The House in Fez Read online

  The drum of the engine and the mosquito buzz of the earphones belonging to the young Asian girl next to her made her drowsy. Last night’s sleep had been fitful, at best. A train ran alongside the motorway and random sprawls of houses gave way to a patchwork of fields. As the coach swallowed the white lines she tried to relax, but she’d got into the habit of carrying anxiety around with her like a spare cardigan. What if they were held up by an accident or a tyre blowing, and she got there too late for the flight? What if Portia wasn’t waiting for her at the terminal with the tickets?

  Before they’d passed the turn off for Northampton she’d convinced herself the visit would be a disaster, and by the time they finally joined the M25 she wondered what the driver would do if she refused to get off, if she demanded to be taken back home.

  When they pulled up outside Terminal 4, she gazed up at its huge bulk, aghast. Lord, the place was massive, like a city. Hundreds of people purposefully strode through the building. How did they know where to go? How could she find out where she was supposed to go?

  ‘Up there. Use the escalator.’ The man on the enquiries desk picked his teeth with the point of his pencil and yawned. He probably got asked daft questions all the time.

  She saw Portia’s dark head bowed over her phone. How elegant she looked—not a hair out of place, and that matching luggage must have cost a bomb. She held back, reluctant to reveal her shabby suitcase, but Portia must have sensed her presence as she looked up and waved.

  Their hug was awkward and the kiss on the cheek doubly so as they both moved in the same direction and bumped faces.

  ‘Come on,’ Portia said in a brisk voice, ‘the desk’s not open yet. Let’s have a coffee.’

  Juliet trailed behind her, admiring the well-cut trousers and long-sleeved jacket with not a crease to be seen. And how could she walk in those heels? She looked down at her own cotton skirt and blouse and felt a worm of envy for a sister who seemed to have everything—looks, money, a handsome husband and no children to worry about. But they’d both started out from the same place, the difference being that Portia carved out a career for herself while she… she just got pregnant. Twenty-four years ago. A lifetime.

  They could barely move in the café for bodies and bags, the only available table littered with sandwich wrappers and sticky with rings of spilt coffee. She slid into a seat, trying to slot their bags into a narrow gap as people jostled past. The noise had reached school dinnertime level before a scowling Portia returned with two cups of cappuccino which she banged down on the table. They sipped in silence for a moment, Juliet gripping her cup so hard her knuckles went white. What should she talk about? She’d forgotten how to be sociable. Then they both spoke at once.

  ‘Why do you think she—?’

  ‘What’s she doing in—?’

  Portia laughed and the tension eased.

  ‘You first,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Why do you think she wants us there?’ Portia stirred more sugar into her coffee, tasted it and grimaced. ‘It’s still like battery acid.’

  ‘No idea—and we’re late anyway. She wanted us there before the 26th. Her sixtieth. Don’t know why, when it was her fiftieth, I’d no idea where in the world she was.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Too bad anyway. I couldn’t get a decent flight.’ She pushed the cup away. ‘This is perfectly disgusting. When did you last see her?’

  Juliet’s forehead wrinkled. ‘I think… about two years ago. Might be three.’ It was before Jacob went so… ‘What about you?’

  ‘She bunked up in our spare room a couple of years ago—only for a week and she was out most of the time.’ She bent to pick up a dropped sugar sachet from the floor and Juliet felt a small, guilty pleasure to see the way her trousers puckered at the seams in an effort to contain her, then flushed when Portia turned and caught her looking. ‘How’s Gavin?’ she asked, feeling awkward.

  Portia shrugged. ‘Okay. How’s Darren? How’s the business?’

  Juliet grimaced. ‘Picking up a bit now. His biggest customer went bust on him. It’ll take a long time to re-build…’

  ‘And Jacob? It’s years since… he must have been, let me think—’

  ‘He’s fine. Do you think the check-in’s open yet?’

  ‘I’ll go and look at the board.’

  When she came back they gathered up their belongings and joined the queue for the Royal Air Maroc desk. Juliet experienced a rush of excitement. ‘How exotic it sounds,’ she said. ‘Via Casablanca.’

  Portia nodded. ‘Where d’you want to sit? Any preference?’

  ‘Can I sit by the window? Do you mind? I’d like to look out. I haven’t paid you yet. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Um… let me think… just over a hundred. £102. Yes, that’s it.’

  Juliet frowned. ‘Seems awfully cheap. When I looked on the—’

  ‘I have contacts.’

  Troubled, she examined her sister’s face, but her expression remained serene, innocent.

  Juliet settled on the front five inches of the seat in Departures, watching the constant flow of passengers, casting frequent glances at the overhead screen.

  There was a sheen of perspiration onPortia’s forehead and she kept dabbing at it with a tissue.

  It’s boiling in here. Why doesn’t she take off her jacket?

  ‘Juliet, I’m going to look in Duty Free. Do you want anything?’

  She shook her head, sat further back in her seat and watched Portia walk away. Things were easier with her sister than she’d expected. Now there only remained the question of their mother…

  Portia came stamping back with a bulging carrier bag and a look on her face that would stop traffic. ‘We’re delayed. For four hours, maybe more.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Who knows? I’ve been to the desk, but they’re not prepared to share their information.’

  ‘Oh dear. So we won’t arrive until… daybreak, maybe?’

  ‘Instead of just after midnight. I hope Miranda has the sense to check, or she’ll have a long wait.’

  ‘Well, if she were reachable by phone like everyone else…’

  Portia snorted. ‘When was Miranda ever like anyone else?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking. You don’t suppose she’s ill, do you? Got something dreadful and that’s why she’s—?’

  ‘What, gathering the family together to break the news she has a terminal illness? No, I do not.’ Portia pursed her lips. ‘Maybe hitting the big six-oh has released all her latent maternal feelings.’

  ‘D’you think so?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Portia

  She didn’t know which terrified her more—the surge of take-off, or the sickening reverse thrust after landing. She held her breath as Juliet gazed through the window. How could she do that? Watch the world below shrink in size? She swallowed hard. How loud the engines sounded, their steady roar like an industrial vacuum cleaner.

  ‘You all right?’ Juliet touched her arm.

  ‘I’m fine. Just fine,’ she muttered.

  Once the plane levelled out, she relaxed a little. Scraped a blob of chocolate from her trouser leg with a manicured nail and tutted. Why had she demolished that whole long toast rack of Toblerone by herself? Granted, they’d been sitting in Departures for almost six hours, but if only Juliet had eaten some of it, she wouldn’t feel quite so guilty. But she’d refused it; hadn’t, in fact, eaten anything at all.

  ‘Are you ill?’ she had asked her.

  ‘No, just can’t face anything. Darren says a change of scenery might help.’

  The seatbelt sign pinged. She needed to visit the loo, needed to offload the disgusting mound of chocolate sitting in her stomach, but didn’t feel confident enough to unbuckle her seatbelt. What if there was turbulence? All around her passengers jumped to their feet, scrabbling in overhead lockers, pulling bags out and stuffing jackets in before settling eventually with headphones and books. The child behind her kept kic
king the back of the seat. Across the aisle a man loudly crunched his way through a bag of crisps. She clenched her hands. God, how she hated noisy eaters.

  Beside her, Juliet’s eyes were closed. How could she sleep, how could anyone sleep, when they might be minutes… seconds… away from certain death? Not even on their long honeymoon flight to Bali had she been able to nod off. They’d been so happy. Or had they? Even then, she’d suspected Gavin’s unprecedented interest in badminton had more to do with the instructor’s long legs than the sport itself. That was seven long years ago, seven years since she’d sold her accountancy practice to stay at home to become a wife and stepmother.

  She watched the faint rise and fall of Juliet’s chest as she slept, her folded jumper cushioning her head against the window. How lucky she is to have a child of her own and a husband who adores her. But how thin she is. I don’t remember her being this skinny the last time I saw her. She looks like a child with her hair cut short like that. Elfin. It suits her.

  Juliet twitched and jerked in a sleep which seemed far from peaceful. And yet, although she’d never flown in her life before, always holidayed in North Wales—Portia shuddered at the very idea—she seemed to betray no fear at all, just curiosity, while her stomach clenched and knotted at any slight variation in engine noise.

  She reached out and touched Juliet’s hand gently, thinking of their hug on meeting. When was the last time—before that—when she herself had touched, or been touched, by anyone? As small children they used to climb into each other’s beds at night when they were frightened by the sound of tree branches scraping and tapping at the bedroom window, knew better than to disturb Miranda when she was studying at the kitchen table, surrounded by stacks of books and half-finished mugs of tea.

  Her thoughts turned again to Gavin. She’d never been away from him on her own before. Would he miss her? Would she miss him? There had been no goodbye. Last night she’d flounced off to bed when the girls, as usual, twined themselves round him on the settee while they watched a film, making sure there was no room left for her. This morning she’d left early while they were all asleep. Maybe she should have sent him a text? Too late now. She slid her hand into her bag, felt the reassuring shape of her phone, then closed her fingers around a mini Mars Bar.

  She had to shake her sister awake when they landed in Casablanca, and lead her, like a sleepwalker, to board their connecting flight to Fez. Within minutes of fastening her seatbelt Juliet’s eyes closed again. Why is she so exhausted? Doesn’t she sleep at home? Is she ill?

  In less than an hour she had to wake her again. ‘Juliet. Juliet, we’ll be landing soon.’

  Juliet stared at her blankly for a moment, then rubbed her eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said, and yawned until her jaw cracked.

  The dark cabin, pierced here and there by reading lights, lent an air of intimacy. Portia hesitated. ‘Why are you so tired, Juliet? Aren’t you well?’

  ‘I can’t stay asleep at home. I keep waking up and…’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Juliet sat up straight. ‘No. No, of course not.’ She fiddled with the catch on her tray. ‘I was dreaming about Miranda just now. You know, she wasn’t a bad mother. Not where it mattered.’

  ‘I suppose not. We were fed and clothed and educated. She had bugger all time for anything else really, to be fair…’

  ‘Could have made it easier for herself—why take on a private tenancy when she’d been offered a council flat?’

  ‘On a sink estate. Could you see Miranda mixing with what she’d consider riff raff?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Juliet grinned. ‘I wish though we’d… why would she never talk about her parents? All our friends had grannies and grandpas, and we had nobody. Except her. And each other.’

  ‘I’m going to ask her. I’ll shall demand an answer this time, not let her fob me off again.’

  ‘Maybe you can find out who our father is too.’

  ‘I don’t think she knows that herself.’ Portia replied with a grin. ‘Hey, remember all those pub tables we sat at with colouring books and bags of crisps while she ran around with the mop and bucket?’

  ‘And that big old house she cooked at. We had to hide in the pantry if we heard anyone coming down the stairs.’

  Portia’s smile faded. ‘It must have been tough for her, on her own like that. Studying all night, working all day.’

  ‘She made the most of it, though, once we were off her hands. Gadding off all over the world.’

  ‘A strange childhood, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly was. Surprised we’re not screwed up.’

  A blanket of noise enveloped the arrivals hall; the rumble of voices, the scraping sound of a walkie-talkie. Bags were disgorged, reborn through the flap in the wall, dropping onto the carousel with a thud. Waiting passengers huddled together, watching the cases, darting forward to claim theirs before it whizzed past to begin another circuit. There were few Europeans. Most people, men and women, were dressed in Moroccan jellabas, full-length robes in various colours with hoods. A man was coughing, bent double over his knees, and a harassed-looking woman paced up and down, a screaming baby draped over her shoulder like a shawl.

  Portia felt a dreadful thirst. Her teeth were coated in chocolate. She kept imagining iced lemonade, Pimm’s with mint leaves and slices of fruit, anything, but she couldn’t see a vending machine anywhere. Self loathing gripped her. Why had she eaten yet more chocolate? She really must try to sort herself out.

  ‘Quick.’ Juliet darted forward to grab her case and then Portia’s, overbalanced with the weight and landed in a crumpled and undignified heap on the floor.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Portia held out a hand and hauled her back on to her feet.

  ‘Just embarrassed.’ She dusted herself down, pink faced. ‘Everyone’s staring.’

  ‘They’re looking at your legs. They don’t see a lot of bare flesh here.’

  ‘Oh, heavens. Should I have worn trousers?’

  ‘Probably. Did you bring some?’

  She nodded. ‘In my case. I didn’t think.’

  Portia barged her way through a clamouring crowd of porters doing their utmost to separate her from her luggage. Faces pushed in front of hers. Heads wearing skullcaps of all colours, dark eyes, moving lips, decaying teeth. Hands snatched at her bags. She batted them away, ploughed forward, head down, trying not to inhale too deeply the smell of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.

  ‘Take your hands off me.’ Her voice rose above the hubbub, but the man persisted. She threw him aside and marched to the exit, Juliet scuttling along in her wake.

  It was still dark outside, the air filled with strange, unidentifiable odours. She looked one way and then the other, coughing in the exhaust fumes, buffeted by the river of people heading out into the early morning.

  There was no sign of Miranda.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MAY 27th

  Juliet

  It didn’t seem such an adventure now.

  Portia looked heavenwards. ‘This is just so typical.’

  Juliet peered into the darkness. ‘Wherever can she be?’ She watched the sea of red brake lights as cars pulled in, filled with passengers and luggage, then drove away. Whatever were they going to do if Miranda didn’t turn up? She glanced at Portia. The scowl on her face deterred her from asking the question. The crowds had thinned as the sky lightened, dawn painting the first strokes of pink across the sky. She jumped as a nasal whine filled the air, rising to a chant. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s only the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the mosque. It’s sunrise.’

  There weren’t many other people around now—even the taxi drivers and porters had admitted defeat and departed. The fug of exhaust fumes faded, replaced by a drift of wood smoke, a faint waft of sewage. Just one family group now, waiting with a mountain of cases. One of the women wore black, head to toe, only her eyes showing. Another in jeans and a long tunic top held a sleeping baby. An old man smo
ked furiously, lighting another cigarette before grinding out the butt of the previous one beneath the heel of his shoe. He shouted into a phone.

  ‘I wonder where she is,’ Juliet said.

  ‘God only knows.’

  ‘Maybe we should phone…’

  ‘When has she ever answered her phone?’

  A fleet of people carriers drew up, and amidst much bellowing from the cigarette man and squeals from the woken baby, the family members and their luggage were loaded and the cortege sped away.

  The sisters were alone now. Flies zoomed towards them, fastening on their lips and eyes. A crow flapped heavily across a sky of crimson and saffron.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Juliet asked in a small voice.

  ‘We’ll give her a bit longer, then we’ll find ourselves a nice hotel…’

  Oh God, I don’t have the money for a hotel.

  ‘After all, we don’t know her address. What else can we do?’

  I wish I’d stayed at home. It was a mad idea, coming here. Total lunacy.

  ‘Hang on…’ Portia shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting into the rising sun. ‘Surely to God that’s not her.’

  They watched the approaching figure.

  ‘It is, you know,’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘God Almighty.’

  Their mother had never been one to bow to convention, but even in the distance, her sparkling purple kaftan and spiky blonde hair were startling.

  ‘What’s she done to herself?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Dunno—her chest was flatter than mine the last time I saw her. Oh my God, she’s had a boob job!’ Juliet stared at the round, jaunty breasts, which didn’t move as their mother ran towards them.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, puffing a little. ‘The traffic…’ They all stood awkwardly for a moment, like actors waiting for a prompt, before she gave them each a peck on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you… good journey?’ Without waiting for an answer, she turned away again. ‘I’ve had to park miles away.’