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Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Title Page
  5. Intoroduction
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EITHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. FORTY-THREE
  49. FORTY-FOUR
  50. FORTY-FIVE
  51. FORTY-SIX
  52. FORTY-SEVEN
  53. FORTY-EIGHT
  54. FORTY-NINE
  55. FIFTY
  56. FIFTY-ONE
  57. FIFTY-TWO
  58. FIFTY-THREE
  59. FIFTY-FOUR
  60. FIFTY-FIVE
  61. FIFTY-SIX
  62. FIFTY-SEVEN
  63. FIFTY-EIGHT
  64. FIFTY-NINE
  65. SIXTY
  66. SIXTY-ONE
  67. SIXTY-TWO
  68. SIXTY-THREE
  69. SIXTY-FOUR
  70. SIXTY-FIVE
  71. SIXTY-SIX
  72. SIXTY-SEVEN
  73. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  74. CLIMATE EMERGENCY
  75. Copyright

‘Yeah, mine too.’ I hesitate for a second, then say it. ‘Do you fancy a walk? I want to show you something.’

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY SEVEN

I don’t know why I decide to bring Ahmed here, now. A part of me is screaming that it’s not the right time. Every step we took was more difficult, Ahmed finding it amusing that I wouldn’t tell him where we were going. Me trying to smile back.

And now we’re standing in front of Dad’s tree.

Even though the evenings are supposed to be getting longer, there’s not much light left in the sky now. I see Ahmed notice the ‘Woodland Burial Ground’ sign as we walk in. He says nothing as we pick our way across some slightly soggy ground, up a slight incline, and stop at the frail-looking rack of branches.

‘Dad, Ahmed. Ahmed, Dad.’

‘Hello Mr Milton.’

Ahmed smiles. I smile back. I don’t know if he’s playing along, or if we both are. He turns around, looking back down the slope.

‘It’s a beautiful spot.’

I turn and do the same. Ahmed’s right. The small lights of town are glowing beneath us, and you can see beyond them to some low hills. The sun going down behind them lights the horizon a deep orange. I’ve never looked this way before.

‘And it’s a sycamore tree, yes?’

I nod, remembering the name as he says it. Something in me opens with the naming of it.

‘We have a similar tree back home. It is known for its long life and the shade it gives. It’s a good choice … for a…’

‘Thanks.’

‘Look, it’s budding.’

He takes hold of a thin branch. At the end, a tiny, dark green spear-tip has pushed up through the bark.

‘Do you know how he died?’ I ask him.

‘Yes. Jamie told me. But I think you’d rather tell me about how he lived.’

And I do. I tell him about Christmases, about his taste in music, about when he used to watch me play football, about the cats and how they’d sit on his shoulders at meal times and how Mum would get angry, about the holiday we went on the year before he died: America, the drives, the huge beaches, the size of the forests. I talk for about twenty minutes without stopping. Then we stand in silence. It’s the most comfortable silence I’ve shared with anyone in years.

An understanding silence.

Ahmed speaks first. ‘My father would have liked it here, I think. We don’t do this at home. Maybe we should. We weren’t really “practising” Muslims, my family. We rarely went to mosque, just at Eid. And we haven’t been to a mosque since we arrived here. I guess we’re Muslim in the same way most British people are Christian.’

I smile, nod.