Divinity Road by Martin Pevsner

it continues, our roundabout journey through life. Another change, this time voluntary rather than enforced. One evening last month the usual street sounds, shouts and screams, the squeal of brakes and sound of shattering glass. Only this time the following morning a knock at the door, a policeman politely enquiring whether we had witnessed the stabbing of two youths on the pavement right outside our house the previous night, one young boy dead, the other in intensive care. I saw the yellow police incident notice placed just outside my garden gate, fancied I could still see the dark brown traces of blood on the pavement, and realised I could no longer live there.
    The decision has been made easier by Yanit’s unhappiness at her new school. She has never settled and does not seem to have made any friends. And nor, for that matter, have I. Arriving to collect the two of them each afternoon, I was struck by how sad many of the parents appeared. They seemed hollow-faced and edgy. Perhaps I was just experiencing the alienation of an outsider. Whatever the case, I did not feel that I belonged.
    So back to bag-packing, to notice-giving and house-hunting, to scraping together a deposit from what little remains of my savings. Our new home is another converted terrace, this time right in the heart of Easton.
    Again, the process of nesting, the discovery of amenities, where to buy fruit and vegetables, halal meat. A new library to explore. The closest school is as ethnically diverse as the last one, but somehow the atmosphere seems less aggressive. The local Muslim cultural centre runs an after-school club and I have enrolled both children for that. Outside the house there are still the night-time sounds of a world gone mad, still the police incident notice boards, but somehow here I feel safer.
    I continue my English classes. My fellow students are from all walks of life and every corner of the globe. I arrive late for each session, breathless from the cross-town rush. I sit at my desk, pen in hand, scribbling new vocabulary into my notebook and feeling like a little schoolgirl. My brain is not as flexible as it once was and stubbornly refuses to accept new ideas without a fight. But I persevere and to my surprise I passed my end of term exam. I have the certificate to prove it. You would be proud of me, my dear! Still, no respite. The teacher has registered us for the next exam level, so my nights are spent toiling over my homework. I am ashamed to say that sometimes I go begging to Yanit for help!
    She is much happier here. She plays with Fatima, the daughter of our Pakistani neighbours, and she has the beginnings of a circle of friends at school. Abebe has adapted, too. He takes after his father and gets on with everybody. Both of them are doing well with their schoolwork. They get praised by their teachers for their industry and enthusiasm, for their helpfulness. Can they really be so untouched by our journey? Or is the damage so deeply buried that for the moment it is undetectable, concealed like some slowly mutating tumour? Worries, worries...
    All this change, all this anxiety, it has aged me beyond measure, my dear. I am sure you would have a job to recognise me, what with my wrinkles and greying hair. Yes, that beautiful head of hair that you used to help me plait has begun sprouting grey and I have bought my first ever colouring product, and I am not yet thirty-seven years old!
    No news from the Red Cross.
    Look after yourself. Look after Gadissa.
    With all my love
     
    ***
     
    Dear Kassa
    Will it never end? Goodbye Easton, hello Hartcliffe. From colourful inner-city to windswept estate, it seems we have come full circle. The house is not too bad, a quiet road. They tell me many years ago there was a tobacco factory here, a thriving, busy community. Now there seem to be so many people wandering around during the day, young and old, men and women, that I wonder whether anyone has a job or goes to school.
    For me, the usual