The House in Fez Page 16

  Juliet laughed. ‘How did lunch go?’

  ‘Much as you might expect. Attila was livid, but not brave enough to take me on.’

  ‘She’s such a bully,’ Juliet said with a mouthful of food. ‘God, I’m starving. I’m surprised Lalla’s not been banging on Zina’s door.’

  ‘She’s maybe happy to have both wives out of the way. Have her precious son to herself.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I’ve just had a text from Miranda.’

  ‘Really? That’s a first. Did she say how things were going with the house?’

  ‘Nothing like that. She wanted to know if everything was all right here.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said yes.’ Juliet wiped soft cheese from her lips with the back of her hand. ‘What else could I say?’

  What else indeed? She’d go mental if she knew the half of what’s been going on. Sobered, Portia unzipped her wash bag, took out her nail scissors, then punctured the bag of milk and filled the cup.

  ‘How am I going to stop the rest of this milk running out? Have you got an elastic band, Jules?’

  She shook her head, so Portia pulled off the one holding her hair back. It fell forward around her face like a curtain, and a greasy one at that. She wrinkled her nose. What a fright she must look. Inside her suitcase were hot brushes and tongs, silk dresses and high heels, yet here she was, dressed like a bag lady, face scrubbed clean of any trace of makeup, and perfectly content. Who’d have thought it?

  The child’s eyes opened briefly as Portia propped her up and tried to spoon milk into her mouth. The first few attempts failed as she turned her head away, but after a while her lips parted and when she’d had half a cup. Portia was jubilant.

  ‘I’ll put her down again, I think. She’s still hot. Should she have another Disprin?’

  ‘Leave it an hour.’

  ‘Okay. You all right with her if I go shopping for dinner?’

  ‘Yes. See if you can get a chicken—one without feathers—and if I cook it with vegetables we can maybe feed some of the broth to her.’

  They watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the towel she was wrapped in.

  ‘Did Miranda say when she was coming back?’ Portia asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet Samir knows. Maybe you could ask him? I’d rather be prepared, under the circumstances.’

  Juliet pulled at a loose thread on her shirt. ‘I’d rather not, Portia. Her house—it’s a bit of a sensitive issue with him, I think.’

  The child slept for the rest of the afternoon, then awoke and looked around her.

  ‘Hello,’ Portia said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  She whimpered as she tried to sit up.

  ‘Hey, don’t be frightened.’ She held her hands. ‘Do you want the toilet?’ You stupid woman, how do you expect her to know what you’re on about? She picked her up, throat thick with unshed tears as she felt the frailty of the tiny body and the fluttering heart. It’s like holding a bird, a frightened bird. There’s nothing of her. Carefully, she enfolded her in the towel and carried her down to the bathroom, held her over the hole in the floor. Nothing, not even a trickle. Maybe she really is dehydrated.

  Back upstairs, she held a cup of water to the child’s lips. She drank all of it thirstily, then half of another cup. Portia lay her down again, stroked her matted hair and smiled at her.

  ‘Good girl. And tomorrow we’ll get your manky hair washed—or chopped off, whichever’s easiest.’

  When Juliet came up with a bowl of chicken soup, she gave Portia a push. ‘Get yourself downstairs for some dinner. I’ll see to this.’

  Portia’s stomach growled at the savoury smell. ‘Don’t need telling twice,’ she said. ‘I’m bloody ravenous.’

  She ran down the stairs to the courtyard, then stopped dead. Zina was pulling out a chair at the table. Her eyes met Portia’s and the look in them was not friendly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUNE 6th

  Juliet

  Three days had passed and the child, provisionally named Fatima—being the only Arab name either of them could think of—had slept for most of the time, waking only for soup and milk.

  Portia took food and money daily to the other children, but often returned tearful. ‘It’s such a drop in the ocean, Jules. And this is only one place. There must be others, but I daren’t follow him any more to find out.’

  ‘You’re doing all you can. You can’t take on the world.’

  ‘But I want to. What are you grinning about?’

  ‘Remember when Miranda used to pepper her conversations with quotes from Shakespeare?’

  ‘Don’t I just? Thank the Lord, it’s a habit she seems to have dropped.’

  ‘Well, she once said—about you—“Though she be but little, she is fierce.” From A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I think.’

  ‘Huh, no longer little—growing by the day, actually.’

  ‘Me too. Now that Zina’s resumed her cooking, we’re getting rich food at every meal. I could see the oil from last night’s tagine just weeping onto my plate.’ She glanced at Portia. ‘I was a bit worried—now she’s back, I thought you might go home.’

  ‘Not until Fatima’s back on her feet.’ Her shoulders sagged. ‘I feel awful about Zina. The way she looks at me… I’m a really bad person, aren’t I?’ She looked at her sister with eyes full of misery.

  ‘You’re not, really you’re not.’ She pulled her into a hug. ‘You’re kind and brave.’ Drawing back a little, she peered into her eyes. ‘As a matter of fact, I think you’re a bit of a star.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She nodded towards the sleeping bag in the corner. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Good. Had more chicken soup about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Disprin?’

  ‘Yes, two.’

  Portia knelt beside Fatima and felt her forehead. ‘Not hot any more. Thank goodness.’

  Juliet watched her sister with the child, troubling thoughts buzzing around inside her head. After dinner last night as Zina and Samir went upstairs together, she had glanced across at Portia and seen her hands clenching and unclenching. So it wasn’t over, after all. It hadn’t been a single moment of madness. It seemed Portia had feelings for Samir. And did she know Zina was pregnant?

  Juliet woke with a start. What had she heard? She listened hard. Nothing. And then came a clanking sound, like metal, followed by the crash of breaking china. Heart pounding, she eased herself out of bed and crept to the door, opened it an inch at a time, then tiptoed out onto the balcony and looked over. A light burned in the kitchen. She ran back to the bedroom and shook Portia.

  ‘Wake up,’ she whispered. ‘I think we’ve got burglars.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Burglars. In the kitchen.’

  ‘Burglars in the kitchen? What would they find in there, you daft bugger?’ She struggled into a sitting position and lit the candle. The yellow light spread over the room and revealed her frowning face and sleep-flattened hair. ‘It’s Ramadan. Zina will be getting breakfast for Samir. He has to eat and drink before sunrise.’

  ‘Oh, of course. How stupid of me. Sorry, Portia, go back to sleep.’

  ‘I’m awake now. The damage is done.’ She climbed out of bed and went to the sleeping bag, candle held aloft like Florence Nightingale. ‘Look how peacefully she’s sleeping,’ she said, with a smile in her voice.

  ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. I do believe she is.’

  ‘I’m glad we don’t have to fast. Do you suppose Miranda will be doing it, now she’s in England and nobody can see her?’

  ‘Probably. She seems to be taking her new religion seriously. Did she text you again?’

  ‘No. And Samir hasn’t heard either. I asked him.’

  As dawn painted the first strokes of pink across the sky, Juliet went downstairs and sat under the tree to make the most of the early morning cool. When Zina appeared with Hasan
, washed and dressed for school, she jumped up and went to them. ‘Marhaba. Can I come to school with you?’

  Zina smiled and nodded and Juliet felt a weight lift from her shoulders as they walked together into the medina. A little bit of her felt disloyal to Portia, but she didn’t want to lose Zina’s friendship. She looked tired this morning with puffy eyes. She bent to kiss Hasan goodbye and as she straightened, she rested her open hand on the swell of her stomach.

  ‘When?’ Juliet pointed.

  She smiled shyly. ‘I think four month.’

  Would that be four months pregnant or four months left to go, Juliet wondered. Not that it mattered. By the time the baby arrived, she would be long gone, would be back home again and fretting about Jacob.

  Lunch was a scratch affair. The main meal of the day would, for the next month, be eaten as soon as the sun had disappeared from view, when it was impossible to tell a white thread from a black one. She chopped tomatoes and meat while Zina filled a pan with lentils, chickpeas, onions, and spices to make a thick broth, ready for breaking the fast at sunset.

  ‘Harira,’ Zina said, pointing to the pot. ‘Always we have… Ramadan.’

  While it simmered, Juliet ran upstairs. She pushed open the door quietly so as not to disturb Fatima, delighted to see the child sitting on Portia’s bed, hair freshly washed, eating a banana.

  ‘Wow! Just look at you,’ she said and Fatima smiled, revealing tiny white teeth. Juliet perched on the edge of the bed and pushed a lock of dark hair back from the girl’s face. ‘Aren’t you a pretty one?’

  Fatima smiled again and Juliet melted.

  ‘Isn’t she just adorable?’ she said to Portia, who was standing by the door. She nodded without replying. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Portia shook her head and turned away.

  ‘Is something up?’ She took hold of Portia’s wrist, but when she winced, let go of her sister’s arm as though she’d been burnt. Oh God no, please. Don’t let her be cutting again. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nothing. You startled me, that’s all.’

  Fatima’s dark gaze moved from Portia to Juliet and back again. Her lower lip trembled.

  ‘Don’t cry, please don’t cry,’ Portia said, picking her up and cuddling her. ‘Shush now.’ She looked over the child’s head at Juliet. ‘It’s just that—now she’s getting better, he’ll make her go back there, won’t he?’

  Portia

  As she came out of the bathroom, Portia glanced up at an evening sky inflamed with purple and orange. In a matter of minutes the natural light would die and electric lamps would take over. All of the workmen had left for home so they could get washed and be ready to eat the moment darkness fell.

  Back in the bedroom, Fatima was standing by her sleeping bag.

  ‘Look!’ Juliet said, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Look. She just stood up, on her own.’

  Fatima took one faltering step, then another. As she tottered across the room, their smiles faded.

  ‘What’s the matter with her legs?’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘I think it’s maybe rickets. No… no, it’s not. Poor little bugger’s got one leg shorter than the other.’

  ‘Oh, Portia.’ Juliet’s eyes filled with tears. ‘If we were at home, she could be helped. D’you think—’

  ‘No, I don’t. Nobody’s going to bother about her here.’

  ‘I can’t bear to watch.’ Juliet whisked Fatima up, who started to cry.

  ‘Give her to me. You’ve frightened her.’ Portia snatched the child from her sister’s arms and walked up and down with her, shushing her, soothing her.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. Shush now, Fatima, did that wicked Aunty Jules scare you?’

  Juliet tickled the child under her chin and she giggled. ‘Got to go, Fatima, to help with the dinner. I’ll bring you a nice bowl of broth back.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’m bringing her down.’

  ‘Down where?’

  ‘To the table. Where do you think?’

  ‘But Samir…’

  ‘Bollocks to Samir.’

  ‘Oh Portia, I don’t think—’

  ‘I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. Why should Fatima be treated as sub-human? Just because she’s poor and an orphan and a cripple.’ Her voice rose.

  ‘Shush, you’ll scare her again. Okay then—I’ll see you in a bit.’

  Portia waited until everyone was around the dinner table before she sauntered across the courtyard with Fatima in her arms. She knew her action was inflammatory, but wanted to make a statement. She sat down with the child on her knee. Lalla’s spoonful of couscous stopped halfway to her mouth, Zina’s eyes widened and Hasan spoke excitedly to his father in his high-pitched voice, pointing at Fatima. Samir answered him shortly then gestured towards Fatima with his knife.

  ‘What is she doing here?’

  Everyone stopped eating. The sound of laughter drifted in from the medina.

  Portia raised an eyebrow. ‘Eating her dinner.’ She took a choice piece of lamb from the tagine, blew on it to cool it and fed it to the child.

  He compressed his lips in a thin line. ‘This is… inappropriate.’

  ‘Why? Because she’s poor?’ She winced as Juliet kicked her shin.

  ‘If she is well enough to sit here and eat, she is well enough to go back to the workroom.’

  ‘She’s not properly better. She—’

  ‘She looks better to me. Take her back—tomorrow. Understand?’

  Portia took in a breath, but before she could speak Juliet said, ‘Maybe… could she have just one or two more days? Please?’

  Zina put her hand on Samir’s arm and spoke urgently to him. He listened, then nodded. ‘What my wife says is correct. If, every time an employee falls ill, we bring them here—’

  ‘Would the heavens fall?’ Portia shouted. ‘Would life as we know it come to an end? Would it kill you to behave like a decent human being?’ She glowered at Zina, who stared back at her, face impassive.

  ‘Enough!’ Samir thumped his fist on the table. Plates and dishes rattled, Hasan looked frightened, and Juliet closed her eyes in despair. Why did Portia have to be so aggressive?

  ‘Tomorrow, she goes, and that is an end to it.’ He spoke to Fatima in Arabic, not unkindly, and the child nodded before burying her face in Portia’s chest.

  Snuffling sounds came from the sleeping bag as Portia lay wide awake in the darkness. She would not take Fatima back in the morning. She would keep her up here long enough to build up a bit more strength. It wouldn’t be difficult to smuggle up a little food for her, and she had the bowl for a makeshift potty. Samir spent most of his time out or with the workmen, so how would he know?

  She listened to the sounds from the medina as people took advantage of the hours of darkness to shop, socialise and eat. They’d all be exhausted in the morning. Already Samir complained nobody wanted to work. Samir—bugger him. Eventually she’d have to obey him, but if she could manage to stretch it out a few more days, maybe even a week, she could fatten Fatima up with nourishing food, put a pound or two on her tiny frame and… She sat bolt upright. Why couldn’t she hear her breathing?

  She leapt out of bed and felt her way to the corner, stubbing a toe against the leg of Juliet’s bed. Pain shot up her leg ‘Shit.’.

  She knelt by the sleeping bag, rested a light hand on the bony chest, felt its tiny rise and fall and relaxed.

  ‘What’s up?’ came Juliet’s sleepy voice.

  ‘Nothing—sorry.’

  The bed creaked as Juliet turned over and once more settled for sleep.

  ‘Jules?’ Portia whispered.

  A sigh. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, listen…’

  When Juliet heard her sister’s plan, she groaned. ‘Don’t antagonise him; it’ll all end in tears.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do anything. Just don’t split on me.’

&
nbsp; ‘Of course I won’t, but it’s madness. He’s sure to—’

  ‘I don’t care, Jules. I’ve every intention of giving Fatima a fighting chance.’

  ‘But if he finds out…’

  ‘I’m not listening. I’m just doing it.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JUNE 7th

  Portia

  She left it as late as possible before she went down to breakfast, nervous of leaving Fatima alone in the room, but reluctant to involve Juliet in the subterfuge by asking her to stay with the child.

  ‘Don’t move. Okay?’ She sat her on the bed and looked for something to distract her. Maybe she could track down some toys or books in the medina? In the meantime a copy of Vogue would have to do. Hesitating, she watched Fatima turn the pages, chattering to herself. She wished she could lock the door. It frightened her the child might run out and fall to the courtyard below, but the door catch had rusted. Surely she’d be safe enough for ten minutes.

  Only Lalla and Juliet remained at the table.

  Portia sat down and filled her plate with bread and cheese, waited until Lalla was engrossed in peeling an orange, then swept the food off her plate and into the paper napkin on her knee.

  ‘I’ve got some dates for her, too,’ Juliet said in a low voice.

  Portia beamed at her.

  ‘I want her to get well as much as you do. I just—’

  ‘I know, I understand.’ She pulled a face as she drank the cold coffee. ‘What do you think Miranda’s take on Fatima would be?’

  ‘Pretty sure she’d back Samir.’

  Portia nodded, then pushed her chair back. ‘Better be off. I’m worried she’ll try to open the door.’ She glanced anxiously up at the balcony.

  Fatima hadn’t moved an inch. She looked up as the door opened and gave Portia a wide smile, pointing at a picture and saying something.