A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  He grinned at me.

  ‘Cake for breakfast sounds OK. Anyway, I’ll be paying for our food from now on. Uncle Yasser’s so great. He’s doing his best for us.’

  ‘I know,’ I said unhappily. ‘It’s only . . .’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Yes, her. And little Princess Lamia.’

  He stood up and stretched luxuriously.

  ‘My last evening of freedom. Hurry up with supper. I’m starving.’

  ‘And you still will be when you’ve eaten it,’ I retorted, taking the pan off the stove.

  I was spooning out the pasta when Baba smacked his hands down on his knees and said, ‘That’s it. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to ask Yasser if he knows anyone who can give me a lift to Zarka. I’ll leave tomorrow if I can, stay over one night, and push as hard as possible to get my documents in order. To make a start. I should have done it a long time ago.’

  He had straightened up and now he smoothed his hair back with the palm of his hand and smiled at us. For a moment he looked like the old Baba and my heart lifted. But then I had a scary thought. Tariq and I would have to spend a night in the tent alone. Tariq might pretend to be tough, but he was only fifteen, and a bit weedy, to be honest. With Baba away, all we’d have to protect us would be a rickety fence and thin canvas walls. Baba wasn’t exactly the Incredible Hulk either, but at least he was a grown-up, and he would have died to protect us.

  Now he was talking again.

  ‘You two,’ he said, stabbing a finger at each of us in turn, ‘are going to spend tomorrow night at your uncle’s house.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Six o’clock. We’ll eat first, then I’ll go over and talk to Yasser.’

  It was dark when we’d finished our supper. I went outside to fetch the solar lamp, which had been charging all day in the sun, and hung it up from the tent pole. Then I took down the cakes and handed them round, holding some back for breakfast.

  Something had changed. There was a sort of energy in both Baba and Tariq. They made me feel even more small and powerless.

  I wish I was a boy, I thought.

  After Baba had gone over to the house, Tariq settled down under the lamp with his books.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I heard Aunt Zainab and Um Salim talking about our mother today.’

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Do you remember her at all?’

  ‘No. Well – just a sort of feeling of someone holding me, I think. And a kind of smell. Sweet. Why? What did they say?’

  I made a face.

  ‘Nothing much. Aunt Zainab said she hadn’t liked Mama, but I don’t know if she likes anyone much.’

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, ‘You are lucky, Tariq.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘You had her for two years.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  I rushed on, cutting him off.

  ‘The awful thing is that I suppose it was sort of my fault – mine and Saba’s – that she died. I mean, because of our birth.’

  He shook his head vigorously.

  ‘That’s daft, Safiya. It was nobody’s fault. Auntie Shirin would have said it was the will of Allah. It happened. That’s all.’

  ‘So you . . .’ I swallowed. ‘You don’t blame me?’

  ‘No, silly! Of course I don’t! I mean, you can be the most annoying person in the whole world, but . . .’

  He had to duck to avoid the tea towel I flung at his head, and we both burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was still dark when I woke up the next morning. Baba was up already. I could hear splashes outside as he washed behind the screen near the water tank.

  He came back into the tent and started filling a pan from the drinking-water bottle.

  I crawled out of bed.

  ‘I’ll make your tea, Baba. You get ready to go.’

  I went outside and set the pan on to boil. The first streaks of daylight were already running in faint stripes through the open flap across the straw mats on the tent floor. By the time Tariq was up and dressed, I had the tea ready. Baba was dragging a comb through his hair.

  ‘Where will you stay tonight, Baba?’ I asked, giving him one of the last of the cakes.

  ‘An old client from Damascus. He’ll put me up.’

  ‘And you’ll get supper there?’

  He pinched my cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry about your old Baba, habibti. I’ll eat like a king tonight.’

  I turned my head, not wanting him to see that I was hurt.

  ‘Lucky you,’ muttered Tariq. Then he caught my eye. ‘What are you looking at me like that for?’

  There was a crunch of wheels on the stony ground outside and a car horn beeped.

  ‘Here’s my lift,’ said Baba, draining the last of his tea.

  He went outside, then poked his head back through the tent flap.

  ‘You’re starting at the bottling plant today?’ he asked Tariq.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take it easy. You could strain your back if you go at it too hard at first.’

  He was almost at the gate before he remembered me.

  ‘Go to your aunt today, Safiya,’ he called back.

  Then he was gone.

  I shuffled into my shoes and went outside to rinse Baba’s tea glass. I got back to the tent in time to see Tariq pick up the last cake and ate it. Neither of them had thought to leave one for me. I was just about to explode when he said, ‘Baba’s right. You’ll have to spend the day with her. Good luck. At least she’ll give you lunch.’

  I realized that he might not have anything else to eat all day and I stopped being angry.

  Uncle Yasser’s truck started up outside. Tariq grabbed his schoolbag and dived for the gate.

  ‘Hope it goes well!’ I called after him. ‘When will you be . . .’ but he didn’t hear me above the roar of the truck’s engine.

  I retied the loop of wire that fastened the gate to the tent post, then turned back to the dreary tent, sagging on its ropes.

  See what I mean, Saba? I asked my absent twin. They don’t care about me at all. Go ahead, Baba. Eat like a king tonight. See if I care.

  Unwillingly, I set about tidying the tent, folding the blankets and picking up dirty clothes to wash.

  And then, taking me by surprise, I felt as if someone had touched my shoulder, and I heard a woman’s voice say, ‘You’re looking after them for me, Safiya. You’re the heart of the family now.’

  ‘Mama!’ I called out. ‘I wish, I wish you were here! Why won’t Baba talk about you? Why won’t he tell me what you were really like?’

  But the sense of her presence had gone almost as soon as it had come.

  Snowball came worming through a gap in the fence. She trotted up to me and butted my leg with her head.

  ‘Sorry, Snowball. There’s nothing for breakfast. I’ll get you some clean water, though.’

  She strutted into the tent, lapped from the water bowl, then stretched out in her sleeping place and went to sleep.

  She could have gone anywhere, I thought, but she chose me.

  I bent down and tickled her under the chin, then forced myself to go behind the screen by the water tank for a good wash.

  Not having a bathroom was the worst thing about living in the tent. I just couldn’t get used to it. At home, our lovely bathroom had blue tiles with white fishes embossed on them, a hot shower, piles of soft towels and rows of gels and shampoos. Now all I had was a bucket of cold water, some cheap soap and a tin mug to use as a dipper. Now that summer was nearly over, it was starting to get chilly in the mornings and the cold water made me shiver.

  My hair needed washing, but I couldn’t face it.

  I’ll do it tomorrow, I promised myself.

  I’d tidied up the tent and was putting on my hijab, ready to go over to the house, when there was a knock on the gate.

  ‘Safiya, where are you?’

  It was Aunt Zainab.

/>   What do you want now? I thought nervously.

  She’d never been in the tent before. Had she come to inspect it?

  ‘Coming, Aunt,’ I called back, running to the gate.

  She trod carefully across the rough ground towards the tent as if she was afraid of stepping in something nasty then she kicked off her shoes and walked right in. Her eyes swept across the blankets I’d folded neatly on the mattresses and the clothes I’d hung up tidily from the tent poles. If she was looking for something to criticize, she was going to be disappointed.

  ‘You need to keep your food off the floor,’ she said at last, then stopped. ‘Where is your food?’

  ‘It’s – it’s all finished, Aunt. We had the last of the pasta yesterday.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Why don’t you go to Abu Ali’s?’

  I flushed with shame.

  ‘Baba – I – no money,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What? Speak up!’

  ‘Baba didn’t have any money to give me.’

  I was sure I saw a spark of triumph in her eyes.

  ‘Silly girl. Why didn’t you come and ask me? Your uncle would never let you starve.’

  I’m not going to beg if that’s what you want, I thought angrily.

  ‘Thank you, Aunt,’ I said stiffly, ‘but Tariq’s working now. He’s going to give me what he earns. I’ll go to Abu Ali tomorrow.’

  ‘What? You can’t live on three JD a day!’ She took another look around the tent. ‘This isn’t how you expected life to be, is it, Safiya? I suppose you had the best of everything in Syria. Lovely clothes, eating in nice restaurants, a smart car . . . Your family always liked expensive things.’

  My face burned. How dared she talk about us like that? Surely she couldn’t be jealous? Not after all that had happened to us?

  ‘You had a maid, I suppose, in Damascus,’ she went on. ‘I bet your aunt never had to do any housework. Did she even cook?’

  I was finding it hard to keep my temper.

  ‘Auntie Shirin’s food is wonderful,’ I said coldly.

  ‘No need to get upset. I was only asking. I hope she taught you to cook, now that you’re in charge here.’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ I just wanted the conversation to end. ‘I’m managing.’

  She frowned for a moment, then said, ‘You know what, Safiya, life is full of disappointments. I was married when I was fifteen. If your father’s got any sense, he’ll soon get you married too. That’s the end of any silly dreams you might have. You have to learn the hard way, like I did. Your life isn’t how you expected it to be, and that’s that.’

  ‘I think I know that already, Aunt,’ I said, flushing.

  ‘Yes, well, perhaps you’re learning it at last. You thought you were something when you came to Jordan, didn’t you? You’d never swept a floor in your life. But you’re the same as everyone else who has to make their way in the world.’

  I felt winded. She’d knocked the breath right out of me. But the next thing she said took me by surprise.

  ‘I suppose I could teach you a few things myself. I’m thought to be rather a good cook, actually.’

  She waited. I knew what was expected.

  ‘Your cooking is wonderful too, Aunt Zainab,’ I said. ‘That first night, when we arrived, I’ll never forget the lovely things you made for us.’

  She could see I meant it. She even smiled.

  ‘You’re doing your best, I suppose. You’re managing better than I’d expected, as a matter of fact. Come on. We’ll go to Abu Ali’s first and do the shopping.’

  She ducked her head to go out through the tent opening and caught sight of Snowball, lounging on her sleeping place.

  ‘Shoo!’ She flapped her arms and clapped her hands. ‘Get out! Go on!’

  ‘It’s all right!’ I said quickly. ‘I don’t mind her. She’s very clean. And – and –’ I was casting around for a clincher. ‘She keeps the rats away.’

  Aunt Zainab shuddered.

  ‘Rats! Well . . .’ She glanced back into the tent, looking for something to criticize. ‘You’ve left your solar lamp inside. You have to put it in the sun to recharge.’

  I scowled at her back.

  I’m not a total idiot, I thought. I hadn’t got round to it when you barged in here.

  She hadn’t finished.

  ‘If there are rats around, you need a secure place to store your food. I’ve got an old tin trunk that I don’t need any more. I’ll fetch it out for you.’

  I picked up the solar lamp, set it out in the sun, then started tying the flap of the tent shut, bending over so that she couldn’t read the expression on my face.

  ‘Thank you, Aunt. That’s very good of you,’ I said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I didn’t like going into Abu Ali’s shop with Aunt Zainab. She was so snobbish and rude. Abu Ali knew how I felt. He waited till she was bent over the aubergines, inspecting one after another, then he winked at me. By the time she’d turned round his face was a blank.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Aunt Zainab said to me. ‘Go and pick out two cans of fava beans. And mind you check the sell-by dates.’

  Another woman came into the shop, and Aunt Zainab’s manner changed completely.

  ‘Muna, my dear! How are you? How is everyone? What’s the news of that son of yours in America?’

  They plunged into a noisy conversation. I put the two cans of beans down on Abu Ali’s counter. He leaned over it and said in a quiet voice, ‘Don’t run away, miss. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I know your situation,’ he said. ‘You’re a brave girl. Allah sees it all. He knows that everyone needs help from time to time.’

  He’s going to offer me charity! I thought nervously, imagining the expression on Tariq’s face.

  ‘Thank you, Abu Ali, but I . . .’ I began.

  He put up his hand to stop me talking.

  ‘There’s an organization that helps refugee families. They’re good people. Why refuse? You can’t help what’s happened. A basic food box once a month. Cooking oil, pasta, rice, tea, cans of this and that. I can help you register with them.’

  I nearly jumped with relief. Yesterday I’d been so thrilled at the thought of the money Tariq would be bringing in that I’d stopped worrying about how I was going to pay for our food. But just now, looking round Abu Ali’s shop, I’d been doing the sums in my head. Aunt Zainab had been right. Three JD a day wouldn’t go far at all.

  ‘You – you mean all those things, every single month?’

  ‘Yes. Every month.’

  Then, as if he was standing beside me, I heard Tariq’s voice in my head. No charity!

  Over by the vegetables, Aunt Zainab and her friend were embracing.

  ‘So you’ll come on Saturday?’ the other woman was saying. ‘Bring that pretty daughter of yours.’

  I’ll deal with you later, I silently told Tariq.

  Aloud, I said, ‘Thank you Abu Ali. I can’t tell you – It would be so –’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. Tell your Baba to come and see me. I’ll get it sorted out.’

  Aunt Zainab was bearing down on us, bags of vegetables in her hands.

  ‘Tomato paste. Hurry up,’ she said to me, waving her hand towards the back of the shop.

  I went off to find it. The prices didn’t look so scary now. With a food box of basics every month, and Tariq’s money as well, I’d be able to do much better.

  She says she’ll teach me to cook, I thought. All right, Aunt Zainab. I’ll hold you to that. I’ll be your obedient servant just till I’ve learned what I need to know. You can whistle for me as much as you like after that.

  Back at the house, I put the heavy bags down on the kitchen table while Aunt Zainab took off her hijab and poured herself a glass of water.

  ‘I’ll get started on tonight’s supper,’ she said. ‘You can shake out all the rugs. Hang them up on the line in the courtyard and give them a good bea
ting.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘You – you said you’d teach me to cook, Aunt Zainab.’ She frowned.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘You’re such a marvellous cook,’ I gushed. ‘I really want to learn from you.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she said at last. ‘You can do the rugs later. We’re having lentil and chard soup tonight.’

  ‘I love that,’ I said. ‘Especially the way you make it.’

  Careful, I told myself. Don’t overdo it.

  She was tossing back her thick, glossy hair.

  ‘Well, get on with it, Safiya. Unpack the shopping first.’ She watched as I darted around the kitchen, putting everything away. ‘Now get out the large saucepan. Start by chopping the onions, and no complaints, please, if they make you cry.’

  Aunt Zainab wasn’t a bad teacher, actually. She didn’t hover over me, but just gave me instructions and let me get on with it while she sat at the table flicking through the pages of a film magazine. Every now and then she’d look up and say things like, ‘You’re burning the onions. Turn the heat down.’ Or, ‘You haven’t washed those lentils properly. Do them again.’

  It was late when Uncle Yasser and Tariq came home. Tariq looked so tired that his face had gone grey. He flopped down on the cushions as I brought out the soup and bread and laid them on the cloth on the floor. Aunt Zainab served them out. I waited for her to say, ‘Safiya cooked the supper tonight,’ but of course she didn’t.

  No one said anything about the soup, but Tariq came back for three helpings, and Uncle Yasser took two.

  As I was clearing the dishes away, Tariq put two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out three crumpled notes.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, grinning. ‘Three JD.’

  I tucked them away in my own pocket and at that moment I think I felt as proud of him as he felt of himself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tariq and I slept on the cushions in the sitting room that night. Even though I was really tired, I lay awake for a long time. Something was bothering me, something I’d heard Um Salim say to Aunt Zainab. Awful what happened, wasn’t it? she’d said. And Aunt Zainab had replied, You could have seen it coming. I always thought she was a bit . . . you know . . .