The House in Fez Page 8

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

  Raising her head, she looked into Miranda’s worried face. Could I talk to her? Could I tell her?

  She sat up straight. ‘I’m fine. Really. Just thinking.’

  Miranda fiddled with a loose thread on her kaftan, tangerine today. ‘I know I’ve not always been there for you—either of you—but I hope…’ Her eyes darkened. ‘If you ever need…’

  Juliet tried hard to smile, wished she could confide in her mother, but it was years too late. She could no longer get into the places in her head where the right words are stored. ‘I’m okay.’ Casting around for a change of subject, she nodded towards the kitchen. ‘However in the world do you produce meals in that… cupboard?’

  Miranda pulled out a chair, and as she sat down the cat leapt onto her knees. ‘It can be a bit of a challenge. An ancient cooker and not much else.’

  ‘But you’ll have a new kitchen? When the work starts?’

  ‘It will be last on the list,’ she said ruefully. ‘Anyway, everything I need is out there in the medina. Fresh fruit, vegetables, meat—although I have to buy that at the crack of dawn before the flies lay claim.’

  A pigeon fluttered to the ground, watched closely by the cat, and strutted across the courtyard. Juliet watched it foraging for crumbs. ‘Life is much simpler here.’

  Miranda studied her nails for a moment, then looked up. ‘Yes, it is. Mostly.’

  A shaft of sunlight angled across her, revealing dark shadows under her eyes, and veins standing out on the backs of her hands like soft, blue worms.

  Poor Miranda. Despite the facelift and all the work she’s had done, she must surely be twice his age. How difficult it must be for her.

  ‘Juliet, I hope you will stay for longer than a week, much longer. The slower pace of life here, it might help you… if you need help. Right.’ She put the cat back on the ground and the pigeon took to the air with a clap of wings. ‘Must get on. There’s a mound of pistachios waiting to be chopped.’

  At the kitchen door she turned back, frowned. ‘Weren’t you and Portia going out?’

  ‘Yes. She’s probably upstairs.’ The chair grated across the tiles as she stood up and the cat stalked away, looking offended. ‘I’ll go and find her. Maybe she’s forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t forget to take the address card out with you when you go,’ Miranda called.

  Juliet tapped on the bathroom door, then pushed it open. A strong smell of Jeyes Fluid met her and there was a gurgle from the drain, but no Portia. She climbed the stairs, beads of sweat gathering on her forehead. It was hot already. The air in the dim bedroom was close, stifling, and a sliver of sunlight sliced through the shutters, illuminating a snowstorm of whirling dust motes.

  She spotted Portia’s shoulder bag slumped on her bed, and worry niggled at her, forming a knot in her stomach. Why would she leave it behind? After a moment’s hesitation, she opened it to reveal a purse, a phone—and an address card. Surely she hadn’t gone out without it?

  Oh no. She’s run after Samir.

  The knot in her stomach grew tighter. Her sister had always been the impulsive one, all through their childhood, in one scrape after another at school. Portia does not appear to realise that actions have consequences… Miranda had stared at the letter from the headmistress with exasperation. ‘Why can’t you be more like Juliet?’ she had asked. ‘Sensible.’

  Not sensible at all, Juliet thought, just scared to death the whole time of what life would throw at her.

  What if Samir caught her? He’d be beyond angry, she was certain of that. She’d seen the way his eyes followed Portia, his face displaying an expression that was… what was it? She didn’t know, but it wasn’t friendly, wasn’t warm the way it was when he looked at her and Miranda. However would Portia find her way back through the medina?

  She sank down on the bed. Miranda would have to be told. Not told that Portia had been stalking her husband, of course, but that she’d gone out without her bag.

  ‘But why?’ Miranda asked, drying her hands on a cloth. ‘Why would she go out without you? Have you argued?’

  ‘No, of course not, she just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Juliet said miserably. ‘Maybe… just an impulse…’

  ‘I’ll never understand that girl.’ Miranda’s lips compressed into a narrow line.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Well, I don’t speak enough Arabic to go out there and ask if anyone has seen a stupid English woman wandering around.’

  ‘So..?’ Juliet raised hopeful eyes to her mother.

  ‘I’ll phone Samir. He’ll have to look for her.’

  Portia

  Why did I wear this bloody skirt? It covers my legs, but if it tangles round my ankles one more time… She kicked at a stone and then another, wiped her forehead on her sleeve and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. Maybe that door with the glazed blue tiling? The alley narrowed to barely shoulder width. On both sides of her the slits of iron-barred windows were stuffed with rags and filth. No. She would have remembered this.

  She shrank back against the wall as a pink, hairless dog sniffed at her feet before grunting and moving on. A man watched her from a doorway, picking his teeth, staring at her breasts. A woman pushed past, covered from head to toe in black, her eyes ringed with kohl, leaving a faint trace of rosewater scent behind her. Maybe if she could find someone who spoke English? Portia kicked another stone, more savagely this time. What bloody good would that do? What could she ask them when she didn’t know Samir’s surname, didn’t know the address of the riad or which part of the medina it was in, didn’t even know the phone numbers of her mother or sister. And what did that say about her relationship with her family?

  She leaned against a wall and unbuckled her sandal, then tipped a stream of small stones out of it. A fly homed in on the blood on her blistered foot. ‘Bugger off.’ Limping along, she passed a mosque where trainers were lined up outside, along with pointy-toed babouches. The sounds of chanting floated through the air. She walked by a street sweeper brushing dirt onto a sheet of cardboard, then turned into what looked like the food market, shaded by a lattice of wooden slats high above. She licked dry lips, would kill for a drink. On a nearby crate balanced a drum of water with mugs lined up beside it. Now she remembered seeing others dotted about the medina and people helping themselves. They must be the Fez equivalent of drinking fountains. Should she risk it? After gazing at it for a minute, she walked away. It didn’t seem at all sensible. Then she paused. She might end up wandering around the medina for bloody hours. No good, she had to have a drink. Wiping the rim of the plastic beaker on her skirt, she looked up to see a small boy watching her, wide-eyed. She turned her back on him, plunged the mug into the water and drank thirstily. Heaven, just heaven. She filled the mug again. The water was cool, tasted clean and her spirits lifted. Drying her mouth on the back of her hand, she started walking again.

  She’d moved into a much busier area—people, carts, a donkey making a break for it, panniers flapping, a man racing after it, bellowing. Small white chickens scratched around her feet, a goat stood tethered to a door handle with a length of string. Ash fell from the cigarette in the butcher’s mouth, on to the meat he was chopping. She trudged on. Another alley, another dead end. The smell intensified and the number of insects increased in proportion to the stench. A cloud of fat, blue flies hovered over her, followed her, bit her exposed neck and wrists.

  Her heart leapt as she rounded a corner to see the lane widening, to smell fresher air. And then she saw the chickens on the ground, the butcher with the cigarette still dangling from his lips. She’d arrived back at the food market. Full circle. Covering her face with her hands, she let the tears come, faster and faster, until she was sobbing. She had absolutely no idea how she could help herself, find the way home.

  A hand touched her arm and she looked down to see small fingers intricately patterned w
ith henna. Sniffing, she met the gaze of an old woman, face as furrowed as a field.

  ‘Ingleezee?’ Portia pleaded.

  She shook her head and patted Portia’s hand, then, after rummaging in the depths of a plastic carrier drew out an orange and offered it to her with a shy smile.

  ‘For me? Thank you. Shukran.’ Fresh tears threatened at the kindness, but before she could say anything else the woman had shuffled away.

  Portia looked down at the fruit in her hand and saliva rushed into her mouth at the smell. She ripped away the peel and after a moment’s hesitation, dropped it on the ground to join the drifts of paper and squashed fruit underfoot. Sweet juice trickled down her chin and with every succulent mouthful her spirits rose. When had anything ever tasted so good? Who would have thought that a humble orange could… orange… orange! Her phone network was Orange and she knew her number. Licking the last of the juice from her fingers she set off again.

  ‘Ingleezee?’ she asked stallholders, passing shoppers, cart drivers, children. Nothing but blank looks, time after time. Surely someone here spoke English? Spotting a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, carrying a briefcase, her hopes soared, but he frowned at her and pushed past.

  Downcast, she approached a teenage boy wearing a white T-shirt and cut-offs. ‘Ingleezee?’ She held her breath.

  ‘Little,’ he said. ‘Are you… have trouble?’

  ‘Yes. Please… please… telephone? Do you have a phone?’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Blackberry. She pointed at the numbers one by one as he tapped them in then chewed her lip while she waited for the call to connect.

  Juliet

  Portia’s bag sat on the table between them. As Miranda took her mobile from her pocket to phone Samir, a shrill ringing sound filled the air. They looked at the brown leather handbag. Juliet reached out her hand and then withdrew it. It might be Gavin. It might be anyone. She winced as Miranda’s hand shot out. Her mother had never been hot on privacy, had thought nothing of opening letters addressed to her daughters.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ Apparently there was no one there. Miranda tutted as she dropped the phone back in the bag. Within seconds it rang again. She retrieved it and raced across the courtyard. Juliet listened to the slap, slap of her sandals as she ran up the stairs, then saw her emerge on the balcony and walk to the good signal spot.

  ‘Portia? Is that you, Portia?’ Miranda shouted.

  Oh thank God for that. She’s all right.

  ‘Where are you? What… I can’t hear you.’ She paced, the back of her hand held to her forehead.

  Juliet hid a smile. There she goes, striking an attitude. What a drama queen she is.

  ‘Where? Say that again. Right, stay where you are and do not move. Got that?’

  ‘So where is she?’ Juliet asked when Miranda returned.

  ‘Somewhere near the food market by the sounds of it.’ Her mouth was pulled as tight as a Spandex girdle. ‘I told her not to go out without—oh, what’s the use?’ She banged Portia’s phone down on the table and Juliet watched her warily. Miranda in a temper was something to be avoided.

  ‘So… are you going to find her?’

  ‘I don’t have a great deal of choice, do I? I can hardly leave her there.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ It might help to dilute Miranda’s fury if there were two of them.

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  Juliet swallowed. A crow flapped overhead on heavy, black wings. ‘Why not?’ she asked in a small voice.

  Miranda’s expression softened. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just…’ She jerked her head towards the Yellow Room. ‘The workmen have started taking the old plaster off the walls, but they’re quite likely to slope off if they think nobody’s here. It was hard enough getting them here in the first place.’

  When she’d gone, Juliet poked her head around the door of the Yellow Room. Thick plaster dust filled the air as two men ripped away the wall covering, their faces and hair white. No sign of a face mask, or protective footwear as they jumped out of the way of crashing masonry. She watched them for a minute until a bout of coughing forced her out. As she breathed in the relatively clean air of the courtyard, Samir came in from the medina, texting rapidly with both thumbs before bending to remove his shoes.

  ‘Ah, Juliet. You are sitting out here to enjoy the sunshine, I think.’

  ‘Er… yes, I am. It’s such a beautiful morning. We don’t have sun like this in England. At least, not every day.’

  Stop babbling. He’ll guess something’s up.

  He nodded, then sat down, lit a cigarette and took a drag, before blowing out a long plume of smoke. ‘Miranda is in the kitchen?’

  ‘Well, no, actually. She’s just popped out.’

  His eyebrows met. ‘She did not tell me. What about the workmen?’

  ‘She asked me to keep an eye on them.’

  ‘I see.’ He rocked back on his chair. ‘So where has she gone?’

  ‘Somewhere with Portia. I’m sure they won’t be long.’ She hoped he wouldn’t notice her flushed cheeks. The frown stayed on his face and he stood up abruptly and strode towards the Yellow Room.

  Her head ached with the heat, but she didn’t dare go into the salon or up to the bedroom. Besides, she couldn’t leave her sister to face the wrath of Samir and Miranda alone. After pulling a chair into the shaded perimeter of the courtyard, she sat for a few minutes until agitation brought her to her feet and she paced as she waited. She stiffened every time she heard a sound from the medina, but an hour and ten minutes elapsed before the key grated in the lock and the door swung open.

  Portia looked dreadful. Red bumps of insect bites had risen on her face and neck, her hair was plastered to her head and her long, linen skirt was filthy.

  Juliet ran to her. ‘Oh God, I‘ve been so worried. Are you all right?’

  Her smile wobbled slightly. ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘There you are. I have been waiting.’ Samir marched towards them and Juliet stopped breathing.

  ‘Don’t tell him I went out on my own,’ Portia whispered, clutching Miranda’s hand.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘Please, Miranda.’

  Juliet shot in front of Samir and blocked his path. ‘Portia wanted to see…’ Her voice shook. ‘She’s interested in the… carved doors.’

  The pause seemed endless before Miranda smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So what happened to her?’ he asked.

  Miranda shrugged. ‘She found it very hot and—’

  ‘I can speak for myself,’ Portia snapped. ‘I fell, as it happens.’

  ‘And what about your face?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You are covered in bites.’

  ‘Oh, am I?’ she asked airily. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I would like a shower.’

  Juliet watched her limp away, then turned to her mother. ‘Do you have a first aid kit? To patch her up?’

  ‘I’ll fetch it. Use the Blue Room—over there, next to the Yellow Room. Samir wouldn’t like the salon to be smelling of Dettol.’

  Light leaked in through the shutters revealing cobwebs draped over doorways like lace curtains, and a rug on the floor so worn as to be uniformly grey, its pattern a matter for the imagination. There was no sound from the adjoining room. The workmen must have finished ripping off the plaster. She watched Portia dab disinfectant on her bloodstained feet.

  ‘Did you follow him?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘I did. Shit. This hurts like buggery.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘I can do it.’ She winced. ‘Those sandals weren’t made for walking in.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘I saw the children.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they’re still all jammed together in one room stitching away as if their little lives depend on it. Which they probably do. I wonder if they ever get a day off.’

  ‘Please don’t go again. It’s too
risky.’

  ‘I don’t have any choice. How can I not?’

  ‘But just look at the state of you.’

  Portia picked up a bottle of water. ‘Next time I’ll be better prepared. If I keep my bag with me at all times—I’ve got a notebook in there—with a bit of luck I can jot down the route.’

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’

  Portia regarded her for a long moment, then stood up. ‘I’m going in search of calamine lotion.’

  Juliet stared, unseeing, at the table. Why couldn’t Portia leave well alone? Why did she always have to interfere? Samir hadn’t looked at all convinced by the story of the wood carving.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Juliet started, looked up to see her mother. ‘She’s gone to—’

  ‘Why didn’t she want Samir to know where she’d been?’

  ‘It must… I think… maybe she thought he’d be angry that…’

  ‘What’s the real reason, Juliet?’

  She quailed beneath the Miranda’s glare, watched a fly zigzag across the room. ‘I can’t tell you. You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘She won’t tell me.’

  Juliet pressed her lips together stubbornly.

  Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘Is it anything to do with the children who work for him?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Because if it is,’ her jaw tightened, ‘things work differently here. She’s not in leafy Buckinghamshire now. And I will not have her antagonising my husband any further.’

  Portia

  She perched on the edge of the bed, the lotion in one hand, minuscule makeup mirror in the other. How could she be expected to see in this half light? There would be a better light in the salon, but she had no desire to let anyone else see her dotting her face with calamine. She jumped to her feet and went to examine the shutters. They might be antique cedar, but they let in bugger all daylight. They didn’t look too sturdy so she gave them an experimental shove. Nothing. How did they fasten? She could see no latch or catch, so she pressed harder and harder on them until, with a sharp crack, they burst open, showering her with dust and flakes of rust which made her sneeze.