One Secret Summer (3 page)

She turned away from the courtyard and walked along one of the outside corridors that led to the kitchen and probably where
her mother was to be found. As she approached, she heard the low murmur of voices from within one of the rooms. She stopped;
it was her father’s voice. He was arguing with someone – Mohammed Osman, perhaps? She looked around quickly – there was no
one about. She stepped a little closer.

‘Get them out, Hassan,’ she heard the man say. ‘You have family overseas, isn’t it? What about your brother in Vienna? He
can take you in, surely?’

‘Why should I leave? This is my country!’ Her father’s voice was angry.

‘Not any more, Hassan. They’ve taken over everything, I’m telling you. At least you have a choice. D’you think I would still
be here if
I
had such a choice? Don’t you think I’d be gone too?’

‘But where should we go?’

‘Go to Vienna! Get out! Go to Europe, America … wherever you can! I’m telling you, Hassan. Go now, before it’s too late. This
place is finished.’

‘Niela!’ Niela jumped guiltily. Her mother was standing in the doorway of one of the rooms. She’d been so intent on the conversation
she hadn’t heard her approach. ‘Come away from there!’ her mother hissed at her, gesturing to her to move away from the window.
‘Come here!’ Niela moved away as quickly and quietly as she could. Her heart was thumping. Move? To where? She couldn’t imagine
her parents – especially not her father – leaving Somalia. Yes, they’d been abroad before – they’d visited their Uncle Raageh,
her father’s younger brother, in Vienna several times, and one summer Hassan had taken the family to France, where Niela practised
her schoolgirl French,
ate ice cream every day in place of lunch and developed a crush on the neighbour’s son … but that was on
holiday
. At the end of their three or four weeks abroad, they’d boarded the plane and come back to Mogadishu, to the chauffeur-driven
Mercedes and the large, comfortable house in the suburbs. She’d gone back to the International School, where her best friends
were German and American and Senegalese – daughters of diplomats or successful businessmen like her father. She and her friends
swapped notes and pictures of the places they’d been. The thought of
not
coming back was unthinkable. But the unthinkable had suddenly come to pass. The gunmen who roamed the suburbs neither knew
nor cared that Hassan Aden had worked hard his entire life to provide his children with the best education he could, or the
most comfortable home within his means. They grabbed the cars and seized the house, together with the seven Aden pharmacies
spread across the city that he’d spent the last decade building up. It was all gone. Everything. Not even the signs outside
the pharmacies remained. Hassan came running home one afternoon with as much cash as he could lay his hands on stuffed into
a small leather suitcase and ordered them to pack. They fled with whatever they could carry, and that was it.

‘Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?’ her mother hissed at her.

‘But …’

‘No buts! It’s dangerous!’

‘Uma, we’re inside—’

‘Come and help me prepare food. Your father and your brothers must be starving.’

I’m starving too
, Niela wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Instead, in silence, she followed her mother through the small gate to the kitchen.
Together they set about preparing the simple meal of rice and beans. The little servant girl who’d let them in darted about,
following instructions. There was no sign of either of Mohammed Osman’s wives.
Insha’allah
, her mother answered, whenever Niela asked a question.
If God wills it
. Sometimes, Niela thought to herself angrily as she rinsed the rice under the
tap, she wished she had even just a fraction of her mother’s faith. Ever since the bombs started falling on Mogadishu, she’d
begun to have serious doubts about where His attention lay.

JULIA

Oxford, October 1991

‘Burrows? Is that with a ‘‘w’’ or a ‘‘gh’’?’

Julia looked blankly at the porter. She could feel her hackles beginning to rise. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your surname. The spelling.’ His pen hovered above a list. ‘As in William S.? Or as in a mole’s abode?’

‘B-U-R-R-O-W-S.’ She spelled it out briskly. How the hell else was she supposed to spell it?

‘School?’ he asked, his lip curling in the faintest of sneers.

‘School?’ Now she really was confused. School was a good four years away. What the hell was he on about?

‘What school did you go to?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

He looked up at her. His eyes flickered over her, silently assessing her accent, her coat, her shoes and, of course, the all-important
name of her school. ‘Rooming lists. We put the name of your school next to your name. It’s an old Oxford tradition.’
And one that wasn’t about to die either
, his expression implied. Despite the sort of student they let in nowadays. Like Julia.

‘Kenton.’

‘And where’s Kenton?’

Julia’s face began to redden. Behind her, she heard someone snigger quietly. ‘Newcastle,’ she muttered.

‘Ah.’ His voice carried with it about as much snobbery and disdain as could possibly be packed into a single syllable.
‘Of course. You’re in Room 11. Top of the stairs, turn right. Next, please. Ah, Mr Fothergill-Greaves. We’ve been expecting
you … Eton, isn’t it? Excellent, sir …’

Julia was summarily dismissed. She picked up her bags and turned, her cheeks flaming. Two young men who were standing in line
behind her looked her up and down as she walked past. Their expressions were as clear as if one or the other had spoken.
Who the hell are they letting in these days?
Determined not to let them get the better of her, she raised her chin and marched past them, biting down fiercely on the
urge to snap at them. The three years she’d spent at university in Nottingham had taught her one thing: when feeling overwhelmed,
say nothing. Nothing at all. She lugged her case up the stairs, turned right as instructed and walked down the corridor to
Room 11. As soon as she opened the door, however, she forgot all about the porter and the snobbish looks the two young men
had given her. She stood in the doorway, half afraid to enter. Her room at Holywell Manor, Balliol’s graduate residence, was
everything she’d ever dared hope for. Small, cosy, charming … exactly as she’d pictured it. There was an apple tree outside
the window, still heavy with fruit. She let her case drop to the floor and moved hesitantly into the centre of the room. She
looked around her, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. She’d done it. She was finally at Oxford. She’d beaten twelve other
hopefuls to win a place on the coveted year-long Bachelor of Civil Law degree. It was the start of the Michaelmas Term. Ahead
of her lay eight weeks of lectures and tutorials and then she would go back up to the small house in Elswick that had been
left to her when her grandmother died, a few years earlier. She opened the window and leaned out, breathing in the scent of
freshly cut grass and autumn flowers. Up and down the narrow lane in front of her cars came and went as students were dropped
off and parents said their fond farewells. The lump in her throat swelled suddenly. She quickly pressed her fingers against
her eyes. She’d promised herself – no tears, and certainly not on her first night. But it was hard
not
to cry. She could just picture her father’s face,
his ruddy cheeks reddening even further with pride. What wouldn’t he have given to see her at Oxford? What wouldn’t
she
have given to see her parents again? She closed the window abruptly and turned away. She looked at her watch. It was almost
six thirty. There was a welcome dinner for all new postgraduate students that evening. Time to unpack her belongings, take
a bath and prepare herself for the evening ahead. After her brief encounter with the snobbish porter, she had a feeling that
finding a place for herself at Balliol was going to be much harder than she’d thought.

It took her less than half an hour to hang up her clothes, put her books on to the bookshelf and change the bed, replacing
the university standard-issue sheets with her own eiderdown and the patchwork quilt that had been hers since her thirteenth
birthday. She smoothed it down and plumped up the pillows – the room was already beginning to feel like her own. She closed
the wardrobe door and turned to the last item on the bed – the photograph of her parents. She stared at it for a moment; it
had been beside her bed for the past seven years, so much a part of the furniture and her surroundings that she sometimes
looked at it without seeing. She ran her finger along the scrolled edge: Mike and Sheila Burrows, Mike’s arm around his wife’s
shoulders, both looking quizzically into the camera. Her nan had taken the photograph one afternoon as they’d come back from
a Sunday walk down by the river. Julia remembered it as if it were yesterday. Mike had bought the camera for Julia’s fourteenth
birthday. She and Annie, her best friend, had joined the afterschool photography club. It was Annie’s idea … there was some
boy she had a crush on who was also in the club; Julia could no longer remember his name. She’d gone along more out of loyalty
than anything else but she’d discovered she actually liked taking photographs, and Mike, always on the lookout for the little
hobbies and interests that would open up the world for Julia in a way that hadn’t happened for him, had bought her the camera.
She looked into her father’s face. Sandy brown hair,
blue eyes … a strong, stern face. There was nothing in it, no sign of the tragedy that had followed. At the time, it was still
two years off. She put the frame down with trembling hands. Now was not the time to think about it. She had to focus on getting
through the evening ahead. Time to take a bath, wash her hair … think about something else instead. She pulled off her shirt
and wriggled out of her jeans, pushing her shoes off impatiently with first one foot, then the other. She grabbed her dressing
gown from where she’d hung it and opened the door. There was no one about. She walked down the corridor to the bathroom, wondering
where everyone was. Holywell Manor was suddenly quiet. She looked at her watch again. It was half past seven. The dinner was
at eight. She had half an hour to change into the dress she’d bought specially for the occasion, do something with her straight,
dark brown hair and possibly even put on some make-up. Not that she had much – she’d never been the sort to paint her face.
A touch of mascara and a dash of lipstick – those were the limits she’d stuck to for most of her adult life. She’d never paid
much attention to her looks. After what had happened to her parents, it seemed silly, trifling … almost blasphemous. She gave
herself a little shake. Stop. Stop now, before it’s too late.

Fifteen minutes later, having forced herself to calm down, she opened the wardrobe door and looked at herself in the inside
mirror. She smoothed down the stiff, unforgiving fabric. It was no use. She looked like a meringue. The pale yellow dress
that had seemed so right in the shop window suddenly looked overdone, too fussy and frilly by half. She pulled her lower lip
into her mouth in dismay. Fuck it, she muttered to herself, pulling a brush through her hair. She had no time to change, and
besides, she’d nothing to change into. It was the yellow meringue or nothing. She thrust her feet into her new white shoes
and grabbed her handbag. She hurried down the stairs and pushed open the front door, wondering where everyone was. It really
was rather odd. Apart from the odd Chinese student
who’d looked at her blankly as she walked down the stairs in her frock and already uncomfortable shoes, she hadn’t seen a
single person in Holywell Manor. As she hurried down Broad Street, she noticed that all of Oxford seemed strangely quiet.
There appeared to be no one around.

She stopped outside the wooden door leading to Balliol College and pushed it open. She stepped into the domed archway and
caught her breath. It was her third visit to the college, but there was something about the golden stone buildings and immaculate
lawns that sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. The beadle looked up from his post as she approached. ‘Can I help you?’
he asked briskly.

‘Er, yes, I’m here for High Dinner,’ Julia said, wondering why he was looking at his watch.

‘High Dinner? Started half an hour ago,’ the beadle said. ‘You’re late.’

‘Half an hour ago?’ Julia felt a cold ripple of embarrassment. ‘I thought it was at eight? It said so on the prospectus …’

The beadle shook his head. ‘Dinners always start at seven thirty. You can slip in the back, I suppose. There’s a door over
by the north side.’

Julia looked across the quadrangle, following his finger. She’d have given anything to turn around and run straight back to
Holywell. But the beadle was looking at her expectantly. She couldn’t chicken out. Not on her first night. There was nothing
for it. She had to go in.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, walking off with as much dignity as she could muster. Her shoes were killing her and her stomach was
churning with nervous embarrassment. She peered through the small window in the doorway. The dinner was indeed in full swing.
The hall was vast and filled to the brim with students, mostly in black evening jackets and long black dresses, stunning in
their simplicity. Not a soul in yellow or a frill in sight. She suddenly longed for the cosy friendliness of Nottingham. Although
she’d always been something of a loner, especially after what had happened, she missed being known, having a friendly
face almost everywhere she turned. She was the only one from the small group of friends she’d made who’d gone on to do a postgraduate
degree. Here she knew no one, and what was worse, no one seemed in a hurry to know her either. On the raised platform at one
end of the hall were the Fellows and Masters, all dressed in long black and purple gowns. Someone was giving a speech. Her
heart sank even further. She pushed down on the handle, hoping to creep in without making a sound, but the door was jammed
shut. She tried it again, harder this time – perhaps it was locked? She pushed a third time, there was a loud crack and the
door suddenly gave way. She stumbled into the hall, all hopes of making a quiet entrance dashed. Several hundred heads turned
her way. Crimson-faced, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it, she only just managed to stay upright
as she hurriedly closed the door behind her and slid on to the end of the nearest bench. The speaker, who’d stopped as soon
as she came crashing into the hall, resumed his speech. She looked down the table and suddenly caught the eye of someone she
dimly recognised. It was the man who’d been standing behind her in the queue at Holywell earlier that afternoon. His expression
then had been one of disdain. Now it was disdain mixed with amused incredulity. He turned his head and murmured something
to his neighbour. They both looked at her and sniggered. She’d obviously got it all wrong. She looked back down at her plate.
She’d lost her appetite, and not just for food.