A Place Of Refuge by Hilary Spiers

The girl staying with me has been through so much in her short life . . .

GOOD heavens, it’s murderous out there!” Putting down the trug of broad beans, I wipe the back of my hand across my damp forehead.

The girl is sitting where she was when I came out into the garden an hour ago, book open on the table in front her, pencils perfectly aligned. Her plate is now empty, though, and the glass of orange juice drunk.

Her brown eyes meet mine in what I take to be confusion.

“I meant it’s very hot. Do you know what murderous means?”

She nods gravely. “Yes,” she says with a hint of an American accent. “I know what it means.”

I curse my thoughtlessness silently, but soldier on.

“Your English is excellent, Abir. I don’t have a word of Arabic, I’m afraid.”

Abir looks down. “I thought perhaps we might walk into the village this afternoon,” I say. “Pick up some groceries. We won’t go far.”

“I must come?” the girl asks without raising her head. She looks like she’s awaiting punishment.

“No!” I’m thrown once more. “Of course not. You don’t have to do anything. I just thought, well, you haven’t seen the village. It’s very pretty.”

Nearly two weeks she’s been here. Two weeks of polite, distant responses; of murmured thanks; a shadow passing on the stairs.

Days in which she hasn’t left the house, or barely ventured into the garden.

I had such plans! London, the seaside, a theatre trip. But every time her wide, scared eyes have stopped me.

With each refusal, each indication of unhappiness, I’ve backed off, my resolve weakening and my sense of failure growing – along with a seed of resentment. What more does she want?

“I spoke to one of the other families yesterday. You know, where your friend Madihah is staying? They’ve been lots of places. I’ve not shown you much of England at all.”

Again that unnerving gaze.

“What will you tell everyone when you get back? They’ll think I kept you locked away all the time!”

“I will tell them,” Abir says, “that I stayed in England with a kind lady. Thank you.”

I don’t want thanks. What I want is to give this poor orphaned child some sense of normality. A chance to see what the world might be, and how things can be different. I want her to know wonder and excitement.

I turn back to the sink and begin shelling the beans, feeling almost tearful. I can’t help wondering what I’ll tell the placement officer at Saviours of Peace.

There’s movement at my side. I look down to find her standing beside me, her left sleeve hanging empty like a reproach.

“I am sorry, Mrs Phillips,” she says. “Perhaps another girl would have been better.”

“Oh, you silly thing!” I say before I can stop myself, dropping the knife into the water.

Abir’s eyes flare as a splash of water stains her cheek like a tear.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you are silly.” I bend down to her, our faces inches apart. “Abir, I want you to enjoy yourself, that’s all. I just don’t know what it is you like to do.”

She thinks for a few moments, still holding my gaze. Then she takes a wobbly breath.

“I like . . . to be here. In the house. In the quiet. Not too many peoples.”

I glance down at where her arm should be.

“Is that it, Abir? Your arm? You think someone will say something unkind? No-one will do that. No-one would be so rude. And it’s so hot that most people will be indoors today.”

Her eyes dart out into the garden which lies baking in the sun.

Biting her bottom lip, she reaches a decision and looks back at me.

“It is not so hot for me, England. But yes, thank you. I would like to come.”

At last, I think. A breakthrough.

I go to embrace her but she has slipped back to the table, leaving only an impression of a child in the humid air.

I go into the utility room to collect my basket.

We walk slowly down the lane towards the village, the church spire proud and tall ahead of us through the canopy of oak trees.

Passing cars stir up the dust and the occasional bird swoops over our heads, but mostly the countryside slumbers in this unaccustomed heat. It’s the England of legend, of apocryphal childhoods and now, more prosaically, of global warming.

At some point, Abir’s hand creeps into mine and my heart glows with a sort of quiet triumph.

As we reach the post office, May Albury almost cannons into us as she bustles out, deep in conversation on her mobile phone.

She gives me an exasperated roll of her eyes before catching sight of Abir.

“Gotta go, love,”

she says quickly into the phone. “Speak soon.” Snapping the phone shut, she stares with undisguised curiosity at Abir, barely glancing in my direction.

“Afternoon, Mrs Phillips. This one of them Saviours of Peace kids, is it? Saw it in the paper. From –”

“Yes,” I cut in brusquely, anxious to remove Abir from this unwelcome scrutiny. “Excuse me, Mrs Albury.”

I try to slide past her into the shop, but she’s immovable.

“Not much of her, is there, little dot?” She starts. “What happened there, then? With the arm? Bomb, was it?” She leans towards me. “She speak any English?”

I am angry and embarrassed. I’ve let Abir down.

“Yes, she does. Come on, Abir, we should be getting back. You must be tired.” I turn to retrace our steps.

But Abir, still holding fast to my hand, stands firm.

Ignoring the other woman, she speaks in a clear voice.

“Thank you, but I am not fatigued, Mrs Phillips. And our task is not yet completed.”

May Albury’s face is a picture of cartoonish astonishment, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with surprise.

“No,” I say, taking courage from Abir’s bravery and coolness. “You’re absolutely right, Abir. Excuse us.”

This time, we step past the woman into the cool of the shop, leaving her blinking on the pavement.

Very gently Abir squeezes my hand and I return the pressure.

In the greengrocer’s, Sam Cox and I exchange a few words while the girl hangs back by the door, scanning the passers-by nervously. I am poring over the punnets of raspberries when suddenly a motorbike roars down the high street and, as it disappears into the distance, backfires.

Abir throws herself back against the wall with a terrified cry, dislodging a pile of oranges that cascade across the shop floor.

I run over to her and gather her in my arms. Her whole body, so insubstantial against my fleshy own, trembles. I can smell her fear.

“Shush, now. It’s OK. It was only a stupid motorbike. There’s nothing to be frightened of.” I start blindly groping around to gather the fallen oranges. Sam makes his way over. “Leave it,’ he says kindly, starting to pick up the fruit. “No harm done. She all right?”

I feel Abir’s head move against my chest and her face emerges.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her hand shielding her face.

“Sorry?” Sam returns. “You’ve got no need to be sorry, my lovely. It’s that idiot with that bike who should be saying sorry. Here.” He gently takes hold of Abir’s hand and presses an orange into it, closing her fingers around it. “Like them, do you?”

She nods shyly, cradling the orange like a jewel as she stares up at him with her customary grave expression.

“They’re good, them oranges. Nice and juicy. All the way from –”

“Yes,” Abir says. “I know. My father grows them.” Her face tightens. “Grew them.” “Good on him,” Sam says into the awkward silence.

The street is empty now. As we make our way to the deli, hand in hand, I point out the landmarks: the 16th-century coaching inn, the old chapel, the drinking trough. I throw in a bit of local history.

I’m feeling much more confident now. If only we had managed to do this earlier, how different our fortnight together might have been.

Abir takes it in politely, like a tourist, nodding with each new piece of information.

Passing one of the shops, I feel the slightest tug on my arm and, stopping in mid-spiel, follow Abir’s gaze to the window display of bright summer clothes. Of course!

“Do you like those? The dresses?”

Abir has been in T-shirts and trousers since she arrived. I’d caught her early one morning at the sink trying to scrub her clothes clean with soap and one hand.

Some delicate explanations and negotiations had been required to persuade her to relinquish her precious belongings to the maw of the washing machine.

“Come on, then,” I say, steering Abir into the shop.

We make straight for the carousel of dresses as the assistant comes over.

“For the little girl, is it? Oh!” She’s noticed. “With a sleeve, then.”

But Abir has pulled out a vivid blue dress with yellow suns all over it. It has no sleeves. The assistant glances over at me for approval. I smile resignedly.

The saleswoman pulls out the same dress in a larger size.

“That one will be too small for you, young lady.” Abir fingers the fabric. “This is lovely, Mrs Phillips.”

“Yes,” I say carefully. “It is, Abir. But it won’t fit –” “For my sister.”

I am taken aback. It’s the first I’ve heard of a sister or any family.

“Your sister? But we don’t know her size –”

“Yes. This is good. For my sister. Please.”

She has never asked me directly for anything before. She has never shown such excitement and naked desire.

“Of course, Abir. But let’s look at something for you, too, shall we?”

Abir shakes her head. “No, thank you. Just for my sister. She will be beautiful in this.” She is resolute.

So we have it wrapped and Abir clutches the parcel to her thin chest, rubbing her chin against the paper as she waits for me to pay.

I’m smiling as we make our way home. The tension has vanished from Abir’s face. She’s faced a test and passed it with honours. We both have. I feel very proud of her.

Thoughts of the future bubble up. Abir returning, Abir studying in England, prostheses, surgery . . .

She pulls my hand down until we are face to face.

“I was thinking, Abir,” I begin. “Maybe next year –”

“I was thinking also. Next year, Mrs Phillips,” she says, lips dusting my cheek. “Next year, to thank you, I show you my country.”

And she turns her face to the bright English sky and smiles. n