The House in Fez Page 20

  ‘Speaking of mosques,’ Portia said, ‘Why don’t you—or women in general—go to prayers every five minutes like the men?’

  Miranda looked at her a full minute before responding. ‘Because women’s prayers aren’t as… valuable.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘I must get started on preparing tonight’s food.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’ Portia asked.

  Juliet blinked.

  Miranda seemed equally startled. ‘Er… no, I can manage. But thanks for the offer.’

  When she’d gone, Portia stood up too. ‘I need to go out after I’ve had a shower.’

  ‘Can I come with you? Now I’m not needed to cook.’

  ‘I’m only going to look for bandages.’

  Juliet’s gaze dropped to her sister’s arm and her stomach lurched. ‘Okay. What about your flight? Are you… will you stay?’

  ‘Do you know, I think I’ll leave it another day or so.’ She grinned. ‘I feel a whole lot better now I’ve said my piece to Miranda and made a decision about Gavin.’

  ‘What decision?’

  ‘I’m leaving him.’

  Portia

  She pulled a plastic bag over her hand and secured it gently with an elastic band, then held her arm away from her as she showered. Her thoughts turned once again to Miranda—she still found it difficult not to harbour resentful feelings. All those years when she’d had nobody, before Gavin came on the scene. Juliet hadn’t been alone. She’d had Darren and Jacob.

  And yet… how tough she must find it, not knowing her son’s whereabouts, waking every morning to wonder if he’d passed a safe night. If only she could help her, do something. She stopped in the middle of rinsing her hair. Maybe she could. What if she offered to pay for a private investigator to search him out? She could well afford it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could find him? But would Juliet let her?

  She dried herself with the rough towel, being extra careful around her wrist. The cut didn’t look quite so livid now. A few more salt washes and fresh bandages, then with a bit of luck all would be well.

  Juliet was waiting for her in the courtyard and Portia felt a sudden blaze of joy. How good to have a friend, to have someone on your side. She ran across to her and gathered her up in a hug.

  ‘Wow! What did I do to deserve that?’ she squeaked, flushing.

  ‘Just glad you’re around, Jules. Imagine—I nearly didn’t come to Morocco.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I’m still none too sure about our mother, but I’m so pleased you’re here. We’re mates.’ She felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps she was assuming too much. ‘We are mates, aren’t we?’

  ‘Course we are, you daft thing. Right, you ready?’ She looked at Portia’s hair dripping down her back.

  ‘It’ll soon dry out. And I’m suitably attired for Ramadan, swathed in clothing chin to shin, so let’s be off.’

  They had to wait several minutes as dusty workmen unloaded sacks from a line of donkeys and heaved them across the courtyard and into the Yellow Room.

  ‘Wonder what’s in the bags,’ Juliet said. ‘They’ve already finished the plastering.’

  ‘It’s probably lime and cement. They mix it with water to make undercoat.’ She watched with sympathy as sweat ran freely down their tired faces. ‘They look exhausted, poor buggers.’

  The lanes were deserted and eerily silent as the city recovered from the previous night’s excesses. Many shops and lock-ups remained shuttered, a forlorn air hanging over them.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘Sleeping, I should think. Too knackered to make the effort.’ She felt in her bag for coins as a blind beggar turned his empty eyes towards her, holding out his hand. ‘Come on, let’s try up that lane there.’

  It took a little searching, but eventually they found what looked to be a general store. Its owner, slumped on a sack of couscous outside it, yawned widely to reveal a mouthful of yellowed stumps. Portia pulled up her sleeve and showed him the dressing on her arm. He grunted, heaved himself up and disappeared into the dim recesses of the shop. When he reappeared and thrust a dust-covered roll of bandage at Portia, Juliet pulled her away. ‘You can’t buy that. Just look at the state of it.’

  ‘Hobson’s choice. It’s well wrapped—I think.’ She blew away the worst of the grime and sneezed. ‘Look, it’s all right underneath.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Portia grinned. ‘Not really, but it will have to do.’

  Once she’d paid, she glanced at Juliet then looked up and down the narrow street. ‘I wonder where we are.’

  Juliet’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Are we lost? Don’t you know the way back?’

  She laughed and the sound echoed around the empty lanes. ‘I’m winding you up. Look, over there—it’s the Nejjarine Musee which is really close to the kids’ sweatshop. Would you like to meet them?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘We’ll have to buy some goodies for them first. If we can find anywhere open.’

  ‘There’s a sort of cart thing over there, can you see it? He’s got food.’

  As they got nearer the smell of roast chickpeas made Portia’s stomach growl. ‘This’ll do nicely.’

  ‘How come he’s selling food when it’s Ramadan?’

  ‘Kids are allowed to eat, and pregnant women. And oldies—though I doubt they’d have the teeth for these.’

  By the time the man had filled enough newspaper cones, his stock had been almost exhausted. Portia tried to ignore the dried-out husks of dead flies in the corner of his barrow. ‘Come on, Jules, they’re going to love these.’

  The children jumped to her feet when she pushed open the door, then surged forward and snatched the food. The sound of crunching filled the room.

  ‘This is my sister,’ Portia said. ‘Ma soeur.’

  A small boy edged forward to touch Juliet’s arm and she bent to stroke his cropped head.

  Fatima ran to Portia and hugged her around her knees, then looked up and smiled at her, displaying her tiny, white teeth.

  She looks all right. Maybe I overreacted and now she’s recovered she’ll be okay. She has a roof over her head, gets a wage, however small, and has other children around her.

  ‘It’s all such a relief,’ she suddenly burst out.

  ‘What? What is?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Everything. Fatima’s all right. I’ve got it off my chest with Miranda. I’m going to leave Gavin. I feel positive for the first time in years.’

  ‘You’re really going to do it?’

  ‘I am. I should have done it years ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ A child tugged at her trousers and she bent to pick him up.

  ‘Don’t know… yes, I do. I think I needed someone to blame. I could claim he was holding me back, stopping me achieving my full potential.’

  ‘And now you’ve found the will, the energy?’

  ‘I think so… I hope so.’

  The boy in Juliet’s arms had been ferreting in her shoulder bag and now pulled out a picture in a plastic case. She snatched it away from him and he cowered away.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She cuddled him. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Portia asked curiously.

  ‘A photo of Jacob taken two Christmases ago.’ Her voice thickened. ‘I didn’t know when I took it that I’d never see him again.’

  ‘Oh, Jules.’ She put an arm around her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking. Can I… will you let me get someone to find him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An investigator, maybe the Sally Army, whatever it takes…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Darren says he’s old enough to make his own decisions and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m afraid of what I might find.’

  As she gingerly eased her arm into the sleeve of a clean top, ready to go down to dinner, shouts echoed outside. Still half
dressed, she ran out on to the balcony and peered down into the courtyard to see Miranda and Samir talking urgently.

  Samir looked up. ‘Hasan? Is he with you?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him since…’

  He shot across to Lalla’s door and pounded on it until she opened it, then spoke urgently to her. She put her hands to her cheeks and shook her head.

  Portia dragged on her trousers, then raced down the stairs in her bare feet, felt the day’s heat still in the tiles, found Juliet opening doors and checking inside each room.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Juliet turned a white face towards her.

  The sun had slipped down the sky now. Sunset bands of violet and iron vanished as darkness cloaked the city.

  ‘He’s not here. We’ve checked everywhere.’ Samir’s eyes were wild.

  Portia smelt the fear on him.

  He darted to the door and then his whole body sagged. ‘His shoes are gone.’

  Portia and Juliet exchanged glances.

  ‘He is not allowed to go outside alone—he knows he must not—’ Samir’s voice cracked.

  Miranda ran to his side. ‘We’ll find him. You go one way and I’ll go the other. We’ll find him.’

  He nodded, knuckles whitening as he gripped his phone.

  ‘We’ll all come,’ Juliet said.

  ‘No. Someone must stay here in case he comes back. Lalla is still not well.’ He scrabbled amongst the line of shoes until he found his own, then forced his feet into them and dashed through the door, followed by Miranda.

  ‘You stay here, Jules,’ Portia called over her shoulder as she pulled on her shoes. ‘I’ll go.’

  The night was black and pungent, heat pushing against her face like a pillow, the lanes and alleys a blanket of noise. Now the day’s fasting had ended, every shop had opened, every person had emerged from their home to eat, drink and party.

  She elbowed her way through the press of people, looking from left to right, searching for Hasan’s small shape. Smoke from cooking fires clawed the back of her throat, her clothes stuck to her body with sweat, but nowhere could she see the child. Up and down, through narrow alleys which were corridors of dampness, where unshaded lamps cast leering shadows, through heaving thoroughfares filled with food smells, music and laughter. Twice she met Miranda, who shook her head before hurrying past, her expression set and tense.

  Is she responsible for Hasan when his mother’s not around? Will she be blamed for this?

  Another street, another lane. Had she been going round in circles? Did it matter if she had? Maybe he’d been kidnapped. Did that happen here? Would there be a ransom demand? But surely… how could they have gotten into the riad when the door was always locked, often bolted, too? And why would they bother taking his shoes?

  And then she saw him. He was cradled in the arms of a tall man wearing an impeccably white jellaba and crocheted skullcap.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled at the top of her voice, shouldering her way through the startled crowd, tripping, falling to the ground, then picking herself back up and throwing herself on the man, grasping a handful of his robe so he couldn’t escape. ‘Give him to me. Now.’

  He recoiled, but when Hasan held his arms out to Portia, the man handed him to her. ‘Lost,’ he said. ‘He was lost.’

  ‘Sorry, I am so sorry. I didn’t…’

  He shrugged, straightened his clothing, and stalked away.

  She unpeeled the child’s arms from around her neck and held him away from her so she could look into his face. ‘Are you okay, Hasan?’

  White tear tracks showed on his grubby cheeks, but he was smiling.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Mama.’ Tears filled his eyes.

  Has he been looking for her? I told Samir he should take him to the hospital. Well he bloody well will now, if it’s the last living thing I accomplish.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home.’ As she settled him on her hip, she saw the back of Samir’s head in the crowd ahead of her. ‘Samir,’ she shouted. ‘Samir.’

  He turned and light filled his face as he spotted his son. He fought his way through the crowd and put his arms around them both. She breathed in his smell of soap and tobacco and rested against him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JUNE 14th

  Juliet

  She lay in bed listening to the rumble of voices downstairs. Soon it would be light and she could get up. Her heart ached for Hasan. Poor little boy. And then Jacob filled her thoughts. Talking about him to Portia had made it all so real again, re-opened the wound. It hadn’t been so very long ago when a large part of her had wanted to die, when she’d viewed the world through a haze of grief and Aldi own-brand sherry.

  Portia’s body formed a shadowy hump in the bed next to her. Was she really asleep or in hiding again? Last night, after Hasan had been found, she’d seemed subdued, all her earlier exuberance extinguished. What had happened to change her? Her sister had always been a person to approach with extreme caution, but these mood swings were wearisome.

  Sleep pulled her back down again like a tide and when she next awoke bright sunlight was spilling through the shutters and Portia was on the edge of her bed, biting her lips and screwing her eyes closed as she unwound her bandage.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Juliet whispered, rubbing her face as she struggled to sit up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, let me.’ She clambered out of bed and sat beside her, taking her arm in both of her hands. Portia snatched it back.

  Let me in. Let me help you, let me be a sister to you.

  Neither of them spoke. Juliet tried again and this time her sister didn’t struggle, although she turned her head away.

  Portia inhaled sharply as Juliet unravelled the bandage. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ The smell of dried blood, its copper tang, made her want to retch so she held her breath as she gently removed the bandage and then, bit by bit and swallowing hard, peeled back the gauze. It was better than she’d expected—the wound was red, livid in fact, but there seemed to be no sign of infection. What undid her, though, was the row of scars marching up Portia’s arm, like herring bones, silvery and thin. Tears scalded her eyes. All those years she was cutting and there was nobody to help her, apart from Gavin in the early days and it sounds as though he soon gave up.

  When she’d applied the fresh dressing, Portia still wouldn’t meet her eyes, just muttered, ‘Thanks, Jules,’ in a gruff voice.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Thank you for letting me help, letting me in.’

  They sprang apart at a rap on the door. Juliet gave a nervous laugh as she opened it.

  ‘Morning, girls.’ Miranda’s glance moved between them before settling on the bright white bandage on Portia’s arm.

  ‘Good morning, Miranda,’ Juliet said, moving to block her view of Portia. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘We’re all going to the hospital this morning to see Zina. Would you like to come?’

  ‘Is everybody going?’

  ‘Yes, a family visit.’

  ‘What, even Attila?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Attila? Who’s Attila?’

  ‘I mean Lalla.’

  Miranda grinned. ‘Yes, even Lalla.’

  ‘I’d love to come.’ Juliet felt a surge of joy. It would be so good to see Zina again, pick up their friendship. She turned to Portia, who shook her head.

  ‘Not me,’ she said. ‘Count me out.’

  Miranda gave her a sharp look. ‘Okay then. In that case, would you mind going shopping? We’ve got the extended family coming for dinner tonight.’

  ‘To look us over?’

  ‘Well, to a degree, but mainly because it’s Ramadan. Everyone gets together at Ramadan.’

  ‘No problem. Give me a list and I’ll go. Where are they all going to sit?’

  ‘We can bring all the chairs and tables out into the courtyard. If there aren’t enough, we can borrow a f
ew more.’

  When Miranda had left, Portia pursed her lips. ‘She’s really entering into the spirit, isn’t she? A visit to wife number one, followed by an evening with the whole tribe.’

  ‘She seems happy, though. Be kind to her, Portia.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She laughed. ‘Isn’t she going back to England—now she knows I wasn’t worth rushing back for?’

  Juliet felt a ripple of irritation and tried to damp it down. ‘Not till things are sorted with Zina,’ she said, keeping her voice level.

  ‘It might have suited Miranda better if Zina had died.’

  She stared at her, appalled. ‘I’m sure she never…’

  ‘But if she had, Samir would have needed another wife, one of childbearing age.’

  What is it with her today? Why so bitter, so sour?

  In the late afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and the air cooled a little, Juliet helped Samir carry out the tables and chairs. He looked less drawn now that Zina seemed to be on the mend.

  ‘Hasan was very interested in the bottles and tubes, wasn’t he?’ he said, his expression softening. ‘He did not want to leave his mother, though.’

  ‘You’ll take him again?’

  ‘Yes, I will take him every day. If we go in the afternoons he will not have to miss school. Right, I think we have enough chairs.’ He pushed the workmen’s trestles against the far wall to make more space. ‘Tomorrow the men start on another room, removing tiles, while the carpenter makes new window frames for the Yellow Room.’

  ‘It’s going to be so beautiful.’

  ‘It is.’ His eyes shone as he turned to her. ‘Juliet, I want to thank you for helping me.’

  ‘Oh, it’s only a few chairs…’

  ‘No, no, no, not just this.’ He dismissed the furniture with a wave of his hand. ‘You have been cooking, shopping, washing, looking after Hasan. I am grateful.’

  Miranda bustled out from the kitchen, bearing a large platter of food swathed in tinfoil. ‘We’re both grateful. You were a star while I was away, from what I’ve been hearing.’