The Sea Gate

by Jane Johnson

  Olivia gives a small cry. Then she shakes her head. ‘No, no, you’re mistaken. We did not have a child. At least, none that survived,’ she adds bleakly.

  But Reda is unperturbed. ‘This is my great-aunt, Samira,’ he says, tapping the image of the small dark woman. ‘They say she was cursed by God, never able to have children. But then, a miracle! Two men appeared in the village one day, asking for the Medjani family. They brought with them a letter, and a baby. I have seen that letter – that, too, has entered our family legend. It was written in French, from a woman called Estelle Leveaux.’

  Olivia utters a yelp. ‘That was my mother’s name, before she married my father.’

  ‘It was the name she used, I am told, when she fought with the French Resistance towards the end of the war. The men who came were her colleagues – maquis fighters. Madame Leveaux had contacted them months later and arranged for them to take the child and a sum of money to the Medjani family. The letter said simply that the child was Hamid’s and that she wished them to raise it in secret.’

  Olivia pressed her hands together to stop them trembling. ‘No,’ she kept saying. ‘No, no. This can’t be right. The baby died. I was told that the baby died. Mummy wouldn’t… surely, she would never…’

  Rosie lets out a cackle. ‘Well, fancy that, she lied to you all that time. Your mam was a hard woman, and cold as the grave!’ she declares triumphantly. ‘All these years. Well, well, well.’

  Olivia ignores her. She grasps Reda’s arm. ‘Do you have the letter? Can I see it?’

  ‘Sorry, no, but I know who does. Shall I finish the story?’

  Olivia’s eyes are full of tears but she nods and releases him.

  ‘The elders of the family gathered to discuss the matter and it was decided that the baby should be given to Samira and her husband Kasem to raise. The money the Frenchmen brought was a significant sum, enough to build a house and buy some land as well as to provide for the child’s future, so Samira and her sister Yasmin and their husbands moved across the border to the safety of Oujda. They never told Hamid; it was decided it was best that he did not know. Kasem was too proud to have anyone know that the girl was not his, and Samira was so happy to have a child at last. They called her “Ayah”, which means “miracle” or “sign from God” in Arabic.

  ‘Samira told us the story just before Mo and I set out on our journey. She was an old lady then, and she’d outlasted three husbands!’

  ‘And what about Ayah?’ I ask. ‘Did she know about her true parentage?’

  ‘Omar told her after Hamid’s death. She was only twelve, but very grown up, and very clever. A bit too clever for her own good, it is said. She always had her head in a book, always making poems and songs. She was so proud to have a hero as her father – she made a song for him. It became quite well known, especially after Cheikha Rimitti adopted and recorded it. In my family we are very proud of this: Cheikha was a very famous Algerian singer and very, shall we say, progressive.’ He winks at me.

  Olivia has her eyes closed as she takes it all in. Tears continue to leak from under her papery eyelids. I take the tissue from her limp fingers and dab her cheeks dry.

  When she opens her eyes again she looks at us with the forbidding black gaze of the girl in the portrait. ‘How could she be so cruel?’ she demands. She grabs the album and brings it close so that she can study the face of the solemn child. I had thought the sun struck the girl more full on than the other subjects in the photograph, but now I see her skin is a shade lighter than the rest of her family. And she has Olivia’s chin – so pugnacious! – and a similarity around the eyes, too.

  ‘Isn’t it better that Ayah was adopted by Hamid’s family, than farmed out to complete strangers in England?’ I ask.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she says grudgingly, unable to tear her gaze away from the photo. I can see her weighing up all the years that were lost to her, long childless years, years without love, without hope. It seems immeasurably cruel.

  ‘What happened to Ayah?’ I ask Reda, rather dreading the answer.

  He grins. ‘She was the first person in our family to go to university. She has a degree in French, and she taught music and French at a school in Oujda for most of her life. She had two husbands, and five children. She has had a wonderful life: she still does. You could speak to her yourself, if you would like to.’

  A stunned silence settles over the room, until Gabriel breaks it by flapping his wings and soaring overhead, like a great scarlet blessing – or a curse. At once, Rosie shoots to her feet and flaps her hands at him. ‘Get away, you old devil! Put him in his cage!’ she tells Reda, who quietly does exactly that.

  ‘How… how would I do that?’ Olivia asks when the commotion has finally settled. ‘Speak to her?’

  Reda takes out his phone and opens the Skype app. ‘Shall we see if she’s in?’

  I can hardly breathe as the Skype tone burbles away and the phone crackles, then Reda is chatting in a tumble of guttural, staccato sounds which are punctuated by a lighter female voice. ‘She’s nervous,’ Reda tells us, ‘but she says OK. How about you, Olivia? Are you ready to meet your daughter?’

  Olivia cannot speak, but she nods.

  Reda taps an icon and an image starts to coalesce on the screen. He holds the phone out to Olivia and she takes it from him. Her hand is shaking so much that Reda smiles and takes the weight of the phone, holds it up so the two elderly women can see one another. For a long moment neither of them says a word. I can see Ayah only obliquely. Curiosity drives me out of my seat and around the back of the sofa to peer over Olivia’s shoulder.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ says Ayah, and ‘Bonsoir,’ Olivia echoes. ‘Plaisir de faire votre connaissance,’ which makes Ayah trill with laughter and chide her for such formality, and after that they are off, gabbling away in French. I catch only the odd word here and there, enough to know that they are enjoying the encounter, so instead, I concentrate on the image of the woman on the screen.

  Ayah has high cheekbones and lively eyes sunk under deeply arched brows. Fine lines wreath her mouth and fan out from the corners of her eyes and she speaks expressively, using her free hand to make expansive gestures. Every time she does the collection of little silver bangles clatters musically on her wrist; she wears a ring on every finger, and her nails are polished in a rich coral. She smiles often, her eyes becoming delighted, dark half-moons. She appears confident and engaging, and for the most part cheerful. It is only when Olivia is speaking and she leans forward to concentrate on the unfamiliar accent that you can make out her frown lines and the gentle sag of her neck muscles, which she has tried to camouflage with a cerise wool scarf that contrasts with her mass of black-and-silver hair, which springs unconfined in a great cascade to her shoulders in an explosion of curls and waves – not quite an Afro, but not entirely Western either.

  I suppose, from the old photographs of her family in their traditional clothing, I was expecting a robe and headscarf but instead she looks the quintessential third-age woman, still engaged in her community, in learning and life, charming and agile in conversation. And yet there is a recognizable resemblance. I cannot help but think how Olivia might have looked had she had a happier life and not exiled herself in this house, tied to her past and her sorrows, anchored to the body buried in the tunnel.

  Towards the end of the call Reda chats to his cousin, asking after the relatives and responding to questions about his own side of the family. Then Ayah disappears from our view, returning a moment later with a square of paper, which she unfolds and holds out to the screen.

  ‘“To the family of Hamid Medjani,”’ Reda reads out, translating as he goes, ‘“please take this child: she is your blood responsibility. The money enclosed should suffice to raise and educate her. My daughter has no idea that the child survived: I expect you to maintain this confidence. Do not ever attempt to contact her, or me.

  ‘“Veuillez agréer, messieurs, l’assurance de ma parfaite considération.

  �
��“Estelle Leveaux.”’

  There is silence, then Olivia says, ‘That was her maiden name. And I recognize my mother’s handwriting. There is no mistaking it.’

  She leans back and Reda turns the phone towards me and Rosie, who at once covers her face, saying, ‘No, no, no, I don’t speak foreign.’ I just wave and smile and say that I am sorry but I don’t speak French, and am slightly horrified when she responds, ‘Oh, please don’t concern yourself, I speak a little English.’

  After that Reda introduces her to Gabriel, who dips his head and taps the bars of his cage, possibly in response to the jangling of her bracelets.

  ‘Hellooo, Djibril,’ she coos.

  I wait for him to swear and appal her, but he just whistles and clicks, making the noises he makes for Reda.

  At last goodbyes are said all round, the connection is cut, and we all look at Olivia. She is pink in the cheeks and appears full of suppressed energy, as if she has just received an injection of life or has witnessed a miracle, which I suppose she has.

  She grabs Reda’s hands and holds them in a tight grip. ‘Thank you, thank you so much. What a marvel she is. I can’t believe…’ The thought trails away. Then she gathers herself. ‘It must have cost you a fortune, a long call like that, all the way to Morocco.’

  Reda laughs. ‘It’s magic, dear Olivia, and magic is free.’

  *

  The next morning, I set breakfast for two in the dining room and Olivia and I talk about inconsequential things – the richness of the egg I have poached for her and how her paternal Cornish grandmother regarded double-yolkers as a sign of good luck; my poor tea-making skills (‘You must be patient and not squeeze the teabag, it makes it bitter’), how the creeper needs to be cut back around the window. Every so often, though, her gaze goes distant and a beatific smile suffuses her face. I know she is thinking about the previous day’s revelations, remembering talking to Ayah, recalling that she has a daughter; that she and Hamid have a child who lives on in the world.

  I reach across the table and take her hand. ‘Happy?’ I ask.

  ‘Life can still surprise you, even at my age.’ She pauses. ‘So, tell me about Reda.’

  I feel a twinge at the change of subject and make to get to my feet to clear away the breakfast things, but she won’t let go. Her grip is remarkably strong for a woman who has suffered a recent stroke. ‘Tell you what?’ It feels very odd having the tables turned on me like this: it’s Olivia who holds the secrets, not me.

  Olivia folds her lips. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I suppose it’s your own business.’

  ‘I’m just not sure what you want to know.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, girl. Have you slept with him yet?’

  My mouth falls open. ‘What?’ I shriek, and from the parlour Gabriel echoes ‘What?’ malignly.

  ‘He’s a very attractive fellow.’

  I can feel my cheeks going pink. ‘He is. And very kind, too. Kindness is underrated, don’t you think?’

  ‘Stop being evasive.’

  My God, she is tenacious. ‘No, I haven’t slept with him yet.’ I didn’t mean to say ‘yet’ – it just seemed to slip out.

  ‘Well, someone else will snatch him up if you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t even know if he’s single. He could be married with a dozen children for all I know.’

  ‘Stupid goose. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? I thought people were supposed to be getting more intelligent. But it appears not.’

  ‘Stop now!’ I am feeling rather cross. ‘If I want to sleep with Reda it will be in my own good time – not because some bossy old lady is pushing me into it.’

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t hang around if I were you.’ Her eyes gleam with mischief.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  ‘WE CAN WATCH THEM FROM HERE.’

  ‘Only with binoculars!’

  Olivia is proving to be just as exigent as Rosie always said she would be. My patience is tried often, but she’s still a lot easier to live with than Eddie. Apart from his upcoming trial for handling stolen goods (for Cousin Olivia’s paintings appear not to have been an isolated transgression), it turns out that Eddie has managed to get Lola the Brazilian waitress pregnant, and her father is demanding Eddie make an honest woman of her, which won’t please him at all. This rather amuses me: he and I were engaged for the best part of ten years, but now he’s well and truly caught. The idea of Eddie getting up in the night for feeds and nappy-changing entertains me – but perhaps he’ll become a better man for taking on the responsibilities of fatherhood. After all, it appears that miracles really do happen.

  James and Evie are filing for divorce. It seems that once Evie was elected to parliament she decided she could do better than my brother and within months had embarked on a clandestine affair with the home secretary, whose marriage had also broken down. They were all over the papers and the Internet for a while; I had James on the phone to me in tears, which was a strange turnaround. He came with me to my scan in London when I mustered the courage to give myself up to my consultant. As I passed through the magnetic hoop, with the contrast liquid burning through my veins, I thought of the protective carvings on the sea gate. When I sat with my brother outside her office, waiting to hear my fate, I held the string of misbaha beads in my hand, imbued with Olivia’s kisses, and thought of the painting of the little boat ploughing a course through dark seas towards the line of light. It had seemed to me then to represent elemental forces over which we had no control; now I see it as a brave little vessel buoyed up by beliefs and hopes, crewed by comrades and lovers, propelled by courage in the face of apparently overwhelming odds. My knees felt so weak when I got up to go into the appointment that I thought I might collapse, but the consultant beamed at me. ‘Your scan is absolutely clear,’ she said. ‘There is no sign whatever of what we thought we saw on the last scan. You are cancer free.’

  Those may be two of the most beautiful words in the English language.

  ‘Go away,’ she told me, clasping my hands. ‘Live your life, and be happy.’

  That night, I regarded myself in the full-length mirror in my London hotel room and marvelled at how my scars have faded and thought about the pots Eddie would sometimes make, then deliberately and carefully break, before resetting them with molten gold (so that he could sell them for much more money). At the time I thought this practice inauthentic and pretentious, but I am starting to look at some things in life in a different way. Kintsukuroi is the name for this ancient Japanese art, which teaches that broken objects are not something to hide away but should be displayed with pride, for they are stronger and more beautiful for surviving the breakage. I think I, too, am stronger and more beautiful for surviving my travails.

  The pale band on the finger on which I wore Eddie’s ring is now almost indistinguishable from the surrounding skin: Cornish sun and sea and joy have reconfigured me. On the other hand I wear a ring of Berber silver decorated with little circles and triangles: ‘The eye of the partridge, for beauty; the nuqat for safety and home,’ as Reda said when he slipped it on my hand on his return from a visit home a few weeks back.

  ‘It’s not an engagement ring, is it?’ I asked, half-alarmed, half-hopeful.

  ‘It’s whatever you wish it to be.’

  ‘We could take a taxi down into the village and back,’ I suggest now.

  Olivia draws herself up. ‘Nonsense! We’ll take the car!’

  I remind her gently that I no longer have a car. I can’t afford to keep one. I am working part time at the college in Penzance teaching art and photography, and I tutor students privately here as well. Olivia has been teaching me photography. I am amazed at her skill and her memory, both undimmed by her advanced age. ‘It’s all about contrast and framing,’ she tells me. ‘With a camera you are drawing in light.’ The old Leica still works beautifully: it was clearly made in a different time to our world of built-in obsolescence. My students mainly use digital ca
meras; I’ve had to learn a lot of new techniques, but I’m loving the experiments I share with my students and the portfolios we are compiling.

  She tuts. ‘No, the car. The Flying 8.’

  I stare at her. ‘I can’t drive that!’

  ‘Well I can!’

  ‘But, Olivia, the path up to the garage…’

  ‘Call that young man of yours,’ she commands me.

  ‘He’s not really at my beck and call,’ I admonish gently.

  ‘Go on.’ She is quite determined.

  So I take the handset into the kitchen, out of earshot: she has ears like a bat. ‘Oh my God, Reda, Olivia has hatched up a mad scheme.’

  He chuckles when I tell him and says he’ll drive the truck over, then we can all go down to the village in that when the ‘old tank’ won’t start. We exchange a few more words and then I return to Olivia. ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ She folds her hands in her lap and smiles like a sphinx.

  *

  It takes a good half hour to make our way up to the garage through the woods. Olivia is insistent that she cover the ground ‘under her own steam’. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ she keeps saying.

  In one hand she carries her handbag, in the other her stick. Reda has her by the elbow: she refused to be carried. I run ahead and open the garage doors and there it is, the Flying 8, like a dragon slumbering in its cave. I run my hand over its shiny bonnet. It’s a museum piece, and that’s where it belongs.

  I open the driver’s door, and Olivia sits heavily sideways on the seat and stiffly swings her legs in. She waits till I am settled on the rear seat, while Reda waits by the entrance to close the garage doors, if by some miracle the old car still works. With a flourish, Olivia pulls the starter button towards her: an extraordinary mechanism. As I had expected, the engine gives no more than a genteel cough, then dies.