’t mentioned it again. Today the pie was venison. There was meant to be an official cull on the deer but it was best not to ask where it had come from. Saif had been astounded deer were on the island at all, until he was informed the Vikings had imported them a thousand years ago. He felt sometimes like he was walking through a world of long ago. This pleased him.
But there really was no hurrying Mrs MacCreed.
His long legs stretched out as he sprinted the last few yards up the hill. It didn’t occur to him to drive; he very rarely drove on the island, only to night calls, and it wasn’t until he was halfway up that he thought he should probably have brought the car so he wouldn’t be carrying Ash down the hill, but it was too late.
Lorna watched him, standing with a silent, trembling Ash by her side and a sullen Ibrahim, fists balled, a little further away. They were going to have to talk, but first she had to squeeze out of her head the sight of his strong powerful body in motion. For many, many nights she had lain, pondering on whether his chest was smooth or hairy; wanting to trace the dark hairs on the back of his hand up through his cuffs; wondering about his golden skin and how it would contrast so strongly with her pale …
She shook herself. This was completely pointless and entirely inappropriate, particularly so considering she was holding one of his offspring by the hand. She flushed bright red. Saif, looking up, thought she was angry.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m genuinely so sorry. I got held …’
She shook her head, feeling obscurely that she should be apologising to him for the disgusting pictures of him she’d plastered all over the inside of her head while standing next to his children. They didn’t warn you about this in teacher training college.
‘No, no, it doesn’t matter. It’s only lunchtime. We’re not late.’
Saif bent down and opened his arms. Ash flew to him, dragging his bad foot behind him. Ibrahim stayed exactly where he was.
‘So, uh, how did it go?’ Saif asked desperately. It was a parental look Lorna recognised very well, although here it was slightly more important than usual. She bit her lip.
‘Don’t forget, it’s just the start,’ she said. ‘Nobody expects this to be smooth straightaway.’ She didn’t know how to put it so she started with the positive. ‘Ash mostly stayed very close to me.’
He hadn’t unpeeled his fingers from her all morning. There were eleven children in the class; she still had to attempt to work with all of them. She had called in Seonaid MacPherson from the other class, who was eleven and big for her age, and she had managed to get Ash sat on her knee. Seonaid had very kindly gone through a baby book Lorna had dug up, pointing out ‘cat’, ‘dog’, ‘ball’ and so on and trying to get Ash to repeat the words. He hadn’t repeated any of the words, but it was a start.
Ibrahim, on the other hand … She’d encouraged him to go play shinty with the other boys at playtime, and to her delight he had joined in, the boys making room for him willingly.
That had been until one of them, little Sandy Fairbairn, had tackled him, fairly gently, to take the ball, whereupon Ibrahim had leaped on top of him and started punching him hard in the face while screeching at him.
She had separated them immediately – shamefully, given her lack of Arabic, only able to yell, ‘Stop, stop!’ at Ibrahim – and comforted Sandy, who was more shocked than seriously hurt. She was dreading confronting his mother at home time. There was understanding and then there were cuts and bruises. And she wasn’t enjoying this either.
Ibrahim was staring at the ground, refusing to meet his father’s eyes.
‘There was … an incident,’ she began, glancing at him. He looked up. He might not understand the words, but he knew she was dobbing him in, that much was clear, and his eyes burned with hatred.
Saif’s face fell. Ibrahim looked frightened. Saif and Lorna shared a thought neither could voice. When they had been looked after by soldiers, how had that worked, exactly? What had the boys seen? Ibrahim had been two years in a world of war and violence and still didn’t want to open up. Saif flashed back to Joel earlier that morning, all buttoned up. The boy became the man.
‘I’ll talk to the other child’s mother,’ said Lorna. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to make it clear …’
She was worried she was sounding too teacher-like.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please make it clear. They are both very welcome here. So welcome. But there are some things that could make it difficult, and violence is one of those things.’
Saif nodded. ‘I understand. What they have been through …’
‘I know,’ said Lorna. ‘I realise that. Everyone does, I promise. But they can’t hurt other children.’
Saif nodded again. ‘I know. I know. I am sorry.’
Saif ended up taking the afternoon off – much to Jeannie’s smirking lack of surprise, as she’d raised four kids and knew exactly what was going to happen – and he tried to bring lunch out into the garden, but the boys refused to eat the food and complained that it was too cold, even though the sun was shining. The boys were shivering and Saif realised in amazement how he’d got used to the weather. He ended up admitting defeat and opening the packs of fig rolls he’d stockpiled, which they ate silently. There had been three casseroles left on the doorstep, but he couldn’t imagine them eating any of them. There was also a mystery package of teddy bears that was postmarked somewhere in England. Not a clue as to the sender, Saif had been entirely puzzled and considered throwing them away in case they were from racists or someone who wished them harm. However, Ash had caught sight of the parcel and had grabbed the small bear and was refusing to let it go, so he just had to apply Occam’s razor and assume nobody had actually stuffed a bear with anthrax and sent it to a refugee child.
They sat back down inside.
‘So,’ he said tentatively. ‘What do you think of school?’
‘I stay with you, Abba,’ said Ash decisively, from his place on Saif’s knee. He was licking out the figs and discarding the biscuit. Saif wasn’t sure this was as successful a weight-putting-on strategy as it might be.
‘But you’re a big boy now who goes to school!’
Ash shook his head.
‘No. Me stay with Abba.’
It was as if he’d been frozen on the day his family disappeared: crystallised as a toddler. He held his son closer. He wanted to say, Of course. I will turn you back into a baby and we shall start over.
But he couldn’t start over. The days had ticked relentlessly past – the months, the years – and they would never ever get those days back again. And there was no point wishing things could have been different. Everyone wished things could have been different.
He held the boy tight. ‘You are my big boy,’ he said and kissed him hard. ‘And I will never ever leave you again except for school, I promise.’
The boy’s little body relaxed a little.
‘When Mama coming?’ he said, sleepily.
Chapter Forty-three