Dalila Read online

  A door opens and she hears Ma’aza shuffle to the bathroom. Dalila tries to read on but her attention is honed towards Ma’aza’s movements. The toilet flushes, a door opens and closes.

  She forces herself to study the booklet. A basic map of Glasgow shows a pale blue river, named Clyde, bisecting the city. A motorway, in darker blue, cuts across the city from north to south. The rest is a daunting tangle of streets and green patches for parks. Each neighbourhood has a peculiar-sounding name, Possilpark and Pollokshields, Dennistoun and Dowanhill, and she wonders which part of the city she woke up in this morning.

  She stands up and pulls back the curtain. Greyness extends upwards, without change in tint or hue. It’s the same colour directly above her as near the horizon. It isn’t clouds. It isn’t smog. No sign of the sun. The light of day comes from nowhere. A seagull swoops past and she steps back from the glass. She has never been this high up before. Far below are the silver roofs of warehouses, slate tiles, chimneys and empty streets. Not a single person is to be seen. In the distance, at the edge of the city, an aeroplane comes in to land.

  Glasgow.

  She feels the word in her mouth as she says it. Glasgow.

  When she hears running water and the clinking of cutlery coming from the kitchen, Dalila moves down the hall and taps lightly on Ma’aza’s door.

  Ma’aza opens it halfway. Her eyes are still puffy and she’s only wearing a long T-shirt.

  Dalila glances at the kitchenette in Ma’aza’s room and then lowers her head. Sorry, she says, I didn’t mean to . . . I thought, if you want . . .

  Ma’aza sighs, long and slow. You want tea? she says.

  Dalila makes eye contact for a second and says, Yes. Thank you.

  Ma’aza swings the door open and points at the stove. Make tea. I get dressed.

  Ma’aza’s room smells of buttermilk and perhaps singed hair. It has that close feeling of someone’s personal space and Dalila slips across the carpet and stands safely on the kitchenette’s linoleum floor while Ma’aza grabs some clothes from a chest of drawers, scoops a pair of jeans off the floor and disappears down the hall to the bathroom.

  The stove is all dials and numbers and lights. Dalila opens and closes her fingers, wishing for a normal cook fire. Even after her father’s business started to make money and they moved into a more modern house, there was always a cook fire out the back door. Cooking by the fire felt easier, comforting. But blackened pots and fanning coals are in her past. Anyway, it’s not as if she has never switched on an electric stove. She can do this. She opens the fridge and finds a plastic jug of milk in the door. Sniffs it. Opens every cupboard and, eventually, she finds a pan, a box of tea bags, two mugs and a wooden spoon. Everything gets lined up on the counter. Now it’s just the stove to figure out. She turns a dial to 6, but nothing lights up. She hovers her palm over the hotplate but it doesn’t heat. She tries a different dial but still no heat.

  Ma’aza appears behind her and says, You must switch on. She leans over and flicks a red lever on the wall. The lights beside the dials come on and the plates begin to warm.

  Thank you, Dalila says. I have to learn everything.

  They send you back before you learn anything, says Ma’aza.

  I will learn very fast, says Dalila.

  She places the pan on the glowing orange plate, pours in the milk and drops in two tea bags. With the wooden spoon she paddles the milk, watching the tea bags rotate on the surface.

  Ma’aza unscrews a blackened Italian coffee pot and fills it with water and ground coffee. In Ethiopia, she says, we drink coffee. Tea is for children.

  Ma’aza goes over and switches on the TV. Two presenters sit on a massive sofa and discuss newspaper headlines. Ma’aza examines herself in the wardrobe mirror. She rubs cream into her face and along her forearms then teases her hair with a comb. Side-on, Dalila watches her. She has always thought Ethiopians are blessed with their hair, loose silky curls that are half Arabian, half African. Dalila touches the velvet stubble on her own close-shaven head. Maybe now, here in this new place, she could let it grow again.

  Steam rises off the milk. Brown bleeds from the tea bags. Dalila turns off the heat and squeezes each tea bag against the side of the pan till the milk turns a caramel brown. She lifts the pan and pours straight into a mug. When the coffee has boiled, she pours out a mug for Ma’aza.

  Do you like sugar? she asks Ma’aza, who is pinning up her hair.

  Give me three spoons.

  Dalila smiles to herself as she takes the coffee to Ma’aza. Even me, I like three sugars, she says. We are like sugar sisters.

  With a hairpin in her mouth, Ma’aza arches one scarred eyebrow.

  Retreating to the neutral zone of the kitchen, Dalila rinses the pan and wooden spoon.

  Ma’aza pushes past her, opens the circular door of the washing machine and scoops out an armful of damp clothes. At the window, she twists open a latch and, with a jolt of astonishment, Dalila realises that this window is, in fact, a glass-paned door. Ma’aza opens it and steps out into a rush of fresh air.

  Placing her mug to one side, Dalila grips the door frame and tests the strength of the balcony with her toe. She edges forward and peeks over the railing. Far below, the ground appears to tilt, her stomach pulls up inside her and she jumps back into the kitchen. Ma’aza shakes her head and pegs socks and jeans to a small clothes horse. The garments shift in the wind.

  The view from this side of the flat has tall modern buildings standing on what, Dalila assumes, must be the heart of the city. A motorway overpass crosses high above the grey-brown river. Closer, she recognises something. A tower. Silver and aeronautic, with what appears to be the front of a jumbo jet balanced on top. It is just like the calendar photograph she was shown back in London.

  What is that place? she asks Ma’aza, pointing at the tower.

  Ma’aza turns her head as she pegs a blouse to the clothes horse. That one is the Science Centre, she says. Also, the BBC.

  The BBC. It is the same place. And that it should be so close, that she should be housed in a flat that overlooks it, feels, somehow, meaningful. This feeling quickly spreads. Perhaps God has led her here? Perhaps there is a deeper reason to the things that have happened to her?

  She traps these thoughts and stops them spreading. Working is impossible while her claim is being processed, and besides, she hasn’t even finished her studies yet.

  But she could take a look.

  Dalila picks up her mug of tea and presses the warm ceramic against her cheek. The terrain between her building and the satellite dishes on the BBC’s roof seems simple enough to navigate. Perhaps a ten-minute walk, no more. She gulps down the rest of her tea and rinses the mug.

  Armed with her welcome booklet, her key and her handbag looped across her shoulder, Dalila leaves the flat. She presses the button for the lift as a neighbour’s door opens and an old woman with her little dog exit their flat.

  Morning, says the woman as she lifts the dog into her arms and waits for the lift.

  If there is a respectful way to address the elderly in English, Dalila can’t find it, so she simply says, Good morning.

  The lift arrives. As they descend the dog tries to sniff Dalila, but she edges away from it.

  Outside, it’s shadowless. A cool vapour hangs in the air, clinging to Dalila’s puffer coat as she moves through it. She pulls on her woollen hat.

  The old woman puts on a plastic hood and fastens it under her chin while her dog squats and, quivering with effort, poos on the deep green grass.

  Dalila looks up at her building. The sky is corrugated cloud. Her new home is one of three identical towers of white concrete. Above the entrance is a security camera pointed at the door that doesn’t close properly. On the wall a large sign reads, NO BALL GAMES.

  From where she is standing she can’t see the BBC centre. In fact, at ground level everything looks different. She isn’t exactly sure which direction she is facing, or where she should be going.


  She asks the old woman for directions.

  The BBC, you say? replies the woman, as she pulls a plastic bag from her pocket. Well, that’s down by the water. Toby and I are on our way there. You could come along with us if you like?

  You are very kind, says Dalila.

  The old woman puts her hand in the plastic bag, stoops over and scrapes up her dog’s fresh excrement.

  Never in her life has Dalila seen anyone do this. She closes her gaping mouth and looks around to see if anyone else witnessed this. As the old woman double-wraps the bag and knots it, Dalila considers simply walking away.

  I’m Mrs Gilroy, the old lady introduces herself. She offers the same hand she just used to wrap the dog poo.

  Dalila hesitates, trapped between disgust and politeness. She forces herself to take the woman’s little hand.

  I am Irene.

  Right you are then. Shall we be off?

  Mrs Gilroy clips the lead to her dog and they walk across the car park, picking their way through smashed glass. Though short and stout, the old lady sets a steady pace, dragging her tiny dog, whose scurrying legs stab at the ground.

  It’s a fair day, isn’t it? says Mrs Gilroy. Toby here hates the wind. If it wasnae for me he’d just lie in his bed all day, but he needs his walk, don’t you, boy?

  The dog abruptly veers towards a lamp-post. Dalila skip-jumps to avoid it and crosses in front of Mrs Gilroy.

  Aye, we all need to get out, says Mrs Gilroy.

  Dalila pushes her hands deep into her pockets and walks on, ensuring this old woman stays between her and the dog.

  The pavement is smooth tar while the roads are rougher, but still all tarred. There are no sections of unfinished road which descend into dirt tracks. Even the smaller side streets are fully tarred.

  Pavements – different.

  They pass an open derelict section of land. Rubbish clings to the weeds. A sodden mattress lies in the mud. Further on, they pass a burnt-out sofa, the exposed seat springs all tangled and rusted. Mrs Gilroy stops, takes the parcel of dog poo from her pocket and places it in a red bin attached to a lamp-post.

  They move on.

  At first, the neighbourhood appears only to be brick warehouses but after a few blocks the architecture changes. Four-storey buildings, topped with chimneys, rise up on either side of the street. Squat ochre structures, red as African dirt, with large windows and crumbling masonry. Through the windows Dalila sees curtains and the blue glow of TV screens so she assumes these buildings must be homes. Low walls decorate the entrances of these houses and on them grows a spongy emerald-green moss more vibrant than she has ever seen.

  Moss – different.

  As they approach the river, the tower comes into view.

  Is that one the BBC? asks Dalila.

  No, no. That’s just an eyesore, says Mrs Gilroy. That tower’s just a daft money-making scheme. It’s for tourists. See, the whole thing’s built like an aeroplane wing and it’s supposed to turn into the wind. Only it doesnae. It’s all for breaking down. Then the fire brigade comes out to rescue everybody. It’s the Tower of Terror, so it is. They charge you a bloody fortune just to go up and take a look at Govan. You’ll no get me up there. I’ve lived in Govan forty-three year and I’ll tell you this, it’s no any prettier from up there.

  Mrs Gilroy points and says, That building further away is the Scottish TV studios, but that big square thing closer by, that’s your BBC.

  It’s exactly what Dalila had imagined. Modern, clinical, with a lot of glass. A professional place. Two women in suits pass through the wide revolving doors. On the front steps five people stand and smoke. They chuckle and tap their ash on the ground.

  Are those journalists? asks Dalila.

  Could be, aye. There’s a lot of folk coming and going from there.

  I want to be a journalist, says Dalila. This is my dream. For me this is the most important job, to take the stories and tell them on TV so everyone will know what is happening. I always believed one day I will work for NTV Kenya.

  So you’re from Kenya?

  Yes, I lived in Nairobi before, says Dalila. She squints up at the BBC building. The group of journalists shuffle towards the rotating door and go inside. I don’t know what will happen now, says Dalila. Maybe I must leave this dream in my country.

  You could read the news, says Mrs Gilroy. You’ve got a lovely face for it. How’s your teeth? They’re all for showing their teeth on the telly. Go on, show us.

  Dalila can’t help but smile.

  Aye, you’ve got a good straight set, chuckles Mrs Gilroy. You’re halfway to getting the job already.

  Dalila raises her hand to her mouth, suddenly shy. Trying to change the subject, she points and says, What is that place?

  Well, let’s see now, says Mrs Gilroy. That’ll be your Science Centre. Now, to my mind it looks like a great big slice of lemon. And that silver grape thingy next to it? That’s your IMAX Picture House. I’ve no been inside. I’m no really bothered with the pictures. And that one? That’s the Armadillo.

  Across the river, a vast building, segmented like some silver sea creature, seems to have crawled out of the water and settled itself on the bank.

  Now, you wouldn’t think it, but there’s a concert hall inside. And right next to it? That’s a hotel. A posh one.

  The curves of the Armadillo are mirrored in the hotel’s glass facade, like two animals facing off.

  What is Armadillo? says Dalila.

  It’s a . . . It’s a beastie with a wee face. They come from your part of the world. It’s got all these scales on its back like armour. You know? Armadillo! Mrs Gilroy makes a gesture with her hands indicating the size and bulk of the animal she is failing to describe.

  Dalila nods. Yes, maybe I know this one.

  She takes another look at the building. The similarity to the armoured scales of an armadillo is uncanny, but not exact.

  For me, says Dalila, it is like a croissant, from your part of the world.

  The words slip out too fast. Dalila’s jaw tightens, hoping she hasn’t been too direct with an elder.

  Aye, right enough, says Mrs Gilroy. I can see that. You know, I think these buildings are all designed to look like something else. This place always makes me feel really wee, like Thumbelina. Do you know Thumbelina?

  Dalila shakes her head.

  No? Well, never mind.

  Mrs Gilroy picks up Toby and cradles him in the bend of her arm. A seagull plummets and holds the air inches above the river. They watch it glide for a moment and then Mrs Gilroy stares up at an enormous crane standing dormant on the other side of the river, now a relic, a skeleton.

  Aye, when I was young this place used to be heaving wi’ ships and workers and the rest. My Sam worked here for thirty-one year. Now it’s just a spot for tourists. Sad really, when you think about it.

  The wind off the water carries the hush of motorway traffic from the city centre.

  I also get sad when I think about this place, says Dalila.

  Really?

  When I was a small girl, my father said to me Great Britain was the Father of the World.

  The old woman raises her eyebrows. Ho! That’ll be right.

  Dalila smiles. Believe me, it is true. My father said Britain was so, so rich. It could care for many different countries. I tried to imagine what such a rich country would look like. Sometimes I saw a Mr Bean on TV. Sometimes there was a picture in a magazine. I was hungry to know. In the UK, I believed, everything was new, everything clean. No rubbish. No shanty town. All people wearing nice clothes. All the old buildings would be broken down and they would build new clean places, like this place.

  Mrs Gilroy starts to chuckle. You thought the whole city’d look like the Science Centre?

  Dalila shrugs.

  Aye well, it doesnae, does it?

  No.

  A jogger plods by and Toby starts barking.

  Och, shoosh! says Mrs Gilroy, stroking the dog’s head. Right,
time to take this wee fella home, I think.

  She puts Toby on the ground and untangles the lead from around his front leg.

  Right then, she says, that’s me.

  Confused by this expression, Dalila replies, And this . . . is me.

  Unlocking the front door, Dalila calls out, Ma’aza? Hello?

  No answer. The lights are off.

  She places her basketball boots at the front door and tiptoes to the kitchen. The clothes are still drying out on the balcony. The kitchen is clean. Maybe she should buy food, cook something? But with what money? And where is the market? She opens the cupboard and finds enough to eat for two or three days. But it’s Ma’aza’s food. Perhaps Paul will come back this afternoon? He might tell her where to visit the Home Office and then, somehow, she will get money.

  There is nothing to do but wait. What else can she do? Someone will come.

  She switches on the TV, flicks through the channels till she finds the news and sits down cross-legged on the sofa.

  It is 5 News, a station she has never seen before. The anchor sits in a red studio and summarises the headlines. It’s the same story that ran every night on the TV in the hostel. Boats, overloaded with people, trying to cross into Greece and Italy. Last night twelve people drowned, including two children. The news report shows two men, arm in arm, struggling ashore. It cuts to a pile of life jackets abandonded on the rocky beach. The report then switches to a scene of African men and women being rescued from inside the tiny dark hull of a fishing boat. She suddenly can’t breathe properly. The air is too close. The next channel is better. A woman is digging in a garden and saying something about asparagus. She flicks through some more channels looking for dancing. Some singing and dancing would be nice.