The House in Fez Page 15

  ‘No.’ She drew in a long breath. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  When they were both in bed, Juliet leaned over to blow out the candle, then lay back on her pillow. The darkness was absolute, so she plucked up her courage. ‘Portia?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Is that why,’ she dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘because no babies came… is that why you… started again?’

  In the long silence which followed, she didn’t think her sister would reply. I shouldn’t have asked her that. It was too personal, too…

  ‘Not just that. The anger, mostly.’

  ‘The anger?’

  ‘Anger at Gavin for always putting the girls first and not needing me once they were older. Mostly though, anger at Miranda, for being such a crap mother.’

  But was she? Didn’t she do her best? And yet, we’ve both turned out to be… damaged.

  ‘Did Gavin know?’

  ‘Of course. Bit hard to hide when you live with someone. He was great at first, paid for a shrink, things were going really well. Then I started again and he lost patience.’

  ‘But how does it help? What you… do?’

  ‘Cutting, Juliet, the word is cutting. It’s a form of release, a safety valve, lets some of the anger out.’

  Juliet’s stomach churned at the thought. ‘Portia?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t cut any more. Please. Talk to me if—’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  JUNE 2nd

  Portia

  When Portia came down the stairs the following morning, she spotted Samir by the door to the medina and hung back until he had left. Off to check on his sweatshop, she thought sourly. She watched daylight wash over the rooftops like an incoming tide, wondering what the day would bring, then turned to see Hasan scampering towards her, closely followed by Juliet.

  ‘Why don’t you come with us to school, Portia?’ she asked as she tightened the shoulder straps of Hasan’s backpack.

  ‘I will.’ She bent and ruffled the boy’s hair and he smiled at her, revealing a new gap in his teeth. ‘Has the tooth fairy been?’

  ‘Not sure there is one here.’ She straightened Hasan’s collar. ‘I wonder how long you-know-who will stay cloistered? Not that I mind, but—’

  ‘As long as it takes to bring hubby to heel, I expect. For all his willy waving, his wife and his mother seem to be calling the shots.’

  Hasan tugged at Juliet’s arm and she reached into her bag and found him a sweet. ‘He’s into Murray Mints. Hope I haven’t caused the tooth loss.’

  ‘I doubt it. Have you seen the rotten teeth here? It’s all the sugar they pile into their mint tea. Speaking of which, do I have time for a coffee?’

  ‘Not really. School starts at the crack of dawn here.’

  It was too early for the usual surge of bodies in the medina and the air smelt fresh and cool as stallholders set out their wares and mothers delivered children to school. Portia walked behind, watching Hasan skipping along, his hand held tightly by Juliet. Remembering last night’s conversation with her sister, her chest constricted. How must it feel to have a child of one’s own?

  When they reached the school entrance, Juliet bent and kissed Hasan. He turned to Portia and held his little face up to hers. She willingly obliged. They stood together and watched him walk through the door, a tiny figure dwarfed by the bag on his back. Portia gave a loud sniff and kicked a stone.

  ‘You all right?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Fine. Broody moment.’

  A herd of goats milled around them, their sad little cries filling the air.

  ‘Right, let’s get the shopping.’

  ‘I’m not coming,’ Portia said abruptly. ‘I’m going to see the children.’

  ‘Now? No breakfast?’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘Okay, see you later.’

  ‘I’ll be back in time to help with the cooking.’

  A new stall had been set up, selling milk in plastic bags, tied at the tops and looking like balloons. They would be great—if heavy—and she bought up the old man’s entire stock. When she added bread, almonds, and dried apricots to the bags, the handles thinned into strings and cut into her fingers, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she finally reached the sweatshop. Once inside, she rubbed her sore hands as the children clustered around her, poking at the bags and looking up at her with hopeful eyes.

  As she started to share out the food, the bigger boys barged to the front, knocking down the smaller ones. ‘Oi! Cut that out.’

  They quietened, collected their food, then sat cross-legged on the stone floor to eat, ripping at the bread and stuffing nuts into their mouths. She looked at the milk in dismay—hadn’t thought that one through—how could they drink it with only one mug, and how could they even open it with no scissors? But they proved to be nothing if not resourceful, and used their sewing needles to puncture the plastic then put their heads back and let the milk run down their throats. Worried, she watched them. What if they choked? What if they spilt it on the slippers they were stitching? Samir would go ape-shit.

  She decided to check the water while she was here, make sure of its freshness. Inching around the children, she saw the blankets in the corner move. Oh my God, not rats. Please not rats. Ready to leap back if necessary, she bent, took hold of a corner of the blanket between finger and thumb, and peeled it back. The smallest girl, the one from yesterday, lay there with her eyes closed.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ she asked the others.

  A girl, her cheeks bulging with food, answered in Arabic.

  ‘I don’t understand. Est-ce que… elle est..?’

  What’s French for ill? She cast around in her mind, but came up with nothing, then knelt beside the child and put the back of her hand against her forehead. Burning hot. She pulled back the filthy bedding and felt her arms and legs. Ice cold. She covered her again, stroked her hair and bent close. ‘Can you hear me?’

  The child’s eyelids fluttered briefly, but didn’t open.

  What am I going to do? Where can I find a doctor? She sat back on her heels and spoke to the others. ‘How long has she been like this?’

  They looked at her blankly.

  As she clambered to her feet, she knocked over the bucket and a pool of liquid soaked into the blanket. She sniffed. Urine.

  She yanked the mug hard until the string attaching it to the drum snapped. Then she filled it with water and went back over to the child. She gently raised her into a sitting position and tried to get her to drink. It just ran away, down her neck, onto her ragged dress. Portia felt the stirrings of panic. What could she do? What was the matter with the child? As she gently laid her down again she thought of Samir and fury welled up in her. Had he been here that morning? Did he know the girl was sick? Had he just left her and walked away? If he did, I’ll slice off his balls with a blunt knife.

  The other children had started sewing again, dark heads bowed, debris from their breakfast scattered all around them. Best if Samir didn’t see that. Gathering it all up and stuffing it into a bag, she made a decision. She didn’t plan to walk by on the other side of the road. She would take the child back with her to the riad.

  How could such a tiny scrap be so difficult to carry? She weighed next to nothing, but negotiating her through crowds of people, whilst trying to protect her from knocks and bumps, put such a strain on Portia’s arms that her muscles were screaming in protest by the time she got back.

  She thumped on the door. When Juliet opened it, Portia staggered through and collapsed on to the nearest chair, holding the child tight against her body.

  ‘What’s happening? Who’s the girl?’ The colour drained from Juliet’s face. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve—’

  ‘She’s sick,’ she snapped. ‘What should I do? Leave her to die?’

  ‘Of course not, but—’

  ‘Where is he?’


  ‘Who?’

  ‘Samir, who do you think? Tell him I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Oh, Portia, I really don’t think—’

  ‘Just do it.’

  White-faced, Juliet went to the Yellow Room, looking back over her shoulder the whole way. After a minute, Samir emerged. He stared at Portia and the child. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘She’s sick and you just left her.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He strode forwards and Juliet shrank back against the wall. ‘Why is she here?’

  ‘She is ill. Did you not see?’

  ‘No, I did not and you have no right—’

  ‘Please, calm down, both of you,’ Juliet said, her voice quavering.

  ‘I will not calm down. He is a bastard and—’

  Samir grabbed her arm. ‘I. Did. Not. Know.’

  She pulled from his grasp. ‘Okay. Okay. You didn’t know. Well, you know now, and I’m going to look after her—here—until she gets better.’

  Juliet

  She moved her gaze from Samir’s furious face to Portia’s mutinous one. I have to do something fast. Defuse the situation before there’s bloodshed.

  ‘Maybe if we were to…’ she whispered.

  ‘Prove to me you’re a decent human being,’ Portia said.

  ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you.’

  The colour had drained from his cheeks. Juliet darted forwards to stand between them and looked up into his eyes. ‘Can we look after her for a few days?’ she pleaded. ‘Just until she gets better?’

  ‘It is not the sick child I have a problem with. I am not a monster. It is the arrogance of your sister who—’

  ‘Please,’ Juliet said. ‘Can we see to the girl? Please?’

  He seemed to deflate. ‘Very well. Although where you will put her I do not know. We are running out of habitable rooms.’

  ‘She can come in with us,’ Portia said, then, somewhat belatedly, turned to her sister. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, but there is no bed. Samir, is it possible to buy a sleeping bag here? It would be better than blankets.’

  ‘Of course. What kind of primitive country do you think this is?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’ She thought quickly. ‘Please, if I get some paper will you write down the Arabic word for it?’

  ‘There’s a notepad in there.’ Portia nodded to her shoulder bag on the table.

  Thank the Lord. Juliet hadn’t wanted to leave the two of them alone, not even for a second. She rifled through the bag, took out the paper and a pencil and handed them to Samir.

  ‘Write down the words for clothes shop too,’ Portia demanded. ‘Poor little bugger’s in rags.’

  He scribbled on the pad, slammed it down on the table and turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait… please.’ Juliet caught hold of his arm. ‘Are there—do you have any Junior Disprin? It’s a sort of medicine—’

  ‘I know what it is. Ask Zina,’ he said. He marched away.

  Juliet sank into a chair, faint with relief. ‘That went better than I expected.’

  Portia nodded. ‘Thank you, Jules. If you hadn’t been here I’m sure he’d have thrown me and the child back out into the medina.’ She looked down at the child in her arms.

  ‘I’ll go and ask Zina, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please. If I take her—wonder what her name is?—upstairs, would you keep an eye on her while I go shopping?’

  ‘Sure. Wait while I get a bowl of water and I’ll clean her up while you’re out.’

  Juliet laid the girl down on the bed with a towel beneath her. The child’s eyes flickered open as Juliet sponged dirt from her arms and legs, and she tried to sit up.

  ‘No, no.’ Juliet pushed her back down gently. ‘Lie still.’ She eased her out of the ragged dress and wept to see her tiny, emaciated body. Using long, slow strokes so as not to alarm the child, she washed her all over, the water in the bowl growing blacker by the minute. When she’d finished, she wrapped a dry towel round her. ‘Don’t move. I’ll just be a minute.’ She emptied the bowl into the kitchen sink, then ran back up the stairs with drinking water and Disprin. Zina had looked baffled at the request, but obligingly provided her with a full packet.

  She dissolved the tablets in the water and held the cup to the child’s lips, supporting her shoulders, but the girl’s eyes were closed and she made no effort to drink. Maybe I exhausted her cleaning her up. Heart pounding, Juliet bent to make sure she was still breathing. The movement of her tiny chest was infinitesimal. Juliet watched her for a moment, then raced down the stairs to fetch a teaspoon.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed with the child on her knees, she opened her mouth by pulling down her jaw, then fed in a spoon of liquid and held her lips together. She held the girl upright, frightened she would choke, and watched her throat for movement. The liquid trickled out of the corner of the girl’s mouth. She tried again and again then, finally, heard a gulping sound. Success! Slowly, painstakingly, she fed the rest in, spoon by spoon, until the cup was empty. Her legs fizzed with pins and needles as she stood to lay the child back down, on her side. The room was hot and silent, the girl’s breathing so faint that Juliet knelt beside her, listening, terrified she would die.

  Portia returned with a vast plastic sack over her shoulder. ‘She all right?’ she whispered.

  ‘Think so. She’s had some of the Disprin.’

  Portia opened the sack and took out a sleeping bag, two dresses and sets of underwear, a pair of flip flops, a bowl, and a plastic bag bulging with white liquid.

  ‘What’s that?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Milk. And this bowl will have to do to pee in.’ She bent over the child, touched her face. ‘She’s scrubbed up well. Thank you.’

  ‘Her hair will have to wait.’

  ‘Should we let her sleep a bit before we try her with the milk?’ Portia chewed her lip. ‘I don’t know—you’re a mum, what do you think?’

  ‘Sleep’s always good. Maybe give her an hour?’

  Portia perched on the side of the bed and stroked the child’s cheek gently. ‘Is she dehydrated, do you think? Wouldn’t her skin feel like paper?’

  ‘I don’t think she is, but we’ll need to get more down her soon. She just had the water with the Disprin in it.’

  They watched her sleeping for a moment, then Juliet glanced at her watch. ‘There’s no lunch. Lalla will kick off.’

  Portia snorted. ‘Let her. She’s got enough fat on her to see her through the whole of Ramadan.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. If Lalla can’t be arsed to cook and Zina’s still hiding herself away, it’s hardly your problem.’

  ‘I suppose—they’ll just have to eat the leftover bread and cheese from breakfast. There’s no time to make anything now.’

  ‘Shall I go down and get it on the table? I doubt Lalla will say much to me.’

  Juliet hesitated. ‘Would you mind? I know I’m being a bit of a wimp, but…’

  Portia hugged her. ‘You’re no wimp. You intervened with Samir. You stay with whatsername and I’ll have great pleasure seeing Lalla’s face when she appears for her lunch.’

  When she had gone, Juliet sat beside the child and watched her sleep. Please God, let her get better.

  Portia

  Oh shit. Hasan. How could we have forgotten about him? She raced along the lane, elbowing people aside, stumbling on loose stones. Am I going the right way? Samir will kill me if he finds out.

  The boy stood waiting by the school door, a finger in his mouth, eyes wide and watchful.

  Portia swooped on him, wrapped her arms around him. ‘Sorry, Hasan. I’m so sorry. We’ve had a bit of a morning.’

  He clung to her for a moment, then pulled away.

  ‘Quick. We need to be quick.’ She grabbed his hand and hauled him along, stopping to buy bread and a bar of peanut brittle. Tearing off the wrapper, she said, ‘Eat it. Now. It’s an apology from
me to you.’

  Lalla’s eyes widened as she looked from the bread to the cheese then back again. Portia put a bowl of apricots on the table, then sat down opposite her, met her gaze and stared her out.

  Samir appeared, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw what the meal comprised but he said nothing as he sat down, then tore off a hunk of bread and helped himself to cheese and olives. Portia watched Hasan playing with his food, not hungry presumably after the peanut bar, and suddenly thought about Zina’s lunch. No way could she face her.

  Without looking up from her plate, she said, ‘Samir. Your—Zina will need food.’

  In the silence a donkey brayed somewhere in the medina. Hasan made little pellets out of his bread, and Lalla ate an apricot with an unnecessary amount of noise.

  Samir’s chair screeched back. Portia didn’t look at him as he filled a plate with food, but sensed his outrage at this challenge to his male supremacy. Her lips twitched. She would be willing to bet that never, in the whole of his life, had he taken food to another person. When he returned, scowling, she said, ‘We will make a proper dinner for this evening.’

  He didn’t answer. In the silence a giggle bubbled up inside Portia. She tried desperately to damp it down, but failed. Hasan laughed too. She looked at his happy little face, then at a glowering Samir, and finally at Lalla, still muttering to herself as she stuffed olives into her mouth.

  Enough. I’m out of here. She piled bread and cheese onto a plate for Juliet, picked up a cup and spoon, and went upstairs.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ she whispered when she entered the room.

  ‘The same. Still sleeping.’

  ‘I’ve brought you something to eat.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the plate with a smile.

  ‘I forgot Hasan. Had to run like the wind.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no. Was he all right?’

  ‘Think so. I felt really bad, bought him chocolate so then he didn’t want his lunch.’