It was nothing compared to the aching thaw felt after a day at the car wash, but Maalik’s gloveless hands were cold, and he rubbed them together and stamped the stencilled frost from his feet before he pushed open the door. He was struck by the handle, an enormous wooden box of a thing with an open top and bottom – common, unbeknownst to him, to UK libraries of this age. What possessed someone to make a doorknob thirty times the size it needed to be, using enough wood and varnish for a decent bedside table? Sometimes, although he fitted in, he thought he would never truly belong.
Once inside, he reached into his jacket for his English grammar book and made a quick decision to renew it automatically. Obtaining his membership card face to face last week had been challenging enough, even when he’d given his made-up surname to simplify the process. He approached the machine – it couldn’t be more complex than an engine, after all – and pushed his card tentatively under the blue laser beam. It beeped, to his surprise, and an image of his photo card popped right up with three choices. Return. Renew. Help.
Help. If only. If only you could summon it by pressing on a button. He touched “renew” and placed his book into the blue-lit alcove as instructed. It beeped again and the title appeared. “Confirm renewal?” enquired the screen. He didn’t know. No, he did know. Confirmation. Hostel booking confirmation. He read it every day. Confirm must be the verb. Yes, he did want to renew it. Yes, yes, yes. He smiled at his own success and pressed the touchscreen once again.
There was a pause. Now he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to take his book back or not, but the machine’s final comment filled him with confidence.
“Your book has been renewed”, it said, churning out a piece of paper with the new date on.
Present perfect, he was sure of it. Present perfect passive.
He’d understood everything. Every single word.
Maalik hurried over to the librarian at the human checkout, buoyant with his achievement, holding the receipt so it could be clearly seen. He didn’t want to look like a pickpocket in here.
‘Excuse me, madam. Excuse me, please.’
She turned around and made her own assessment of his need.
‘I’ll be with you in just a moment,’ she said, conveying in nine withering words a number of covert messages relating to his right to be in the library, his ability to benefit from it and her refusal to be rushed.
‘Thank you,’ said Maalik, waiting for a full three seconds. ‘I just need—’
‘I’ll be with you in just a moment,’ she repeated, with a slight but icy change in word stress, smiling with palpable annoyance.
‘I am not wanting to borrow anything,’ Maalik reassured her, after waiting another whole second. ‘I just need you to – how do you say it – point me in correct direction.’ He pulled out the cardboard wrapper and pushed it towards her. ‘These things – WW, Mig, PAK – I not, I don’t understand very well,’ he said, running his fingers down the list. ‘Where can I find something which it will explain it properly?’
She frowned with one eyebrow and raised the other, in a peculiar expression of bafflement.
‘Please can you tell me where can I find help with this kind of thing. It is very important for me.’ He could see her calculate it would be quicker to comply. She turned the list up in her palm and twisted her longsighted head back to see.
Her eyes latched on halfway down to the expression WW2. ‘Nine hundred,’ she said, tersely, nodding around the corner. ‘History and Geography. You’ll find it in there.’
Maalik headed off into the crook of the L, full of hope. But on arriving at 900, he realised that was where he had come unstuck before. He paced backwards and forwards as he had done the other day, then, with frustration, plucked out a book at random and sat down at a round grey table in the study area to save face.
She was there again, the sad lady, a couple of tables away, poring over sheets of A3 paper, scribbling with a pencil periodically. She didn’t look sad today but animated, happy, purposeful somehow. He had nothing to lose. He’d seen her in an ignominious emotional position. Perhaps she would help him now he was in distress. Awkwardly, he stepped sideways between the tables to reach the one she was on, clasping his grammar book, the receipt and his extemporaneous history choice. He dropped them both down on the surface from a slightly greater height than was necessary, to capture her attention.
She was deep in her activity, cross-referencing things across two large open books, isolating a fact with her left index finger here, making a note there, stroking her right hand down the page, then taking it off to pick up a pencil and sketch a figure or two. The outline map beneath her elbows was developing and darkening with her contributions.
‘Madam. Miss…’ he started.
‘Oh, you made me jump.’ She shivered, seeing him standing there.
‘I’m so sorry… you are lost in your thought I think.’
‘No, no it’s fine,’ she said, half getting up and starting to arrange everything neatly around her in an embarrassed flurry. ‘I just didn’t notice you.’ She had reddened the moment she recognised him. There was a pause as she finished straightening everything and he continued to wait. ‘Listen, I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you out the other day,’ she began.
‘Is everything all—’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she cut in. ‘I was just having a bit of an off day.’
‘You are sick? Off work? There is something wrong?’
‘No, no, I mean a bad day. Like, like one where nothing’s going right and you just can’t seem to shake it off.’
‘Oh, oh right,’ he said. Another nuance of syntax that had passed him by. An off day was obviously completely different from a day off.
‘Anyway, I’m absolutely fine and sorry to be so pathetic. Did you find what you wanted in the end? Could they help you at the desk at all?’
He raised a mischievous eyebrow and spoke with feeling. ‘I think machine is more helpful than that lady at the desk.’
Sofia laughed. ‘Yes, she does rather fit the stereotype. The young one’s nice though.’
‘I didn’t find what I wanted.’ His voice became urgent and intense.
‘Oh, that’s annoying. Can I…’ She hesitated at the thought of letting the side down again.
‘Yes, please.’ He was firm. ‘I didn’t find what I wanted. I really need your help.’
Maalik was congenitally the last person to push himself forward, least of all when it involved a member of the opposite sex, but survival had overridden tradition over the last twenty years, and he ploughed over his own sensitivities to do what needed to be done.
‘You are British citizen?’ he asked.
‘Well, yes, yeah, I suppose I am.’ Ridiculously vague answer, she chastised herself. Must have ticked it on several hundred forms in her lifetime. Wasn’t used to being asked it though. Took it for granted, she supposed.
‘I am taking Life in the UK test.’
‘OK.’ She used her interested rising tone. She hadn’t heard of it.
‘It’s test for citizenship. And I am also taking IELTS test.’
She’d never heard of that either and wondered privately who Aiyelt was and why he wasn’t doing it himself.
‘But I need help from native speaker. Some of these questions… I think only someone born here can know exactly what they mean.’
‘Sure,’ said Sofia. Inwardly, she swallowed hard. She wasn’t through her project yet, and questions still made her nervous, but perhaps it was time to try out. ‘Sit down. Take a seat. I’ll do my best.’
He spread out the torn-off strip of cardboard, starting to curl up at the edges where it had been ripped thin, and sat down in the brown plastic seat next but one to her. ‘Now these I get from website, for practice. This one,’ he pointed at his pencilled notes, ‘I have no idea. WW2?’ He pronounced the capitals individually. ‘What is this exactly? I have been trying to search it, but my phone is no good.’
Sofia felt relieved. ‘Oh – that’s World War Two.’
He couldn’t quite get the first word, with its long vowel sounds.
‘Whirldraw?’
‘World War. You know, countries fighting. 1939–45.’
He couldn’t believe it was that easy. ‘Ah, yes yes yes. And the other one… may I?’ He took her pencil and scribed carefully in a space on his piece of card. ‘1914–18. That is WW1?’
‘Exactly, yes,’ said Sofia. ‘That’s exactly right.’
‘I see now. So, I see now these are the numbers for the planes. So, which one, if you can tell me please, is in,’ he concentrated on pronouncing it correctly, ‘World. War. Two. Mig-21?’
Sofia looked blank.
‘PAK-22?’
She had no idea.
‘F-22?’
‘I’m really… I… I’m sorry, I haven’t a clue.’ She took the paper from him and looked down in bewilderment at the list. ‘Oh – Hurricane. It must be that one. No, it’s definitely Hurricane. That’s the one they flew then.’
‘But I looked up “hurricane”. It says type of wind – strong wind.’
‘No, no. It’s the name of a plane too. There’s a capital letter you see.’
He was slightly ashamed. He’d had every advantage at school in Somalia’s newly literate society and undergone an obligatory punctuation lesson in every UK establishment he’d started a course in. Writing English by hand was still an exasperating struggle, but to make such a basic error was uncharacteristic of him.
‘OK, we will try the other ones. Hadrian’s Wall, I don’t know what this is please.’
Sofia thought hard. ‘Well… it’s like a big defence. A barrier. The Romans built it here – hundreds of years ago.’ She shuffled through her pile of maps until she found one with the British Isles not yet coloured in and sketched a little line from Wallsend to Solway Firth. He still looked slightly blank, so she drew a cartoon wall of lines with alternating bricks at the edge, then a Roman centurion in a helmet, sideways on.
‘Oh, I know now,’ said Maalik. ‘This is furthest part of Roman Empire for you? To keep out the Scottish people?’
His answer surprised her. Wherever he was from, she was sure she didn’t know its history quite as well as that.
He pressed on. ‘So, is this monument, is it UNESCO,’ he pronounced it “yoon sko”, ‘Heritage Site?’
‘Gosh, I expect so.’ Sofia vaguely recollected the red square battlement sign. ‘I mean I think it’s run by English Heritage. I don’t know anything more than that…’
She was ruffled. ‘I have to say, I think this is a really odd set of questions… I mean I don’t think the average person – whoever he or she might be – could answer them off the top of their head.’
He slapped the paper down unexpectedly on the table and dropped his arms into his lap. He’d known it would get to this point. ‘Everyone tell me this,’ he said in frustration. ‘Everyone who live here says this is not a good test.’ He looked upwards at the ceiling, putting his fingers to his temples and blinking back his anger with tired and anguished eyes.
Sofia was taken aback by his response. She knew she mustn’t touch him, put her hand upon his arm. But she wanted to reach out.
‘I can see it’s very important…’ She broke off. ‘Sorry, you didn’t even tell me your name…’
‘Maalik. Mr Maalik Ajnabi.’
‘I can see how important it is for you, Maalik. Mr Ajnabi.’
He lowered his eyes from the ceiling and breathed out to calm himself. ‘This is everything for me. I pass this, and IELTS test, and all the things will be easy. Better job, no more solicitors…’ He twisted his thumb round and bit his thumbnail, staring at it for a time, cradling his hand with his other work-worn fingers. Then, still looking down, he quietly told her the reason for it all.
‘I am without my family in Somalia. For many years now. If I can be British citizen, maybe, just maybe, I can find them and they let me bring them here.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sofia clumsily. ‘That must be… that must be really dreadful.’
They both sat, staring without focus at the maps and piece of sandwich packet. She couldn’t bear it after a while.
‘Is there anything I can do? Anything at all I can do to help?’
‘You help me already,’ said Maalik. He seemed suddenly to gather himself and muster his former cheer. He laughed. ‘No, I should say “you have helped me”. This is my problem. I speak English every day. For twenty years or more I speak it, but still some little problems with grammar and pronunciation. It needs to be perfect. 4.5 or more. Then they give me pass. And for the citizenship – these stupid questions – I must get 75%.’
‘I’m in the library every day,’ volunteered Sofia rapidly. ‘I’m going to be in here. I can help you if you like – you know, with expressions and things like that.’ She liked the idea of mattering to someone; of her existence between the school hours of 9am and 3pm being noticed by someone; of being instrumental in the pursuit of someone’s happiness.
He wasn’t British yet, so he didn’t go through the façade of protesting politely whilst meaning to accept all along.
‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly, ‘you are very kind.’ He thought about Fowsio, Hamed, Bashir, Abroon and Ibtisam and became bold. ‘Do you think you can give me two hours, just a couple of hours, every weekday?’
Sofia wondered just how that would fit in.
‘But maybe that is too much,’ he said, reading her face. ‘It will interrupt your study. You are an old student, yes?’
She laughed, seeing instantly what he meant. ‘Mature,’ she said. ‘Mature is better. But I guess you’re right. I am like an old student. I am starting out again.’
‘You are studying geography?’ He nodded towards her maps.
‘Oh no, not just that,’ she said, ‘a bit of everything.’ Then she confessed. ‘I’m trying to improve my general knowledge – to see how it all fits together. I haven’t even told my husband or the children yet, but actually I’m trying to write a book.’ She became conscious of her gabbling. ‘Do you have…? Are they…? Are you able to… keep in touch?’
He shook his head, almost in a shudder, his eyes blinking shut. Then he turned towards her with a practised smile.
‘I don’t even know if they are alive or dead.’ He was jovial again now, funny. ‘So, what is it going to be about, this book? It is some kind of encyclopaedia? I think it must be very – how do you say it – intellectual, if you need to study everything in the library first.’
Sofia’s heart was aching on behalf of his, but she grasped the opportunity to move the conversation on. ‘Well, it’s sort of about the journey, the journey to find out.’
She felt a little foolish, but it was his turn to adopt a rising, interested tone. He was interested, as it happened. Maalik had spent his life finding out. Studied the layout of so many cities, bus station by bus station, to further his flight. Learned to speak so many languages – albeit to buy tickets, damp-mattressed beds on which to spend the night or dry noodles to sustain him as he went along. Come to grips with chassis systems and Home Office regulations, microwave instructions and application forms, to gain a firmer hold upon his expatriate soil.
‘I think I have finished with my journey,’ he said. ‘I should say, I hope I have finished. Now I need to stay here permanent, so the others can come.’
‘So, what is it exactly that you would need me to do?’
‘This.’ He gesticulated towards the English grammar book. His animation made him fluent. ‘I get it. Every night I work through a chapter. Every year I finish one level, go back to library, get the next book, and then the next one and the next. But it doesn’t help me how to write. Speaking is easy for me, but if you ask me to write a paragraph or an essay or something, this is very very difficult. I can correct the sentences, but I don’t know how to make them from nothing. And if I write just like I speak it’s not correct. I have had a lot of lessons, but now it is expensive, not free like when I first came, so many years ago. I need native speaker to teach me and to check my work. Somebody like you. And also, I need help with the questions you see for Life in the UK. You see they are ridiculous! Impossible for someone like me, even if I have lived here for a long time. I need someone to explain to me. I don’t have time to search them one by one.’
‘I can do that,’ said Sofia. ‘I can try to do that for you.’ He had brought her out of herself. Reminded her of others in dark places with much more right to reside. She hadn’t looked outside herself to see for months or years.
He looked agitated and stared down at his shoes for several seconds.
‘I can’t pay you,’ he said shortly.
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t expect—’
‘But I can make exchange. I am working in car wash and hostel. Free car wash whenever you want. Also, I have mechanical skills – Level 2. Anytime you want MOT, service, repair, this I can arrange for you. I will do it myself, no charge.’
‘No seriously, I don’t need—’
‘I insist.’
Sofia knew he would not back down. ‘Well, OK then.’ She started to think out the practicalities. ‘I’m going to be here every day. From nine until school pickup time. What about—’
‘Eleven o’clock to one is good,’ he said. He would be finished with his morning duties at the hostel and could go straight from the library to join Dom at the garage.
‘Yes. I think that’ll work,’ she said. She could do a good couple of hours before he came. Probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate for more than that anyway. But he was very intense. ‘Perhaps just Tuesdays and Thursdays,’ she suggested, ‘to see how we get on?’
‘We can start tomorrow?’ he said earnestly.
‘Why not?’
‘Tomorrow then. I am very grateful. And at weekend you drop your car by Mo’s garage. I will give your car service check and full valet inside and out.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ said Sofia. She would work out how to fit that around the kids nearer the time.
He did not reach out to shake her hand but put his own together and gave a little bow to mark the closure of the pact. She found herself copying, clasping her fingers and nodding down towards the desk. Maalik picked up his books and the receipt and started backing away, smiling and waving as he had done that first day, until he had almost disappeared behind the shelves.
Two seconds later, he was rushing back again, his face filled with horror.
‘I’m so sorry, madam. I didn’t ask your name. I can’t believe I am so careless. You must think very bad of me.’
‘Oh, it’s Mrs Gardner,’ she said, making light of the situation to ease his discomfort, but at the same time thinking she should mirror his formality. ‘I should have introduced myself. Totally my fault.’
‘Gardner like Garden?’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘Like Garden.’
Then they were both laughing again at the peculiarity of the situation.
‘So, I will see you tomorrow, Mrs Gardener,’ he confirmed, this time touching his forehead with his fingers in an almost salute. She smiled and bobbed her head, responding with a little wave, which felt silly at such proximity but also gloriously light-hearted, human, connected once again.
He disappeared behind the shelves for the second time and she picked up her pencil, trying to find where she’d left off.
They were both hopeful, thinking about the next day.