Ibrahim & Reenie by David Llewellyn Page A

yeah?’
    She looked at the trolley, and at the birdcage balanced on its plastic child’s seat. The traffic rumbled around them like constant thunder, echoing off the underside of the motorway. He wouldn’t leave her here, in this nowhere of a place, but neither would he wait much longer for her to make up her mind.
    â€˜Alright, then,’ she said. ‘But let me feed Solomon first.’
    They left the Coldra, and came eventually to a stretch of road running parallel with the motorway, flanked on both sides with tall hedgerows. Quietly, Ibrahim dreaded the next crossing, the next interchange. These roads existed solely for cars, their pavements – when there were pavements – put there as an afterthought. Why couldn’t there be a single, deserted lane from Cardiff to London?
    â€˜So what do your mates call you?’ Reenie asked, apropos of nothing.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Your mates. Your friends. What do they call you? It’s just… Ibrahim. It’s a bit of a mouthful. You must have a nickname.’
    â€˜Right. I see. Well, my family, my dad, calls me Prakash. It’s a Punjabi tradition, to give your kids a nickname, so that’s my family nickname.’
    â€˜Pra…?’
    â€˜Kash. Prakash. It means “sunshine”.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s lovely, that is. Sunshine. Like the song.’ She started to sing: ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…’
    â€˜Yeah,’ said Ibrahim, smiling. ‘Something like that. But no one’s called me Prakash in years. My uni mates used to call me Ib.’
    â€˜Ib?’
    â€˜Yeah. Short for…’
    â€˜I know what it’s short for,’ said Reenie. ‘It’s just a bit too short. Ib. It’s like you haven’t finished saying it properly. Like it’s half a word.’
    â€˜Well, that’s how it works, isn’t it? Mike’s short for Michael. Ed’s short for Edward. Ib’s short for Ibrahim.’
    â€˜Yeah. Just doesn’t sound right, somehow.’
    â€˜That’s only because you’ve never met another Ibrahim. Besides. What’s “Reenie”?’
    â€˜Short for Irene ,’ said Reenie.
    â€˜How is it short for Irene? It’s the same number of syllables. I-rene. Reen-ie. And how’d you spell it?’
    â€˜R-e-e-n-i-e.’
    â€˜Hang on. That’s six letters.’
    â€˜Yes. And?’
    â€˜Irene’s five letters.’
    â€˜So what?’
    â€˜So your nickname is longer than your real name?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜That doesn’t make any sense.’
    â€˜Well, it doesn’t have to be shorter,’ said Reenie. ‘It’s just a nickname. When I was little, when I came to London, my foster mum called me Reenie and it stuck.’
    â€˜Foster mum? You were adopted?’
    â€˜Not adopted. Fostered. My parents were still in Austria.’
    â€˜You’re Austrian?’
    â€˜Was.’
    â€˜You don’t sound it.’
    Reenie laughed. ‘Well, no. I was only little at the time.’
    â€˜So why did you come to…’ he started, freezing halfway through his question. ‘What year was that?’
    â€˜Thirty-nine.’
    â€˜Was it the Kindertransport?’
    â€˜How’d you know that?’
    â€˜I studied history. Remember?’
    He’d never studied the Kindertransport, though. Not in class. Read about it, heard about it. Remembered his friend Yusuf saying, ‘That’s how cruel they are. First sign of trouble, they abandon their kids. Their kids . Pack them off to live with strangers. A Muslim wouldn’t do that. Says it all.’
    He looked at Reenie. She seemed to have taken his word for it, but she looked different to him now, now it was confirmed, the thing he’d known almost since they met.
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ said Reenie. ‘Well, that was it. It was Quakers took me as far as Holland. They