by Judy Croome
‘They’re my school friends, Papa,’ she dared to whisper. ‘I don’t want to take money from them.’
She always hoped she could reach the part of him that was real, but there was no reason in the stranger who called himself her Papa. Some days she escaped after an hour. She’d run to the small zinc hut they called home. Other days, the worst days, she stayed until she was sure every one of the children in her school had driven past her and laughed.
Mama said she must tell them she was collecting for the local Court. She did. But they asked why she was always dirty. She’d say she tripped as she crossed the road to avoid a car pulling hastily away when the traffic light turned green. The sneers and the taunts that greeted her said no one believed her.
‘What happened to your clothes, child? And your face is so dirty!’ Miss Phipps asked one Saturday afternoon. Breathless from having eluded the begging corner while Papa was away buying cigarettes with the morning’s collection, Jamila arrived at the school gate for the sports afternoon at the same time as the tall middle-aged headmistress. The woman leaned forward to cup Jamila’s chin. She turned Jamila’s face this way, then the other way, and grimaced as she saw the streaks of dirt. Jamila gagged from nerves and the heavy sweet perfume Miss Phipps wore.
‘I fell,’ she said, but Angela Rocco, school trend setter and one of the beautiful people, walked past with her disciples and heard her lie.
‘Jamila always says she’s fallen, Miss Phipps,’ the girl said. From the comfort of her perfect, safe life, she added, ‘She has problems at home.’
Miss Phipps frowned as the other girls tittered. Jamila thought she heard them, or one of the teachers drawn by the throng at the school gate, call out the name of Papa’s ezomo. ‘Her father’s too lazy to find decent work,’ someone said.
‘I don’t have problems at home! I fell!’ She rattled out the words so the headmistress wouldn’t hear those lies.
‘What happened?’ Miss Phipps was gentle, but Mama said let’s pretend it’s not true. Don’t tell anyone how poor we are. It’s our secret and no one must ever find out, or Mama will die of shame. Jamila, too, was shamed because she wanted people to see her real Papa: the good one.
‘I fell,’ she said, stubborn from desperation, and heard the muffled giggles as Angela contradicted her.
‘You did not. Your father’s the beggar at the second traffic light past the tennis club. You’re dirty and dirt poor!’ She sniggered at her own joke.
‘What’s your name, child? What happened? You must tell me the truth. Otherwise,’ Miss Phipps urged, regret laced into her words, ‘I’ll have to ask Angela to tell me.’
Jamila didn’t want to meet Angela’s avid stare. She lifted her gaze high, up past the letters that read “St Mary’s Court School for Girls” and up as high as the dusty old nova that adorned the arched gate. The Spirit King’s pained grimace echoed the ache in Jamila’s muscles and the iron face blurred with tears she would not let fall. Yet somehow it gave her a strength she didn’t realise she had. ‘I’m Jamila Johnson, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘I tripped on the way to the school.’
The ripple of response from Angela and her friends reached out like a breath of darkness, dangerous and lurking beneath the ordinariness of their faces. Jamila held her gaze on the Spirit King’s face. As she watched, the sun came over the roof of the school hall and, as it warmed her, it glinted off the dew on the Spirit King. Please, she appealed to the iridescent figure, please let them leave me alone.
As if she heard the silent plea, Miss Phipps turned to those gathered round them. ‘Leave, everyone,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
‘But, Miss Phipps…’
‘Go, Angela.’ No one argued with the headmistress when she spoke in that tone.
When they were alone, Miss Phipps was quiet for a long while. ‘Jamila,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen your father when I drive past the tennis club.’
Jamila would not move her gaze away from the nova. ‘My Papa is a good man,’ she said.
‘Of course he is.’ The headmistress sighed and took out her handkerchief to wipe away as much dirt as she could from Jamila’s cheeks. ‘Be careful, child. Our ezomos ruin the best of us.’
She left Jamila there, standing alone in her black skirt with her dirty white blouse neatly tucked in and her shoes, black and shiny and clean on the outside, but filthy on the inside where the dirt from the road had rubbed off her bare feet. Jamila didn’t see her go, for she gaped at the miracle of the nova.
Shame had again shredded her on this day, and yet the kindness coming from an answered appeal had sewn her back together. Dazed, and a little awed, Jamila floated through the arched gate, fresh life breathed into her by that glowing nova.
She made two decisions.
With her newly birthed allegiance to the Spirit King to give her strength, she would escape. Unlike Papa, she would never let her ezomos trap her into a life she did not want.
And she would always be kind to those people who, like herself, were the easy victims of the pious malevolence of the Angela Roccos of this world.
Chapter 3
Zahra (The Past)
“Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That mak’st my blood cold?”
A glorious riot of fragrance wafted from the roses arranged in the centre of the dinner table, but it failed to soothe me. I forced the storm back into the quiescence of utter control. When I was calm again, I called for a servant.
‘Ma’am Zahra called?’ The girl sidled into the formal dining room, her eyes, as always, locked to the floor. Did she think I couldn’t see the white rim of fear? I was pleased when she feared me, for then I was in control. And when I was in control, Little Flower—my secret nemesis, the other me—was dim and muted and I could pretend she was truly gone. ‘Ma’am called?’ the servant said again.
‘What did I say about the roses?’ I glared. It drew my eyebrows down to meet over my nose and made me formidable; I practiced the look often. Like armour on a fallen warrior, dull and tarnished, it worked. The servant shuffled her feet and chewed the end of her braid. I waited a dangerous beat. ‘Haven’t you got any ears?’
Silence. I could almost hear her mind scurry in frantic circles as she tried to remember the day’s orders. I helped her. ‘White roses, girl. I wanted white roses.’
Her head sunk lower. If she were other than a Dark One, she would have blushed with nerves. I deepened my frown to harness my own nerves. Even after years as a Templeton wife, I was unused to servants who, too often, saw my weakness. ‘Well?’
‘Ma’am, sorry, ma’am.’
‘Sorry doesn’t do the job. Take these away.’ I waved a languid hand, another gesture I practised when my husband Barry had left for his pharmacy.
Some called him ruthless. I was proud of his ambition. His latest project was to expand the family’s pharmacy into a nationwide chain of stores. Three blocks down, old Mr Reubens complained that, since Barry took over his father’s store, his pharmacy had lost business. Barry’s father, he said, hadn’t poached his customers with discount prices and special offers. They’d respected each other’s turf and there’d been customers enough for both of them.
When he complained, Barry waited for my nod before offering to buy him out.
‘He’ll sell soon,’ I said to Barry every night and he believed me.
Barry worked hard. Between his business, and his visits to his mother, I hardly saw him. Those days, she was often on her sickbed—deathbed, I sometimes hoped, before I pushed the thought away. Everyone said she’s a lovely woman. I guess she was. But I couldn’t help thinking this: when she died, I would be the matriarch. I would become the real power behind the Templeton Empire Barry built with every new store he opened. And then no one would ever make me powerless again.
The servant stood there, tense and anxious, as I lost myself in my future. ‘Go,’ I said and released her with a nod towards the door. ‘Bring the white roses.’
As
I watched her flee the room, the sympathetic cry of a child echoed inside my heart. A cry that reflected the fear on her face and made me long to call her back and mumble sorry, sorry, I don’t want to hurt you; I’m as scared as you are…but I could show her no weakness. For, if I had, what would I have done if Little Flower returned?
I dismissed them both—servant and the memory of a child long gone—from my thoughts, and began to set the table with the fine china and heavy silver cutlery I took from the mahogany cupboard; polished to a glossy sheen, it stood solid and enduring in the nave between the dining room and the front parlour. I carried the key to it, for I filled it with my most precious possessions, such as the antique silver sugar shaker Grace had given me.
• • •
‘Our family has owned it for over two hundred and fifty years,’ Barry’s mother said, when she showed me the shaker. ‘Look, here’s the coat of arms from when we lived in the Old Land.’
Her family tree, reaching back through the centuries, intimidated me. Her ancestors came from the Old Land to settle on the southernmost shores of the Dark Continent. They even helped found the Old Sea City. I reminded myself that The War changed everything; even the old ways.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. The weight in my hands, heavy and solid, the elegant urn shape free of dinting and the lid pierced in striking geometric shapes; all were the epitome of a life I had always wanted.
Without a hint of reluctance, she passed it to me. ‘You can have it,’ she said.
‘Have it?’
‘It’s yours.’
‘Mine?’
She nodded, smiling at my astonishment and laughing when I clutched it to my chest with both hands.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
It’s not hers any more, I thought as my fingertips caressed the delicate engraving.
It’s mine.
Mine.
• • •
After I had filled the castor with sugar, I checked the “Woman’s Home” magazine I had bought the previous day. There was a black and white photograph of a superior table setting for an elegant afternoon tea. Except for the white roses, which the servant had yet to bring, my table was an exact replica.
Yet the crockery and cutlery lay uncomfortable in their settings; the table unbalanced and needing one more adjustment before I was satisfied: I moved the silver sugar shaker from Grace’s chair to the seat I always used.
With lingering reverence, I stroked the intricate engraving. The beauty of it, as always, drowned out the soft cry of Little Flower: Zahra, she mourned, is it worth what you pay?
I remembered all the years I travelled with Daddy from one dull, dusty town to another and longed for such finery.
Yes, I whispered back to the echo in my head, yes.
• • •
The clock struck two. Barry would be here soon, with his mother, and the servant had not returned with the white roses.
‘Girl!’ I called. When I received no answer, I moved with careful, practiced grace into the hall. The double entrance doors opened out onto a veranda covered by an intricate Dutch Gable roof. The servant was in the rose garden, at the bottom of the driveway that swept up from the road through the expanse of rich green lawn, and she stared at the ocean with no thoughts of completing the task I had set her.
Shouting was undignified, so I walked down the veranda staircase. ‘Elijah,’ I called.
The Ancient was washing the old black Rolls Barry’s grandfather had left us when he died. In response to my call, he stopped his vigorous work. He respectfully tilted his head, covered in once-black curls, and his chauffeur’s cap slipped low on his forehead, wrinkled with the wisdom of the ages. I loved the old Rolls. As I walked to give him my orders, I patted its bonnet, as though it were some adored pet.
‘Tell the girl to hurry.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said and threw the damp sponge into the pail of water. He was as old as the Rolls, almost another heirloom, and creaked his way down the driveway.
The wind from the bay, brushed with salt, tugged at his cap. Holding it fast with one thin hand, bending with the wind, he called to the maid, ‘Ma’am says hurry.’ He flapped his other hand, shooing her on. ‘Quick, quick! The Master is coming.’
The servant girl looked back and her arm jerked as she heard the gravel crunch under my patrolling feet. As she stumbled in her haste to bring me the roses, the ocean-monster called Little Flower rumbled ominously in my depths. My nemesis, my other me, twisted and turned inside me until I sighed to release its unease.
I took the flowers and finished the last arrangement as a car pulled up to the front porch. I forced myself to slow down. I didn’t want it to appear as if I’d gone to any special effort and I took my time, arriving in the hall as Barry helped his mother through the door.
She looked well, although she leaned heavily on her cane.
‘Hello, Zahra dear,’ she said and lifted her face. I bent and placed a dutiful kiss on her cheek.
‘You look fine today, Grace. Did you sleep well?’
My question made her crotchety. ‘I had the dreams,’ she replied and moved past me. She headed for the formal lounge, where the Templeton wives had always received their visitors. No surprise, that. She had lived in the mansion for forty-five years, until Barry senior died. It had taken me two years to move her into a small cottage, in one of the newer suburbs, almost as prestigious as this one and I—Barry and I, that was—moved into the lavish old mansion.
Behind her, Barry rolled his eyes. I understood his impatience. He had offered to make her a sleeping draught, but she was constant in her refusal. He moved forward to greet me with a peck on my mouth and I saw the Outlander.
‘One of Mother’s strays,’ Barry whispered in my ear.
Since Barry senior died, Grace gave free board and lodging to single women from the court. Young Prior Ajani, newly arrived from the seminary and full of youthful zeal, sent them to her. From the rural areas, the women were dowdy; often coarse and bluff as well.
‘Stay,’ Grace said to them, ‘until you can find your way around the city.’
They stayed, and she worked miracles. Some of the women were even attractive when they left her. Although she never said, I’m sure Grace bought their new clothes, with Templeton money. But, until this stranger came, she had never had young men to stay.
‘Let me introduce Enoch…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your surname?’ Barry said.
‘You can call me Enoch,’ the nameless man answered. He moved and I saw him clearly.
Tall, and lean, so lean he was almost elongated. Fine boned and fine featured, he was not a parochial. Neither the strange accent, nor the simple black suit he wore with casual dignity, held a hint of the country. This stranger was an anomaly and one I didn’t like. I wasn’t even surprised to see the faint blue outline of faded tattoos on his fingers: another absurdity.
‘Why are you with Grace?’ I demanded. I sensed Barry’s surprise for it’s a long time since I had been that aggressive.
‘That’s between Enoch and I, dear,’ Grace said. She rested against the dining room door, unnoticed in my fascination for her latest boarder, but her quiet rebuke silenced me.
‘No problem, Mrs T.’ He stepped closer and held out a long, delicate hand. L-O-V-E, his fingers said, and those on his other hand spelt P-E-A-C-E. The blue letters danced into one another and, suddenly, I could not breathe. I could not look away. Not even when he said with a half-smile, ‘I’m here because I must be here.’
With those hands, perhaps he was a pianist, unable to find employment in a city that overflowed with artists who fed themselves lies as they dreamt of a fame that would never come.
‘On business?’ I pushed the boundaries of politeness with my urgency.
‘Of a sort,’ he said. ‘I’m a scribe.’
Afraid that he would read my mind if he could, I jerked my eyes away from the incongruous elegance of his tattooed hands. Embarrassed that he saw my stare, the faint hea
t in my cheeks got hotter. ‘Interesting,’ I said in my most bored tone. ‘What does a scribe do?’
‘I write.’
‘You write? About what?’
‘Deeds. I write about men and their deeds.’
‘Ah. A historian,’ I said. The solidness of the word made my world, knocked awry with this man’s presence, somehow safe again, but not for long.
‘Of a sort,’ he said, but with a hint of private amusement that stripped me bare. I wanted to think it also held malevolence, to explain my heart’s unease. But the goodness in that smile—too serene, too full of charity—called to Little Flower and I was afraid he could see her sleeping in the darkness.
‘You’re able to record all the deeds and errors of all the nations?’ I asked. I let my gaze drift over him with subtle disdain: a good trick to keep people away from that part of me I wanted to keep hidden.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. Tiny crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes as his smile thickened with sagacity. ‘Mostly, I record the secret errors in the hearts of people like you and me.’
All I could do was curve an eyebrow upward; my own heart pounded too loud and too fast for any coherence. Could he have conceived Little Flower’s existence?
I comforted myself. I kept her caged in my heart; no one could fathom my past and her Great Error. Afraid that he could see she lived on within me, I sneered, ‘Like what? What trivial deeds of ordinary people can be more important than the great tragedies and triumphs of our nation’s heroes?’
‘Ordinary people can be heroes too,’ he said, ‘if they want to be.’
And he looked and looked at me. Barry faded into the background, and Grace too. There was only him, the Outlander, and me, indivisible, joined by a gaze that made me light-headed. I began to see what he saw when he looked into his memories: a burden too great for any man to carry, all the pain of humankind’s iniquities weighing him down until he almost lost all hope.
Almost…for he remembered an ordinary woman well and—because for a moment we were one and I saw through his eyes into his memories—in the part of me that was drowning in his essence I, too, could remember the long-ago tale of the innkeeper’s good wife…
