MARY EDWARD

An iScot Short Story

Two young women who have witnessed unspeakable horror, who have seen parents and friends murdered, and whom fate has brought to us, have fallen victim to the slamming door of bureaucracy

MY KNEES begin to shake as I get closer to the house. My home is a large, stone villa with an abundance of rooms, and two of us to occupy them. I walk up the curving drive - reluctance in every step, because of what I have done. Because of what I have to confess to Albert.

As I pass, my cotton skirt almost catches on a projecting thorn - English roses; Albert’s favourite. Wonderful perfumes, but I like the rhododendrons. I like the bold flowers, even although it’s an alien, brought from abroad at some time. Albert constantly threatens to get rid of it. Says it has no place here. I squeeze a leaf; which sticks to my sweating palms.

I stop at the gleaming door: dark green paint and brass fittings. A lovely door. A welcoming door, Albert says - as one as the visitor fits. He has very clearly defined views of suitability, and I am well aware that his prospective guests will never fit. It is why I shake, but I have done it. I have invited two refugees to come and stay in Albert’s house.

He doesn’t know about my work at the Centre. Albert thinks I work in a charity shop. He doesn’t go much for charity either - it should begin at home. There isn’t a single cliché missing from Albert’s vocabulary. At the Centre I meet people who have lost everything to savage dictatorships or bloody wars. Lost everything but their humanity and their determination to survive. As I did, once, although it was a pale shadow of their suffering.