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Arturi’s skin is sort of grey,
grubby looking, know what I mean?
Miss Hampton says his country is at war
so he didn’t get very good food before.
He’s very quiet, doesn’t talk much
about the things he saw
in his war.
I’ve never seen him laugh.
He hardly even smiles
but he often cries.
Our teacher tries to comfort him
with soothing words,
a warm hand on his shoulder,
a troubled look in her eyes.
Arturi’s mother brought him here
to her sister’s home.
His father is still there.
Arturi and his mum .are not sure where.
Funny, I never took much notice
of the TV news until now.
Unreal, somehow.
These days in every scene
of buildings ripped apart
by banging shells,
seeing women duck and run,
a soldier at a corner
aiming a gun,
I think maybe Arturi’s father is one
of the people caught up in that.
In the playground the other day
Tim and I were talking about the shops
on the way to school;
the green off-licence,
sweets in the post office
and how the smell
of fish and chips makes us drool.
Arturi was listening, hanging his head
the corners of his mouth turned down.
‘My school was up in the mountains,’
he suddenly said.
That caught our attention right away.
We waited to hear what else
he might have to say.
‘I had to get up
and eat breakfast in the night
because we had to be
at school in daytime,
there was no electric light.
My friend Tomas and I
we didn’t like walking
up the mountain track in the dark
for two hours every day.
Spiders’ webs hung on wet bushes.
The gloomy trees were spooky and grey.
Our voices echoed,
they startled us, sounding so loud.
We were frightened there might be
soldiers somewhere near
who would take us away.
The worst place on the way
was the rushing stream,
it was so fast and wide
with slippery wet stones
to balance and jump along
to reach the other side.
When our feet got wet
they were freezing cold all day.
Our school was just one big room
with a leaking roof,
no glass in the windows, no door,
a floor of muddy clay.
In the middle the old iron stove
stood, burning hot,
giving off fumes and smoke.
If you sat near enough
you warmed up a bit
but the fumes made you cough and choke.
Outside we’d piled rocks
halfway up the gaping window holes
to keep out the wind and cold.
We had a few wooden desks
with benches, all scored
with scratches, really old.’
Tim and I stand silent,
shuffle our feet.
‘You must be glad to be here now,’
blurts Tim. I see he feels like me
as our eyes meet.
‘Yes, but my best friend Tomas
is still doing that every day
up the mountain all alone,’ Arturi groans.
We can see from the way
he swallows and rubs an eye
he’s trying not to cry.
‘What about… well,
why don’t you write him a letter
asking, “Are you OK?”
Here Arturi. Have a sweet,’ I awkwardly say.
And Tim and I resolve
Arturi deserves new friends
remembering Tomas
alone on the mountain
every day
that way.
Penny Kent
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