Sharif Gemie

Leading the Way

I was at my desk, checking some confusing data from the thermometer near the top of the hill. Was it working properly? Or had it fallen to the ground? My phone buzzed and I turned it off, but then I heard Edmund’s phone in our bedroom. I had time to think, oh no, that’ll wake him, before he staggered out.

‘Did you see?’ he asked. ‘She’s coming now.’

I couldn’t believe it, so I checked my phone. And there it was: a visit from Monifa at 2pm. We expected the UN Base to send a representative to discuss our migration options, but who’d choose this time? In June? But sure enough, Monifa arrived ten minutes later. When I opened the outer door, it was like a vision: a tall figure with a UN-issue parasol over her head, standing still in the ripples of the summer heat haze. Young, serious, with long, blue braids that fell half-way down her back. Edmund was still groggy from sleeping, so I invited Monifa through the inner door, out of the sun.

She checked her Pad, looking at each of us in turn. ‘Kate Jenkins? Edmund Jenkins?’

We nodded and then I couldn’t stop myself.

‘Why have you come at this time?’

Monifa pointed back to the road: a gleaming red Kool-Kar.

‘It’s basically a fridge on wheels. I could drive to Cardiff, even now.’

Her voice was clear, bright and melodious.

Edmund and I exchanged a look. The air-con on our aging Verto has been playing up again. Ieuan checked it last week, patched it as best he could, but I wasn’t looking forward to shopping on Friday evening.

‘I’ve got some med’s for you,’ said Monifa, looking at Edmund and lifting up a box. ‘And I thought you might like some fruit and veg. It’s frozen.’

Fruit and veg? Was she trying to bribe us? I wasn’t going to say no.

Edmund finally woke up. ‘But don’t just stand there, come in, come in.’

He led her into the sitting-room, which was still in the shade. He was only limping a bit, while she paced steadily down the hall. As I put the food in the freezer, I could hear her voice.

‘Nice place. I can see why you want to stay.’

Don’t start, don’t start, yet. I need to hear this.

Edmund talked about his carpentry, telling her he’d made the chair she was sitting on. Monifa must’ve done the right course on managing difficult clients: she complimented him on his skills, even sounded sincere.

I rushed back from the freezer. Monifa sat on Edmund’s funny little chair, while he sprawled on the old sofa.

‘Edmund,’ I chided. ‘Haven’t you offered our guest a drink?’

He looked surprised and began to say, ‘It’s just that…’

I understood: when did we last have an unexpected visitor? When did we last have a visitor?

‘Tea or coffee, Monifa?’

‘A cup of tea would be great, thanks. Milk, no sugar.’

Oh no, that’ll be the last of our milk. I went back to the kitchen and realised—again!—they might start the discussion without me, so I rushed round, trying to listen with one ear.

‘And next door?’ asked Monifa.

‘They left, they left years ago. Solicitors, young couple.’

‘Nothing keeping them, I suppose.’

Edmund said nothing, but I could imagine the look on his face: surly, defiant, a bit disconcerted.

‘And the next house along?’ Monifa continued.

‘Builders. They tried to adapt their house, but it was too exposed.’

‘While you—’

‘Yeah, we’re lucky. In the shadow of the hill, most of the day.’

I got back to the sitting-room, with a tray, a teapot, three cups, a small jug of milk and even a plate of home-made biscuits. I glanced round. This room still looks nice, we decorated it well, all those years ago and we’ve maintained it, haven’t let it go. Strong, calm colours, highlighted by our decision to paint the ceiling turquoise, part of our war on white and magnolia. Over the mantelpiece, the picture of me with Trudy and James, before they left. Over the sofa, Edmund’s photo, the nice one, of our old bookshop at sunset, just before it closed. I smiled.

I poured the tea, then sat next to Edmund on the sofa.

‘So…’ said Monifa.

‘So…’ said Edmund.

This is it, we’re onto the serious stuff.

‘The last years haven’t been so bad in Abergavenny,’ said Monifa. Her voice had changed: no longer friendly guest; now, visiting UN aid-worker.

Edmund nodded, but I couldn’t restrain myself.

‘Not bad! The river’s reduced to a trickle, we daren’t open a door or a window after 8am, and there’s only one supermarket left—’

‘But we’re managing.’ Edmund sounded firm and clear.

‘How long have you’ve been here?’ she asked.

‘Decades.’ Edmund turned to me, frowning.

I shrugged. I knew exactly how long, but didn’t want to sound like a know-all.

‘The house of your dreams?’ she asked.

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But we’ve worked on it, you know.’

Edmund nodded. ‘And now the neighbours have gone—we can spread out.’

‘No problems with your med’s?’ asked Monifa.

‘There’s still a GP, a health centre and a couple of pharmacies,’ he said.

Monifa sat back in her chair, looked at Edmund, then at me.

‘The forecast for Abergavenny doesn’t look great,’ she said. ‘The good years are over.’ She turned to me. ‘You know this, Kate, you’ve been gathering climate data, haven’t you?’

I could sense Edmund, next to me, growing stiffer, turning away. I nodded, not wanting to say anything that might provoke him.

He coughed. ‘For five years, I’ve been living with the same diagnosis: my cancer will return, it’s just a matter of time. I figure I might as well stay as—’

‘A medical emergency here could be very difficult for you.’ Monifa searched for the right word. ‘Very painful. There are better facilities in Greenland.’

‘This is my home.’ Edmund’s voice was clear, level, even unemotional.

‘The supply of specialist drugs and treatments will get more difficult.’

‘No problems yet.’

‘Do you really want to wait until there are problems?’

No, Monifa, no, that wasn’t the right thing to say. Edmund glared at her. He can be very stubborn these days. I tried to think of something that might push her towards talking the right way to persuade Edmund. Nothing came. We sat for a moment, listening to the air-con wheezing.

‘We mustn’t take up more of your time,’ said Edmund.

‘We need to get this right. I’m here to make sure you know all the vital information.’

‘I want you to go now.’

Monifa looked up, opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. Instead she tapped on her Pad, found a standard UN form.

‘Would sign this, please?’ she asked. ‘Just to confirm that I’ve updated you about your options.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Edmund spoke quietly, but I could tell he was furious.

‘Do you mind telling me why not?’

‘You haven’t told me anything that I didn’t already know.’

I saw the flicker of anger cross her face. An unsigned form meant that, for administrative purposes, Monifa’s visit hadn’t happened. It had been a waste of her time. She glanced at me, but I shook my head. There was no point in making Edmund angrier.

There was an odd moment as she left. Edmund led the way out, Monifa followed, with me last. But as she left our sitting-room, Monifa turned round, handed me a little card.

‘There’s an online forum for local women.’ She spoke softly and quickly. ‘We’ll have a chat tomorrow. Why don’t you log on?’ Then, more softly, more quickly: ‘It would be good to talk.’

I took her card, followed them into the hall without thinking about it, waved goodbye as Monifa disappeared into the heat-haze. Then I realised: my God, she thinks Edmund’s coercing me!

We went back to the sitting-room. I had to say something about the way Edmund had treated Monifa, but what? I didn’t want another argument.

‘Edmund--’

He looked up, gave me an odd grin.

‘Have you heard the latest joke?’ he asked.

I grinned back, happy to hear him making jokes. It’s a good sign, isn’t it? He’s got past that dreadful depression of last month, he doesn’t wallow in bitterness any more. It’s the amateur dramatics, that’s what it is, the play’s the thing. But if only he’d make better jokes.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘God’s been having problems.’

‘Yes?’

‘He keeps thinking he’s a UN aid-worker.’

Despite myself, I laughed a little. Edmund smiled, proud as ever. It must be true, he’s feeling stronger.

‘Oh, Edmund, can’t you do better than that?’

He grinned again, shook his head. ‘It’s the best I’ve got, Kate.’

‘But—Monifa, she was quite something, wasn’t she?’ I said.

‘Those braids! That car!’

‘Knew her stuff.’

I looked right at him and he nodded sadly.

Monifa doesn’t understand. How could she? Old Lagos doesn’t exist anymore. Thirty million people, all moved out in ten years, when the heat grew unbearable. There’s one New Lagos in Canada, another in Siberia. She’s part of that great wave. Nigeria’s practically empty now: a couple of giant solar farms and a wave-power scheme, all automated, that’s what’s left.

What must Edmund and I look like to her? Two dinosaurs, who won’t admit that the Jurassic Age is over. She must think we’re privileged. Or stupid. Or both.

Lord knows this isn’t the retirement we’d imagined. We used to think we’d have hobbies. I wanted to go back to the painting I’d done in college, while Edmund thought about carpentry. Neither of us got what we wanted. I grew bored with sketching dried-out rivers and ash-brown fields. Edmund missed the buzz of classes and chatting and socializing. I still sketch a bit, but my days are occupied with checking weather readings, posting them to the Base, taking care of the house, looking after Edmund on his bad days. Last year he was too ill to do much. This year—well, he could help round the house more. We’ve been together for so long, we’re going to stick together, we’ve got to. It’s not exciting, but I’m not complaining. Although—I want something better. I don’t want to end here.

It's the am-dram that keeps him going. It’s one of those things—you can put into it as much as you want and Edmund puts a lot into it. Researches the plays and the characters. Looks up every detail, thinks about the characters. When it started, all those years ago, the local society met in an actual studio, there were face-to-face rehearsals and finally the play was presented in the Theatre. But then—people complained that the studio was too hot (it wasn’t well-insulated), the journeys to the rehearsals were too difficult and as for staging the play in the Theatre… Like everything that remained, it went virtual, bit by bit. Zoom rehearsals. They held onto the idea of staging the play in the Theatre to the bitter end, until someone pointed out that for Faustus, there were more people on the stage than in the audience.

Matt the Geek was a dab hand with Zoom. He showed them how you could produce a Zoom group meeting with a CGI background, 3D figures in costumes and even add sound effects. It took a bit of band width, but it was less fuss than hiring the Theatre. Quite honestly, the figures look a bit plastic and puppet-like, but it’s not bad as a stop-gap.

Only—it’s not a stop-gap, is it? This is permanent, this is the way we live.

I logged on to Monifa’s women’s meeting. I didn’t tell Edmund what I was doing, not exactly. Just told him there was a Zoom conference and closed the door. He didn’t ask any questions.

Eight women logged in. Then three more. Monifa looked radiant. But the others! Oh Lord, it was like looking in a mirror. Old, tired, creased faces; strong, intelligent women worn out by years of heat and disappointment. Some stubborn old mules, like Edmund, saying that they were born here and they’d die here. And others—like me, stuck with their husbands or whatever.

Monifa was great. Listened to everyone, gave advice on everything from counselling centres to air-con repairs, stopped anyone dominating the discussions and quietly reminded us of the advantages of Greenland. It’s UN policy, migration’s not compulsory, but it is very strongly recommended. Assistance provided all the way. Monifa sounded persuasive, really persuasive. If only she’d been like that with Edmund.

I recognised one of the other women, from years ago. Remembered her speaking at a Labour Party meeting, back in the 2030s, demanding better flood defences to ensure the long-term future of the town. Those were the days! If only we’d known. Even then it was too late, the damage had been done, decades ago.

It could’ve been stopped. In the 1990s, it wasn’t too late. Even the 2000s. In the 2020s, we could’ve prevented the worst. But…

Yesterday was the big production. Edmund got his chance: playing King Lear. There were 65 watching, partners and children mainly, with 8 from Greenland. Only three logged out during the play.

I hunched over my screen and smiled to see my husband playing a mad medieval king. He was great! All that anger and despair, utterly convincing, yet still sounding like a real person. I felt so proud of him. The camera moves were a bit clunky, as always. And Cordelia was disappointing: the poor woman was so obviously in her 50s and there was nothing the CGI could do to hide it.

But there’s that bit where Edmund—or Lear—shouts at the storms. Oh Lord, that hit me, and I wept real tears, by myself, in my study. Isn’t that what we’re doing? Shouting at the storms?

Monifa’s enthusiasm made me look again at Greenland, on the Web. It’s changed! No longer hardy pioneers, but established townsfolk. No, city-dwellers. Or citizens? Five settlements of over fifteen million people, plus dozens of big towns. Planned cities, all growing, each competing to be the greenest, the most harmonious. They’ve got commercial zones, manufacturing zones, agricultural zones, leisure zones, recycling points, canals and rivers integrated into the centres, regulations about how high you can build. A bit exhausting, really. Last time we looked, Edmund got put off by the sheer do-gooding worthiness of it all.

‘There’s a limit to the number of multi-ethnic, gender-neutral ecumenical spiritual centres I can take,’ he’d groaned.

But that wasn’t his main complaint. It was the flats themselves. We’d qualify for a basic two-room apartment, with a tiny kitchenette and ensuite. If we were lucky, with a view. No gardens, although there were communal roof gardens and farms and shared balconies bursting with flowers and veg.

‘A little box!’ he’d said.

And that was that. I could see what he meant. We’d both worked into our 60s, saving along the way. We put everything, body and soul, into doing up this house the way we wanted it and we’d been saved by the lucky accident of being in the shadow of the hill. Now the neighbours had moved, we’d spread out, adding extensions to the conservatory and a workshop for Edmund’s carpentry. Moving into a Greenland box would mean giving up so much.

What happened to the rich in Greenland? I couldn’t see a millionaire opting for one of those little boxes. I looked and looked, but I found no sign of them. No luxury mansions, no gated estates. I rather liked that egalitarian ethic. Thinking about it, I remembered a report about techies and tycoons buying vast tracts of New Zealand. Good luck to them.

I pottered on in Greenland, looking at the discussion forums and public meetings: Green Spirituality; DIY Power Generation; Internationalism or Cosmopolitanism; Sufism and Socialism… The list didn’t stop. Online meetings, face-to-face discussions, guided walks, seminars, illustrated lectures, after-film debates. It was the mixture of people, it had led to something. There were migrants from Lebanon, Wales, Ghana, Ireland—from all over, really. And they wanted to talk and meet. Book groups, cycling clubs, skateboarding parks, parent and toddler groups, pubs organising a trans-cultural Eisteddfod, a synagogue with yoga classes, three chapels teaching how to cook authentic curry, trans-gender approaches to the Abrahamic religions, a lute-making workshop, restaurants with football teams and piano classes, and—oh—a drama club auditioning for As You Like It.

At that moment, Edmund walked in. He saw my screen straight away.

‘As You Like It?’ he said and looked closer. ‘But—Greenland. Box City.’

‘There’s a lot going on, there really is.’

‘Hmmm…’ He leant over, scrolled down, taking in the details of the production. ‘They’re having fun with the gender-bending, aren’t they? And love—’

‘Edmund, couldn’t we talk about it?’

‘No.’ He glared at me.

‘Yes, we’ve got to, Edmund, we really have.’

We stared at each other.

‘Not now.’ He turned away. ‘I was writing to the group, about the next play. I wanted to check if—’

‘Then when?’

‘This evening. When we go out.’

‘You mean it?’

He walked away without replying.

It was a summertime habit of ours. Around sunset, if I wasn’t going shopping and Edmund felt strong enough, we’d stroll down the hill, see if there was any water in the river, maybe push out to the old canal, where there was still a line of trees bending gracefully over a muddy little channel.

I heard Edmund getting ready downstairs and quickly checked online. Oh dear.

‘Edmund?’ I called as I walked down.

‘Hmmm?’ He was putting his shoes on.

‘I’ve checked the forecast and—’

He looked up.

I shook my head. ‘Thunderstorms predicted.’

‘What? Another 50 per cent probability? Hell, we can ignore that, it means a few drops on the way, if that.’

‘No. It’s 80 per cent probable and they say it’s a bad one.’

Edmund’s face fell.

‘C’mon Edmund, we can sit out the back for a bit, now the sun’s gone in. Get some fresh air that way.’

He wanted to argue, but I opened the French windows, pulled up two chairs, poured two glasses of wine and he followed me.

For a moment or two, it all looked like it used to. The dark-pink sunset, the deep purple of the mountains, some birds flying past and that mysterious, wonderful sense of calm you get at the end of a day. Edmund joined me and we raised our glasses to each other.

How could I raise the topic of Greenland? Then I spotted dark clouds moving in, real whoppers, heavy and serious. They often come at sunset. We looked at each other and jumped into action. Edmund checked that the windows and doors were locked in his workshop and the conservatory, I pulled the chairs in, ran upstairs and checked the windows, then came down and locked the French windows.

We sat at the kitchen table and the fireworks started. Blinding flashes of lightning split the sky, great rumbles of thunder shook the house.

‘So long as the power stays on,’ muttered Edmund.

‘Worthy of Lear?’

‘Hah!’ He adopted his Lear voice. ‘“Sulph’rous and thought-executing fires… oak-cleaving thunderbolts”.’

The rain crashed in. Great ramrods pelted down for ten minutes, hitting the patio. Heavy enough to cause a flash flood down by the bridge, but not enough to turn the dry fields green.

Then we argued.

‘Admit it, Edmund, that place in Greenland has more life in one evening than we’d see here in a year.’

‘We’ve put so much into this house. It’s home.’

‘It was home, it’s not anymore.’

‘It’s home to me!’

‘We’re locked in all day. The only sound we ever hear is the air-con.’

‘Kate: I don’t have long left. My cancer will return, it’s just a matter of time.’

‘This isn’t fair, Edmund, it’s not fair on me.’

‘You go!’

That made me cry. It’s not the first time he’s said it.

We slept in separate rooms. We often do in summer: it’s hard to sleep with the heat lying so heavy over the house and the air-con wheezing. Edmund’s usually uncomfortable and needs to get up. Musical beds, we call it.

I couldn’t get to sleep. I kept seeing us in one of those two-room flats. Would it be so bad? There’d be more to do, more people to meet, better medical care for Edmund—and for me when I needed it. Eventually, I slept for a couple of hours and woke a bit after 4. It’d be dawn soon and I had to check the weather instruments, to make sure they were intact after that storm. I slipped out quietly, without even a cup of coffee, trying not to wake Edmund.

The air felt fresh. I walked up the hill, past the deserted houses. The roof has collapsed on the house at the corner and luxurious weeds have invaded its sitting-room. Early twenty-first century construction! It wasn’t meant to last, was it? None of it was. While—those housing-blocks in Greenland, thick and solid. They look like they’ll survive for decades, even longer, never mind the heat or the storms. Maybe someone learnt that lesson, at least.

The weather instruments have to be placed just right: not so sheltered that they can’t measure the sun, wind or rain properly, not so exposed that they get smashed by every thunderstorm or gale. They need constant attention. One of the thermometers had cracked: I had a spare. A barometer had lost its aerial. I put in my bag, I could repair it at home. The rest seemed fine. I’d check for anomalies in their data, just to be sure.

I turned round, faced the town, just as the sun came out. Little brown, grey and white rows of buildings—whiter than they used to be, as people painted their roofs white in a desperate attempt to hold back the heat. The grey mass of the old castle. Yellow-brown trees, no longer green. The air was clear, but it wouldn’t be long before the heat haze started. I thought of Matt the Geek’s CGI-background for King Lear. Splotchy, flat uneven scenery, scenery you couldn’t believe in. Nothing will come of nothing—that’s the line, isn’t it?

This place has seen so much. Gafenni, originally a row of blacksmiths working along the river. Then a Roman fort, border wars and finally a pretty market town. It’s changed, it’s always changed, it doesn’t stay the same. It’s got to change again.

This isn’t a town, not anymore. It’s a waiting-room.

When I got back, I found Edmund eating some of Monifa’s fruit that I’d let defrost. Peach juice ran down his chin.

‘Okay?’ he asked.

I couldn’t stop myself.

‘Don’t you want to die with some dignity? This town doesn’t exist anymore! A handful of crinkly old nutters, a GP and a supermarket isn’t a town. It’s stifling me, Edmund, it's absolutely stifling me.’

He looked up, peach juice sticky on his chin and he looked so sad that I regretted my words.

‘I’m sorry, Edmund, I didn’t—’

‘No.’ He held up his hand, sighed.

‘At least look—look at the group, in Greenland, the one that’s doing As You…’

He nodded.

We may be old, but we can move fast when we want to. Two weeks later, we were sitting in the departure lounge at Cardiff Airship Centre, waiting for the flight announcement. Monifa came to see us off, blue braids jangling. She is so nice!

‘There have been reports of severe storms south of Iceland,’ she told us. ‘You may have quite a wait. Will you be—’

‘Monifa,’ I interrupted. ‘We’re not feeble.’

She laughed. ‘And in two weeks, your luggage—’

‘One crate!’ said Edmund.

‘It’s all you’re allowed.’

‘All we need,’ I said.

I gave Edmund’s arm a squeeze. I didn’t want our last meeting with Monifa to end in a shouting-match.

‘I’m sure you’re doing the right thing,’ she said and flashed us one of her big grins.

I wasn’t sure, not sure at all. Edmund’s not strong and it was an 18-hour flight. Why had I argued for this so strongly?

We said goodbye, then I hugged her and Edmund shook her hand, even smiled at her.

Edmund shifted in his chair.

‘Remember the old days?’ he said.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Four hours to the Canary Isles.’

‘Our honeymoon in Barcelona—that flight barely took an hour.’

‘It’s all airships now.’ He sighed. ‘Until they sort out hydrogen power…’

‘They’re quieter.’

I looked round the Airship Centre. They’ve made an effort with it: not stuffed to the gills with expensive shops selling expensive perfumes and chocolates, but providing a bit of space and air, a bit of calm. High walls, painted white and green. Windows at the top that closed automatically as the sun came round. Gentle air-con. Not exactly cool—nowhere is nowadays—but at least you can breathe. Quiet, soothing music. Everyone has to wait in these places as they compute the latest data on storms and gales. There are play-rooms for children, easy chairs to nap on, places to meditate. An announcement flashed up: a five-a-side football match was starting and they needed a goalie. Then another announcement: there was a poetry reading next door.

I got out my Pad, clicked onto Greenland, found the details of the As You Like It auditions. I didn’t say anything. Edward glanced at it, looked back at the announcement screen, but then moved closer to me and read through the casting instructions for the audition.

‘In Wales, I was a king,’ he sighed. ‘In Greenland, I’ll be a second attendant, if that.’

I hugged his arm. ‘You’ll be a great second attendant, I’m sure. They’ll write about you in the reviews.’

He laughed.

‘And—you’ll be performing in front of a real, live audience,’ I reminded him.

‘There is that.’ He looked round the room a bit, then put his actor-voice on. ‘The wise man knows himself to be a fool.’

‘That’s not Lear, is it?’

‘No. As You Like It.’

I checked the announcement screen: flight still pending. Were we doing the right thing? This had been our home for so long. I started to speak, just to calm my nerves.

‘We’re not leaving home, Edmund.’

‘No?’

‘We’re taking it with us, I promise you.’

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. 

There was soft ping from the announcement screen. Our Greenland flight was leaving in twenty minutes.

Sharif Gemie is a retired History Professor, mostly researching the lives of marginalized and minority peoples. He’s lived in South Wales for 30 years. On retirement, he turned to writing fiction.