The House in Fez Read online

  That’s buggered it. They’ll never fasten again now. Miranda might have something to say about this deliberate act of vandalism.

  The bedroom door opened and she spun round guiltily. ‘Jules. Thank God it’s only you.’

  ‘Why?’ She blinked in the bright light as her gaze moved to the window. ‘How did you get them open?’

  ‘Brute force, I’m afraid.’

  Juliet pursed her lips as she regarded the splintered wood. ‘Well, I suppose they’re on the list to be replaced anyway.’ They stood side by side, looking across the courtyard at the dome of a distant mosque, its minarets piercing the sky.

  ‘It’s so graceful.’ Portia moved her gaze back to the shuttered windows on their level. ‘There are so many rooms in this place.’

  ‘Just as well in view of the expected influx. I wonder which one Miranda and Samir sleep in?’

  Portia shuddered at the thought of her mother having sex. ‘Don’t go there, Jules.’ She turned away from the window. ‘Will you give me a hand? With the calamine? It’s a bit tricky without a proper mirror.’ She closed her eyes as her sister dabbed the lotion onto her face, enjoying the cool feeling and Juliet’s gentle touch.

  ‘Right, I think that’s all of them covered,’ she said as she stood back to survey her handiwork, lips twitching.

  ‘You’re laughing. Pass me that mirror. Oh bloody hell, if that doesn’t frighten the horses…’

  ‘It’s only short term. The bites will soon fade, give them a day or two.’ Juliet felt in the pocket of her trousers. ‘I’ve brought you some more plasters. For your feet. Want a hand?’

  ‘No, I can manage,’ and then, as her sister went to the door, ‘thanks. You’re a star.’

  Tongue between her teeth, she positioned a plaster on the sole of her foot, then paused. How good it felt to have someone on your side. She pressed the plaster down more firmly, then sat back on the bed. Wouldn’t it be good to have a friend? She didn’t know how to make friends. It meant giving something of yourself to others— but giving only a little bit wouldn’t work, would lead to a demand for more. And she’d have to take as well, involve herself in someone else’s life.

  She didn’t know how to do that. When they were children they’d had to be self- sufficient, little islands, never part of a whole. Maybe Juliet feels the same. Maybe she had never learnt to relate to other people either. A sudden burst of joy suffused her. What about becoming very best friends with Jules? She straightened her crumpled bed—smoothing the sheets felt like she was smoothing her mind.

  The first pain stabbed her stomach, took her breath. Her bowels clenched and then cramps began to ebb and surge, each one more insistent, more cruel. She left the room and hurried downstairs.

  For most of the afternoon she sat, painfully, on a chair outside the bathroom door swatting away flies, awaiting the next bout.

  ‘You’re dreadfully pale,’ Juliet said, pressing yet another glass of water into her hands.

  ‘Might make the blobs of calamine a bit less obvious,’ she muttered.

  ‘Do you feel as bad—’

  ‘As I look?’ She took a cautious sip. ‘Yes, it’s not my finest moment.’

  ‘Maybe you picked up a bug while you were out this morning? When you got back you were a bit grubby. Well, to be honest, downright filthy.’

  Portia gave her an appraising look. ‘Don’t tell our mother, but I drank the water.’

  ‘What water?’

  ‘They have containers of water all over the medina. Public ones. With mugs.’

  Juliet stared at her, aghast. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘I did. I didn’t want to die of dehydration.’

  ‘So instead..?’

  ‘So instead, it’s dysentery.’

  Juliet’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, you don’t really think it’s that, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said scornfully before suddenly thrusting the glass into her sister’s hands, and launching herself through the bathroom door.

  By the evening, the bouts were far enough apart for her to sit at the table with the others.

  ‘You’re looking a little better.’ Miranda put down a platter of chicken and Portia tried not to heave. ‘Samir agreed we should have dinner later, to give you time to recover.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Portia said faintly, hand pressed to her mouth.

  Miranda peered at her more closely. ‘Just couscous I think, for you.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ she snapped, then added hastily, ‘thank you.’

  ‘It is better to have nothing,’ Samir agreed. ‘You will recover more quickly.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, of course.’ Miranda sat down again.

  For Christ’s sake, does she have to agree with every single bloody thing he says? Can this docile person really be my mother?

  ‘I am wondering,’ Samir continued, rubbing his chin, ‘how you have become ill. My wife is so careful about hygiene in the kitchen.’

  ‘Just one of those things,’ Portia said dismissively.

  ‘I cannot help but be concerned.’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘Other than your indisposition, you are none the worse for this morning’s—escapade?’

  He knows. He wasn’t fooled by all that crap about door carvings.

  Colour rose in her cheeks. ‘I’m resilient.’ She tried staring him out, but failed, then looked across the table to see Miranda watching them both with a slight frown. The meal wore on. Nothing else was said, but the strained atmosphere was palpable.

  ‘That was just delicious.’ Juliet’s words sounded forced. ‘I love the way you cook preserved lemons with the chicken.’ Her chair scraped back as she stood to collect the plates. ‘Shall I take these out to the kitchen?’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Miranda started stacking the dishes.

  Juliet sat back down again and her mother gave her a baffled look.

  Portia felt a rush of love for her sister. She’s trying to protect me by not leaving me alone with Samir.

  Miranda’s gaze moved from a seated Juliet to Portia and then to Samir. She shrugged, took away the dishes and returned with a pink frosted cake decorated with green pistachios. ‘Tada!’ she said. ‘Celebration time for Juliet and Darren.’ She cut a large piece and passed it to Samir before slicing any for the rest of them. Portia raised her eyebrows and tried to catch her sister’s eye, but Juliet looked away.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Glasses of orange juice were raised to a blushing Juliet.

  ‘Save me some cake for tomorrow,’ Portia said.

  ‘Of course,’ Samir said, smiling widely. ‘But tomorrow we will be having another celebration.’

  ‘Why? What’s happening?’ Portia looked from Samir to her mother, whose eyes were lowered.

  ‘Tomorrow my wife and son are moving in.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  MAY 30th

  Juliet

  ‘Are you awake?’ Juliet whispered, propping herself up on one elbow. There was no sound other than her sister’s steady breathing and the room was still inky black, the shutters wedged fast with a piece of folded cardboard.

  The wail of the muezzin floated through the air, haunting and mesmeric. It must be almost dawn. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t had a very satisfying night’s sleep, with dreams of her mother and wife number one exchanging blows while Samir and Portia cheered them on. With a pang she thought about Miranda’s pale face at dinner, the way she’d picked at her nail polish. Groping on the orange box between the beds, she located the box of matches and struck one, screwing up her eyes as she fed the wick of the candle with the flame. It fluttered then settled, throwing long shadows across the walls. The acrid smell of sulphur hung on the air.

  ‘Portia? Are you awake?’

  ‘I am now. What’s up? Is the place on fire?’ She struggled into a sitting position, glowering, her hair standing on end and crumpled face still dotted with calamine.

  ‘Sorry. I just… how are you feeling this morning?�
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  Portia yawned hugely, displaying expensive-looking bridgework. ‘I think I’ll pull through. Only had to get up twice. Nearly fell down the bloody stairs though. Tripped over that bastard cat.’ She stretched her hands above her head. ‘Why are you awake so early?’

  ‘I was thinking about… is she called Zina?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well… how does it work? Two wives and one husband in the same house?’

  ‘I think the system is taking turns, you know. Monday, Wednesday and Friday for one and Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday for the other. He gets Sunday off. He probably needs it.’

  Juliet stared at her in disbelief. ‘Surely it can’t be so… organised?’

  Portia pushed back the coverlet and bent over her foot. ‘Well, I don’t actually know, but there has to be some sort of system, if only to keep the peace. With a rota everyone knows where they stand.’

  Juliet watched a shadow flare on the wall and shook her head. ‘It’s horrendous. How will Miranda feel? Or Zina, come to that?’

  ‘God knows. Both of them under the same roof. It’s bad enough when…’ She stopped talking and ripped off a plaster.

  ‘When what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She bent her head and lifted the corner of another plaster.

  Juliet studied her for a moment; her slumped shoulders, the way her curtain of hair obscured her face. ‘When what? Tell me, Portia.’

  She sat up, let out a long, gusty sigh and addressed the wall opposite. ‘When your husband has another woman.’

  Juliet froze. ‘What do you… do you mean Gavin?’

  ‘I only have the one husband. Thankfully.’

  ‘But… are you sure he’s playing away?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure. He hasn’t made a lot of effort to keep it secret. It’s as if…’

  ‘As if what?’

  ‘He’s trying to provoke some sort of showdown.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her throat tightened. ‘I had no idea. I thought—’

  ‘Thought we were the perfect couple who had it all?’ she asked bitterly. ‘We’re certainly not that. If we ever were.’

  ‘Oh Portia, you poor thing. It must be dreadful.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  All this time I’ve envied her, but she doesn’t really have anything except money. Nothing that matters, no children, no friends by the sound of it, and not even a husband who loves her.

  Portia stretched and yawned. ‘Change of subject. Forget I said that. Do you think Miranda knew Zina would be coming here?’

  ‘Well, she must have known the family would move in. It’s the custom, isn’t it?’

  ‘But so soon?’

  ‘They’re not all coming. Not yet. Perhaps Zina kicked off…’

  ‘Yes, but maybe Miranda assumed Zina would have her own house.’

  ‘But Samir must have told her, surely? Before they got married?’

  ‘Who knows? I bet he can be a right bastard.’

  Juliet gave her a curious look. ‘You don’t like him, do you? And it’s not just because of the sweatshop. Is it?’

  She shrugged, looked down at her fingers pleating the cotton cover.

  ‘Why then?’ Juliet persisted.

  ‘I just hate him. No particular reason. But I could weep for Miranda.’ She climbed out of bed and opened the shutter. Thin tendrils of dawn were creeping in from the east and cooking smells floated up from somewhere in the medina. ‘Let’s get up and see what today has to offer.’

  Miranda’s irritation with Portia seemed to have evaporated, Juliet noted with relief, as they trailed round the medina filling their baskets with food for the evening’s celebratory meal.

  ‘Thanks for coming to help.’ Miranda picked up a chicken, despite its protests, prodded and squeezed its breast, then nodded at the stall holder who took it from her and disappeared into the back of the shop.

  ‘He’s not going to kill it, is he?’ Juliet asked, horrified.

  ‘Of course he is,’ Miranda said with an amused smile, and a couple of squawks later the bird reappeared, feet tied together and neck lolling horribly. ‘Now we need some lamb, and how do you stand on white kidneys?’

  ‘Well, I like steak and kidney pie, but I’ve never had white kidneys.’

  Portia roared with laughter. ‘She means testicles. Goat testicles.’

  ‘What?’ Juliet’s breakfast churned in her stomach.

  ‘Come on, Jules. Man up.’ Portia was still laughing.

  ‘I can’t. Really I can’t.’ She looked from her sister to her mother, unsure if they were teasing or not.

  ‘Sorry, Juliet. We’re being mean.’ Miranda gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Let’s go for the dates and pastries, then I’ll take you to the bank so you’ll know where to get more dirhams when you need them.’

  When they arrived back at the riad, weighed down with supplies, they found Samir waiting, pacing up and down. He took hold of Miranda’s wrist and steered her towards the salon.

  Juliet and Portia exchanged glances, then took the bags to the kitchen to unload them.

  ‘We’ll need to help her,’ Juliet said. ‘There’s a mountain of stuff to prepare. Do you think—oh, she’s here now.’

  Miranda looked pale. ‘Samir’s mother is also moving in today.’

  ‘Is there a room ready for her?’ Juliet asked gently.

  ‘No. No there isn’t. I shall have to—there’s cleaning to do, and I’ll have to find some bedding.’ She ran her hands through her hair distractedly.

  ‘You get started on that.’ Portia steered her towards the door. ‘Me and Jules will do all the prepping.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Really,’ Portia said firmly. ‘I’m not sure about the actual cooking, but peeling, chopping—even I can do that.’

  ‘The poor thing,’ Juliet whispered when Miranda had gone.

  ‘Yes, sounds like ma-in-law’s cast in the same mould as her son. Right, I’m no great shakes in the kitchen. You tell me what to do and I’ll say “Yes, Chef” at appropriate intervals.’

  Later that afternoon, shadows were stretching across the riad as Juliet and Portia stood at their bedroom window, spying on the new arrivals.

  ‘Look at all those boxes and cases,’ Juliet whispered. ‘No sign of wife number one, though. The dumpy one is obviously his mother, but—’

  They ducked out of sight as the woman looked up, her round face framed by a headscarf.

  ‘Doesn’t look like a load of fun, does she?’ Portia peered cautiously out of the window again. ‘There. That must be her.’

  Zina’s tiny body was covered by a loose tunic, which reached to mid-thigh and underneath she wore tight-fitting trousers.

  ‘No djellaba? I thought all Muslim women wore them?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘I don’t think it’s mandatory. Depends on the father—or the husband. The main thing is that the shape of your body is hidden. Supposed to apply to men as well,’ she added sourly, ‘though Samir doesn’t seem to mind displaying his… attributes.’

  Zina’s floaty scarf slipped off her head, and as she pulled it back up over her gleaming black hair, she glanced up. Juliet smiled as their eyes met, but Zina looked away.

  Maybe she’s nervous. Who wouldn’t be, in the circumstances?

  ‘Come on,’ Portia said. ‘Might as well get this over with.’

  Juliet grinned. ‘You mean you’re not looking forward to meeting our extended family?’

  ‘Of course I am. Every bit as much as I look forward to having a smear test.’

  Portia

  Samir’s mother loomed at the door of the dining room. She wore a pine-green djellaba with trousers underneath, a white patterned headscarf, and thick socks stuffed into bunion-shaped shoes.

  Juliet nudged Portia. ‘I think we ought to go and greet her,’ she whispered, standing up. She crossed over to her and held out her hand. ‘Hello. I am v
ery pleased to meet you.’

  Dark, expressionless eyes met Juliet’s, and the outstretched hand was ignored. Well that’s a bloody good start, Portia thought. What a miserable old bat. The old woman shuffled past Juliet and sat down at the table.

  Samir’s eyes met Portia’s.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Portia asked. ‘How should we address her?’

  He hesitated. ‘Perhaps… call her Lalla. It is a sign of respect to call an older woman Lalla.’

  ‘Right, will do. Now tell me, how do I say “good evening” in Arabic, please?’

  ‘You say masah al khayr.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Portia leaned across the table. ‘Masah al khayr, Lalla,’ she said in a loud voice. Lalla stared back at her, pursed-mouthed. Portia waited. And waited. Her smile congealed. Okay then, if that’s the way it was going to be, battle lines would be drawn.

  ‘Miranda, you’ve produced a feast,’ Juliet said, her voice a little shrill. ‘So many dishes.’

  ‘And no white kidneys.’ Her smile slipped a little as the door opened to admit Zina and Hasan. Samir picked the boy up, put him on a chair and sat down beside him, son on one side, mother on the other.

  Was that deliberate? To avoid showing favouritism to one wife or the other?

  Zina slipped into her seat, eyes lowered. Her dusky pink tunic was studded with sequins and caught the light. When her head scarf slipped to her shoulders and lay there in soft folds, she left it.

  Lord, she is just stunning. And so young. Can’t be more than early twenties.

  Portia’s stomach rumbled at the appetising smell of dinner. She’d been a long time without proper food. Which should she try first—the fried fish, the chicken with prunes, or the salad of beet-root and fresh mint with figs? As she salivated, Samir got to his feet, cleared his throat and spoke a few words in Arabic. Then he addressed Juliet and Portia. ‘Welcome to everyone under my roof. Please eat.’