The Girl You Left Behind

with laughter on the edge of the perfectly
     aligned walkways, pointing down as they see the huge koi carp that swim placidly among
     the angular pools.
    ‘Are they always … this
     noisy?’ the CEO asks.
    Abiola, the youth worker, stands beside Liv.
     ‘Yup. We usually give them ten minutes just to adapt to the space. Then you find
     they settle surprisingly quickly.’
    ‘And … nothing ever gets
     damaged?’
    ‘Not once.’ Liv watches Cam run
     lightly along a raised wooden rail, jumping on to his toes at the end of it. ‘Of
     the list of previous companies I gave you, we’ve not had so much as a dislodged
     carpet tile.’ She sees his disbelieving expression. ‘You have to remember
     that the averageBritish child lives in a home with floor space less
     than seventy-six square metres.’ She nods. ‘And these will probably have
     grown up in far less than that. It’s inevitable that when they’re let loose
     in a new place they get itchy feet for a bit. But you watch. The space will work around
     them.’
    Once a month the David Halston Foundation,
     part of Solberg Halston Architects, organizes a trip for underprivileged kids to visit a
     building of special architectural interest. David had believed that young people should
     not just be taught about their built environment but let loose in it, to utilize the
     space in their own way, to understand what it did. He had wanted them to enjoy it. She
     still remembers the first time she had watched him talking it through with a group of
     Bengali kids from Whitechapel. ‘What does this doorway say when you walk
     in?’ he had asked, pointing up at the huge frame.
    ‘Money,’ says one, and they had
     all laughed.
    ‘That,’ David had said, smiling,
     ‘is exactly what it’s supposed to say. This is a stockbroking firm. This
     doorway, with its huge marble pillars and its gold lettering, is saying to you,
     “Give us your money. And we will make you MORE MONEY.” It says, in the most
     blatant way possible, “We Know About Money.”’
    ‘That’s why, Nikhil, your
     doorway is three foot tall, man.’ One of the boys had shoved another and both had
     fallen about laughing.
    But it worked. She had seen even then that
     it worked. David had made them think about the space around them, whether it made them
     feel free or angry or sad. He had shown them how light and space moved, almost as if it
     were alive, around the oddest buildings. ‘They’ve got tosee that there is an alternative to the little boxes they live in,’ he said.
     ‘They’ve got to understand that their environment affects how they
     feel.’
    Since he had died, she had, with
     Sven’s blessing, taken over David’s role, meeting company directors,
     persuading them of the benefits of the scheme and to let them in. It had helped get her
     through the early months, when she had felt that there was little point in her
     existence. Now it was the one thing she did each month that she actively looked forward
     to.
    ‘Miss? Can we touch the
     fish?’
    ‘No. No touching, I’m afraid.
     Have we got everyone?’ She waited as Abiola did a quick head count.
    ‘Okay. We’ll start here. I just
     want you all to stand still for ten seconds and tell me how this space makes you
     feel.’
    ‘Peaceful,’ said one, after the
     laughter stopped.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Dunno. It’s the water. And the
     sound of that waterfall thing. It’s peaceful.’
    ‘What else makes you feel
     peaceful?’
    ‘The sky. It’s got no roof,
     innit?’
    ‘That’s right. Why do you think
     this bit has no roof?’
    ‘They run out of money.’ More
     laughter.
    ‘And when you get outside,
     what’s the first thing you do? No, Dean, I know what you’re about to say.
     And not that.’
    ‘Take a deep breath.
     Breathe.’
    ‘Except our air is full of shit. This
     air they probably pump through a filter and stuff.’
    ‘It’s open. They can’t
     filter this.’
    ‘I do breathe, though. Like a big
     breath. I hate being shut in small places. My room’s got no windows and I have to
     sleep with the door open or I feel like I’m in a coffin.’
    ‘My brother’s room’s got
     no windows so my mum got him this poster with a window on it.’
    They begin comparing bedrooms. She likes
     them, these kids, and she fears for them, the casual deprivations they toss into her
     path, the way they reveal that 99 per cent of their lives are spent within a square mile
     or two, locked in by