No one seemed to be understanding a word I was saying. So I tried something else, the only other English words I could think of, hopeful that maybe they would know where it was. ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey. Fore Street, Mevagissey.’
They just looked at me, bewildered.
I tried again, louder this time. ‘Mevagissey! Mevagissey! Fore Street … Four! Six!’ The numbers did it.
I saw sudden recognition on the faces all around me and some alarm too. Perhaps I had spoken too loudly, I thought. I tried the same words again, softer this time, and then a few different words to see if they would understand. ‘Football. Manchester United. Chelsea. Joe Root. England. Afghanistan.’
The more I said, the less surprised they were looking, but the more puzzled and amused they became. They were whispering amongst each other, and some were laughing. Encouraged by this I tried again, and soon they were all laughing. ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey! Chocolate! Owzat!’ They particularly seemed to love it when I said ‘owzat’. So much so they were echoing it back to me.
‘Owzat! Owzat!’
But then I noticed that the old lady was not laughing any more, not smiling either. She was standing there staring at me. I had the strange feeling that she was not just trying to work out who I was, and where I had come from, but she was trying to remember me, to remember who I was. It was as if she thought that she recognised me, which I knew was not possible. Anyway, with some difficulty, and helped by her companion, she turned away from me, and made her way along my arm, over my hand and back down on to the sand. I watched her being led across the beach to a rock not far away. There she sat down, her hands folded in her lap, looking up at me, her eyes never leaving my face.
Meanwhile, the little people, led by the children, were crowding all around me, reaching out to touch my feet, my hands, my clothes. I was being examined, investigated. Then, more confident now, they were beginning to clamber up on to me. I did not feel in the least threatened by them. I could tell they meant me no harm. It didn’t seem to be in their nature. The girls and boys amongst them were much more daring than the grown-ups, and were already all over me, shinning easily up every nook and cranny of me. I was thinking that I must have been like a mountain to them.
‘Me? A mountain?’ I laughed aloud at the thought of it. Little Omar was a mountain! Tiny was a mountain! If my friends could see me now. If Mother could see me now! Oh how I wished Mother could see me now.
Then they were pulling all the blankets off me, and rubbing me vigorously all over. I lay back and closed my eyes as the blessed warmth flooded me from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. These little people were bringing me back to life.
I started to hum. Maybe it was because I was reminded of the comfort and warmth I remembered as a small boy at bedtime when Mother had held me close and sung to me. It was her song that came back to me then, her lullaby, that I found myself humming.
After a while they began to hum along with me, and I loved that. I knew then for sure that I was amongst friends, and safe at last. Exhaustion and relief, the rhythm of the waves lapping on the beach and the sound of Mother’s tune in my head must have been enough to send me off to sleep again.
But I did not sleep for long. I felt my eyelids being prised open. The children had decided to wake me. I woke to find hundreds of these little people crawling all over me. Some were doing handstands and backf lips, some had taken to tumbling off me for fun, and then climbing back up again.
Down the beach I saw that the old woman was still sitting on her rock, her companion beside her. A few others were gathering around her, and kept glancing back up at me as she was talking to them.
After some time the old lady at last got to her feet and began to walk up the beach towards me, her companion holding her elbow to steady her as she came. The children were called away. They jumped down off me, some of them reluctantly, and were soon standing in amongst the grown-ups, quietened down and waiting. I felt something important was about to happen.
I raised myself up on to my elbows. A silence had fallen over the beach. They were all looking expectantly at the old lady now, as I was too. For long moments she said nothing. Then, as she came closer, I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and I could see now that they were tears of recognition.
‘Gulliver,’ she said softly, pointing her stick up at me. Then louder, and louder, ‘Gulliver?’ she cried. ‘Gulliver?’
What ‘Gulliver’ meant I had no idea. Not then, anyway.
But from the way the old lady was talking and the way she was looking at me, the way they were all looking at me, I had the distinct feeling that I really was being welcomed home, as if I was some long-lost relative. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that was who they believed I was. I must be ‘Gulliver’ – I was someone they all already knew and loved.
‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’
They were all shouting it out now, chanting it. I was some kind of a hero to these little people, to the children especially. Who they thought I was I could not imagine, nor did that bother me at all. I was quite happy to bask in such a joyous welcome. I responded by lifting my hands in the air and waving to them, which caused them to cheer and shout even louder. And then in amongst the chants of ‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’ I began to hear ‘Welcome, Gulliver. Owzat! Owzat!’
The more they chanted, the more I was sure they were using English words, spoken differently maybe, but definitely English words. It was the language of cricket, the language of aid workers in the camp. So, getting to my feet – and I was still unsteady at first – I raised my arms again and chanted back at them, ‘Gulliver! Gulliver! Owzat! Owzat!’
And then I thought of another word the aid workers in the refugee camp had taught me. ‘Hello!’ I shouted back. ‘Hello!’
I could tell from the delight on their faces that this was a word they knew, that they recognised, an English word. So this had to be England! And if I was in England, then Uncle Said and his café might not be far away. Mevagissey was not far away.
These people may be little, I thought, and all the doctors and aid workers I had known had been giants compared to them. But you could have ordinary-sized people and tiny people living in England, in the same country, couldn’t you? Why not? I told myself. I had arrived! I was safe and I was in England, where Mother had promised we would be. I had only to wait for her here, as she had said. Mother had been right about something else too. These English people were smiling people, welcoming people.
I was filled with relief, bursting with happiness. I punched the air again and again and cried out, ‘Owzat! Owzat!’
The tiny people were joining in, echoing every word. ‘Fore Street! Mevagissey! Four! Six! Not out! High five!’
Whenever I shouted out, punching the air, the name they had given me – ‘Gulliver! Gulliver!’ – they went wild. And they went wilder still when I began chanting ‘Owzat! Owzat!’
But then I noticed that the old lady was not joining in all this excitement. She was sitting there on her rock, looking up at me, her brow furrowed. She got to her feet then, and began to walk towards me, on the arm of her companion. I crouched down to be closer to her, holding out my hand in friendship. I was worried I had angered her somehow, and wanted to make it up to her.
She