The Memoirs of Faisal Massri (exerpt)

It was getting dark; the last rays of sunlight were cast across the sky in brilliant splashes of colour. The water lapped at the worn wooden side-panels of the boat. With a gust of wind the cold night air spiralled in, chilling me to the bone. I scurried inside and briskly pulled on a warm jacket. Then a voice called out, “Faisal come here!” It was my father’s, but there was something else- something new, a hint of expectation. I ran out on deck. The wind had increased dramatically since before. I went and stood next to him, and I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Then I saw it, over miles of silent water there was light, but this was not the light of the setting sun but a more artificial light. It was England! At last the journey would soon be over. I couldn’t sleep that night in the anticipation of what was to come: London, the capital of England.

A few days later we were finally in London. After all of the books that I had read and all the pictures I had seen, describing London as ‘the centre of the British Empire’ and ‘beautiful and magnificent’ I have to say that I was a little disappointed. The factories gushed out smoke, which mixed with the autumn mists to produce a thick, dense fog; the dirty cobbled streets filled with poor children in rags, begging for food. Then I saw this strange creature. It stood on four legs, had a tail, a furry coat, a strange-shaped head and had a stride that produced a “CHAK CHAK” noise on the cobbles, and father told me it was a ‘horse’. What a funny name, a horse. My father took possession of the shop as arranged; he was a merchant trading in spices and oriental goods. I was to take a year off my school in Cairo to visit London so that I could master the English language and experience another country. Soon after settling in we went off to try and find a job for me.

Eighteen shops and two factories later we finally found a small bookbinders shop on the outskirts. I started work right away, gluing the cover to the pages. It was boring, simple work so, naturally, conversations started with the other workers. I made friends with a boy called Peter who is also fourteen. In my faltering English I told him about the huge contrast between London and Cairo (where I was born and had lived until now), and about the long journey across the sea to get here. I told him about the sun and how it was always hot there. I told him about the white houses built to stay cool. He in turn told me about his life, and how he had lived in London all his life with his five sisters and mother.

When work was over that first day we strolled out chatting to one another, then I got the surprise of my life: a thick grey fog had rolled in and it was impossible to see. Peter told me that it had been that way ever since he could remember.
Peter led me down to the river and said “goodbye”. I then struggled on, trying to find the boat. After what seemed like an eternity I finally found it. Bobbing up and down innocently on the grey water.

The next day I met up with Peter and we walked together over the damp cobbles, slippery with the previous night’s rainfall. As we were walking up the street I began to notice details that I hadn’t see the previous day. There were rats scurrying around gathering food, and there was a horrible smell. When we arrived at work there was a note on the doorstep, it read:

“Dear all employees, I apologise but my wife has become ill. Consequently I cannot open up the shop. Sorry. David.” We decided to make the most of the opportunity- Peter would show me around London for the day.

Peter took me down the dark and eerie back alleys winding around many areas of the capital that visitors normally don’t see. The walls were thick with black soot and the cobbles were cracked and moss covered. Peter took me to small landmarks over the course of the day. Eventually the long maze of passageways ended and they opened into a huge square. He pointed upwards. Towering above us was a huge clock tower. I gasped. Peter told me that it was called ‘Big Ben’; its glowing face was strange yet somewhat mystical, and as it struck four it told us that it was time to go home. As we walked back Peter pointed out some of the drunken fights, which were a common occurrence then.

Over the following months Peter and I spent more and more time together, he showed me the great delights and pitiful miseries of this contrary city. Our friendship strengthened and he was able to visit our simple boat and experience my father’s exotic Egyptian cooking. I came to learn that Peter’s father had died of tuberculosis a few years before and that his mother had been left with six children to raise. This explained why, despite being a bright boy who might otherwise have been in school, Peter had to work.

I am an old man now with children and grandchildren of my own. I have read the famous novels by the great Mr. Dickens, and it is strange to think that at the time he was writing some of those great works, I was in the very same place living my own life, experiencing London just as he portrayed in his remarkable books.

I remember leaving the magnificent city as if it was yesterday, fifteen year-old Peter was standing on the bank of the dirty river, the water lapping at his feet, waving and saying goodbye for what, at the time, we thought would be forever, whilst disappearing into the cold October fog.