interview I told the truth, the full story of our misfortune, all the details I could muster, nothing withheld except our real family names. Now there is nothing to do but wait and pray...
It is late and I am tired. It is comforting to have re-established contact. I will let you know how Yanit and Abebe get on at school. It goes without saying that they miss you, just as I do. Give my love to Gadissa, you are both always in my thoughts.
***
Dear Kassa
Who am I trying to fool? I cannot remember all the details of my last letter, only the tone, a casual catching-up of news like two old classmates whose lives have meandered in opposite directions but who feel that their friendship is sufficiently significant to warrant these informal updates.
I am sure this was a deliberate stance on my part, my darling, a desire born out of necessity, a survival instinct, an inability to face the true nature of our connection.
Even now, you can see how I hide behind euphemism. Our ‘connection’? It is pathetic, I know, but for now that is all you are going to get. Indulge my tone, tolerate my voice, endure my trite twitterings, they are but the sweepings of my soul, seeping leaks from the hole blown through the centre of my heart. I am sorry, my sweet, but that is all I can manage for the moment
So where was I? How to describe our life here? Transitory, I think, sums it up adequately. Last week I was a Lawrence Weston resident perched on the north-west edge of the city. Today I am an inner-city dweller, forced out of my temporary accommodation and scrambling to find a property to match my housing benefit allowance.
With no time to pick and choose, I find myself jumping at the first opportunity, the downstairs flat of a converted terraced house near the local primary school in St Paul’s. The accommodation is OK, a little drab and damp. Unfortunately the couple upstairs seem at war with each other, with their children, with the world at large, so there are verbal fireworks every night, a constant background of angry conflict.
It was hard for Yanit and Abebe to leave our life on the estate. He was enjoying the structure of the classroom and she had begun to make her first friends. I debated keeping them on at that school but getting them from St Pauls to Lawrence Weston every day using public transport was just too daunting so I signed them up for this local school, a stone’s throw from our front door.
It is a nice surprise to see so many black faces around and it is a more vibrant environment than the estate. But I already have my reservations about this community. During daylight hours the streets and shops seem safe and the people friendly and open. I have already joined the Cheltenham Road library, have identified a favourite local grocer’s and a halal butcher.
But when night falls I sense the danger. The street that leads me out of the neighbourhood, by day congested with pushchairs and schoolchildren, is lined after dark with girls plying their trade. Cars prowl and cruise, their boom-boom boom music mingling with the clamour of pavement squabbles and the wail of police sirens. We stay inside after sunset, ignore the couple upstairs with their endless quarrels and bury ourselves in television and books.
A further development to report. At the children’s school I saw a flyer pinned to the notice board advertising government-run English classes. I plucked up the courage and went along to register, and here I am, back in the world of study, a part-time English language course, what they call ESOL, two mornings a week close to the city centre. And no sooner have I signed up than the teacher announces exams at the end of term! My poor old brain can barely keep up. I wish you were here to help me out, you were always so good at English, the teachers forever blowing your trumpet!
No news on our court case.
No news from the Red Cross.
Our love to Gadissa. You are always in our hearts.
***
Dear Kassa
And so
It is late and I am tired. It is comforting to have re-established contact. I will let you know how Yanit and Abebe get on at school. It goes without saying that they miss you, just as I do. Give my love to Gadissa, you are both always in my thoughts.
***
Dear Kassa
Who am I trying to fool? I cannot remember all the details of my last letter, only the tone, a casual catching-up of news like two old classmates whose lives have meandered in opposite directions but who feel that their friendship is sufficiently significant to warrant these informal updates.
I am sure this was a deliberate stance on my part, my darling, a desire born out of necessity, a survival instinct, an inability to face the true nature of our connection.
Even now, you can see how I hide behind euphemism. Our ‘connection’? It is pathetic, I know, but for now that is all you are going to get. Indulge my tone, tolerate my voice, endure my trite twitterings, they are but the sweepings of my soul, seeping leaks from the hole blown through the centre of my heart. I am sorry, my sweet, but that is all I can manage for the moment
So where was I? How to describe our life here? Transitory, I think, sums it up adequately. Last week I was a Lawrence Weston resident perched on the north-west edge of the city. Today I am an inner-city dweller, forced out of my temporary accommodation and scrambling to find a property to match my housing benefit allowance.
With no time to pick and choose, I find myself jumping at the first opportunity, the downstairs flat of a converted terraced house near the local primary school in St Paul’s. The accommodation is OK, a little drab and damp. Unfortunately the couple upstairs seem at war with each other, with their children, with the world at large, so there are verbal fireworks every night, a constant background of angry conflict.
It was hard for Yanit and Abebe to leave our life on the estate. He was enjoying the structure of the classroom and she had begun to make her first friends. I debated keeping them on at that school but getting them from St Pauls to Lawrence Weston every day using public transport was just too daunting so I signed them up for this local school, a stone’s throw from our front door.
It is a nice surprise to see so many black faces around and it is a more vibrant environment than the estate. But I already have my reservations about this community. During daylight hours the streets and shops seem safe and the people friendly and open. I have already joined the Cheltenham Road library, have identified a favourite local grocer’s and a halal butcher.
But when night falls I sense the danger. The street that leads me out of the neighbourhood, by day congested with pushchairs and schoolchildren, is lined after dark with girls plying their trade. Cars prowl and cruise, their boom-boom boom music mingling with the clamour of pavement squabbles and the wail of police sirens. We stay inside after sunset, ignore the couple upstairs with their endless quarrels and bury ourselves in television and books.
A further development to report. At the children’s school I saw a flyer pinned to the notice board advertising government-run English classes. I plucked up the courage and went along to register, and here I am, back in the world of study, a part-time English language course, what they call ESOL, two mornings a week close to the city centre. And no sooner have I signed up than the teacher announces exams at the end of term! My poor old brain can barely keep up. I wish you were here to help me out, you were always so good at English, the teachers forever blowing your trumpet!
No news on our court case.
No news from the Red Cross.
Our love to Gadissa. You are always in our hearts.
***
Dear Kassa
And so
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