This Is Where I Am by Karen Campbell Read Free Book Online

and Cadell don’t impress him, then nothing will . . . I tail off. Wait for him to follow, but he’s gazing skywards. Grinning.
    ‘Glorious.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    He frowns. ‘Is that the word? Glorious?’
    Following his gaze. Seeing those ugly faces above us. ‘Glorious means, um, wonderful, I suppose. Happy and overpowering and . . . grand? You know, big, important – like the sunshine.’
    I’m making sunburst gestures, painting circles with my hands. ‘Do you know that word: grand?’
    Abdi laughs. ‘Yes, exactly. Glorious. Those faces. They are so full of . . . joy!’
    I look again. Everywhere; at the light brightness of the chequered tiles, the new old shimmers. At the wrinkly grey hide and the giant heids.
    ‘Well. They’re certainly . . . big.’
    I lead him up the staircase, pretending I’m in a crinoline. There’s something Gone with the Wind -ish about these sweeping stairs. We get to the top, I turn left. Conscious he’s behind me, that I’m leading. The leaflets the Refugee Council gave me said that visiting places or learning stuff will make it easier to chat. I don’t think Abdi got the same leaflet. He is content to walk in silence, as if we’re in a library. But yes, the Colourists are gorgeous, the Impressionists divine. And I think he likes the Mackintosh stuff – I know I do. One of those wee pewter pitchers would look lovely on my dining table. Just one – I finger the glass case – I mean, would they miss it?
    Now we’re in the Caledonian gallery. Lots of majestic braes and glens, a fair spattering of mighty stags, and everything worked in muddy ochre. All that’s missing is the haggis grazing on the hills. Haggi? Abdi’s scrutinising one of the good ones. Guthrie’s famous funeral scene: men in sombre black pressing down on their grief; the setting winter light a smear on the horizon. Tucked in a corner, two stiff chairs stand outside the cottage round which the assembled men are gathered – and it is all men. There’s no room for women at this Highland funeral. One stiff drape of black velvet hides the small coffin that rests between the chairs. But it’s the clench of the father; I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that before, how he holds himself so solid. How you do that at a funeral, when you’re the chief mourner and everyone’s pretending not to look, but they are, they’re attuned to every twitch and shift you make. The tiniest emission of breath is measured for tears. She’s so brave. She’s very . . . controlled when all the time you’re thinking, thinking I will never see this person again. I will never touch their face. They are in there, in that box in front of me and I will never hear them speak or hold them close or smell their hair. You’re almost calm with the knowledge. Well, I was. Your body has been bled and you function as part-ghost. And yet, at the same time, you’re giving thanks, your crumpled heart is so full of love that it pales your grief, makes it insignificant. You are saturated with love and you are deeply, deeply lost.
    I blink. See Abdi raise his hand before the painting. His arm drifts closer, I think his open palm is going to skim the surface, but it doesn’t.
    ‘Hoi!’ shouts a man’s voice. ‘You canny touch the pictures.’ The curator scurries over, blazer flapping with importance. ‘Ho! You! Step away fae the wall.’
    Gallery-gazers turn to stare. Abdi freezes.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘This gentleman’s with me. He didn’t –’
    ‘Will you tell him no to touch?’ repeats the man.
    ‘I did not touch your painting.’ Abdi will not make eye contact with the curator. It makes him look like he’s lying, but I know he’s not. I was right beside him; it was more like he was stroking the air in front of it.
    ‘Any mair of your nonsense and I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ The curator waggles his walkie-talkie at Abdi. He turns to me. ‘Keep him under control, eh?’
    ‘He’s not a dog.’ I jouk my face close