A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Wow!’ Tariq put his hands up in surrender. ‘All right, little sister. I give in. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  He actually grinned at me.

  ‘But nothing. I don’t dare say another word. By the way, did you really make that soup?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And if you don’t believe me—’

  ‘I do! I do! All I wanted to say was that it was good. Really good. Can I go back to work now, please?’

  I should have said, Do what you like. It was you who started this row in the first place. But I knew I’d won, so I just turned my back on him, and bent over to open the box.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There were voices outside and the gate opened.

  ‘Careful, Malik,’ Baba was saying. ‘Don’t bash your leg on this thing. The corners are really sharp.’

  They came in carrying an old tin chest between them. It had been patterned all over in red and blue once, but the paint had mostly rubbed off and now it was covered in dents.

  ‘Zainab says this is for you,’ Baba said. Then he saw the tins and packets I’d taken out of the box. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘The – the refugee people,’ I said, looking sideways at Tariq, who was watching through narrowed eyes. ‘A man brought it after you’d gone.’

  Baba nodded.

  ‘Yes, well, all right.’

  I shot Tariq a triumphant look as he and Malik settled down on a mattress to talk.

  ‘Do you really think your cousin will help me find work?’ began Malik anxiously.

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Baba’s voice was warm and kind. He almost sounded like his old self. ‘But what I don’t understand is how you came to be working on building sites for so long. Two years, you told Yasser! You’re only eighteen. Surely you were still at school?’

  There was an odd expression on Malik’s face as he looked back at Baba, and he didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m sorry about the way we lost touch after our father died,’ Baba went on, filling the awkward silence. ‘It was a strange time for all of us.’ He was starting to look embarrassed. ‘Your mother went off with you so suddenly, before we had time to get used to the situation and decide what to do. I hope you didn’t feel we’d abandoned you. It must have been – I suppose it was hard for your mother?’

  ‘It was,’ said Malik shortly.

  There was another difficult silence. At last Malik said, ‘My mother was miserable in Damascus with my father. Shirin, well, the whole family – they didn’t like her.’ Baba flinched, but Malik didn’t notice. ‘She was desperate to get back to her village and be with her own people.’

  Baba leaned forward.

  ‘At least – I’m sure – that our father left her well provided for, with money for your education?’

  Malik looked down at his work-calloused hands.

  ‘Mama’s family were very poor. They’d more or less sold her to him in the first place. She was only fourteen. Years younger than you and Shirin. He was nearly fifty years older than her.’

  I gasped. How awful it must have been for her, my poor little stepgrandmother, married off to an old man! She’d been only two years older than me now! I didn’t remember my stern grandfather very well. Tariq and I had kept out of his way when he and his second family came to see us, and Auntie Shirin had despised her stepmother so much that we had almost never visited them. Tariq and I had been horrible to Malik. How could we have been so cruel?

  ‘Mama wasn’t clever with money,’ Malik went on in a low voice. ‘Her brothers soon took it all off her, and left her with almost nothing.’

  Baba was looking appalled.

  ‘I had no idea! What did you do?’

  Malik was hunched over his knees, not looking at any of us.

  ‘There was nothing for us in the village. We went to the south. I got work on a building site. I’d never done anything like that before. Didn’t have the muscles for it. It was – it got easier. I had a good boss. He taught me a lot. We managed.’ He flexed his shoulders. ‘I earned enough, just, to keep us.’

  ‘But my dear Malik!’ Baba sounded horrified. ‘Why didn’t you come to me? To us?’

  Malik shot him a quick glance, then looked away.

  ‘Mama didn’t want . . . She thought that . . .’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘Of course we would have helped you! We would never have—’

  ‘We didn’t need your help, anyway,’ Malik interrupted stiffly. ‘I was working. I looked after my mother myself.’

  ‘But your education!’

  ‘Oh that!’ Malik shook his head. ‘You know I’m not clever, like you lot are. I can’t even read properly. The letters dance about on the page whenever I try. It’s called dyslexia or something, but the teachers just said I was stupid and lazy. They punished me all the time.’

  I caught Tariq’s eye. He’d stopped pretending to do his homework and was biting his lip in shame.

  ‘Actually,’ Malik went on, ‘I liked working on the building site once I’d got to be strong enough. I’m good at practical things. I learned brick-laying, carpentry, electrical work. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to work. It gave me – I don’t know – self-respect.’

  ‘And then?’ prompted Baba.

  ‘I was called up for military service. It was just about bearable at first. I’d learned by then to stand on my own feet. But when the trouble started . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘They put a gun in your hand and told you to shoot at other Syrians, at your own people,’ Baba said harshly. ‘It happened to every man in the army, and they all had to make the same decision. To shoot, or not to shoot.’

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Tariq.

  ‘I couldn’t shoot at people. I ran away.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Tariq, shutting his book with a snap.

  Malik shook his head.

  ‘I was careless. I didn’t plan it properly. They came after me, of course. Caught me.’ He shut his eyes. ‘It was . . . I don’t want . . .’

  ‘But you got away again, didn’t you?’ I dared to ask.

  ‘One of the guards, in the prison, he was a good guy. He helped me get out. I could only just walk after all the beatings. They burned my face too.’ He touched the puckered skin on his cheek. ‘There were others making for the border. I joined them. Got across into Jordan three weeks ago. People have helped me here and there. Not much to eat but –’ he smiled shakily – ‘my bruises are going down. Look.’ He pulled up his sleeve to show us his arm. I could hardly bear to look at the huge yellow and purple blotches from his wrist right up to his elbow. He pulled his sleeve down again. ‘If I hadn’t met you yesterday, Adnan, I don’t know what would have happened to me.’

  He coughed to cover up the crack in his voice.

  I was dying to know about his mother.

  ‘Where’s my – my grandmother?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t she come with you?’

  ‘I didn’t dare go to her,’ Malik said. ‘They’d have been watching for me. They’d have arrested her too.’

  ‘But how’s she managing? Who’s looking after her?’

  ‘I found her a job before I went into the army.’ He looked round at us defiantly. ‘She works in a school. She’s a cleaner.’

  ‘Oh, the poor thing!’ I said unthinkingly.

  ‘No,’ Malik corrected me. ‘The lucky thing. It’s a good job. My mother’s not like you. She never went to school, she can’t read and write, but she knows how to work. I’m proud of her, actually. I – I miss her very much.’

  My heart lurched in sympathy.

  ‘You’ll find her again,’ I blurted out. ‘You’ll be together again. When all this is over, and we go home, you’ll . . .’

  ‘I can never go back to Syria,’ he interrupted. ‘They’ll never pardon a deserter from the army.’

  ‘I’m glad Baba found you and brought you to us,’ I said. ‘It’s funny to think you’re our uncle and we never really knew you.’
>
  He laughed.

  ‘I don’t feel very like your uncle. More like . . .’

  ‘A brother maybe,’ said Tariq gruffly. ‘I’m glad you’re here too.’

  Malik looked from Tariq to me and back again as if to check that we meant what we said. Then he smiled shyly.

  ‘I’m not going to be a burden to you. I’ll make myself useful, I promise. I’m going to find work. There’s lots of building going on around here. Your cousin – Yasser – what should I call him?’

  ‘He’s got a son called Fares, so call him Abu Fares,’ said Baba.

  ‘Yes, well, he said he’d help me.’

  ‘He will too.’ Tariq nodded. ‘He’s fair like that. If he says he’ll do something, he does it.’

  I moved my legs and hit the side of the tin trunk. It made a loud clang. Baba looked round.

  ‘Why are you still here, Safiya? Why haven’t you gone to thank your aunt?’

  I scrambled to my feet.

  ‘Sorry, Baba. I’ll go now.’

  I could smell onions frying as I went into Aunt Zainab’s courtyard. She was cooking and the kitchen window was open.

  ‘How many more of them are there going to be?’ I heard her say. ‘Are we going to have a refugee camp on our doorstep? You’ll have to put your foot down, Yasser. Honestly . . .’

  Uncle Yasser said something I couldn’t hear.

  ‘You’re too soft!’ I could just imagine how she was tossing her head. ‘You saw him! Nothing but a common labourer! Adnan’s own brother! So much for Mr High and Mighty now.’

  She’d gone too far.

  ‘That’s enough, Zainab,’ Uncle Yasser said sharply. ‘The guy’s been tortured. He’s a good lad, I can tell.’ He was on his high horse. ‘You know what we’ve been taught. “A Muslim is not a Muslim who goes to bed satisfied while his neighbour is hungry.” It’s no more than our human duty to help them.’

  Saucepans clattered as Aunt Zainab banged them down in her sink by way of an answer. The kitchen door into the courtyard opened and Uncle Yasser came out. He saw me and stopped, embarrassed.

  He knows I heard her, I thought.

  He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a banknote.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, Safiya. You’re always welcome at our house, you and your family. I hope you know that.’

  He winced as another bang came from the kitchen. He pressed the banknote into my hand.

  ‘Abu Ali’s had a delivery of gas bottles today. Yours must be running out soon. Get yourself another one.’

  I tried to give it back to him.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Yasser, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t be silly, habibti. Get your gas.’ He raised his voice. ‘Your father’s a great man. He’ll be himself again soon. And Tariq’s a hard worker. You are too. I’m proud that you came to us.’

  I was cross with myself after he’d gone. I’d been waiting all this time to catch him alone and ask him if he really had seen Uncle Hassan in Amman. I’d had my chance, and I’d missed it.

  I’m sorry, Saba, I thought. I haven’t forgotten you, I promise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It had still been summer when we’d moved into the tent and the weather had been hot and dry, but autumn was coming now and storms were on their way.

  A few days after Malik had arrived, huge dark clouds rolled across the sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  It was the middle of the morning. Baba was away in Zarka, Tariq was at school and Malik was sewing a button on to his jacket.

  ‘Did your mother teach you to sew?’ I asked him.

  He smiled.

  ‘No. She did everything like that for me. You know what mothers are.’

  ‘I don’t, actually.’

  He looked up and saw my face.

  ‘Sorry, Safiya.’ There was an awkward silence. Then he said, ‘You learn all that kind of stuff in the army.’

  There was a ping as the first drop of rain hit the tent. More splattered down, then they all ran together as the rain fell like a waterfall.

  Malik leaped to his feet and scanned the roof of the tent, looking for leaks. I darted outside to bring in my little cooking stove, then rushed back inside and was dropping the flap behind me to stop the rain driving in, when Malik pushed past me and went outside.

  ‘What are you doing? You’ll get soaked!’ I shouted, above the drumming of the rain but he didn’t answer. I peered out, gasping as the cold water hit my face. The sandy soil was saturated already and huge puddles were spreading fast.

  I couldn’t see Malik, but he suddenly came round from behind the tent carrying a short length of metal pole, which had been thrown away when the tent had been put up. He ran to the entrance and began digging.

  ‘Are you crazy? Come inside!’ I yelled at him.

  He shouted back, ‘We’ve got to dig a trench! The tent’s going to flood! Pull the mattresses and everything else into the middle!’

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was already imagining how miserable it would be if our beds got wet. A few minutes later our mattresses, clothes and everything else we owned were in a jumble in the middle of the tent. I even dragged the tin food box over to join the rest, in case it had a hole in the bottom.

  ‘I’ll go round the edges and tell you where it’s coming in!’ I yelled at him.

  I began to crawl round the walls of the tent, picking up the edges of the mat and tucking them away from the canvas. In the far corner, a puddle was already forming.

  ‘Over here. This side,’ I called out to Malik.

  I could hear him splashing around outside.

  ‘Can’t see it,’ he shouted. ‘Bang the tent wall to show me!’

  I pushed my fist against the canvas.

  ‘Here! Look!’

  A moment later I heard the scrape of the pole on the ground and Malik’s grunts as he dug furiously at the hard earth. I watched for a moment as the water pooled away, but it was coming in already in several other places.

  The storm can’t have lasted for more than twenty minutes, but it seemed to go on forever. There were several more leaks, but Malik’s frantic digging kept the worst of the water out. The rain stopped almost as soon as it had begun.

  I expected Malik to come inside and change out of his wet clothes, and I’d already found some of Baba’s for him to wear, but he stayed outside. I could hear him panting with effort as he went on digging.

  I hitched the entrance flap open and a thin flash of white streaked through my legs. It was Snowball, looking half drowned, her wet fur clinging to her skinny body.

  She miaowed pleadingly.

  Quickly, I took some of yesterday’s stale bread out of the food trunk, mixed a little milk powder with some water, and soaked the bread in it. She’d pushed her way past my hands before I’d finished. I couldn’t stay and watch her eat. I wanted to see what Malik had done.

  There was no point in putting shoes on. They’d have been soaked in no time. I rolled my trouser legs up over my ankles and stepped outside, shuddering as cold water oozed between my toes.

  The tent lay in what looked like a pool of glistening mud with puddles stretching to our makeshift fence. Malik splashed round from the far side of the tent, splattered with mud from head to foot.

  ‘This thing’s useless,’ he said, throwing the metal pole aside. ‘I need a spade. We’ve got to dig a deeper trench, a proper one, to keep the rain out. There’ll be more storms now this weather’s started.’

  He was right. The trench was much too shallow. We needed to build up a little bank against the tent wall too.

  ‘If you go round the tent again and loosen the earth with the pole, I’ll scoop it out,’ I said. ‘It’ll be softer now it’s wet.’

  He didn’t answer, but wiped his mucky sleeve across his forehead, picked up the pole and got started.

  I grabbed one of the pans Aunt Zainab had given me. It was useless for cooking because the handle was broken. I’d nearly thrown it out but I was gl
ad now that I’d kept it. It would do for scooping mud.

  We worked for what felt like hours. My back was soon aching, and my hands were chafed and raw, while my bare feet were numb with cold.

  Malik straightened up at last.

  ‘It might hold,’ he said. ‘Until the next downpour, at least.’

  I flexed my sore back. The trench was still too shallow and the little bank wasn’t high enough, but I was too wet and cold and tired to go on. The tent looked awful, sagging and splashed with mud, the earth all round it cratered with puddles.

  ‘I hate it here!’ I burst out. ‘I just want to go home!’

  ‘You look funny,’ Malik said, trying to cheer me up although his teeth were chattering. ‘Like you’ve been wallowing in a mud bath.’

  It didn’t cheer me up at all.

  ‘And you look like you’ve crawled out of a pond,’ I snapped back.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s wash the mud off and get into dry clothes. And why don’t I put the kettle on? We need a hot drink.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I came out of my little room in dry clothes to find that Malik had put on Baba’s old things. He looked more impressive, somehow.

  ‘You know what,’ I burst out. ‘I’m really glad you’re here! I’d have gone crazy if I’d been on my own. Everything would have got soaked.’

  He didn’t say anything, but made me sit down and poured out the tea.

  When you’re cold, a hot drink works like magic. I cupped the little glass in my hands, enjoying its warmth, and slowly my mood warmed up too.

  What was it Mama had said when she’d come to me in my dream?

  Go on, she’d said. Go on.

  Did she prompt me to say what I said next? To find out the truth about her at last?

  ‘You were five when I was born, weren’t you?’ I asked Malik.

  He was pouring out more tea.

  ‘Must have been. Five or six.’

  ‘Do you remember my mother?’