by Farah Cook
‘You mean the little reading room.’ I swing my cardigan over my shoulders.
‘One month in Ravenswood has served your memory well, Afrah.’
I can’t believe I have been here so long already. Has my daughter paid a visit? I don’t know. I have faint memories of the past few weeks. Zahra releases the hatch and swings open the windows. I get it, my room needs airing. She moves swiftly around, humming, and begins to tidy up, nursing my things with great care.
Outside, the sky ripples away in a hurry. Trees with black branches sway and creek. The wind comes in strong, and my hair flows across my face. The rain stops and dead leaves fall soundless to the ground. I notice a hairline crack running against the glass. If I push it hard enough it would break. The thought makes me shiver. Glass exploding, flames tearing down these old brick walls. I shut the window carefully. I need it to provide me with the illusion of safety.
‘Where are you off to?’ asks Zahra.
‘I want to see Nisha.’ I pull my cardigan on.
‘Wait,’ she says, and takes out a powder foundation and a brush. ‘First, let’s cover that nasty looking bruise you got yourself. You don’t remember getting it, do you? You were up in the middle of the night banging your head against the bathroom wall with your eyes shut.’
I touch my forehead. I feel the ugly lump pounding, the pain swelling, and spreading into the dark corners of my consciousness, into all the places I do not like to think about.
‘There, all lovely again,’ she says. ‘We’ll go for our afternoon walk when I am done.’
I walk down the dark hall, down the stairs and into the little reading room. I’m out of breath and feel my hair clinging to my neck. Nisha rests in the big armchair with her head leaning back, her body wrapped in an emerald floral sari. Busy flicking through her phone, she is unware of my being in the room. At random, I pick a book from the shelf, flip through the pages, not knowing what I read. I smack it shut.
Nisha looks my way. I sit in the corner, away from the unlit fireplace. Carol towers over me, asks what book I’ve got this time. I ignore her. What I cannot get used to is Carol snooping. I imagine she marches into my room and shuffles my things around when I am not there. A curious creature, Mrs Brown calls her. Always hovering about and meddling in other people’s affairs. Asks all sorts of questions. I don’t remember what I may or may not have told her about my life or about my daughter. Amira has not dumped me in a care home. Nor has she left me without the promise of a return. She will visit me, or perhaps she already has. I ask Nisha if Amira has been around. She shakes her head.
‘Diya never visits, she rarely calls or sends messages. Besharam girl. I have to keep up with her on Instagram.’
‘Insta-what?’ I ask.
‘Social media,’ says Carol. ‘It’s a platform for sharing pictures. You don’t use it?’ She shoves the screen of her phone in front of my nose and flicks through picture after picture. ‘You’re better off without it. Terrible connection out here anyway.’
I take deep breaths. ‘I don’t have a phone and I don’t have pictures to share.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Nisha empties her cup, slurping the last drop of tea. ‘Whenever I called, you never picked up. Besharam woman.’ She uses her index finger to wipe the crumbs from her plate of food and licks it clean with her slate-like tongue.
I’m amazed Nisha remembers my life more than I do.
‘I was very lonely and afraid when they first placed me in the care home. You came once to visit and then didn’t show up again. Why didn’t you take any of my calls?’
‘My phone was broken.’ I remember now that I kept it in my bag among loose coins, old receipts and scrawled notes. ‘I think I threw it out.’
‘Ranveer shows up with the girl and the boy. My grandchildren.’ She faces the screen of her phone towards me. I see the image of a chubby boy wearing a baseball cap and a skinny girl in braces smiling broadly. I tell her I have no grandchildren. ‘But you do,’ she reminds me. ‘Amira was married to a handsome doctor. They have a son. He must be a teenager now.’ I shake my head. ‘Shafi left. He never came back.’
‘Well, your handsome son hasn’t been here in a while now, Nisha,’ says Carol. ‘He looks like a Bollywood actor. He really does. Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.’
I deliver an awkward laugh.
‘Why is that so funny, Afrah?’ Carol rolls her eyes.
‘My daughter has a picture framed in our house of that famous Hollywood actor. Daniel Day-Lewis. She says it’s my husband. Silly ladki, where would she get that idea from?’
‘My Ranveer takes after his father,’ says Nisha with a gleam in her eyes. ‘He studied engineering in Cambridge and in Oxford. His wife is an advocate. A very important woman.’
‘What about your daughter Afrah?’ Carol offers me a cup of tea. She sits on the arm rest next to me. Bits of her white skin roll out from underneath her tight top. ‘When do I get to meet her again? Not seen her around in a while. Did you argue? Nisha said you did.’
‘Did not,’ Nisha sticks her tongue out.
‘Did, too,’ Carol mimics her.
‘Shut up, Carol, you moti cow.’
‘What did you call me?’ Hands on hips, she looks at me as if I said something offensive. Then she laughs and reaches for the pot. I don’t want tea, but take it anyway, and feel the steam warm my face when I cradle the cup in my hands.
‘What’s the reason she hasn’t come? Is she also a very important woman?’
I say nothing. I rub my forehead and a swelling pain breaks out.
Carol cranes her neck lowering her head. She examines my face, creases gather between her brows. ‘Afrah, what on earth happened on your forehead? There’s a nasty purple bruise. Haven’t you noticed? Looks like you’ve walked straight into a door.’ Her expression turns stone cold.
Nisha puts on her glasses. ‘Oh yes. Very nasty bruise.’
I touch my forehead again and feel the tender lump pulsing like a nerve. ‘How did that get there?’ I shrug and look away. ‘I don’t know what I did.’
‘My thigh is bruised. Big purple bulge like an aubergine,’ says Nisha. ‘Margaret said I fell from my wheelchair. But I don’t remember falling from my wheelchair or from anywhere. I really don’t.’
‘Are you saying Margaret pushed you?’ Carol looks suspicious. ‘Mind you, I once saw her shoving Alice. Poor lamb, she was so fragile. Couldn’t get out of bed for days. Margaret said she tripped. But I know what I saw,’ she whispers.
‘I must have fallen off my wheelchair,’ says Nisha. ‘If Margaret says so.’
There’s a long silence. Gusts of wind seep through the windows. A blowing gale. Suddenly it is as though I see hairline cracks everywhere. The house feels shaky, like it might collapse. Ashes in the fireplace rise and fall light like feathers. The room feels chilly. In the corner of the room, the grandfather clock strikes the hour, leaving a mechanical noise inside the case before continuing to tick-tock away.
Nisha asks Carol for a biscuit from the tin hidden underneath the table. A secret stash. She opens the tin and releases a sweet powdery sent. ‘Would you care for one, Afrah?’ I shake my head. I have no appetite. ‘Nisha?’ Carol waves a hand. ‘Hello? Are you in? She’s gone blank again.’ Carol chortles. The saggy flesh underneath her chin jiggles. ‘She does that sometimes, the poor lamb. Disappears into a world of her own.’
I look right at Nisha, still as a statue. Eyes wide open and mouth shut. The biscuit is clutched tightly between the tip of her fingers. I call her name again and again. She could well be dead. ‘How often does she—’
‘Space out?’ says Carol eating with her mouth open. Crumbs dust her lips. ‘Dunno. Not often. Oh wait, I could be wrong. She has her moments where she forgets faces. Don’t recognise anyone around here. Wears off quickly though. She’ll be back to normal soon. Last time it happened she woke thinking she was on the moon. Can you believe it?’
‘There,’ says Zahra appearing in the doorway with a big
smile on her face. ‘I am all done. How about we take our afternoon walk now?’
Done with what I wonder? I am relieved to see her so I don’t ask. I put the cup of tea down and go out with Zahra, who holds my coat in one hand and shoes in the other. She shepherds me out the front door. A tall man with a pale ghostly face and wrinkles stares at me. He moves quickly in my direction. He runs into me, his sharp shoulder bumping mine. He throws me a murderous glare and mutters words I don’t understand before rushing off.
‘Are you OK?’ Zahra says, placing her hand on my shoulder. ‘I am so sorry about that. Liam is a loner. You know how his type are. Loners are often . . . eccentric.’ Zahra plants her remark like a sprouting seed.
‘He’s plain rude,’ I murmur, hiding my hurt.
‘He can be. But you mustn’t let Liam’s brusque behaviour be a bother.’
‘That’s not it,’ I feel shaken. ‘Liam doesn’t like me. I think he wants me gone.’
Zahra says: ‘How can anyone not like you?’ She says I’ve brought life, a fresh breath of air to Ravenswood after Alice. She curls her arm around mine. ‘I’m so happy that you came.’
We head down the slope, passing the belt of trees and circles of flowers. The grass is moist, the air fresh. We walk a while, till the ground underneath me changes to pebbles and rocks. We are near the coast now. I taste salt in the air, and hear the sounds of waves slapping against the shore. There’s a view out to the sea that cradles a fishing boat, and the bay’s cliffs wrap around the beach, touching the soft sand. We go down a winding path, and I panic and almost slip. Zahra holds me tightly so that I stay upright. I steady my feet, crunching sand and sea algae.
‘We’ve been coming out here daily.’ She bends and collects broken seashells, locks them into her fist. ‘Do you remember?’
I shake my head. ‘Nadeem and I went out for walks on cold days like these.’
‘Was that before your daughter was born?’
I look out towards the raging ocean. ‘We took her with us. She liked running around, chasing paper bags flying in the wind. A wild spirit.’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Every day.’ The wind slips into my eyes, and a tear drops. ‘There isn’t a single moment when I don’t think of her.’ I feel lonely, hurt and betrayed.
‘She’s probably giving you time to settle into your new life. It’s a big change for both of you. And I’m sure she will soon pay a visit.’ Zahra pads my arm. Clouds have gathered and thunder rumbles, then silver lightning cracks the sky. We draw back towards the house, passing sandy slopes with half-buried shells. I pick a broken one, remembering how my daughter used to collect them in her silver box.
‘How can I forgive myself for what I did to my daughter?’
‘Did you have a quarrel?’
‘I don’t know.’ That’s what Nisha said, and Nisha remembers things better than me.
We sit on the terrace. The view to the garden is dominated by shades of grey.
‘Ever since she was a teenager, she was a rebel, with such a fiery temper.’
‘What happened?’ Zahra adjusts the scarf around her neck. ‘What had she done?’
‘She had her nose pierced when I told her she couldn’t, and I caught her smoking and spending time with a girl I thought was a bad influence, and showed no shame throughout. No guilt.’ The memory blooms in my mind. ‘I was so close, I wanted to slap her.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Zahra looks at me, her eyes small and watery.
‘She did it all to defy me. She had a friend I did not approve of.’
‘Who, a boyfriend?’ She arches an eyebrow.
‘No, a girl from a Pashtun family we used to know,’ I take a deep breath. ‘We stopped talking after they accused me of something I didn’t do. Of course, I wouldn’t let my daughter go and hang out with theirs. They spread lies, spoke ill of me. None of it was true. They were bad people. Involved in shady business—’
‘What did they accuse you of?’
I twist my naked wrist. ‘Stealing.’ The memory fails me. ‘It happened long ago. My daughter never understood why I didn’t want her going to their house. She would argue with me, throw tantrums. That girl, her so-called friend, had a bad influence on her.’
‘And what did she say when you told her the reason she couldn’t be friends with the girl? Did she understand your reason?’
‘Who?’ I lose my trail of thought.
‘Your daughter?’ she says. ‘You were telling me about the fall out with your friend.’
‘Where is Amira? Has she come to see me?’ I stand up. I told her someone stole my things. Told her what’s happening. Sometimes, I don’t feel safe. My breath a fog against the window. The black gates are shut and the long drive leading to the house is forlorn and misty. Grey clouds scud across the sky above. Heavy thunder rolls through the heavens. A flash of lightning.
‘No, Afrah,’ Zahra stands behind me and I turn around, looking into her big brown eyes. ‘No one is here to see you.’
The sky releases another sharp clapping sound. Water falls from the sky and tumbles over the glass roof like a monsoon. ‘Can I call her?’
‘Of course, we can give it another try.’
Zahra puts down the receiver. ‘Still no answer. Try her again tomorrow.’
Chapter 24
Tuesday, 29th July 1986
Dear Diary,
Today, Mum went mad. She was screaming at me telling me to pull it out. How could you? Didn’t I tell you are not allowed? I told her to back off and not touch me. It was only a joke, a fake ring in my nose. She knew it wasn’t. It was real. She got so upset she started crying.
I told Mum, I don’t care what you told me. I told her it’s my nose, not yours.
She wouldn’t listen, and went on and on about what a disappointment I was to her, to our family. I told her plainly to shut up, and she raised her hand. She didn’t strike me, but I could tell she was very close to. I went up to my room and turned the key. She was banging hard on my door telling me to unlock it. I just covered my ears. Go away! I yelled.
I looked in the mirror. The ring was barely noticeable, a tiny silver thing glinting innocently. It was Naima’s idea anyway. She dared me to get it done. What’s the matter? You chicken? Scared of mummy?
I had to show her I wasn’t scared this time, not like that day one the beach. This was a different kind of pain. It was totally worth it. Oliver’s friend kept smiling. He said it would be so cool if I did it.
Naima paid for the piercing. She also paid for three new nail polishes. Black, purple and red. I took one out of my bag when I was in the bathroom. Black. Naima suggested the colour and said it was sexy, and I went for it. I did my toenails and put on socks so Mum wouldn’t notice. Tomorrow, I will do one finger. The day after tomorrow I’ll do two, and so on. She’ll eventually notice, but I don’t care. She’s got to stop telling me what to do. It’s not fair.
Naima’s mum never interferes with what her daughter does. She’s such a cool mum. They are close and do everything together. I wish Mum was cool, too. We aren’t close anymore. I wish we could do more of the things we used to do. Go back to how we were. Mum would take me to the beach and we’d collect broken seashells. Now we never talk or go anywhere together except for Urdu school or the masjid.
Later, Mum came knocking on my door telling me to come down and eat. I didn’t answer. I knew what I had to do. Fake sobs to make sure she heard me. I wanted her to feel horrible for making me upset about the piercing. She sighed and left.
I forced myself to cry so hard my eyes were red. Then I went down to show her. That usually does the trick. Mum was quiet. She made me a paratha with saag aloo, which I didn’t eat. It made me feel good watching her feel guilty. When she had gone to her room, I looked at myself in the hallway mirror and smiled. I love my piercing. I just hope that Mum doesn’t ruin it the way she ruins everything else.
Mrs Singh brought the little brat over and I knew I had to babysit her. What�
��s that funny thing in your nose? she said pointing her little finger at me. I grabbed her hard and told her to shut up. Her lips puckered and a tear dropped from her eye. She’s so sensitive and always cries like a baby. She moaned I was being mean again. Pinching her when she’s annoying me doesn’t make me mean.
I could hear Mum stomping down the stairs. I thought I heard you she said and smiled at the little brat. What happened little baby? Was the silly ladki being mean to you? Was she? Mum glared at me then back at the little brat whose apple cheeks were wet with tears, Don’t cry Mum said and gave her comfort. Come, we’ll play a game. The little brat stopped crying, leaping like a monkey onto Mum’s hip as she took her upstairs. She lets her play with my old toys and it upsets me.
Mum doesn’t love me anymore. She loves the little brat now. Sometimes I wish she would disappear. When I look at her, I want to smash her head against the wall.
Chapter 25
AMIRA
Thursday, 19 December 2019
The estate agent has put a ‘for sale’ sign up outside and arranged for a young newlywed young couple to view the house on Sunday evening. I never thought I would be selling my childhood home. A home where the memories of playing tag and skipping rope with children in the neighbourhood flood the pathways of my mind.
‘Buyers are looking to live in good neighbourhoods,’ he says. ‘In areas like these with families and great schools around – properties tend to sell fast.’
We start at the top of the house and he scoots up the ladder. ‘It’s a good size loft which could easily be converted into a bedroom with a walk-in wardrobe and bathroom.’ He climbs down with a gleam, as if his sale pitch got easier. ‘People are always looking for reasons to create more space. And your home has potential for it.’
I smile. I never considered this to be an option, not even when Shafi lived with us.
He opens the door to Mum’s room. ‘This must be the master bedroom. Decent size.’
I nod and show him my bedroom. ‘This is the second bedroom, also a decent size.’ But he doesn’t seem interested in my diversion. ‘Ensuite bathroom?’ That gleam appears on his face again.
