holds her for a long time. I hear her exhale, as if Mustafa’s presence has lifted a heaviness in her heart.
It’s a warm day so we go out into the courtyard.
‘I can see the green of the tree,’ Afra says, her eyes smiling. ‘And over there –’ she points to the heather plant by the fence – ‘I can see a soft pink. There are times when things are clearer.’
Mustafa is happy for her. He is reacting in all the ways that I couldn’t. The Moroccan man brings out the tea and Mustafa tells us about his beehives.
‘Afra,’ he says, ‘you will like it there. Dahab and Aya are waiting for you, and there are so many flowers, lavender and heather fields, and the bees also collect nectar from private gardens and allotments and along the train tracks. You will be able to see the colours – I will take you myself; we will walk when it is warm and I will take you to the places where the bees go. And we have found a shop that sells halva and baklava!’ He speaks with the enthusiasm of a child again, but I can detect an undertone of desperation – I know him, and what he is really saying is this: This is how the story must end; our hearts can bear no more loss.
Then he lights a cigarette, biting and sucking the end of it while he tells us about the workshop groups and his students and about the beekeepers’ association.
‘When you come, Nuri will help me with the groups, and we will split the colonies and build new hives.’ He glances over at me as he talks, as he creates pictures with his hands and his words. He wants to give me something to hope for, I can tell. Mustafa has always given me something to hope for.
I am standing a little away from them by the glass doors, watching them, and I think about the little boy who never existed and how he had filled the black void that Sami had left. Sometimes we create such powerful illusions, so that we do not get lost in the darkness.
‘One day,’ I hear Mustafa say. ‘One day we will go back to Aleppo and rebuild the apiaries and bring the bees back to life.’
But it is Afra’s face that brings me to life, standing here in this tiny garden like she stood in Mustafa’s courtyard in Aleppo, her eyes so full of sadness and hope, so full of darkness and light.
She is looking up at something. Among the blossoms of the cherry tree, three hoopoe birds perch on a branch, checking out their surroundings, with their majestic crown of feathers and curved beaks and stripy wings. Here they are, migrants from the east, in this small town by the sea.
‘Do you see them?’ I hear her say. ‘They have come to find us!’
We are all looking up now, and, all at once, they open their black and white wings and set off together into the unbroken sky.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all the people who told me their stories; the refugees who opened my eyes. Thanks to the beautiful children at Faros who showed me what real courage means. I will never forget you. To Faros Hope Centre in Athens, for the wonderful work you do, and for welcoming me and accepting my help. Thank you Elias, for sharing the story of your difficult journey with me that day in Brighton. Thank you Professor Ryad Alsous, for being such an inspiration; to you and your family, for the lovely meal we had, and for introducing me to the bees and The Buzz Project. Thank you to my Arabic tutor, Ibrahim Othman, you went above and beyond, listening to me read, and offering invaluable advice.
Thank you to all my family, friends and colleagues who supported and encouraged me to continue to write. To Dad and Yiota, Kyri and Mario, for your unending support. To Marie, Rodney and Theo, Athina and Kyriacos, for everything – there are no words. To Antony and Maria Nicola, for your suggestions. To my great friend, Claire Bord, for your insight, advice and constant support. To Mariana Larios for being there through it all. Thanks to Louis Evangelou, for listening to me and for all your creative ideas, and to my uncle Chris for your patience and help. Thank you to Dr Rose Atfield and Celia Brayfield for being brilliant mentors to this day. To Bernadine Evaristo, Matt Thorne, and Daljit Nagra, for your support. Thank you Richard English, for the great conversations about writing and life and all that stuff. Thank you to my family who helped me in Athens – Anthoula, Thanassis, Katerina and Konstantinos Cavda, Maria and Alexis Pappa, for your warmth and generous hospitality. Thank you Matthew Hurt for the advice you gave me on the flight to Athens. A big thank you to Salma Kasmani for reading and re-reading the manuscript, for your excellent suggestions, and for the insight you gave me. Thank you, Stewart, for being there through the twists and turns, the ups and downs.
Thank you to my publishers at Bonnier Zaffre, especially to Kate Parkin, for all your unwavering passion, your enthusiasm, for everything. To Margaret Stead, Felice McKeown, Francesca Russell and Perminder Mann. Thank you Arzu Tahsin for your sharp editor’s eye and editorial suggestions.
And, finally, thank you to my agent, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, for believing in me, for never letting me give up, for your love and support and for this journey we have been on. Thank you Vicki Satlow, for all your help and for bringing light and honey and flowers to the darkness. Thank you Alison Walsh, for your advice on the manuscript.
All the experiences I had along the way, the people I met, the things I saw and heard, have changed the way I see the world, forever.
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