Premier Writing showcases poetry, essays and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s short story is by Celia Donoghue from Clare.
Short Story
Returnee
I should have asked Dad before his memory went. ‘Asylum seekers’ wasn’t really a phrase then. Now it worms around my head. Definitely Africa, but which country? Famine or war? I find pictures of refugees walking to the camps, but none of that tidal wave in the opposite direction, walking home. Their faces gaunt, walking with intent.
Cian’s gone three weeks now. One call on day two. Texts since then, saying nothing in different ways.
“Sorry I missed your call. Busy. Getting used to the job, mostly evenings.” Convenient that he’s never awake or free to talk. Eastern Standard time, five hours behind. Apparently his days off are different every week. Great tips, no doubt. I see him throwing quarters into a jar, spending the dollars. He’s supposed to be saving for next year.
Gerry’s mother Maeve answers eventually.
“Have you heard much from your lad?”
“Yeh, a bit. Seems to be going grand. Don’t think they’re working in the same place.”
“Is Gerry on evenings too?”
“No, he’s in some fast food place, has to get up for seven – that’s a laugh.”
My sister Kate isn’t remotely sympathetic.
“It’s a rite of passage, the J1, let him off. That’s how they get life skills.”
“He’s only nineteen.”
“Sure at seventeen I was in London the whole summer, two phone calls in three months. You were the cosseted one, a job sorted out for you down the road.”
I do the sums. I was ten, so it must have been in the nineties. Me and Dad in the living room, I’m playing with my Barbie doll, pulling off the tiny bikini for a dress with red polka dots. He lets out a soft whistle.
“Would you believe it, they’re leaving, they’re all going home. ….”
Bounding over to him, his arm circles me, I cuddle into his scratchy jumper. Six O’Clock News on the TV, a little Live sign in the corner. A brown snake meandering down the screen.
“Are they….?
“Yes, love, they’re people, the refugees going home.”
The camera zooms in. Tall thin figures, cotton bundles on sticks, little toddler eyes peeping over their shoulders..
“But Dad, they were all going to the camp a few weeks ago, thousands of them?”
“I know. They must think it’s safe to return.”
Return, I thought. Go one way, then turn back. The news clip only lasted half a minute. Later that evening on the BBC as well. A dark river of people, walking for days to a place called home.
My temp contract at the asylum office was supposed to be three months, but they take on new staff every day, I’m here ten months now. Most of us hate the job, the despondency, occasional aggression. I just go into a zone. Everything is slow, you speak clearly, find the right words on the translation cards. At first they all look the same (shouldn’t say that aloud) but gradually you begin to distinguish the regulars. Like Abdul. Older than the average, sunken eyes. He places his documents carefully in the tray. The ID seems fine, Somalia. First came to France, went back.
“I see you came to Europe first in 2016, to France? And then returned to Somalia? “
“My father died.”
“Are your family with you in Ireland?”
“No.”
Years of his life in a few words. I’m curious but questions take time. There’s a long queue behind him, my break in ten minutes.
Cian’s text beeps. ‘Going to Long Island. Promised job there. Talk soon.’ There’s a scéal behind that – fired? fell out with the lads in the flat? couldn’t stand the humidity down town?
“Have you somewhere to stay?” I text. But don’t press Send, he hates the fussing. Somewhere to stay, to be allowed go horizontal for the dark hours without being robbed or stabbed. Or raped. If humans could sleep standing up, or in a chair , wouldn’t it be so much easier? You could go to a big arena, with lockers for your stuff. If we didn’t need toilets, and washing, and places to make babies. For all its ingenuity, the human body makes a right mess. I’m being facetious of course. If babies and older people could manage for themselves , would there be any point to a family unit? Does Abdul still think he has a family unit?
I’m almost asleep when Cian rings. I nearly cut him off in my excitement.
Every evening I google. Some dates and numbers make sense.
“In 1992 an estimated 800,000 Somalis were refugees in neighbouring countries. Large numbers gradually returned to their home areas during 1992-1998, amid continued violence.”
I find words like ‘Returnees’, ‘displacement’- but I ache to find that TV image, me and my Dad mesmerised in horror and relief. We have started sending the single men round the corner to the charities, they hand them pop-up tents, a home in a few seconds.
It’s been thirteen days since the Long Island text. I ring his Dad.
“He’ll be fine. Stop fretting. You were always mollycoddling him.”
“When did you hear last?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the middle of June.”
“Just check your phone. When exactly?”
Turns out to be five minutes later than me. Both parents sorted.
“If I don’t hear soon, I’m going to the guards.”
“Ah for God’s sake, you’re over-reacting. And the guards won’t take you seriously, a 19-year old on a JI?”
Getting a sandwich at lunchtime, I see Abdul. Rucksack on his back, he’s over by the canal, almost embracing his phone. Is that his tent? He turns. His face animated, happy, talking as though he can’t get the words out fast enough. The best part of his day.
I’m almost asleep when Cian rings. I nearly cut him off in my excitement.
“Cian, I’ve been so worried. Are you OK? “
“All good now, didn’t want to ring with no news.”
“No news? I’ve been going out of my mind.”
“Mom, stop. I’m fine. The building job is hard work in the heat, but the guys are a laugh.”
“So you have a job?”
“Yeh, did I not tell you? Got my first pay check today. Money is good, I’m in a flat with four Irish lads.”
He rattles on, he’s probably had a few pints after work. I drink in his voice, my beautiful boy.
“So you’ll work there until college starts again?”
“Actually, me and a mate are thinking of going on to Toronto for a few months. I can delay college for a year.”
“Canada? Don’t you need a different visa?”
“Ah, there are ways around it.”
“Cian, you don’t want to overstay …”
“Mom, I’m not a migrant, I can come home anytime. But it’s supposed to be a good life in Canada, sure even if I finish my degree, it’s impossible to live at home, the rents are mad…
He babbles on, caught up in the magic of his future.
“….. you can come out for Christmas – Toronto in the snow and all that.”
I start to say “But being undocumented…” then stop. He sounds so happy, a new energy.
“You know I’m always here, day or night.”
“I know Mom. Love you. Promise I’ll ring more often.”
I deliberately go by Abdul’s tent next morning. He’s chatting to two others, sees me and bounds up.
“Ah Miss, thank you, we get place in few days, near mountains.”
“That’s great, Abdul. It will be nice to be settled.”
Some refugees spent ten years in camps in Nigeria. Where did home become? After work, I wander the streets, have a pizza in town. I feel disjointed, curiously free. Home is a fluid thing. Letting myself into the flat, I look around. Not too shabby. Mortgage paid off last year after my mother’s death gave me a few bob. Maybe rent it for the winter, a few months in Spain, pop over to Toronto for the ‘holidays’. My beautiful boy.
*
About the author:
Celia Donoghue regularly contributes pieces to Anthology magazine, Ireland’s Own and A Flow of Words on Scariff Bay FM. Recently she won 1st prize, Senior Section, in the inaugural ‘Colum for our Time’ short story competition. Celia lives in Co. Clare.
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