JOURNEY I was not entitled to English nationality when I was born. My parents had settled in England and made no attempt to teach us their respective languages. They spoke in broken English, and it was up to us to pick up the proper grammar from school and books. It was when I was fifteen that the letter came. I was up before anyone else, and was the only one to see the whitish envelope with the mysterious script dropping through the squeaky letterbox. I don’t know why I did it, but something seemed to tell me to put it in my pocket, to keep it, to own it. I was not one to steal or keep secrets, but perhaps I somehow felt this house, this language, this life, could all be taken away in a heartbeat. The letter burned a hole in my pocket for the next few days. But finally it was the weekend. I made my way to the shed at the bottom of the garden, where I was accustomed to sit sometimes when I wanted my own space. My fingers trembling, I stared at the envelope. Stamps I had never seen before, writing which I had not a clue as to how to even begin reading. This was a language that my ancestors had known, a language that perhaps, I thought fancifully, lay dormant in my brain. My parents had never told us much about their respective countries. The things we knew we learnt at school and from books. They even cooked English food. There weren’t then the international food stores that there are now. But one of them must be able to understand this strange squareish script. I felt in two minds as I carefully tore the envelope open. I felt I was somehow altering the course of my life, our lives. A black and white photograph fell out, surprising me. I picked it up off the unvarnished floor from where it had fallen and the briefest of glances was enough to make me gasp. A woman, perhaps in her twenties, the spitting image of my mother, yet not her. The same almond eyes as my sister, the same amused smile as my brother. I could even see something of my long wavy hair and straightish nose. That she was a relation there could be no doubt. But who? Then the letter. It was in the same handwriting. I didn’t understand a word, except for the end, where the writer had run out of space but had managed to squeeze in several emphatic kisses. I knew nothing about any family overseas. It was just the way it was. No relations, no family occasions, no real ties in this country or any others as far as I knew. I sat, pondering, until it was nearly dark. Some very strong instinct was telling me to keep the letter a secret, but I had another equally strong instinct that warned me there would be consequences if I was to do so. It was as if the fate of my family lay in my hands. By the time the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the neighbours’ rooftops, I had made up my mind. I would learn this language, and only then could I decide; only then could I choose to cause or withhold the upheaval that this letter would surely bring. I think I knew then, deep down, that I was choosing between here or there. For the first time in my life I felt torn in two. It was as if it didn’t even much matter which one I chose. Here was where my friends who I had known since primary school were, here was where I had now gained nationality, here was the language of my tongue and mind. It was all I knew. But … and as I thought about it, my heart swelled with a strange emotion … over there was the family I had never experienced, the heritage I had never known, my bloodline. It was a strange thing, learning my mother’s language in secret while she and my father lay sleeping in the next room, tired after their long days. After a month I could understand a handful of words on the letter, but there was still far to go. Exams came along. I wanted to get into college and then university. I studied hard, and put the letter away at the back of a drawer, where it gathered dust the same way the few words I had memorized did in my mind. When I came back to it I could remember only a tiny amount and had to start again. But then there were more exams, and then before I knew it I was standing on the train platform, a large over-stuffed suitcase all I possessed in the world to take to university. The letter was starting to wear thin at the folds. I got my 2:1, and at the graduation ceremony I could not help thinking, as my beaming family posed for photographs, that things could have been very different. After my degree, I returned home. But it wasn’t the same. People my age had left. There was nothing to stay for in this town. This was when I started studying my mother’s language in earnest. The letter became clearer and clearer until one day … “Dear Patrice, “Don’t ask me how I got your address, but let’s just say it wasn’t easy. “Papa is dying. I write this at his bedside, with your cousins and aunts and uncles and, of course, Mama in the room. He is asking for you. I don’t think he has got long left. “I write this letter to tell you I am sorry. (Yes! Me! Saying sorry. I know you will not believe it!) The argument we had got out of hand. How could I have known the police were listening? I don’t know why I accused you of being a spy – the government here makes one paranoid, I suppose. I felt someone was watching us. I felt that there was something not right. “It tore me apart when they took you away. Everyone knows the stories of what happens to people accused of treason against the government. “I did try to visit you in there, but they turned me away. For a long time I didn’t know whether you were dead. “But I have my contacts. I have confirmed recently that you are in England, that you met someone else claiming asylum, that you married him, that you have children. “Here is a photo of me as you last saw me. Please show it to your children. Do they speak our language? How are they at school? “Please come home. I feel Papa is hanging on just for you. “Your teenage boyfriend Mark visits us from time to time. He has got married now. But he still talks about you. “One more thing. We are fortunate to be emigrating to Australia in four weeks. As you must know, things are even worse here. It’s dangerous to go outside. No one is allowed to leave. I do not need to tell you to keep our plans a secret. “Please come. Address and phone number supplied. “Your sister, “Margaret. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I sat back, stunned. The letter had suddenly revealed itself to me when I was not expecting it. Shit, I thought. Shit. What had I done? This “Papa,” who must be my grandfather, had surely died by now. It had been six or so years since the letter had been sent. And as for the address in Australia, it was not provided. I was so engrossed in the letter and my thoughts that I never noticed my mother standing behind me. “So, you learn my language?” she said in that foreign tongue, in a tone I couldn’t put an emotion to. I froze, and she grabbed the letter out of my hands without another word. I watched her as she read it. She pursed her lips, saying nothing, until she reached the end. Then she sank onto my bed and put her head in her hands. “The date of this letter?” she said. “Why from more than six years ago? Why have you kept from me?” I did not reply. She began to read it again. “What have I done,” she murmured, and started to recite a stream of prayer in her native language, something I had never heard her do in my life. “What do you mean?” I asked her. She looked at me, her brow furrowed. “I no remember when – I think after date of this letter – the authorities from my country phone me. They promise I am safe, if I give good answer. So I tell them.” “Tell them what?” “Tell them … what I know. My mother, she have savings abroad. Not allowed. For rainy day. For if country get bad.” I felt horror lurch in my stomach, the reality of what I had really done starting to settle queasily. She did not even need to continue, but she did. “I tell them everything. They say they use my evidence in questioning.” They had never even made it to Australia. I looked at my mother probingly. “I know where they is,” she said, understanding my silent query perfectly. Then she looked at the floor. “You know how much I suffer because of them? How I hate them? But how I miss them every day! I tink they no love me! I tink they betray me!” Then she rolled up her top, showing me her flesh. I realized I had never seen the naked skin on her back before, and no wonder – it was criss-crossed with white scars that must have once been welts. “Torture,” she said now matter-of-factly, covering herself again. She got up and left the room, taking the letter, having nothing more to say to me. My mother’s country is improved. And people are starting to speak about what really happened all that time ago, back when I hid the letter. The year after my mother’s death, after my father had moved into a nursing home and I had bought their house, I had a surprise visitor. The language came flooding back when he spoke. Perhaps it really did lie dormant in my brain. His name was Paul, he advised. He was the son of my mother’s old boyfriend. Could he come in? This was the first time I had met someone from the land that was half of me, my maternal line. I found I had a lot to say, a lot of questions to ask. He confirmed my mother’s family were all dead. They were in a mass grave, with other victims of interrogation. He was shocked when I told him my part in the tragedy, of course. I’m not sure he understood why I hid the letter. I’m not sure even I do. It was pure instinct. He never left. There were bad memories in his own country, he said. But he had heard good things about England. That was why he had come. For the first time since I saw that letter, I feel whole. Now I have both countries, a home in England and a soulmate from the land I’ve never been to but which is part of my make up. I’m sure I don’t deserve it. Of course I regret the past. I’m quite sure I made the wrong decision. But I was not wise then. Often I think about my mother’s family, look at the map where they are buried. But I am almost certain, as I wake to the smell of a full English breakfast and the sun streaming through the window, as I ruminate upon their fate as I do every single morning, as I try to envisage placing flowers at their unmarked grave, the grave where I would not feel welcome, that it is a journey I will never make.
Posted on: Fri, 28 Jun 2013 17:36:46 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015