Sisterland

by Linda Newbery

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘It was so nice and warm, we stayed there talking for a long while.’

  ‘Just talking?’

  ‘You’ve got sex on the brain!’

  ‘Who’s got sex on the brain?’ Tessa accused. ‘Never mentioned the word, did I? So, come on, what did you find out about him?’

  ‘Lots of things, thank you.’

  ‘So, you talked in the park, then what? Did he entice you back to his place?’ Tessa raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘No. Saw it though, the place where he’s staying while he does the decorating job. We passed it on the way to the cinema.’

  ‘What was the film? Did you sit in the back row?’

  ‘It was Les Enfants du Paradis. French, with subtitles. In a nice little cinema in a back-street.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what it’s like going out with an intellectual. A bit different from the scrum at Sixfields and a bucket of popcorn. So, no snogging in the back row, then?’

  ‘Tessa! It was more romantic than that.’

  ‘Romantic – now we’re getting somewhere. Come on, tell.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s private.’ In her imagination Hilly was back in the darkness of the cinema, all her senses tuned to Rashid beside her, and the small distance between them that might be bridged if only he would lean close or reach for her hand. It had been hard to concentrate on the film, to read the subtitles. After a while he did lean closer and said into her ear, ‘It’s one of my favourites, this. I must have seen it six times.’ She had not known that it could be so sexy, the vibration of a low voice close to her ear, the stir and tickle of his breath. And she felt an obligation to like the film as much as he did, since he had chosen to share his favourite.

  Tessa puffed out her breath. ‘I give up! You’re like a clam, you are. Are you seeing him again, then? Can you bear to reveal that much?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hilly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When? Where?’ But the bus was slowing at the school entrance; Tessa was getting to her feet. ‘You’re mean, you are! Told you all about being groped by Jason Wilde, didn’t I?’

  ‘More than I wanted to know, thanks!’

  ‘And you get yourself a real man, and can’t be bothered to tell me a single thing about him!’

  ‘I will if you ring me later,’ said Hilly, shouldering her bag.

  They joined the drift into school. Kids in uniform, as well as sixth form not in uniform, were lingering in huddles, regardless of the thin rain.

  ‘See you in the common room,’ Tessa said. ‘I’ve got to hand in my geography.’ She hurried off, head down. Hilly saw Zoë, huddled by wet shrubbery, in animated conversation with Nadine. Having been silent and withdrawn all weekend – to judge by what little Hilly had seen of her – Zoë was making up for it now. Her face was serious, intent.

  Hilly felt uneasy about the matter of Zoë’s friends and the police, unable to think that she’d come out of it well. She had jumped to a conclusion – the wrong conclusion – and not only jumped, but acted on it by telling WPC Jo. If other people did that, she knew, in other circumstances, she’d be quick to label them prejudiced. Though she still had no reason to like Grant or the others, she had to admit that Zoë’s accusations had some point.

  But she didn’t want to think about Zoë. She wanted to think about Rashid. The way he could look so darkly brooding one moment, then, when he smiled, so much at ease. The way he made her feel. With him she had seemed transformed into a different person: not her quiet, cautious self, but someone buoyed up on a strange new confidence and hope. Never in her life had she felt so attractive, so interesting , as Rashid made her feel. She might have been the only girl in the whole of Oxford, so completely did he give his attention to her.

  She found that she was smiling as she walked slowly up the driveway. She could retreat to yesterday whenever she wanted, smug inside herself.

  What do I know?

  That he’s nineteen, nearly twenty.

  He speaks three languages fluently and two passably.

  He’s working on his application to study medicine, preparing for interviews. There, in Oxford, if he’s lucky and gets his first choice.

  He likes cricket and motor-racing.

  He’s Muslim through habit (‘and laziness’) rather than through conviction. If he’s at home on a Friday he goes to the mosque to please his father.

  He chose grilled chicken sandwiches with salad, and mineral water, fizzy not still.

  He was arrested by Israeli soldiers in a mass round-up of Palestinians and held for six hours in hot sun without food or water.

  He’s had one serious girlfriend, while he was at school; she met someone else at university, but they’re still friends.

  He knows a lot about films, not much about music.

  And, she thought, unexpected, unbelievable, unsettling though it is: He likes me. Me! Why?

  His expression had become serious when he told her about the West Bank, the Occupied Territories; about Israeli road blocks, tanks in the streets, curfews and restrictions. He talked about the massacre at the Jenin refugee camp, of houses bulldozed, helicopters firing on civilians, people bleeding to death while the Israeli soldiers refused to let ambulances near; of the rage that turned susceptible young Palestinians into suicide bombers. He had seen for himself how easy it was for young men to be drawn into the cycle of hatred and retribution. Again he spoke about his second cousin, killed in a mortar attack in the streets of Hebron; another cousin had been a member of one of the resistance groups. ‘Didn’t you want to stay there?’ Hilly had ventured. He shook his head firmly. ‘No. No. It’d be different if I’d been brought up there. It’d be too easy to get sucked in. To see the struggle for freedom as my whole purpose in life, the way so many do.’ He was determined to study medicine, to return as a doctor, if at all; to pick up the pieces, not help in the destruction. But he had left the country with mixed feelings: glad to leave the bitterness and the suffering behind, but with a pull of guilt for returning to a life of freedom others couldn’t share. ‘And when I got back to England, the tabloids were all full of who’d won some stupid contest on TV.’

  When he spoke like this, Hilly felt boringly inadequate, aware of the huge gulf between his experiences and hers. What could she know of any of this, having spent all her life in Northampton? Mentally she transplanted Rashid into scenes familiar from the TV news: chaos and terror in a busy street, people clustering round the wreckage of a car, angry young men threatening revenge, relatives weeping. She hardly knew what to say, what questions to ask. What could he possibly see in her, with her comfortable middle-class life, her complete lack of involvement in any political situation – let alone one like this, that stirred the most passionate of feelings? What must it be like to live in a country where any day not scarred by violence must seem like an ominous waiting for the next explosion?

  ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘After college?’

  She could only shrug and say that she didn’t know yet. ‘Travel,’ she added, as feebly as a Miss World contestant. ‘I’d like to travel.’ And then, turning the conversation back to him, ‘I suppose that’s one thing about being a doctor. You could go anywhere you wanted.’

  The film, to her relief, was not dark or political, but whimsical and charming and set in Paris. After Rashid leaned close to speak into her ear, she lost concentration altogether. All her senses were keenly aware of his body, warm and breathing in the semi-darkness, his foot close to hers, their shoulders just touching. His hand, the one nearest her, was resting loosely on his thigh. More than anything she wanted to hold and stroke that hand. Why shouldn’t I? she thought. He wouldn’t mind, I know he wouldn’t. I don’t have to sit here passively, waiting. Oh, this is laughable. Other people behave like this, think like this. Not me. Her hand seemed to be tingling with an electrical charge that any moment was going to make it reach out of its own accord, tangling her fingers with his; she was unable to think of anything else. He glance
d at her, and in a moment their hands had moved together and were touching. His skin was warm and smooth, brushing hers. His fingertips and her fingertips moved gently, touching, exploring. Her whole self felt gathered and concentrated in one hand. Fingers moving against palm and knuckle and wrist. Fingers stroking, tickling, caressing.

  Afterwards they had walked back to his car in the dusk, first discussing the film, then falling silent. They walked slightly apart, not touching; holding hands now, Hilly thought, would seem too complacent, too possessive. When they reached the parking place in a side-street, he came round to the passenger side. He stood looking at her. For a second she thought he was going to ask if he could kiss her, but he did not. His hesitation asked the question; her move towards him gave the answer.

  Now, sidestepping a huddle of Year Nines who were obstructing the steps to the main entrance, Hilly felt stirred all over again from remembering. How different one kiss could be from another! Hilly’s kissing encounters had been limited to the slobbery, tongue-thrusting embraces of boys her own age – experimental, meaning nothing. She could not have described this first kiss to Tess, though she recalled every detail. It had been a brushing of lips, soft, darting touches: experimental in a different way, a sampling of each other, an approach, each offering more if the other wanted to respond. Tentative, almost teasing.

  Her mother had seen straight through the bluff and vagueness when Hilly arrived home. ‘So,’ she said, when Hilly came in, rather late; ‘Tess has learned to drive now, has she?’

  Hilly felt herself flushing: another kiss had just been exchanged in the car outside, and it had been hard to breeze straight in as if nothing unusual had happened. ‘That wasn’t Tessa. I’ve spent today with Rashid. Saeed’s brother.’

  There was a small but noticeable pause – a registering, a stiffening – before Rose spoke. Then: ‘Oh? So why lie about it? That’s Zoë’s province. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I knew you were hiding something.’

  Hilly still didn’t know; nor did she know why, when Reuben phoned at morning break, she found herself preparing to lie again.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve hardly seen you the last few days!’

  ‘Sorry! I’ve been busy all weekend. Look, why don’t you come round this evening?’

  Even then, when she and Reuben were together up in the attic, she could not bring herself to say it. ‘I was with Rashid yesterday. And I’m seeing him again at the weekend.’ A simple enough combination of words, but she could not get them past her lips. Not to Reuben.

  As Zoë had been allowed to go round to Nadine’s, they had the room to themselves. Reuben threw down his bag and lay on Hilly’s bed, arms folded behind his head, gazing up at the skylight. ‘I like this. Better view than your old room.’

  ‘Only when Zoë’s not here. When she is, the only view’s of her sulky face. Course, she’s got it in for me worse than ever, now.’

  ‘Oh, since it came out about her yobby friends being in the clear?’

  Hilly nodded. ‘She thinks I grassed on them just to stir things up. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have done that, but I honestly thought … Now I think she’ll be quite happy if they do me over, one dark night, to get their own back.’

  Reuben raised his head. ‘You serious?’

  ‘Not really. It’s not a nice feeling, though, that there are people out there with a grudge against me. Or to know they’re not the only gang of racist yobs in town. Anyway, let’s not talk about them.’ Hilly picked up the cassette tape from her bedside table. ‘I want you to listen to this. Remember I interviewed Gran two years ago for history? I played it again the other day. She says she didn’t know any Jewish people. Says that more than once. But what I noticed this time was the way she says it, too quickly, like she’s covering something up. See what you think.’

  She slotted in the tape and pressed PLAY. Reuben closed his eyes while the two voices talked, and after a few moments Hilly thought he had fallen asleep. But when she clicked PAUSE, he said at once, ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. She knows more than she’s saying.’

  ‘Knew then – that was two years ago. I wonder how much she still knows now?’ Hilly pressed EJECT, but Reuben sat up and said, ‘No, play the rest. There might be something else.’

  ‘There isn’t, nothing interesting. I listened the other day,’ Hilly said, but she re-started the tape. Reuben sat up, elbows on knees, and listened intently.

  ‘Your new life in England? Is that what you mean?’ asked Hilly’s voice from the cassette player, and Heidigran laughed. ‘Sorry, love. I’m getting myself in a bit of a muddle, aren’t I? Do you mind if we finish now?’

  ‘Getting herself in a muddle,’ Hilly repeated, pressing STOP. ‘That was two years ago. We didn’t know, then, it was the start of the Big A. I mean, when do you know? Everyone gets confused sometimes.’

  Reuben was frowning. ‘There’s something odd.’

  ‘How d’you mean? About the fact that she hardly said anything at all?’

  ‘You hear about that, don’t you? – German people of the time saying, No, no, we had no idea what was going on.’

  ‘With the Jews?’ said Hilly. ‘But Gran was only a girl – only about thirteen at the end of the war.’

  ‘Old enough to know things. See things. Hear things. Neighbours taken away, things like that – she must have done, surely! You could hardly not!’

  Rachel, Hilly thought. And Sarah. She had not told Reuben yet about her latest find, her prize exhibit. ‘There’s something else.’ She moved towards her section of the wardrobe, where the Rachel und Sarah im Garten photo was hidden, tucked inside her French dictionary.

  ‘Hey! I meant to tell you,’ Reuben remarked while she pushed a hand under her folded sweaters, ‘Si thinks Rashid’s got a mystery girlfriend. He came all the way back from Oxford last night, when he’s only just gone down there. And when Si asked why, he did the non-answering thing, just like your gran. What’s the big secret, d’you reckon?’

  Her back to him, Hilly felt the rush of blood to her cheeks. Slowly, with the French dictionary in her hand, she turned.

  ‘Reuben – it’s – it’s me. I spent yesterday with Rashid. I’ve been wanting to tell you.’

  Reuben’s expression was almost comical: mouth falling open in a cartoonish wordless gape, eyebrows arrowing upward. ‘Uh?’ came from somewhere in his throat. Hilly nodded; Reuben found his voice. ‘You’re going out with him?’

  ‘I hope so. We spent yesterday together and we’re going out again next weekend.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘What do you mean, but? It’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s …’

  ‘What?’ Hilly sat on Zoë’s bed, facing him. ‘Is it so unbelievable that someone asks me out?’

  ‘No, but is it – I mean, is it …’ Reuben looked down at the floor, up at her face again: ‘Are you keen on him, then?’

  ‘Keen! Well, course. Why would I go out with him otherwise? You know I don’t go out with boys unless I—’

  ‘Unless you what?’

  ‘Unless I really like them,’ Hilly said lamely.

  ‘So you do,’ Reuben said, in a strange, flat voice.

  ‘Yes! I really like Rashid! I think he’s lovely, if you want to know. Is there something wrong with that?’

  Reuben didn’t answer; Hilly felt irritation rise. ‘Why can’t you be pleased for me?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘But just look at you! I don’t make a fuss about you and Saeed, do I? You want it all one way, is that what you’re saying? I can be your camouflage when you need it, go with you to the hospital, go to Saeed’s, be around whenever you need me, but when I want something for myself you don’t want to know? Was I supposed to ask your permission then, or what? I thought you were my friend – more than my friend!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! That’s not going to change. It takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all.’

/>   ‘You’re saying you want to choose who I see, apart from you?’ Hilly flared at him. ‘I can’t have other friends?’

  ‘We’re not talking about friends, are we? You don’t want Rashid as a friend. You want—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I want! What do you know? What’s the matter with everyone? Mum was a bit off about it too, when she found out—’

  ‘Maybe she shouldn’t have had to find out,’ Reuben said. ‘Maybe you could have told her. Perhaps you could have told me.’

  ‘Well, now I have.’ I don’t believe this, a part of her mind said; I’m quarrelling with Reuben. With Reuben!

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Reuben, getting to his feet, looking round for his jacket. ‘Hope it wasn’t too much effort. Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘But aren’t we having a piano lesson?’

  ‘Ask Rashid to teach you,’ Reuben said curtly.

  ‘Oh!’ Hilly rolled her eyes up at the rafters. ‘Now who’s being stupid?’

  ‘OK,’ Reuben said, with an indifferent shrug. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Just listen to yourself! And now you’re walking out on me! Let’s at least talk about it, now you know!’

  ‘What’s there to talk about?’

  He was as distant as a stranger. Not looking at her, he pulled on his jacket and made for the stairs. With a final, non-committal ‘See you’, he stomped down to the landing. Hilly picked up one of Zoë’s slippers and chucked it after him; it hit the stair-rail and fell limply back on the mat.

  ‘Of all the stupid, obstinate, ridiculous, unreasonable—’

  Hilly paced to her own end of the room, yanked her duvet straight where Reuben had been lying, pummelled the pillows into shape. I could run after him, she thought; but why should I? He’s the one who’s behaved like a prat. But replaying the conversation in her mind, over and over, she heard her own voice, prickly, defensive. OK, Reuben was out of order, but I got it all wrong too, she told herself. Her eyes filled with tears. She could not remember quarrelling with Reuben, ever. Never before had he walked off and left her; never before had she seen him cold and aloof. She reached for a tissue as her eyes blurred.