More Than Love Letters (16 page)

Then I had to go off to work, of course, although I hated leaving her alone. All day at the bank I kept imagining her, moping round the house by herself, because this week is her half term break. Anyway, as soon as I put my key in the lock tonight I could hear the phone ringing, so I rushed to pick it up, and it was Mr Slater, and he sounded excited, but also a bit worried, because he said he’d been calling and calling and hadn’t got any reply, and did I know where Margaret was, because he really wanted to speak to her. I was opening my mouth to say I didn’t know where she was, when my eye fell on a note, lying there just by the telephone. It was from Margaret, and it said that she has gone to London, too, to see if she can find Nasreen! Not a word about where she’s going to look, or when she’ll be back, or anything! So I read it to Mr Slater, and he said, what does she mean about Nasreen? So I explained to him about Nasreen running away, and about how upset Margaret was, and I nearly gave him a piece of my mind about agreeing to meet them yesterday and then not doing, but I bit it back, because it isn’t really any of my business, is it? And it didn’t seem right, really, to be rude to a Member of Parliament. Well, he went very quiet, in fact I actually wondered if he was still there, and then he suddenly just said ‘thank you’ as if he’d just remembered that
I
was there, and rang off.

I’m sitting right by the phone writing this. Snuffy won’t settle down at all. She keeps cocking her ears and trotting to the front door every few minutes, as if she’s expecting something, like maybe Margaret coming home. But she hasn’t rung. I do hope she’s all right – and Nasreen, too. It’s getting late – I hope they’re both somewhere safe! In fact I should be getting to bed myself, there’s work in the morning, but I’m not sure I shall be able to sleep without knowing where Margaret is. Maybe I’ll try some valerian tea. I’ve had some growing in the flower bed for years – I rather like those pale pink lacy flower heads – but on Tuesday at my evening class we learned about its healing properties, so I dug a plant up and cut up the root. Apparently you just pour water on it from the kettle and the infusion helps you get off to sleep. Persephone was going to make some for Helen at the hostel. But I must say, Pete, it smells absolutely disgusting!

I’ll write a longer letter next time. Love you for ever,

Cora xxx

 

 

From:
Richard Slater
[[email protected]]
Sent:
2/6/05 01:08
To:
Michael Carragan [[email protected]]

 

Hi Michael,

Liz Thompson called at about four o’clock, and said that your people have OK’d the new asylum policy: a specific exception for gender-based violence. I got straight on the phone and rang Margaret’s number. No reply, so I tried Witch House – the woman in the office there (at least I
think
it was a woman), Pat I think she said her name was, said Margaret hadn’t been in. So I kept trying her home number. Every time it started ringing I played through in my head how her reaction would sound, how that sweet, serious voice would go all croaky with grateful emotion when I told her the good news . . . what a sad fool I am! In the end, the landlady, Cora, answered. She’d just got in from work, and Margaret still wasn’t there. And then she found a note, and it was from Margaret, saying that she had gone to London to look for Nasreen. I couldn’t understand what it was all about – Nasreen wasn’t in London, how could she be, they had never turned up, never made it to the meeting . . . It just didn’t make sense to me. But then Cora finally managed to impart the information in a way that my uncooperative brain would accept: Nasreen has run away. It seems as if she has come to London, gone into hiding, to avoid being sent back to Albania! Christ, what a mess, Mike – just when it looks like she’d have a good chance of being granted permanent leave to remain!

I rang off, and just sat there in a complete daze, picking up the phone and putting it down again several times, and twisting my mouse round and round abstractedly, until the cable cut off the blood supply to my left thumb and I had to carry out an emergency severance procedure using a novelty bottle opener given to me by the Suffolk Independent Brewers’ Association. A modicum of feeling was beginning to be restored when there was a knock at the door, and suddenly there was Margaret, pale and distressed and lovely, standing in front of my desk as if summoned up by my unquiet subconscious. Well, I wasn’t going to carry on sitting behind my desk if she was standing in front of it and, after a brief but brutal entanglement with an anglepoise lamp, I was round it and facing her, and she was pouring out her fears for Nasreen, and she seemed to be blaming it all (rather harshly, I felt) on herself, and (even more harshly) on Bobby Robson. God help me, what I wanted to do was to sweep her into my arms and clasp her to my manly bosom and pour words of soft comfort and consolation into her shell-like ear, as any red-blooded male would do. But I couldn’t do it – the constant re-educative drip effect of our female comrades clearly has a lot to answer for, because I found I just couldn’t take advantage of her unhappiness and vulner ability. Instead I just stood there lamely, offering platitudinous nothings about how I was sure everything would be all right. Even when she started crying and moved forward and actually laid her face on my chest, I rationed myself to a few impersonal pats on the shoulder. Plumbing new depths of inanity, I believe I may actually have uttered the words ‘There, there’! How I wished I had been an unreconstructed Old Labour chauvinist so that I could have taken this blissful opportunity to do what I was longing to do – sink my hand into those dark ringlets and pull her head against my shoulder, and then bury my nose and mouth in the warm scent of her hair.

Anyway, you get the picture – I exercised unparalleled self-restraint. And when she had calmed down a bit, and my hormone levels had receded sufficiently to allow for the resumption of conscious thought, I suggested sitting down and making a list of places where we might try to look for Nasreen. Margaret was adamant that we shouldn’t call the police, because she thought it would frighten Nasreen, and I wasn’t going to argue with her about it, at least for the moment. It was already past 5.30 p.m., so anywhere with office hours was going to be no help until the morning. We rang Caroline at the Hounslow refugee centre, and luckily she was still there. Although she knew nothing and had nothing much to suggest, Margaret seemed grateful to have been able to speak to her. Caroline’s reassurances seemed to carry rather more weight than my own – but then perhaps she came up with a more persuasive argument for Nasreen’s safety than ‘There, there’. Since she almost certainly arrived either at Liverpool Street (if she came by train) or Victoria (if she took the bus), our best hope seemed to be that Nasreen would have approached an agency in one or other of those areas, so I made some calls, but with no success and, with increasing frequency, only to reach an out-of-hours message service. We then got in a taxi and actually went round to Centrepoint to talk to the staff there. Margaret produced a photo of Nasreen, which was very resourceful of her, and I suddenly realised that I didn’t know what she looked like either, though I feel as if I know her, so it was odd to be peering at the face of a grinning stranger, surrounded by primary school children and looking about twelve herself. No luck there, anyway, but they suggested one or two other night shelters we might try, so we got back in the cab, and by the time we had drawn a blank at about five places it was getting late, and Margaret looked as though she had neither eaten nor slept for two days (which I suspect may well have been the case).

Making use of her weakened state, and the fact that I knew she would want to resume the search in the morning, I told her it would make sense to call it a day, and go back to my flat for sustenance and rest. The cabbie was a woman of the don’t-try-anything-with-me-sonny type, and checked with Margaret whether that was what she wanted too, before obeying my directions. By this stage Margaret’s usual pallor seemed to have intensified to something resembling a death mask in the street lights, and the driver looked at me as though she thought I might be concealing a chloroformed hanky somewhere about my person. Margaret nodded and attempted a smile, which seemed to do the trick, so an awkward situation explaining myself to the constabulary was averted, and twenty minutes later here we were.

Next came the mortifying discovery that the only things in my fridge were five bottles of Stella, a half-bottle of Soave which I filched from that party thrown at the DTI by the Italian trade delegation the other week, and a disconcertingly pliable carrot. Opening the bottle of Soave while I cooked seemed to strike rather too convivial a note, so I was obliged to contemplate the contents of the cupboard without the inspirational effects of any chemical stimulant. In the end, an antique tin of condensed mushroom soup and some dried pasta spirals were made to stand service as
gemelli ai porcini
, which she nevertheless consumed with touching gratitude.

I sat opposite her with my jacket on, as if we were a Select Committee and no motion had been put for dispensing with jacket and tie. I know it’s a thoroughly disreputable habit of mine, but on days when I am not anticipating being seen in my shirtsleeves I only iron a strip four inches wide down the front of my shirt – just the bit that shows under my suit. It’s all about gaining precious extra minutes under the duvet. So of course I didn’t want to disrobe to reveal the rest of the garment, still shamefully wrinkled from its habitual place of storage (balled up in the bottom of the dryer). Somehow the stiff and increasingly sweaty discomfort of my outer garb suited my mood, mirroring with painful exactness my internal state of unrest.

Now she is in my bed, wearing only a free promotional T-shirt of mine, while I, having finally doffed jacket and tie and silently uncorked the Soave beneath the muffling concealment of a cushion, am now deadening my senses preparatory to a long lonely night in here on a two foot wide settee.

Richard.

From:
Richard Slater [[email protected]]
Sent:
2/6/05 08:38
To:
Michael Carragan [[email protected]]

 

Michael, hello again. I trust you had a better night’s sleep than I did. Every time I stirred – which was pretty often, believe me, with Margaret lying semi-clad on the other side of a piece of plasterboard – my left leg slipped down the gap between the back of the settee and the seat cushions, leading in every case to gradual loss of sensation, followed by pins and needles, and finally severe cramp. By six I had given up the uneven struggle and was up and dressed, my shirt ironed front and back, and was ploughing through the London Directory of Voluntary Organisations looking for places where a young Albanian girl with shaky English and no friends in the capital might possibly go to seek assistance.

At seven thirty Margaret appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking beautifully drowsy and dishevelled, and I stood up and dropped the directory to gaze at her. It was some minutes before I remembered to breathe, by which time the room was circling around me in a kind of stately gavotte. She was wearing nothing underneath my T-shirt, and it was a chilly morning for June, as her outline bore tangible testimony, and suddenly British Sugar’s emblazoned claim that ‘Nothing Tastes Sweeter’ seemed to promise a new and tantalising truth.

I was by now quite decidedly gawking, and I told myself that I must say something – anything – at once, to dispel the impression of moon-faced idiocy. An offer of coffee would have fitted the bill perfectly: safe, and without emotional undertones. But I suddenly remembered that I still hadn’t mentioned about my meeting with Liz, and the new policy initiative. It’s just to cheer her up a bit, that’s all, whispered a less than ingenuous voice in my head, and all at once I was telling her about how the asylum rules were to be modified to accord refugee status to women escaping domestic violence and sexual oppression. And her eyes, which had been inky as a storm-torn October night, melted into the pastel brume of a midsummer dawn, and the next thing I knew she had crossed over to where I stood and was hugging me. It seemed churlish not to put my arms round her and return the hug, so I did, and because her arms were lifted up to reach around my neck, there was distinct . . . well, perkiness, and jutting . . . followed by delicious pressing and flattening, and – oh God, Mike, it took me every ounce of will to disengage myself, turn her round and point her in the direction of the shower.

She says she must be back in Ipswich tonight to go to the WITCH meeting, so they can talk about what to do, and I said I’d go back with her on the train, but we’ve got most of the day to carry on the search. I’ve just rung the Albanian embassy and managed to get us an appointment for 10.30, because Mira in the Commons photcopying room is a friend of Lejla on the switchboard there. And now I’m off out to find milk and bread and a toothbrush for Margaret. (Would it be so very wicked to keep it afterwards and use it myself?)

 

Richard.

 

 

From:
Michael Carragan
[[email protected]]
Sent:
2/6/05 09:45
To:
Richard Slater [[email protected]]

 

Richard – I have three pieces of advice for you, my friend.

1. Get a wireless mouse (that’s assuming it is a new mouse you are needing, not a new thumb).

2. If you are planning on being gentlemanly again, get a wider settee. (Also handy for more ungentlemanly scenarios.)

3. The first moment that your feminist conscience allows you to consider her as no longer vulnerable,
tell her how you feel
. And then stop sending me these high-octane e-mails, especially before 10 a.m. Michael.

Michael Carragan (Labour)

Member of Parliament for West Bromwich West

WITCH