Lifeguard

You step out of the news and into my garden.  You, Syrian, framed by the hellebores and full-budded rhododendron. I’ve seen your exhausted face a thousand times before, and now here you are, flesh and blood, wearing a faded Bondi hoodie with Lifeguard across the chest and jeans for a larger man than you.

Hi Pete, you found us ok?

Salt of the earth, Pete the churchgoer. He walks around the trailer, head turned towards the view.

Great spot.
We like it.

You are still, saying nothing and giving away less.
 
This is Ahmed. Ahmed, Jill.
Hi Ahmed, nice to meet you.

I hold out my hand, too quickly, then have second thoughts. Are you allowed to touch a woman? God, stupid me, embarrassing. I know nothing about you. You step forward and take my hand.

Hello.
The sofa’s inside, Pete.  Probably take three of us to lift it.
We’ll manage, love.
Cup of tea?

Pete looks towards you and you shrug. Is that reluctance? Please allow me to make you welcome.

Sounds good.
Tea or coffee? I’m making both.
Tea for me.
I prefer coffee.

You surprise me with your perfectly formed sentence, the elegant ‘prefer’.  I bet you like it strong. I add another scoop of grinds to the plunger.

How long have you been in New Zealand?
Four months. Two months in Auckland then here.
Bad luck, just as the cold snap arrived. It’s not always like this.

You smile at my apology.  I’m so ignorant of your country, except for the horror. How did you bear it?

We talk about the weather a lot, don’t we, Pete?
We have plenty of it.
Do you talk about the weather at home, Ahmed?

You gaze out the window, to the Silver Peaks and the Main Divide.  I feel you slip away across the Australian Outback then sail like an albatross above the vast Indian Ocean and up the Persian Gulf to your shattered homeland. You are so quiet I forget to breathe.

No. We talk about family.

Rosemary McBryde