The House in Fez Page 18

  ‘You choose what you’d like to wear.’ He gave her a blank look, so she lifted him out of the bed, stood him by the chest and pointed inside it. While he foraged she stripped the sheets and dropped them in a heap on the tiled floor. She could see to them later.

  Hasan shivered as she held him under the shower, rubbed soap on him, then rinsed him off. She switched off the water, then dried the boy briskly with a rough towel.

  ‘Soon have you warm again. Stand still while I comb your hair.’

  Sunlight slid over the rooftops, its fingers lengthening and reaching out as he sat at the table under the fig tree, eating bread and honey and licking his fingers. She sat down beside him and rubbed his back.

  ‘Everything is going to be all right,’ she said.

  His blank eyes met hers. I wish I knew his language. I wish I could reach him.

  Outside the school he looked forlorn, faltered at the door, and she thought he’d refuse to go in.

  She gave him a bright smile and a hug. ‘See you soon.’

  He went, looking back over his shoulder at her until the door closed behind him. She dashed back to the riad, checked the workmen had arrived and were actually doing something, looked in the kitchen to see what she needed to buy for dinner, collected the wet sheets and stuffed them in the washer, then ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

  Portia lay in bed, the cover pulled over her head. Irritation flared in Juliet and she kicked the remains of the broken clock into a corner.

  ‘Portia?’ She tried to keep her voice even but it rose to a shriek. ‘Portia!’

  Nothing, no reaction at all. She grabbed the cover and ripped it away from Portia who groaned and turned her face into the pillow.

  ‘Leave me alone, Jules. I can’t face the world today.’

  ‘Well that’s just tough, Portia, because there is so much to do and I can’t possibly do it all on my own.’

  ‘Just go away, please.’

  Juliet gritted her teeth. ‘I’m going nowhere. Get a grip, get your arse out of bed and help me.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m warning you. Shift yourself or I’ll tip you onto the floor.’

  Portia turned over and sat up, pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘Okay, okay. Chill.’

  Portia

  Portia watched Hasan’s sheets churning and sloshing in the washing machine. Off and on for the whole of last night she had worried about him being apart from his mother, and about Fatima being back in the sweatshop alone. Maybe she should never have interfered? Yet how could she have walked away from a sick child? An ache grew inside her like a blackening bruise. How had everything gone so wrong? What was she doing with her life? Just what had she achieved?

  The washing cycle came to an end. She pulled out the bedding and stuffed it into the wicker laundry basket. As she straightened, the room swam around her and she had to put out a hand to steady herself. Hardly surprising, she thought irritably. That’s what three hours of threadbare sleep did for you. She hoisted the basket onto her hip, went outside and paused for a moment in the courtyard, lifting her face up to the rays of the sun.

  God, that feels so good. How I love sunshine. I wither and fade without it. If only things were better here so I never needed to go home again.

  The heat on the roof hit her like a hammer blow, the sky clearer these days without the usual daytime smoke from cooking fires. A white line drawn by a plane had drifted into woolliness and the sun seemed to have swollen to several times its usual size. She squinted in the glare as she pegged the sheets to the line, then frowned as the phone in her pocket buzzed. Oh Lord, not Gavin again.

  ‘Hello,’ she said resignedly.

  ‘You’ve not been answering my messages. Is everything all right, sweetie?’

  Sweetie. Where in God’s name did that come from? When does he ever call me sweetie?

  ‘I’m fine,’ and then, belatedly, ‘you?’

  ‘Missing you. The girls have been asking after you.’

  What? When had the girls ever asked about her?

  ‘Come home, Portia.’ His tone sounded almost wheedling. ‘You’ve been away long enough. I know things haven’t been great recently, but I do love you.’

  She took the phone from her ear and stared at it, hardly able to believe what she heard. After all this time…

  ‘Hello, hello? You still there, Portia?’

  ‘Yes. And what about Melanoma… Melanie?’

  In the silence she heard the muezzin. Midday prayers. In a minute all the men would be hot-footing it to the mosque. Not so many women though, for some reason.

  ‘It’s over, Portia and I’m—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ll come home when I’m ready, but I won’t be staying.’ She hung up, switched off her phone, and stood still for several minutes, overwhelmed with shock. None of that had been planned or rehearsed, but how good it felt now it had been said. Happier than she had been for a good while, she pegged out the rest of the washing then ran down the stairs to the kitchen where Juliet stood over a mound of potatoes, a peeler in her hand.

  ‘Hi, Jules. Aren’t you getting fed up doing all the cooking?’

  ‘Why? Are you offering to take over?’ she asked sharply, not looking up.

  Portia’s euphoria faded. ‘No. I’ve seen to the washing and now I’m going to take some food to the children.’

  ‘Did you check on the workmen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re working… just about.’

  Silence.

  Portia spun around and slammed the kitchen door behind her.

  Not all the shops in the medina were open, and those that were had reduced their opening hours. People shuffled wearily along, hypoglycaemic, dehydrated and grumpy. A bicycle rattled past her on the dusty lane and two boys played an energetic game of football. The baker looked grey with exhaustion as he flicked away flies and clicked his worry beads through his fingers. She bought most of his flatbreads, but rather than looking pleased, an air of martyrdom seemed to settle over him, since he would now have to set to and produce more.

  The children jumped to their feet and ran to her when she opened the door. Handing out the bread, she scanned the eager faces for Fatima. Where was she? And then, with relief, she saw her tiny form in the corner. Why hadn’t she been working? She gave Portia a shy smile and snatched the flatbread, gobbled it down almost without chewing. Her new frock had stains on it now, and creases, but she was still the best-dressed child in the room. Portia looked past her, to the dirty blanket. Where had the sleeping bag gone? And the other dress and the colouring things?

  ‘Where is it?’ She pointed to the corner, but the children shrugged and shook their heads. So Fatima was back, already, sleeping on the hard stone floor. Would there be any point in buying her more bedding? Of course not. She looked at the child more closely—she seemed well enough, ate with a good appetite and had stayed relatively clean. Still, she wanted to do more for her. But what? Take her back again? Samir would go ballistic. Give her money? It would doubtless be taken from her, like the bedding. Bring her food? She was doing that already. How could she help her?

  As the hopelessness of the situation sank in, anger surged through her body like the red-hot embers of a fire. It had been there all along, glinting under the grey ash, awaiting the slightest stir to fuel it into brilliant, lashing flame.

  Her head throbbed as she ate a late lunch with Juliet and Hasan under the tree. Nobody spoke. The only sounds came from a knife on a plate, and the cat as Portia caught it with her foot. It yowled, and a ridge of fur lifted along its back. It unsheathed its claws and swiped a paw at her ankle, raising beads of blood.

  ‘Shit, that hurt. Vicious bloody thing. Shouldn’t be lurking around the table when people are eating.’ Her chair scraped on the tiles as she leapt up and went to the staircase.

  Up on the roof, she unpegged the washing, dropped it into the basket and stared, unsee
ing, across the rooftops of the medina. She felt sick. The anger inside her for Fatima’s plight, for the plight of hungry children all over the world, was a painful thing. It burned her stomach.

  How could she bear it? The injustice, the misery, the poverty? She left the washing on the roof and went to the bedroom. She bent over her bed and took out the knife from under the mattress.

  Juliet

  Late afternoon and the day’s heat still hung lifelessly over the courtyard as Juliet sat topping and tailing beans for the evening meal. Lalla was watching television—when did she ever do anything else?—and Hasan knelt nearby, playing with his cars and crashing them into each other. At every sound from the medina, he looked towards the door, but it was never his father.

  Poor child, he must think his mother’s gone forever. I’m sure it would be better if he could just see her.

  She glanced upwards. Was Portia in the bedroom? Out in the medina? A little worm of worry began to eat away at her. She half got up from the chair, then sank back down. Portia would have to sort herself out. But, hang on a minute, wasn’t she supposed to be keeping an eye on the workmen?

  For pity’s sake, do I have to do everything around here?

  She pushed open the door to the Yellow Room and peered in. Great. Wonderful. Three men were in there and each one of them was curled up against the wall, snoring. Samir would go berserk. She moved towards the nearest one who had black caterpillar eyebrows and a fierce expression, even in repose, then stopped. Sod it. It wasn’t down to her to keep every aspect of this bloody place going. Not my circus, not my monkeys. She marched back out, let the door crash shut behind her.

  Hasan stood on a wooden box in the kitchen watching her break up the lumps in the cooked couscous prior to steaming it again. She felt quite adept now at Moroccan cuisine—well, perhaps adept was an overstatement—but everyone cleared their plates now, even Lalla. She winked at Hasan and he tried to wink back but could only do it with both eyes. When she laughed, he scowled and tried harder, then, as tears of frustration threatened she picked him up and hugged him.

  A shadow fell in the doorway. Lalla. Her gaze swept the kitchen, settled on the box of dates put out ready to break Samir’s fast at sunset, and her eyes glistened. As she swooped on them, Juliet snatched them away, took off the lid and tipped some into a dish for her. She glowered, but took them and waddled away.

  ‘Hasan?’ Samir stood by the medina door, bending to take off his shoes. The child raced out of the kitchen, across the courtyard and grabbed his father around the knees.

  Juliet followed him, looked into Samir’s eyes and raised her eyebrows in query. He gave a slight shake of his head as he picked Hasan up. ‘She is still unconscious.’

  Juliet stirred the lamb tagine, mixed in the apricots and prunes evenly and then tasted it. Pretty damn good, if she did say so herself. She took the dishes out and they all sat to eat in the courtyard, stars studding the night sky and sounds of music and conversations floating in from the medina. A pale moth with a fat, furry body fumbled at the glass shade of the lamp, trying to get inside. She watched it, thinking about her sister. Why hadn’t she come for dinner? Was she all right? It was no good, she couldn’t just leave her. She served Hasan a bowl of tagine then muttered an excuse and ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

  The air in the room was hot and still. Sweat prickled in the roots of her hair as she stood by the door until her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. Her sister lay on the bed, covered entirely by the sheet.

  ‘Portia,’ she said softly. ‘Dinner’s ready.’ A mosquito whined by her ear and she slapped at it. ‘Portia.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Please, Portia…’ She perched on the side of the bed.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Nobody can help me.’

  ‘I’m sure if you—’

  ‘Just go.’

  Back downstairs Samir gave her an enquiring look. She shrugged and picked up her spoon, then took a mouthful. The food had become tasteless. What if she’s cutting again? It was no good, she couldn’t eat the tagine, couldn’t get it past the lump in her throat. She tried some fruit instead; melon, cool and moist.

  Maybe she should phone Gavin. He was her husband, after all. But what could he do all that distance away? And would he care? Maybe he would come here, to Fez. That would be a plan, it might bring them closer.

  And maybe it would make things a whole lot worse.

  Should she phone Darren, ask him what he thought? But he barely knew Portia, would probably tell her to take care of herself and forget about problems she couldn’t solve.

  ‘What did you say?’ She looked over at Samir. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘I asked about Portia. What is her problem? Are you worried about her?’

  ‘I am a bit.’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘It would be best if Miranda came back, I think. She is her mother after all.’

  ‘It’s not… we have never been close to Miranda.’

  ‘But surely, she is your mother.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  Samir’s phone rang and he snatched it up, stared at the display, then leapt to his feet and tore up the stairs. He stood on the balcony speaking rapidly in Arabic for a minute and then he called out, ‘She is conscious. Zina has woken.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JUNE 12th

  Portia

  Light bled in through the gaps in the shutters. God, what time is it? A fly buzzed in lazy circles around her as she struggled to sit up, head banging. Shit, my arm hurts. She gently eased back the cuff of her top to reveal the blood-encrusted bandage. The fly, attracted by the smell, zoomed in that direction and her stomach lurched. She felt confused, couldn’t think straight. Things had been getting better, hadn’t they? So why had she cut?

  The fog in her mind began to clear bit by bit, and then the memories came creeping back like spiders moving slowly out of corners. Tears stung her eyes. She shook her head. What’s done is done. She’d have to get up and clean the cut before it got infected. And when had she last eaten? She couldn’t remember.

  The smell of warm blood rose from her arm and made her retch, but nothing came up. There was no saliva in her mouth to moisten her dry lips. The water bottle had long since been emptied, and now lay on its side by the candle.

  She swung her legs to the ground, then closed her eyes as the room tilted. After a moment things settled and carefully she pulled on a pair of cotton trousers, then had to rest for several minutes before she could stand.

  God, I stink—stale sweat, blood, greasy hair.

  She longed for a shower, but needed first to bathe her arm with boiled water, clean it up a bit. Please let Juliet be out shopping or something. Steadying herself with a hand on the wall, she went to the door and opened it, blinking in the glare. One step at a time, a hand on each wall to support herself, she walked down the stairs. At the bottom she had to sit and put her head between her knees until the rushing noise in her ears stopped.

  The kitchen was empty. Thank you, God. She put water on to boil, and while she waited took milk from the fridge, poured a glass and drank it down without pausing. She refilled the glass and picked up a handful of dates. When she’d gathered herself, she would go and see the children, take more food. Maybe she could find some of these delicious dates for them and more nuts.

  A cold feeling filled her throat, then with a great whoosh, the milk reappeared. She just made it to the sink in time and, when she’d spat out the last of it, turned on the tap and washed it away. Maybe water would have been more sensible. She tried it, one small sip at a time. Although her stomach threatened to rebel, she managed to keep it down.

  When she’d cleaned the cut, which still oozed blood, she balanced a pad of gauze on it, then wound plenty of sticking plaster around her arm. Now, at last, she could have a shower. Holding her arm out of the way, she washed her hair with one hand. Tricky. She was unsur
e how thoroughly she’d rinsed it but it certainly seemed a whole heap better, and she began to feel halfway human again with just the faintest glimmer of optimism.

  Back in the courtyard there was still no sign of Juliet. What was the time? The shadows had shortened considerably so it must be going on for midday. Presumably Hasan would still be at school. Why was everywhere so quiet? She poked her head around the door of the Yellow Room. No workmen, only an all-pervading smell of wet plaster. Could it be Friday, the Muslim day off? She had no idea what day of the week it was. She tried a couple more of the downstairs rooms, releasing clouds of dust and dead insects as she opened their doors. One room held nothing but a ripped chair leaking sawdust and rusty springs; the other had been used to store trestles and stepladders.

  She made herself a pot of coffee, then found a stale baguette in the fridge and spread it with cheese. Maybe Juliet would be back soon and she could make peace with her. The poor thing had tried so hard to talk to her, help her, and she’d rebuffed her every time. It wasn’t as though she had so many friends she could afford to be careless of them. She must put things right between them.

  The bread proved to be too hard to chew so she dunked it in her coffee, but the soft cheese floated on the hot liquid in greasy globules and her stomach turned uneasily. Best to abandon it. She wondered what time it was. She had left her phone in the bedroom and God alone knew what had happened to her watch.

  The medina door opened and her heart lifted. Hopefully it would be her sister. She stood up, watching the door, then sat back down with a bump when she saw it was Miranda.

  After a brief hesitation she got up again and went to her mother. Miranda allowed herself to be embraced, but gave nothing back.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming back today,’ Portia said. ‘Samir didn’t mention it.’