by Farah Cook
‘I’d like that very much.’
She gives me the plate she’s arranged and sits across from me. When I ask her what it is, she says she is worried about me. I’ve not eaten breakfast or lunch from the kitchen. I remember that’s because I don’t like what the cook makes. Cold food. I stick my tongue out.
I roll a ball of paratha with egg in my fingers and tease it around my plate.
‘Why are you here?’ I ask.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a carer.’ There’s elation in her voice. ‘I can’t tell you how much I enjoy working at Ravenswood Lodge,’
‘Why is that?’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Caring for people just fulfils me.’ She smiles, and her company puts me at ease.
‘You are a good carer, Zahra,’ I look into her chocolate brown eyes glinting with joy.
‘I do my best.’ She lets out a sweet laugh. ‘Do you like your room? I took the liberty to unpack the things you left in your suitcase. I want you to feel at home,’ she says, looking slightly worried.
I turn my head and see the man who works in the garden walks across the hall wearing black wellies edged with mud. I forgot his name, was it Larry? No, he doesn’t look like a Larry. I wonder what business he has inside the house. He’s the gardener and not the caretaker. Liam – that’s his name.
‘Well, do you?’ she smiles.
‘What was that?’
‘Your room, is it nice?’
‘I like it.’ I look down at my plate and eat every single bite of my food. I drink the tea, asking for more. The taste is thick and creamy.
‘We can frame some more pictures on the wall if you like, of you and your daughter. Do you have any other family? Or is it just the two of you?’
I wipe my mouth with the napkin she passes me. I feel itchy, restless, and get up. ‘I have no other family.’
‘Are you ready? says Zahra. ‘Time for your bath.’
I cringe. I don’t like baths. We don’t take the lift up, and I feel tired walking the stairs. Zahra holds me by the arm. ‘You didn’t nap this afternoon. Spent all day with Nisha chatting first in the common area, then in the music room having an attempt at the piano. Do you remember?’
‘You mean the little reading room,’ I say. ‘Where is Nisha?’ I don’t remember seeing her all day.
‘Nisha loves her bath time. Margaret is helping her to one.’
The air is stale and damp in the dark hallway. At the top, I rest against the panelled wall. Zahra tells me she is sorry the house is old with very little modern facilities. But a little exercise is good. Next time, we’ll take the lift.
Inside my room there’s mud on the carpet. Zahra examines what appears to be the trail of footprints. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of it,’ she cleans it with a dry cloth. ‘Might have been one of us. Happens all the time. Look, all gone now.’
‘It wasn’t here when I left,’ I say.’ I’m sure of it.’
She holds pills in her palm and asks that I swallow them. I hesitate.
‘It’s your medicine.’ I notice my pill boxes sitting on the desk. Next to them there’s a picture of Amira.
I do as I’m told and then lie down in bed.
‘Not too fast. Bath time, remember?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to. I want to sleep.’ I feel drowsy and shut my eyes.
I open my eyes. Zahra is sitting in the armchair reading a book. I open the bedside drawer and hold my breath. ‘My bracelets, my diary. They are missing.’ I look across the room. My pill boxes are not on the desk. Neither is the framed picture of Amira.
‘Are you sure you put them in there?’
I nod. ‘Someone has been in my room. Someone stole my things.’
Zahra tells me to calm down. She looks around and finds nothing.
‘It was the gardener. I saw him,’ I am shouting. ‘He did it. He stole my things.’
A woman barges into the room. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks in a strict voice.
‘Myrtle,’ says Zahra. ‘Afrah’s valuables are missing from her room.’
‘So? We haven’t had a day where the patients haven’t lost something.’ She glares at me and I recognise that pale face and those cold silver eyes. ‘Afrah Bibi, you ought to take better care of where you put your things. That is, if they really were there in the first place and you haven’t misplaced them yourself.’ She leaves without showing any concern over what’s happened.
Tears well in my eyes. Zahra puts her arms around me and gives me a warm hug. My voice comes out broken. ‘The bracelets were a wedding present from my parents. The diary had all my memories in it.’ Tears tumble down my cheeks. Why would anyone take the photograph of Amira? And my pill boxes. I need my medicine, don’t I? Who would do such a thing?
‘You had a little nap while I was in the room with you. No one was here.’
‘I’m not lying, I am telling the truth.’
‘I believe you Afrah. And don’t worry, fikar na karo,’ she pats my shoulder. ‘I will get to the bottom of this. I’ll check with everyone. I will look for your things.’
‘Shukriya, thank you.’
A heavy woman appears in the doorway, peering in. ‘What happened? Who stole what from whom and when?’ I find her annoying and want to shout, Get out.
Zahra shakes her head. ‘Not now Carol.’
Red patches of defiance appear on the woman’s cheeks. She breathes in sharply, ‘It was probably John. He stole my purse the other day. And I saw him snooping in Afrah’s room before.’
‘Please, give us a moment in peace.’ Zahra waves her hand telling her to go.
Flabs of her body spill over her sides when she pushes her jeans higher up to her waist. ‘I was only asking.’ She twitches her nose, left, right. ‘I want to help. I can look for your things if you tell me what’s missing.’ Zahra shakes her head. The heavy woman disappears behind the door. Stomps down the hallway. I hear her say out loud, ‘Afrah probably forgot where she put her things.’ But I didn’t. I am not imagining things.
‘I understand how you must feel right now,’ Zahra pulls back my hair neatly and wipes my tears with her sleeves. ‘How about we skip bath time and I bring you a cup of warm milk with honey.’
I peer into her eyes. Mellow, the colour warm like the autumn sun. She is trying her best to care for me. I nod, leaning my head against her shoulder.
‘The gardener doesn’t like me. He stole my things!’ I think he’s out to get me.
‘Liam is narrow-minded,’ says Zahra. ‘but I don’t believe he would steal from anyone.’
‘Then how do you explain the mud on the carpet?’ I saw him. It was from his wellies.
‘I don’t know.’ She folds her hands in her lap. ‘Perhaps Carol is right. It could have been John. Or perhaps you forgot where you put them.’
‘I want my daughter. Call her. I want her to come. Now! Abhi! Abhi!’
‘It’s too late to call your daughter now, OK Afrah? I’ll ring her in the morning for you.’ she says mildly.
‘Amira hasn’t been to visit, has she?’
Zahra shakes her head. ‘Not in a while. She’s probably busy.’
‘How long has it been since she last came?’ I raise my voice. ‘How long, I said?’
Zahra looks away but I catch a glimpse in her eyes of shame. ‘We’ll give her ring first thing in the morning.’
I lose my trail of thought in the silence between us. I feel as though I am awake, but dreaming. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. I feel the pounding of my heart, a slow beat inside my chest. A sudden jerk back into my consciousness when I notice the vase full of roses by the windowsill. The wind flickers the fallen petals. Somebody has put the flowers in my room.
‘I saw the gardener,’ I don’t know when, but I did. ‘He went straight into the house.’
‘What are you saying Afrah?’
‘He’s been in my room,’ I smell the earthly scent wafting the air. ‘He wa
s here.’ I point at the roses with long stems and sharp thorns. Words fail to slip out from my mouth.
Zahra is quiet. The look in her eyes a combination of worry and discomfort.
Chapter 21
Sunday, 15th June 1986
Dear Diary,
Lying is beginning to come easy to me. It’s like acting. When I lie, I get what I want. Lying is a skill. The more I practise, the better I get. So I use it as a rule.
Yesterday, I didn’t feel like going to Urdu school. I can’t stand the teacher. He’s a bald, skinny little man who always picks at his nose. I said I wasn’t feeling well and faked a fever. Naima does it all the time. She taught me. I held the thermometer under hot water, stuck it in my mouth and let Mum pull it out. She saw my flushed face (from jumping up and down) and ordered me to go lie in bed.
I could hear her mutter to herself, maybe I should call the doctor and ask him to take a look at her? She stared at me strangely. Later, she brought me a tray with food and all my favourite snacks. She kissed my forehead. Held my hand when I pretended I was going to be sick. She’s not been this nice to me in like, forever.
Lying works. I can be anyone. Do anything without having to worry about picking a fight. Lying keeps me out of trouble. But sometimes, when I am not careful enough, like yesterday, it doubles the trouble.
Mum found out I had sneaked out of bed to go to Naima’s. She showed up at their house and went mad. She was pounding on their door. I know you are in there, she said. Come out, come out now! Her voice was so dark and she reminded me of the big bad wolf huffing and puffing to blow the three little pigs house down.
Naima was so embarrassed and so was I. Thank God her parents weren’t home.
Mum was shouting, get out, get out, this instance. And I did.
She looked at me and said, don’t you dare set foot in here again. She dragged me into the car and we drove home.
She said I can never see Naima again. Never go to her house. When I asked her why not, she said because her parents are bad people. Whatever does she mean by saying that? I protested. Told her they are not bad, they are nice people. They treat me like I was their daughter. They love me.
Mum raised her brows and asked if I knew that Naima’s dad is involved in shady business. She called him a fraudster. He is not, I said. I told her to stop lying.
But Mum said she wasn’t lying. She insisted that Naima’s dad takes money from people and gives them false identities. Passports. Drivers license. He forges all sorts of documents and gets paid a lot of money for it.
I still don’t believe what she said. Naima told me he owns a shop and sells electronics from Japan and other countries. That’s why he has to travel a lot.
Mum just laughed. She said it was a cover-up. She told me to stay as far away from Naima and her family as possible. I was very upset. I wanted ask her the reason for their fall out, but she told me never to mention it again. When I insisted, she looked at me angrily and said in her strict voice, not another word about the Pashtuns. I want nothing to do with them. Not anymore. Not after—And then she was quiet.
She didn’t speak again till we got home.
I know why she doesn’t want to talk about it.
I know what she did.
When I told Naima what Mum had said, she got super mad at me, told me never to say that again. I have never seen her this upset before. Not even when Oliver broke up with her a week ago. I promised never to talk about it again. We talked about boys – Naima has a new boyfriend. A Pakistani boy from school. She tells me what they do when no one watches. So disgusting. She said everyone does it.
After school, Naima came to the house with her new boyfriend. She was standing outside my window. Mum was cooking in the kitchen. I couldn’t go out the front door, so I tried to sneak out from the bathroom window. It was a bad idea. A very bad idea. She caught me, made a huge fuss.
Mrs Singh came running from across the street. She didn’t even close the door to her house. She pulled Mum back and told her to calm down. But she wouldn’t listen. She was shouting at Naima don’t you come near my daughter again, or else. Mum went nuts. Or else what? said Naima. She wasn’t bothered at all. She called Mum pagal auntie. She looked right at her and said you can’t tell me what to do. Can’t keep me from seeing her. Naima isn’t scared of Mum.
Back inside the house, Mum completely ignored me. She then didn’t speak to me for days and it made me feel horribly guilty.
I wish that Mum wouldn’t always make me feel so guilty.
Chapter 22
AMIRA
Wednesday, 4 December 2019
I fiddle with the radio, but the connection is bad in the rural parts of the Highlands. I keep my eyes on the road, don’t want to hit another deer. They jump out of nowhere, wide eyes blinking in the headlights. I wish the drive back wasn’t so dark and lonely. That way I could visit Mum more often. She was quiet today, hardly spoke, and I wonder what was on her mind.
‘You OK, Ami?’ She looked at me with hollow eyes. ‘Say something.’ Her face just shrunk as if she’d suddenly aged.
‘I’m fine. Zahra cares so well for me.’
I nodded and tried not to show my annoyance.
Zahra is lovely and I can see she’s formed a special bond with Mum. Pouring Kashmiri tea for her, bringing her chador. She is attentive. Whenever I looked at her she smiled and asked if I needed anything. Haroon was right about her when he said that Zahra is sweet. It makes all the difference she is Pakistani, too – a friend of his family. Zahra doesn’t judge me for not coming to see Mum every day. She said Mum was doing great and has found new friends. Nisha said Mum gets special treatment from Zahra. Traditional homemade food and other treats. Nisha moaned her carer doesn’t even sit and have tea with her on the terrace.
I called Mum every day the week I didn’t visit her. But she was hardly available. Either she was napping, out for a walk or having tea on the terrace. Sometimes when she’d get on the phone she appeared distracted as if she wasn’t interested in talking to me.
‘Who are you again?’ Mum didn’t know who I was. I hope she doesn’t forget about me now that she has Zahra to care for her. I kept calling her Ami, so she’d recognises me. Mum’s always been a strong and independent woman. She had to be, a widow raising her daughter all alone.
Mum kept saying her things are vanishing. Jewellery, photographs, and pill boxes. Zahra told me not to worry. And I’m not worrying. I know Mum is forgetful.
Before leaving, I did something I should have done long ago. I told her, ‘I love you, Ami.’ I haven’t said that in a very long time. She stared at me and bit her nails. ‘Are you OK?’ I wanted to give her a cuddle. She pushed me back and looked away.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I sensed her mood darkening. ‘Silly ladki. And where is Zahra? I want her to take me back to my room. I want to nap.’
I don’t know if she was angry or just being moody. But it made me feel horribly guilty. Like I had done something wrong. Perhaps I am being overly sensitive. Mum’s mind was probably elsewhere.
She was arguing with one of the carers – a young man. Mum’s words were muddled. She was speaking to him in Urdu. I don’t think she knew what she was doing or what was happening around her until Zahra came over, and before she took her upstairs to her room she told me: ‘Your mum is a little tired. You don’t need to worry. I am here to care for her.’ Mum didn’t even turn around to say goodbye. She has settled in very, very well. I worry that soon she’ll forget all about me.
The radio comes on. Finally, reception is back. I’m leaving the rural Highlands. I don’t like the gloomy drive out here. The long black roads, the endless arched trees. It’s deadly quiet.
Chapter 23
AFRAH
Monday, 9 December 2019
It’s chilly out on the terrace. Yellow and red leaves pave the soil in the garden. Zahra puts a blanket over my legs and tells me not to worry about the incident, which happened on Sunday. These things are common in care
homes. She detects the discomfort drawn across my face. But I have yet to understand what it is I am to feel upset about. I furrow my brows and ask her if I did something terrible. She shakes her head and delivers a soft smile. Her subdued manners make me at ease.
‘Give me a moment Afrah, I will be back shortly.’ She disappears from the terrace carrying a scent of lavender with her.
I peer out through the glass shielding me from the garden where the gardener uses his rake to gather the leaves. He stares oddly in my direction and it makes me feel uncomfortable. He is the reason I am upset. It hits me so suddenly that something isn’t right about him. Why else does he glare at me as if he wants to murder me? Perhaps I was rude to him. I don’t recall that. But I do recall what it was he said to me in passing. He mumbled something like, if you want to eat curry then go back to where you came from. This isn’t Pakistan. I think I said, I am from a big city called Lahore. I could be wrong. I could be imagining these words. I could have dreamed it.
‘Yer all right little lady?’ says a curt voice.
‘Huh?’ I turn around and a man stands next to me holding a book. He pulls back a chair and sits beside me. ‘Oh, hello . . .’
‘Michael is the name.’ He points at badge pinned against his suit jacket.
‘I remember you. Have you found any Urdu books in the town library for me?’ I gaze at the one he’s hugging to his chest.
His face reddens. ‘Sorry, I haven’t inquired, can do this afternoon if yer like?’
‘That would be nice, thank you.’ I try my polite manners with him.
He unclutches his fingers and passes me the book. ‘Meanwhile, how bout yer read this? Was Alice’s favourite. She won’t mind. Go on, have it.’
‘Shukriya—thank you.’ I take it and pull down my reading glasses. ‘To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf.’
‘Set in Scotland. Isle of Sky.’
‘I’ve lived here most of my life,’ I say. ‘Always wanted to go.’
‘Was Alice’s fave book. Go on, have it little lady.’
