The House in Fez Read online

  Just after seven, Juliet got dressed and went down again, hesitating at the edge of the courtyard, taking the temperature before she risked going into the kitchen or the salon. Everywhere appeared to be deserted, silent except for a thread of birdsong. The bathroom door opened and she took a step back as Samir emerged, pale-faced and with a shadow of stubble. She’d never seen him unshaven before. It made him look rather sinister.

  ‘Good morning, Juliet.’ He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Please, I need your help.’

  ‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’ She clenched her fingers as she tried to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Er… Zina will be staying in her room today. Is it possible… would you take Hasan to school? I would go, but workmen will be arriving soon.’

  ‘No problem. Is she all right?’

  What a stupid thing to ask. Why did I say that?

  He nodded. ‘There is one other thing.’ He still avoided her eyes and shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The cooking.’

  Juliet frowned. What about the cooking? Did he think she would take it on? ‘Can’t Lalla do it?’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. That is not possible. I am sure it will be just for one day. After that…’

  You hope it’ll just be the one day. Zina might refuse to appear for weeks. It’s probably the first time she’s ever had the moral high ground, any power, in this marriage. If not her life.

  The thought of that dark cupboard of a kitchen with its temperamental gas rings made her shudder. How could she produce meals in there? And why should she feel flooded with guilt for Portia’s behaviour that had led to this? Samir had been equally at fault, probably more so. But he looked so dejected— and people had to eat. Even if she’d happily watch Lalla starve, there were little Hasan, and Zina to consider.

  She gave him a tight smile. Nodded. She’d do it. But not on her own. Portia would have to postpone her departure and help out.

  Portia

  ‘You want me to stay here and cook?’ Portia said faintly.

  ‘I can’t do it on my own. You’ve seen the kitchen. Please, Portia.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Attila getting off her arse?’

  Juliet shrugged. ‘Samir said no—and I don’t suppose he’s ever made a meal, not even a sandwich, in his entire life.’

  She wavered. It gave her an excuse to not to go home, at least not yet, and as Zina seemed to have entered self-imposed purdah, she’d be spared the embarrassment of meeting her. ‘Well… okay. I’ll give it a go. I don’t suppose you have any idea how to cook Moroccan food?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Juliet said with a grin. She gave her a hug. ‘I’m so pleased you’re staying. It might be fun.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said drily. ‘I suppose breakfast will be an easy start.’

  ‘I’ll buy bread and some more fruit when I take Hasan to school.’

  ‘Do you know the way?’

  ‘Been before. You coming down now? I need to collect him soon.’

  Portia followed her down the stairs, her stomach a knot of nerves. As they reached the bottom, Samir came out of the bathroom with Hasan. Her face flooded with colour and she quickly averted her eyes, though not before glimpsing his crisp, white shirt with a little chest hair showing.

  ‘He is ready,’ Samir muttered, pushing the boy forward, then hurrying towards the Yellow Room. Thuds and shouts from inside confirmed the workmen had already arrived to clear the debris from the fallen ceiling.

  Hasan still looked half asleep. As he rubbed his eyes, Juliet knelt beside him and tucked his shirt into his trousers. ‘Have you had some food?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Let’s go then. See you shortly, Portia.’

  She watched them go, then braced herself to go into the kitchen.

  It didn’t look any more appealing than the first time she’d seen it. The dim light revealed the small fridge, the two-ringed gas burner, and an oven which looked positively archaic. A single tap, encrusted with limescale, dripped into the stone sink, and the only work surface was a wooden flap which folded down from the wall.

  ‘Holy shit. How does she produce meals in here? And how does she see what she’s doing?’ Her gaze travelled from a shelf containing plates, to a box of cutlery and then to a number of pans dangling from hooks set in the ceiling. God alive, where do I start? She leaned against the sink and let out a long breath.

  Coffee. She’d start with coffee. Her caffeine levels felt dangerously low, so a good, heart-starting slug would put her right. Kettle. Where did Miranda keep the kettle? No sign of one and no power point either, other than the one for the fridge. Okay, she had gas, she had a pan. Reaching above her, she unhooked one. Water. There were no bottles to be seen. Where did they keep the bloody water? She filled the pan from the tap—sod it, it’s going to be boiled, after all—then examined the gas ring which was attached with a rubber hose to a cylinder. How did it work? Did she just turn on the tap as with a conventional cooker? Matches. A ripple of exasperation ran through her. Where were the sodding matches? She found them eventually in the cutlery box—where else?—switched on the gas, struck a match and, standing well back, held the flame against the burner. It lit with a loud whoosh. She put the water on to boil and relaxed. So far, so good.

  By the time Juliet returned with an armful of French bread and a bag of figs, Portia had laid the table under the tree with plates, butter, half a packet of soft cheese she’d found in the fridge, and a steaming pot of coffee. She threw a cloth over it all to keep the flies off and kept a wary eye on the cat. Lalla shuffled across the courtyard and dropped into a chair with a grunt, pointed to the coffee and shook her head.

  ‘She doesn’t drink coffee,’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘She can go without then.’

  ‘I’ll make her some tea. It’ll only take a minute.’

  While Juliet boiled more water, Lalla helped herself to most of the cheese and half a French stick, then looked around the table with an ‘is that all there is?’ expression on her face.

  Odious old bat. Portia glowered at her as she sipped her coffee and hoped Samir had already eaten.

  ‘There you go.’ Juliet placed a glass of tea in front of Lalla. ‘I’ll just take some breakfast up to Zina.’ She filled a plate, then poured a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar. ‘Back in a minute.’

  She’d barely reached the foot of the stairs when Samir came out of the Yellow Room, his hair grey with dust. He sat down and Portia’s hands trembled as she buttered a piece of bread, her gaze firmly fixed on her plate. She took a bite, but couldn’t swallow the food. She chewed it and chewed it, round and round, tried again. No good, maybe with some coffee…

  Thank God, here’s Juliet back again.

  She looked upset as she put the full plate and cup down on the table. ‘Zina won’t open the door.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Portia said.

  Why am I apologising? Why am I… because it’s my fault. Because Zina had become Juliet’s friend and now I’ve ruined it for her, for both of them.

  ‘Perhaps she’ll have something at dinner time,’ Juliet said as she sat down. ‘What should I… we… make for dinner, Samir?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he cleared his throat, ‘some lamb? In the medina—’

  ‘Yes, I know where to go.’

  Portia could resist no longer and looked at him out of the corner of her eye, every cell of her body on high alert, but his gaze never shifted from her sister.

  ‘Let me give you some money,’ he said, reaching into his back pocket.

  ‘No. No need.’ Juliet flapped her hands at him.

  He hesitated, wallet in hand. ‘If you are sure then. Are you able… will you collect Hasan from school also?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He nodded and got to his feet. ‘I must go. The workmen…’

  As Portia cleared the table, Zina scurried down the stairs, head bowed, and went into the bathroom. Guilt sat like a brick on Portia’s chest.
The poor woman. I never meant to hurt her. Juliet looked round as Portia brought the plates into the kitchen. ‘I think we’d better shop for meat and vegetables before we wash up. Get the stew started.’

  After several wrong turnings, they finally found the butcher.

  ‘That looks like lamb shoulder,’ Juliet said. ‘It should tenderise beautifully.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She grinned at her. ‘I’m none too knowledgeable about such matters.’

  ‘Don’t you cook at home?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. Gavin’s king of the kitchen in our house—mostly poncey food.’ Except he mostly eats out these days and I make do with chocolate biscuits.

  When they got back to the gloomy kitchen, Portia took down a large pan with a steamer fitted into the top of it and regarded it doubtfully. ‘I know it’s called a couscoussiere but I’m not entirely sure…’

  ‘I suppose the stew goes in the bottom,’ Juliet said thoughtfully. ‘Is the top bit… do you steam couscous? In Leicester we just tip boiling water over it.’

  They both studied the pan, then Portia reached onto the shelf and brought down a number of glass jars, unscrewed the lids, and sniffed the contents.

  ‘I think that’s cinnamon. That one’s definitely ginger. Don’t know about the others.’

  ‘How much shall I use?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know—a couple of spoonfuls?’

  ‘Of each?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  They left the lamb and spices simmering and took the vegetables to chop on the table outside where it was a little cooler.

  ‘Remember Home Economics at school?’ Juliet asked as she peeled a carrot.

  ‘With horror.’

  ‘You set fire to your apron—while you were wearing it.’ She giggled.

  ‘And got suspended. Bloody unfair. It was a complete accident.’

  ‘D’you remember the time you cut off my hair? All of it?’

  ‘I do.’ She sliced a pepper. ‘Why did I do that?’

  ‘You said I had nits.’

  ‘Miranda went ballistic. I’d never seen her so angry.’

  Their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.

  Back inside, Juliet added the chopped vegetables to the meat and pointed to the sack of couscous slumped against the wall. ‘D’you have to rinse that stuff? Like rice?’

  ‘No idea. Wouldn’t it run through the holes in the colander? All supposing we can find one?’

  She laughed. ‘We’ll not wash it then. It can go in the—can’t remember the name—for the last half hour and we’ll just have to hope for the best.’

  ‘I’m quite certain all our culinary decisions have been the right ones. Anyhow, if Zina had been cooking, she’d probably have poisoned me.’ She saw Juliet’s smile fade and could have kicked herself. What a stupid, stupid thing to say.

  Dinner didn’t meet with universal approval. Lalla scowled as she flattened out lumps of couscous with the back of her fork, and Samir downed several glasses of water in the course of the meal. Perhaps they had been overenthusiastic with the spices. Zina’s dinner plate came back untouched, and Juliet had to fry an egg for Hasan to stop him wailing. And yet Portia felt a bit better. She had forged a closeness with her sister, which had never been there before and her heart sang.

  Juliet

  Juliet’s phone buzzed while they were washing up after breakfast the next morning. She took it out of her apron pocket and said, ‘It’s Darren.’

  ‘Quick, run upstairs with it. I’ll sort the dishes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She dashed out and raced up to the balcony, then answered the call.

  ‘How’re you doing, love?’ She felt the warmth of his voice.

  ‘Better every day. Eating loads and sleeping like a baby—how are things with you?’

  ‘Fantastic. Just landed another contract. Things are on the up at long last.’

  ‘Oh, Darren, I’m so glad. Are you managing all right? Do you need me to come home?’

  ‘Don’t you dare. Stay there and get better. Any road, I’m out all hours.’

  ‘What about your washing?’

  ‘I turn my boxers inside out after a couple of days and—’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Only joking. I’ll go up to the launderette—it’ll give me chance to sit down.’

  ‘What’s up with the washer?’

  ‘Can’t figure it out.’

  She told him about the riad and the family, made him laugh as she described Lalla, then described the medina.

  ‘Sounds brilliant, love. Glad you’re all right. I’ll phone you again soon. Anything else to tell me?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Talk to you soon then, Jules. Love you.’

  She went slowly back down the stairs and sat under the fig tree. It was good to hear him so buoyant, but had the sound of his voice made her want to rush home to him? No, it hadn’t.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ Portia plonked herself down opposite her. ‘Problems?’

  ‘No, not at all. In fact, things are going really well.’

  ‘So why the frown?’

  ‘I don’t miss him in the slightest, Portia, and I should.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  The cat slunk across the courtyard and twined itself round Juliet’s ankles. She bent and stroked it. ‘Have you spoken to Gavin yet?’

  Portia shook her head. ‘He’s texted again, wants to know how much longer I’ll be away.’

  ‘What have you said?’

  ‘I haven’t replied this time. Suppose I ought to.’ She jumped up and the cat hissed as her chair leg caught it. ‘I’ll do it now. Get it out of the way.’

  As Portia climbed the stairs and walked along the balcony, a cold feeling spread over Juliet. ‘Portia,’ she called urgently, ‘Portia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keep away from the balustrade. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Chill, Jules. Chill.’

  Supper promised to be a more palatable meal. Juliet chopped onions and carrots into the leftover lamb stew to make soup, while Portia went out for fresh bread and more fruit. When she returned, hot and flustered, she slammed the bag onto the kitchen table and jerked her head towards the door. ‘Attila’s in her usual spot in front of the TV, stuffing her face with dates.’

  Juliet looked up from stirring the pot. ‘Still not your favourite person, is she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She probably has some redeeming features. Taste this. Does it need salt?’

  Portia blew on the spoon, then tried it. ‘Yes, it does. I’ll lay the table while you take the tray up to Zina.’

  Juliet tapped on the bedroom door and waited. No sound came from inside so she tried again, harder this time. ‘Please open the door,’ she pleaded.

  After a couple more minutes, Zina appeared. Her eyes were red and her clothes creased as though she had slept in them.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  Zina stood back and Juliet took the tray inside, then unloaded it onto a small table. What can I say to her? How can I help? She put a tentative hand on Zina’s shoulder and, when she didn’t draw away, put her arms around her and held her for a moment. ‘I am so sorry, Zina. Truly I am.’

  Am I apologising for my sister’s behaviour? I suppose I am.

  Troubled, she trailed back to the kitchen and helped Portia carry the food to the table in the courtyard. They’d probably be buzzed by mosquitoes, but the salon felt too oppressive. Maybe the dining table and chairs could be moved to another room. She would ask Samir. Zina faded from her mind as the meal progressed. Lalla evidently found supper more to her liking than dinner, judging by the sounds of slurping. Samir and Portia both kept their gazes fixed firmly on their plates, while Hasan dipped chunks of bread in his soup and appeared to enjoy it.

  As Juliet pulled on her nightshirt that evening, she thought of the children in the sweatshop. ‘Did you go and see them today? Did you take
them anything?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Portia sat down heavily on her bed. ‘I took them some more money, but they probably take it home to their families. It would be better if… they’re so thin, Jules.’

  ‘Can’t you take them food next time?’

  ‘I’d like to take them something nourishing—chicken tagine, couscous—but how?’

  ‘If you take them bread and bananas, that would be good. Nuts, maybe? Milk?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She looked into Juliet’s eyes. ‘It upsets me no end and I don’t have kids. How does it feel when you have? Do you imagine your own child starving?’

  Juliet’s chest ached in the old, familiar way, and she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Oh God, Jules, I’m so sorry. I forgot about… I… oh, Jules.’ She jumped to her feet and gathered her sister up in her arms. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry…’

  Juliet swallowed hard. ‘It’s okay. Really it is. Darren says Jacob’s twenty-four and he’s chosen his own path, there’s nothing we can do. And I think he’s right.’

  ‘Oh, Jules.’ She hugged her tighter.

  ‘It’s a bit easier here. I’m not tormented the whole time. Sometimes I go for hours without thinking about him. I never do that at home.’

  In the silence, the plaintive call of the muezzin floated across the night.

  ‘Must be almost midnight. Portia, are you unhappy you have no children?’

  She nodded. ‘I tried to persuade Gavin to foster—or adopt, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s it like, Jules? Not now, I mean when you first become a mother?’

  ‘It’s absolutely terrifying,’ she said slowly. ‘You love them more than you love yourself. I was too frightened to take Jacob out in the car in case I, or somebody else, killed him. I saw wars and famines on TV and felt petrified with fear because I couldn’t make the world safe for him.’

  ‘Lord, it doesn’t sound any too comfortable.’

  ‘It’s not, but on the other side there’s…’

  ‘Would you do it again?’ Portia asked softly. ‘Given your time over again, knowing what you know now?’