The Red Children E-Book

Maggie Gee

• Herausgeber: Telegram Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 334

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It's the 2030s in Ramsgate and four people who don't look quite human are found sitting, naked, in the early spring sunlight on the quay of the quiet south coast resort. The locals are puzzled – the newcomers are larger and heavier than they are and say they are fleeing the heat. Soon more arrive. Their tall red-haired leader, The Professor, talks to the universe. The locals talk among themselves. Red people appear everywhere, making friends, going into the caves, liked by some but accused of bringing infection by others. Two rivalrous brothers, Liam and Joe, take different sides as one joins a notorious far-right group. Their teacher Monica is the first to warn there'll be trouble. And she's right, there is; but there is also a great Midsummer Festival, laughter and love. Set in a world in crisis, this original, gripping fable about migration and global warming restores belief in the power of human kindness. 'A stylish, intriguing novel. A fable bursting with freshness and foresight, a charming, sparkling jewel of a novel to be cherished and held high as an antidote to modern day bleakness and climate despair.'-- Leila Aboulela 'The Red Children offers a warning and a vision of our past, present and future. This timely, vital and generous book is extraordinary in its courage, and hopeful and brutally honest in its clarity. An essential book for our times.'-- Salena Godden 'Superb. A mesmerising, deeply engrossing work.'--Irenosen Okojie

Leseprobe

THE RED CHILDREN

ALSO BY MAGGIE GEE

Blood

Virginia Woolf in Manhattan

My Animal Life

My Driver

The Blue

My Cleaner

The Flood

The White Family

The Ice People

The Burning Book

Lost Children

Where Are the Snows

Grace

Light Years

The Burning BookDying, In Other Words

Maggie Gee

The Red Children

or,Likeness

TELEGRAM

TELEGRAM

An imprint of Saqi Books

26 Westbourne Grove

London W2 5RH

www.telegrambooks.com

www.saqibooks.com

Published 2022 by Telegram

Copyright © Maggie Gee 2022

Maggie Gee has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and

Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All rights reserved.

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 84659 213 3

eISBN 978 1 84659 214 0

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

‘To be sure, what a town Cranford was for kindness.’Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford

‘If a human life is described with enough particularity, the universal will begin to speak through it.’Kenjo Yoshino, Covering

‘Let them be themselves. It’s all anyone wants. So long as I can be myself too, which means shouting.’Monica Ludd

PART ONE

1

The first Red people came over by sea.

Once upon a time, Ramadan Baqri, a seventeen-year-old Sea Cadet, arriving at the harbour early to hoist the colours just after the January sun had risen, found them sitting, damp and large and red and shaking with cold, on the edge of the quay. They looked up in wonder at the rising sun to the east, then turned their heads to peer west, over the bright crosshatched lines of the masts of the yachts, at Ramsgate.

2

Now it’s called Redsgate, the same small town on the southeast point of England. People started to call us Redsgate as a joke, because of the migrants. But who laughs last, laughs longest.

When the Red people came, I had lived here for fifteen years. The first visit I made was a drunken weekend on the beach with two crazy friends, all of us nineteen or twenty. Through the haze of golden smoke and headache, serpents of sunlight made watered silk of the sea. I left the others and went for a walk in the park on the cliff on my own, my head cleared for a moment, the air was green, birds sang, and I vowed to come back.

Clean sandy beaches, white cliffs striped with black flint, riddled with pigeons’ nests, gulls’ nests, whistling starlings, crows watching out to steal eggs. Though people say nothing ever changed before the Red people came, the chalk’s always falling, the earth’s always warming or cooling. Over millennia the cliffs have slowly retreated, thirty yards or so every century.

At low tide you see lines of stumpy white pillars like a forest of teeth, that thousands of years ago were cliffs. These thousands-of-years-old cliff-stumps are decked with seaweed every summer, a vivid green slime that came only twenty years ago from the hulls of Chinese cargo-ships. Then they look like stromatolites, layered bacterial rocks four billion years old.

Four billion years ago was the real beginning of this story. Long before the cliffs and the crows, long before humans, love and hatred. Long before there was sea between us and Europe. Long before our town was built in a cradle between two cliff tops. Long before the Romans and the Vikings, all of whom landed here and fought and died on our beaches – on this stretch of shore where British history, written history at least, began. Those who stayed turned into us, the children of invaders, the British.

Fast forward to our town a dozen or two dozen years ago, before this all started. It had ‘heritage’ fishing boats, trips to see the seals, its Pugin cliff (Catholic) and its Montefiore cliff (Jewish), arched quayside cafes and local historians and an eager, newly bronzed contingent of Londoners.

As Britain warmed up in the twenty-first century, cities were like ovens, while chilly coastal resorts gained weeks of sunshine. Now only February and March were cold. More city-dwellers moved down, then the waves of virus sent even more, people who could work from home and wanted to escape the hot, germy cages of London. People with cash to flash, who put a quick shine on facades of houses and restaurants and a hopeful look on the faces of people with services to sell. So there were cutting-edge chefs and foragers, writers and whelk-potters, jazz bands and brass bands, actors and bakers, atheists, Hindus and Muslims, builders and binmen, line-dancers and lindy hoppers, smoke-voiced silver influencers in super-sized sunglasses and blue-bereted Sea Cadets passing each other, calling, smiling, many different tribes making friends in the summer streets and cafes. Oh, and ghosts. New ghosts and old ghosts. Ghosts of young men and old friends, ghosts of the invaders, Belgians, Romans, Norsemen, though you have to listen. And paragliding gulls and green parakeets, their shadows crossing and re-crossing us.

It’s heaven on earth, but not heaven. The seagulls fight for the roof-ridges with the crows. Someone homeless roars on the beach. Beneath the new money lie decades-old layers of unemployment: a cohort of youth who might never have jobs and whose parents grew old without jobs. Plus the new unemployed who lost jobs when the virus came. There are still a few boarded-up shops and cafes, patches of simmering anger that can be diverted into hatred of others, ‘Put Britain First!’, a table of PBF orators drinking in a pub.

But wait, they’ve gone quiet of late, and there’s a new wreath at St George’s Church on Remembrance Day, a large, bright one, for a man not buried here. A thin blonde woman with a tight face, a teacher from these parts, not a Red person, always leads the mourners. Most years, two ravens attend.

When the Red people came, Ramsgate was rather short of men, for reasons I’ll later explain. Like Cranford, that small, lost paradise, we were largely ‘possessed by women’ – not that we’d chosen that state. As to what part I play in this story, you will decide. An attendant lady can watch and eavesdrop and write things down.

But all kinds of people, and birds, and beasts, and the cliffs, and the wind, at night, the whispering aspens in King George VI Park, the invisible fungi feeding the roots of the trees that hold Ramsgate’s East Cliff together, told the story to me. And the ravens, of course. They spoke to me as they flew over.

It was ravens, not Romans, who gave our town its first name, Hraefnesgate, ‘Ravensgate’, later slurred into Ramsgate … Now Redsgate. Ravens. Black hammer-beaked, ruff-necked birds who were roarking and arking from over the heavy-browed cliffs long before the Romans, wings flared like strong black fingers. Ravens are messengers, omens who perched on the shoulders of old Norse gods and pointed to past and future. Ravens, the birds who remember.

Whenever I walk towards Pegwell with my daughter we look for the ravens, and if we see them, she laughs and talks to them, but I listen.

Roark. Aark.

Once upon a time, the ravens noticed something new.

3

Strangers, incomers, migrants.

‘They were all touching,’ Ramadan Bakri told his girlfriend Sandra Birch. ‘And pointing at the masts. And their clothes were wrong.’

Their clothes were a gift from Mrs Jackee West not ten minutes earlier. On her way to open up the Sailors’ Church, she was shocked to see four naked people with their arms round each other sitting on the ground, red in the first rays of the sun.

‘Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear,’ she clucked at them. ‘Too drunk to go home? And lost your clothes?’

But she realised after a second or two they were talking in a language she didn’t understand. They hadn’t grasped a word she said. One had a draggle of seaweed on his shoulder. Not quite right in the head, maybe? ‘Love ye therefore the stranger,’ she remembered, from the Bible, and blushed with shame as she went home to fetch some clothes she was saving for a church sale.

‘New kind of Youmans,’ craa-ahed Roland the Raven, who was watching from the rigging of a large barge, to his mate, Princess Ra. ‘Bigger heads than usual, don’t you think?’

‘Well they’ve certainly got bigger heads than you,’ the Princess said sharply. The wind was cold, and he hadn’t provided a nice dead lizard in ages, nor brought sticks to help her patch up their nest.

‘Proportionate to my body, I have a very large head.’ Which was true: all ravens do. He turned so the wind fluffed up his feathers and gave him a crest of great dignity.

‘Youmen do have foolish heads,’ she agreed, to placate him, but correcting his grammar very slightly, for she was well educated from her childhood in the Tower of London, growing up surrounded by Youmen, very near the Crown Jewels. She could even read, though this was a sore point with Roland, who didn’t believe in human language – ‘It’s a series of noises, at most.’

When Jackee West came back with her bag of clothes, the weird creatures lit up by the rose-red morning sunlight didn’t seem to know how to put them on. One youth pushed his arms into the legs of a pair of trousers. And then they just looked at each other and laughed, then wrapped themselves up any old how in whatever was nearest.

Jackee had brought a pen and paper to help them communicate. But they didn’t.

One of them rubbed his hands together to get warm, then took the paper with a growing smile, rested it on the quay and started drawing. Jackee expected them to write foreign words, or to draw what they needed, bread, or a bed. What slowly emerged was a grid of straight lines, intersecting. He was drawing the masts – not all of them, not the actual yachts, just the masts and the way the crossway spars intersected with them like a scaffold for noughts and crosses.

Then he showed it, not to Jackee but the others, who crowed with delight. They pointed at the masts and then his paper as if he had done a portrait of their oldest friend.

Later we got used to them laughing, but Jackee West felt faintly offended. Maybe they were drunk after all?

Liam Birch and his younger brother Joe were taking a detour on their way to the Grammar School for a smoke, and saw skimpily dressed figures loom into view behind Jackee.

‘Who are they?’ said Joe.

‘Mongs,’ muttered Liam. ‘She’s probably shagging them … Hallo Jackee!’

‘Oh Liam,’ said Jackee. ‘We still miss you at church. Lovely to see you.’

‘Yeah and you Jackee.’

As soon as they’d gone a few metres away Liam hissed, ‘Fugly. Looked like migrants.’

‘What have they done to you?’ said Joe. ‘You’re a mong.’

Liam punched him, feebly, but winded Joe, who gave a yell of indignation that made Jackee turn round.

‘All right, boys?’ she said. ‘Remember Cain and Abel.’ She meant it as a joke, but no-one ever laughed at Jackee’s jokes.

‘No problem, Jackee,’ said Liam, then after she and the shambling figures had vanished into the red-brick church, ‘See, she fancies you as well.’

Soon the ambulance Jackee had called turned up, but not the police, and the newcomers were taken away, then released.

A version of what had happened earlier that morning got passed around the town. ‘Illegals turned up. Half-a-dozen of them. Bold as brass. And not wearing clothes!’

A little group of lost teenagers who had never been anywhere but Ramsgate met up on the quay after school with an old man with white hair and a purple face, waving a stick, and shouted a protest against whatever had happened, in case, like everything else in life, it was unfair.

Roland flew back in late afternoon to keep an eye on things. The young Youmans were waggling their ugly little arms and hands in temper, which he did not like to see. Most ravens think arms and especially hands obscene, weird unfledged lumps that stick out of people’s sides where wings should be. Ruder, rougher ravens call them ‘stumpies’, but Roland and the Princess only did that in private.

‘Put Britain FIRST!’ a few of them were shouting in ragged chorus.

Roland had heard those noises before. ‘Put Britain FIRST,’ he mimicked with his usual uncanny accuracy from the mast of the barge, so the rabble looked around, disturbed – was some tosser mocking them? ‘Put Britain FIRST!’ sounded from above again, but there was no-one, just a large bird. Roland reported on the scene later as he and the Princess took the last moment of sunlight on the railings by the Lookout café. ‘They were all getting mad and flapping their stumpies.’

‘Roland!’ The Princess thought it her business to keep standards high. She picked up a piece of dried worm from the tarmac, delicately, as was her wont, and flew off to the blue, gnarled Scots pine on top of West Cliff, beyond the end of the promenade, which had been their home for two decades.

Ten minutes later, because of the cold, and their epic journey, and being fussed over and talked at, the newcomers fell dead asleep in their temporary billet in the Sailors’ Church, where Jackee West had put them, and forgot the instructions a tall man with bright red hair had given them before they set off. ‘Remember to thank the sea when you arrive. Whatever you do, don’t forget.’

There was an item on BBC Southeast Today. Then the whole thing was almost forgotten by the people of Ramsgate until, a week later, two adolescents in ill-fitting clothes, tall, heavy, holding hands, appeared at the school gates.

Perched on a turret of the Victorian-Gothic house opposite the school, Roland stopped dead, looked very carefully with his shiny black eyes, took off, shot upward just for fun, planed for a moment on his great black wings then folded them and rolled over in a headlong dive, righting himself six feet above the children’s heads, landed on the wall of the school playground, jumped sideways to get closer, jump-jumpscratchety-scratchety on the brick, peered carefully across, said ‘Hi!’, a nearly perfectly human noise, just to make the strange Youmans turn round so he got a better look at them, squawked in alarm and took off at top speed to report what he’d seen to the Princess.

‘More of those different Youmans. Youmen. Things are going to change.’

4

The School Secretary, Nina Sharon, remembered the story on BBC Southeast about the naked ‘Red People’ on the quay, and called the Acting Head. ‘Two Red children have arrived.’

‘Red children?’

‘It was on TV, Winston. They turned up in the harbour.’

‘Oh yes. Really? Here? Have we had the MF20s?’

‘No.’

‘Documentation of application for refugee status?’

‘No.’

‘C386?’

‘No.’

‘Oh dear. I suppose I can talk to the parents and explain we’re selective –’

‘The parents aren’t here.’

‘Oh dear.’

A long, liberal sigh.

‘We’re supposed to be a grammar school,’ Winston said. ‘Why did they choose us?’

‘First school they came to, probably,’ the Secretary said.

‘We are selective. They have to pass the exam.’

After a moment of thought Nina spoke. ‘Well, we’ve had enough stick for that, in the past. There was an awful telly piece two years ago that said we were all white and bright and should lose our charitable status.’

Winston, whose father was black, frowned slightly at that.

‘So maybe we ought to do something for these kids.’ She hesitated. ‘On a temporary basis. Windmills is overcrowded, they can’t go there. Get some positive coverage. I met the new woman on Kent Central. She wants upbeat stories.’

‘You should be in PR, Nina.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ she said. ‘But I like Ramsgate.’

‘Yes.’ Winston Edwards, twenty-eight years old, and only Acting Head because his boss, Neil, had had a breakdown, was a very recent arrival, but he liked it, too. Not that he’d got the measure of it yet. For example, he didn’t know his appointment had been aided by the simple fact of his name ‘Winston’, which had always felt horribly dated, to him – but the oldest governor had commented, ‘Male, that’s a good thing, and patriotic family, excellent.’

By lunchtime the ‘Red children’ were both in class. The same class, because although they were different sizes and ages, they refused to be separated. Refused without words, for they spoke no English.

Nina and someone from student counselling tried to lead them in different directions. When tears began to mass on the older child’s eyeballs, they were allowed to stay together, holding hands.

The woman on Kent Central was off sick, but when she came back, left Nina a message to contact her any time ‘specially if there’s a feel-good element’.

5

Who were they?

‘Red children’ is what Nina repeated, in the hearing of the kids of Year 10, when she led the two newcomers through the door. The back row, who were playing on their phones, nudged each other. ‘Red people. Like the ones on the news. Shit!’

‘Hello,’ the two children both said, in turn.

‘What’s your name?’ The teacher, kind Ms Potter, asked the taller one. He just said ‘Hello’ again, so she asked the second, smaller one, probably a girl, who had red-brown matted dreads. She heard hissing from the back of the room, ‘Weirdos.’

‘Quiet,’ said Ms Potter, who had been thinking the same thing herself. It wasn’t that they looked foreign, she was used to that since her mother’s side of the family was from Barbados – but they didn’t look quite human. Everything was slightly shifted, as if in a drawing.

Finally, the child stopped hiding her face in her thick, shaggy hair. ‘Hello,’ she said, again, then something else Ms Potter managed to make out when she had repeated it three times. She wrote it on the whiteboard: ‘Jebble Tarek? Oh, or Tariq. Is that right?’ She gestured at the small one. ‘Jebble Tariq. Is that your name?’

The small figure looked at the writing with pleasure, then pointed to her chest. ‘Jebble Tariq,’ she repeated, and carried two fingers from her lips towards the writing on the board. ‘Jebble Tariq?’

When the teacher nodded, the girl laughed, pointed at the writing and said something rapid to her older companion. ‘Jebble Tariq,’ they said together louder, index fingers stretched towards the board, then each other, laughing. When they finally stopped laughing, they said ‘Hello. Thank you!’

Maybe they’re brother and sister, the teacher thought. Jebble Tariq might be the family name. ‘Divs,’ said a boy in the back row. His friend agreed.

‘Pakistani,’ said Belinda Birch, Head of Year 11, to her daughter Sandra, once she was back home and safely out of hearing of the staffroom. ‘They don’t look like Pakis but apparently they’re called Tariq. Why did they have to come here?’

‘Well it’s only two children,’ said Sandra, who was used to her mum. She wasn’t really racist, Sandra thought, for her mum had grown fond of Ramadan, her Sea-Cadet boyfriend, who worked in the phone-shop at weekends and had been the very first person to see the new people on the quay. ‘Nice manners,’ Mum had said after meeting him, ‘unlike some.’ Also, Sandra’s brother Joe’s father was Turkish, which surely proved it. Her mum was just down on everyone when she was in a bad mood.

‘You’ll see. This is just the beginning.’

Belinda was right. By the end of the week, there were four of them. At the end of the month, there were eight, and they couldn’t all be fitted into the same class. But they spent every break time together and, when the bell went for lessons again, they followed each other in a long untidy conga, shouting with laughter as they tried to cram themselves onto three or four vacant chairs.

The children of Ramsgate were interested.

Who were they? Where did they come from? With only a few words in common, they couldn’t ask them. They did peculiar things but seemed happy and said, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Hello.’ Their laughter was catching. One of the newcomers was challenged to a fight and turned out to be strong and heavy and silent, and won by patience and weight. But they looked so … different. And they had no phones. How did they get by? Why weren’t they bored? It was unnatural.

‘Where are they living?’ asked one of the mothers when her daughter Jude came home and talked about the newcomers. ‘Is it hygienic?’ She didn’t want to freak out her daughter by mentioning the risk of infection.

‘Dunno. Sailors’ Church, I think,’ said the girl, which silenced her mother, since it was religious.

In fact, after two weeks in the Sailors’ Church (where once again, they forgot to say thank you to the sea, though they certainly had a chance) they were sleeping in the Old Fire Station.

Would they be liked? It hung in the balance.

6

At first, the Red children, speaking only a few words of English, were a lot of extra work for the teachers. True, they understood more than they spoke, and one small boy in Year 9, nicknamed ‘Little Bighead’, was learning at a hundred miles an hour. He was heard swearing in cockney (the accent of Ramsgate, since most people’s ancestors came from London), and laughing. What he had found was that some words made people laugh or stop in their tracks, frowning: those words had power. Fug, Cud. He had not yet learned when to use them. Little Bighead got into trouble.

Soon he was in worse trouble for imitating to perfection Francis, a boy in his class with special needs and a speech defect, who greeted everyone with ‘Yawwight?’, which made people laugh. So Little Bighead started squeaking ‘Yawwight?’ all the time to everyone too, till the class teacher heard and everyone got told off, especially Little Bighead.

In the staffroom, there was unrest.

One Friday at the beginning of the lunch-hour Winston emerged from the door of his office to be faced by a delegation of fiery-faced teachers. Most of them were older than he was. They started talking before they had even got over his threshold.

‘We’re not racist, obviously –’

‘– obviously we’re not –’ (this was embarrassing to state but, they thought, essential, given that Winston himself was mixed race)

‘– but our teaching practice is being severely affected.’

‘They hardly speak English –’

He knew at once who they meant.

‘No, to be fair, that one boy does –’

‘– but most of them don’t speak at all –’

‘– they just keep on laughing –’

‘I don’t want to be personal but they do smell, you know, some of them smell.’

‘One of them brought in a bag of dead birds and expected me to be pleased. Pigeons!’

‘There’s fungus in pigeon droppings, you can breathe it in. Health and safety issue.’

‘Slow down, everyone,’ said Winston. ‘Come in and sit down.’ But there weren’t enough chairs. Most of them thronged round his desk, instead.

More complaints, self-righteous, excited: the Red children were always touching or hanging on to each other. ‘It raises, you know, issues. Our kids will be doing it too.’

‘I’ve suggested,’ said Winston, ‘we avoid saying things like “our kids”, if possible.’

The Red children wouldn’t sit still. Were they even making an effort?

The Red children sang in lessons which had nothing to do with music.

The Red children laughed more than usual in Religious Education.

The Red children were always tipping their chairs back and falling over.

The Red children kept drawing what looked like the crisscross trellises for games of noughts and crosses on blackboards and indeed any surface they could find, ‘although they never fill them in.’

Some of the Red children had started pulling earpieces out of the Ramsgate children’s ears when they were listening to music and seemed astonished when they got cross. Red children were also attempting to replace earpieces with feathers, which they collected for reasons that no-one could understand.

‘As I said earlier, feathers can cause disease,’ said Belinda Birch, crossly, but Ms Potter, who had come along out of curiosity, said, ‘Well it’s really caught on, now lots of them are wearing feathers or flowers in their hair, and frankly it disturbs their learning less than their mobiles.’

‘They shouldn’t have mobiles in lessons!’

‘No, but they do, Belinda, as you know.’

‘Not in my lessons, thank you.’

‘Shall we try not to get stuck on this issue?’ Winston asked gently.

‘I don’t want to mention this, but whenever a Red child does you know what –’

‘What?’

‘– makes, you know, a smell –’

‘Oh, farts –’

‘– which is often, they have no inhibitions, all the others laugh a lot and run around flapping their hands and pulling faces, which makes all the other kids laugh as well.’

‘If you can’t beat them, join them,’ said Winston with a smile, but no, all the teachers stared back at him stony-faced. None of them had ever found farting funny or farted themselves.

‘I hear you,’ said Winston, with his shy, intelligent, winning smile, pushing his halo of dark curly hair back from his forehead and looking them one by one in the eyes. Each of them suddenly believed the Acting Head thought only of their best interests. ‘I know your overriding concern is the children’s welfare. Indeed, I know you love all your children. I am not overstating it, am I?’

And they felt less angry, more hopeful. Some started nodding, because who could say ‘No’ to Winston? Who was rumoured to be so sympathetic to others because he himself had a tragic family history – a twin brother who died, someone said, but ‘His uncle was murdered. By a racist. Famous case,’ someone else claimed. Tragedy gave him the depth that youth might have otherwise denied him. ‘I know you will give our new children a chance. I believe in your patience, your generous spirits.’ (He was shepherding them, gently but firmly, out of the door.) ‘I want to see you next week, same time, back here. I know you will bring me your suggestions for making the life of these children better.’

As he closed the door behind them, he drew a deep breath.

7

But Belinda Birch hadn’t left. She stood there behind an armchair in the corner of Winston’s office, pulling at her bleached blonde hair which she daily tortured into a thin tight ponytail, the style she had worn twenty years ago when, with her neat, pointy features and tiny waist, she had won Margate Festival Princess.

Head of Year and Head of Maths, senior teacher and single parent of three good-looking and well-dressed kids, two of them a year and one nine months apart, you’d have thought she was doing well at life. But she didn’t like her subject, and men, she thought, had let her down. All her children had different fathers and her two sons disliked each other.

I knew Liam, her eldest, by sight, because he ran on the East Cliff, his pale hair flying behind him. Liam, nineteen, pink skin and long fine nose reddened by wind or drinking too much, someone said, used to sprint in phenomenal short bursts towards the Park and back again. I got to know the younger, darker son, Joe, a bit later, when I taught a few lessons for his year group. Her daughter Sandra was amiable and pretty.

‘Winston, we need concrete help,’ Belinda said. She was a practical woman, hard to charm. ‘Language support, for example. At the moment, I can’t teach our own kids – sorry – I can’t teach the rest of the class.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Winston. He knew she was one of his best teachers, clever and focused, with good discipline, almost too good. ‘Belinda, you’re right.’ His best smile. ‘Trouble is, we don’t know what their language is. We know it’s a mixture – a few words of Arabic, bits of Spanish and English, even Italian – but it’s not like anything we know.’

Belinda said, ‘With respect, you’ll have to find out.’ She was aware of possibly losing points with Winston, so in order to gain some back, she said, ‘We should be aware of their heritage.’

Winston did not quite manage to hide his amusement.

Belinda flushed and said, ‘Identity is very important …’ But again, a glint of scepticism on his handsome face. Exasperated, she burst out, ‘You’ll soon learn, Winston, we’re on our own down here. It’s not like London. Last ten years we got zero help from anyone else, so we just have to keep up standards.’

Winston summoned a serious expression and said, ‘Indeed. I’ve asked the Head of Languages and the Head of History to look into it. You know I count on you, Belinda.’

His eyes were a marvellous caramel brown with big dark pupils. Everyone knew Winston was unavailable, said to be deeply in love with his young wife Ella, who was either an artist or maybe a writer, and either bipolar, or recovering from a breakdown, but Belinda had a sudden sense that her new winter jumper was too hot. ‘Thanks Winston. It’s just that I’m committed, you know. To the school. To it being … a grammar school. We’ve got an identity too.’ Her voice was apologetic, for her, and soft, but she knew what she said was the nub of it all.

‘Then I’d like you to know this first.’ Winston picked up a pile of paper from his desk. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at these properly yet. I’ll be telling all the staff once I have. But to pre-empt any questions about standards, I’ve let the new children sit the Telltale Culture-Fair Ability Test. Doesn’t penalise them for not knowing English, etc. Most of them came out right at the top of the scale.’

She reddened again. ‘Is that fair?’

‘Is the Culture-Fair Ability Test fair?’ Winston raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it fair to the others? I mean, the others who had to do the … you know, the not-fair test, the eleven plus.’ Belinda tried to laugh. ‘That sounds silly, I know. Never mind, forget it. I’m glad if they’re bright.’

He softly closed his door behind her, then gazed out of the window.

Identity. She thought I would yield as soon as she used the word. But what’s your identity, Belinda? he thought to himself. Nina had told him Belinda once belonged to the local Put Britain First group. The idea could be used in the wrong way, by the wrong people. As a way of saying, ‘You’re not like us,’ or more pointedly, ‘I’m not like you.’

Shirley, his mother, had taught him to think about love, and likeness. ‘You’re as good as anyone else, remember. We’re all just human in the end. Your granddad was all for identity – white identity. I couldn’t stand it. And your poor, crazy Uncle Dirk. Then I hear the same thing coming at me from the other side. The council’s making me say I’m white on forms, even if I don’t care what colour I am, even though I’m married to your dad, and I’m your mum. Where is it going to end, Winston? You just remember: you’re a good boy, you’re a good human being.’ As a boy he had thought her out of date, but now he wondered if she had a point, all the same.

And the Red children’s arrival – what was he to do about that? He should still be a Deputy, really, at most, at his age, he knew, but Neil Purseglove had not returned to duty. So the whole problem of the Red people had fallen on him.

He tried to think ‘One love.’ And tried not to think ‘Just as long as no more of them arrive.’

8

Something strange happened, very early one morning in Gibraltar, over a thousand kilometres away from Ramsgate as the raven flies, before anyone, even the cleaners, were up. A big group of people, mostly male, large-headed, broad, maybe a dozen of them fully grown, the others still adolescent, walked along the Sir Herbert Miles Road on the eastern side of a steep, rocky promontory in southern Europe. There were two sturdy girls, who held hands. Even before sunrise, it was hot. A vermilion line on the horizon turned into the sun and climbed steadily out of the black and scarlet sea. Most of them stopped and stared at it, awed, then laughed.

But their leader, a massive man with red hair, called them to go on.

The road bears right, with the sea and grey railings on the left, towards the mouth of a tunnel, which is tall and high, big enough for heavy lorries. After a moment’s hesitation and what sounded like a prayer for their journey – ‘Wafaqna Allah rihlatan aminatan’ – the travellers disappeared, like the road, into the tunnel. Except for the gulls and gannets, everything was silent again.

9

Something strange happened not so very much later on Ramsgate’s West Cliff. A thirty-four-year-old Afghan called Arash, hunched in jumpers, setting up by the beach-side railings to catch whiting on his day off, happened to be watching.

The tunnel mouth in the cliffs, far below the pine-tree where the ravens live, is tall and high, big enough for heavy lorries. The road towards it bears right, with the sea and grey railings on the left, then disappears into the tunnel.

It’s a long way west of Ramsgate’s harbour and the Lifeboat station, beyond and below the Pugin house and the grand but neglected Georgian terraces (five storeys high) that face south to the sunshine, beyond the 1920’s marina with its pale balustrades, and the bowling green, and the low lines of humps that look like a golf course but are really grassed-over air-raid shelters. The tunnel swallows the old ferry road which, after the demise of the ferry, still runs, mostly empty, just above sea-level and flat rocks black with mussels. To the landward side of the tunnel there’s pampas grass, succulents, palms. To the seaward side of the road is a narrowing pavement, grey steel rails, grey sea, and over the waves, low on the horizon, Europe.

A group of figures walked out of the black into January sunshine, five abreast, their faces bright with hope as the light hit their faces, shouting ‘To bien … Alhamdulillah!’ (Meaning ‘Thank God,’ Arash knew, because Arabic was one of the languages he had learned as a boy in the madrassa, before his mother snatched him and his brother away.)

A bright frieze of men and children were coming towards him in a blaze of gold. Malaikah, angels, Arash thought, suddenly a child again remembering his lessons, they are angels of light, fresh released from darkness. The figure in the middle was taller than his companions, and behind that group, there were others, vanishing into the shadows. The tall one had flaming red-gold hair. He stretched his arms up to the sky, like wings, then the others copied.

Angels? Arash frowned them into clarity. They were quite solid, he saw. Oddly big heads. The tallest one was dressed old-fashioned-English, jacket, even tie – though they couldn’t be English, they were putting their arms round each other and laughing, now, but talking in another language, one he’d never heard. Then something happened that made him want to laugh as well: one of them, a dark-haired lad in a bright red tee-shirt, ran a few steps, then suddenly turned into a flashing succession of arms and legs Arash realised were cartwheels, coming back to his feet and strolling nonchalantly onwards, and the others clapped and cheered. Then the tall one held his spread hands up to heaven again.

Malaikah, Arash thought once more. Angels from elsewhere. The tall one was walking towards him.

After long loneliness – even in the great betrayal, few Afghans had ever come here – Arash was ready to make friends.

10

There had to be a meaning and a pattern, the Professor thought, as they emerged from the mouth of the tunnel into daylight. Just for a second he turned and looked back: as the photos on the internet had shown, it was identical, in all but a few tiny particulars, to the mouth of the tunnel at home. ‘Like moves to like: likeness in difference makes love.’ Just as he had written in his notebooks (when the universe spoke, he wrote it down).

He took a deep breath of chilly air, milagroso, miraculous, muejazaten, and raised his hands to the English heavens.

‘Alhamdulilla!’ And thanked the earth which had released them.

Glory to God, glory to the universe, glory to the echoes and likenesses that bind the world together. Glory to the great net of mirrors which reaches out to the constellations, from the dark scuttling scorpions in sand to the far pale Scorpion of stars. Glory to the Twins who hide their white flame behind the blue sky of Ramsgate and the blanker blue sky of home; glory to the feelings all living things tremble with, similar, similar, he’s smiling and throwing out his arms, his hands, his long musical fingers, the antennae of his light-rinsed nerves.

They will like us, I think

and look,

glory to

the       r                     ns

                 a          e                     r                     s

                      v                                 a          n

                                                              ve

(and he bows to these brothers of the ravens over the mountain ridge of his home)

Glory to light. To the intricate wonders of golden string which hold the world together. To the sun, which gives life and burns it away.

But not yet, the Professor prays.

We are safe arrived, like the others. Let me live.

So far that morning Winston had managed to adapt two assembly plans, one on global warming and one on recycling. They were dull, but at least they were done. So back to budgets. Rolling up his sleeves with a purposeful grunt and a heavy heart, he opened up his spreadsheet.

A knock on his door.

Anna Segovia, Head of Languages. ‘Winston, just a thought.’

‘It’s not really the moment –’

‘It won’t take a second. “Jebble Tariq”, right? What the first Red girl said?’

Winston went on frowning at his computer.

‘I think something like that was an early name for Gibraltar,’ she went on, louder. ‘Gibraltar? Are you listening, Winston?’

After several seconds staring at the screen, her boss returned from the land of debt, holding a single word in his head. ‘Gibraltar. You said Gibraltar?’ he asked. ‘Extraordinary. Ella was talking about it this morning. She wants us to go on holiday there … I’m not keen. Look, can we talk about holidays later? If I don’t sort out this spreadsheet we’ll get no budget at all next year.’

Anna walked away, frustrated.

In any case, the name was most probably a coincidence. She thought no more about it, but a tiny part of Winston’s brain recorded ‘Gibraltar’ for later.

11

‘Idiot,’ Arash’s wife told him. ‘Angels! Illegals, more like. Must have been Red people.’

‘Who?’