by Sara Alexi
Sara Alexi
SAVING SEPTIC CYRIL
oneiro
Also by Sara Alexi
(Click the images below to buy on Amazon…)
Chapter 1
On top, the laminate is peeling away in strips and the plywood underneath now soaks up the rain, but the old wardrobe has served as a very practical porch and it will be good for another year or two. The interior bristles with half-sunk nails and on these metal spikes hang plastic bags, of various colours and branding, containing treasure he has found – things other people have lost, things discarded, things broken.
With the wardrobe door open just a crack, Cyril can peek out without being seen. The sky outside is full of puffy white clouds and a kestrel is hovering over the verge at the bottom of the cobbled lane, its movements mesmerising. With the tips of its wings fanned, it hangs there, making small rapid flaps and twitching its tail to fine-tune its position, keeping its head motionless, suspended over the long grass below. But the bird is not the reason for Cyril’s caution. There are two unfamiliar people walking up the road towards him. He shuts his eyes hard for a second but when he opens them the people are still there. With one foot in front, one behind, he begins to rock, his forehead tapping against the wardrobe frame. One of the dogs pushes its snout into his hand, whimpering, understanding.
‘They’re coming, Coco,’ Cyril whispers with a shudder. His rocking increases in intensity and he cannot look away now. The patterned blue of the woman’s long-sleeved dress is so vivid, the purple of her loose trousers in high contrast. Her sandals are sparkling, golden, and over her head a scarf lifts in the breeze from the moors to reveal her shiny dark hair. She is like a bird in a picture album he once saw as child – a book thrust into his tiny hands as a bribe to keep quiet whilst she was in her room. He stares with intent at the woman, trying to remain in the present, but the connections have been made, he has no control, and the world before him darkens. His twitching and rocking subside, and he becomes quiet as he rushes back.
‘Here, Cyril,’ Mother said, thrusting the book into his hands without a hello. ‘Say thank you to the man.’ As he glanced up from the book at the man, tears pricked at his eyes, blurring his vision. He stepped forward to touch her, just to feel her hand, or smell her perfume, but he was too slow and they had gone into the other room, where he was not allowed. Clutching the book, he retreated into the dark and the warmth of his wardrobe, his personal nest, with his thin legs curled underneath him on the lining of blankets and pillows.
The wardrobe was a discarded piece of furniture that had been in the alley at the back of the building when they had moved in. His mum had said it would be useful and she had walked the wardrobe to the back door. It was flimsy, cheaply made, and Cyril had thought the way it moved was comical, like a fat man rolling from foot to foot. He had tried to help, but his mum had just grown cross at him for getting in the way, and at the wardrobe when it did not slide easily over the cracked lino in the kitchen. Finally, they had manoeuvred it to stand next to his bed that abutted the kitchen sink; she said it would have to do. There was no room for it to go anywhere else anyway.
The house was originally a shop in a line of terraced houses built for the mill workers when Bradford was the wool centre of the world. The shop, its trade long gone, had spent years boarded up but had been converted into a tiny apartment and was now rented out separately from the living quarters above. The large shop window was painted white for privacy, and it let a worthless light into the room, which emphasised the drab conditions. The first day there they had shared an iced bun with four candles on it. That day, the day of the bird book, she had shouted at him in the morning to behave like a big boy and then left him crying. Next week, she had said, he would be five. But when the day came there was no iced bun or candles.
With the bird book in his lap, he wrapped his orange-and-white stripy towel around his head, pressed his hands against his ears and did his best to concentrate on the pictures. The dull light from the unshaded bulb hanging from the cracked ceiling sent a shaft of light between the wardrobe’s ill-fitting doors. The book, spread across his knees, was a riot of vivid colour and the pictures waltzed in and out of the light as he rocked and hummed to block out the noises, the groans and the moans.
He followed his usual sequence, staring at the picture book and letting the images sink deep inside his head, somewhere behind his forehead but high up in the top of his brain. Sometimes it seemed like he was straining his eyes, which felt like they were rolling back in his head to see where the pictures had gone. But he would continue, the colours or shapes filling his mind, and then all of him would follow them in there and the magic would happen. That day, first one came, iridescent wings of green spread wide and engulfing, then a tiny blue one leaped from the pages, flapping its gossamer feathers, making a sound as soft as silk against glass. Cyril’s hands dropped from the towel as the creatures surrounded him. A black one with an orange crest sat on his knee, then butterflies, each wing the size of a grown man’s hand, appeared and painted whatever they touched in colours like those in the puddles by the petrol station on the bypass. The inside of the wardrobe glowed with lustrous hues, and flowers began to bloom and blossom around him, their stems rushing upward, lifting him to a sky of blue that went on forever.
‘Oh, there you are.’ His mother had yanked open the wardrobe door; behind her was the bulk of the man.
‘What’s he doing in there? Is he soft or something?’ the man said.
‘He likes it,’ his mother defended.
‘Bloody stupid place to read, he’s no light.’
‘What’s it to do with youse anyways?’ she said, taking the book from Cyril’s knee and pulling at his arm. ‘Come on, Cyril, Arnold’s going to tek us for fish ’n’ chips.’
‘Does lad ’ave to come?’ The man’s hands fidgeted in his trouser pockets, jangling coins.
‘Well, I can’t be leavin’ him ’ere alone again, I were owt most o’ day again.’
‘We’ll only be ten minutes, leave t’lad ’ere.’ The man sounded cross.
‘Oh, okay, you’ll be alreet won’t ya, Cyril? Can he keep t’ book?’ She turned to the man.
‘Books cost money,’ he said, and reached out to take it.
The front door shut behind them and Cyril’s empty stomach growled.
The memory recedes, and when Cyril opens his eyes the daylight is wincingly sharp, and the woman in the lane is still there. She is even more beautiful than the birds and butterflies of that book from long ago. Cyril takes his hand from his stomach, feels again for the dog that dutifully returns to her position, muzzle in his palm. The woman moves as if she is dancing, more graceful than swallows, the light glancing off her tunic and shoes. Her step is so light she might float away with the clouds and the birds and never land. He could meet her high up in the sky of blue. They could float, look down on the world, watch the people rushing about like ants below; the warmth on their backs would reach through to their bones, their heads would feel light and the sun would fill their minds.
The man, who was walking behind her, catches her up. He is carrying two suitcases and wearing a rucksack. He stops to adjust the weight. The woman turns to him, repositions the bundle she is carrying and holds out a grasping hand, an offer of help. The man is small, not much bigger than the woman, who herself is thin and not very tall. He takes a firmer grip of both cases, shakes his head at her offer, stands a little taller, and continues up the cobbled road unaided.
&nbs
p; Cyril hopes they will continue, will pass the ‘to let’ sign outside next door. Maybe they are only visiting someone at the top of the lane, staying very briefly.
The man speaks, and Cyril stops rocking, listens. The words are unintelligible, foreign. He frowns at the gibberish, his round glasses slipping down his nose. Pushing them back up with one finger, he curls his upper lip in a brief grimace to keep them there.
Coco, seeking attention, takes her muzzle from the palm of his hand and pushes against her master’s leg. He falls forward against the interior of the wardrobe, his face briefly buried in the cluster of hanging carrier bags. Something sharp in one of them digs into his cheek. It is a Tupperware lid, and somewhere, in another bag, he has a box which it might fit. He turns the lid so it lies flat. From a hole in the bottom of another bag falls a bright red plastic lighter. He has checked this one and knows it no longer works. He leaves it where it fell.
Coco senses his agitation and, whimpering, slinks inside as Cyril resumes his vigilance. The couple have paused at next door’s gate and are looking up towards him. Holding his breath, Cyril makes no sound as he steps backward.
An unsettling noise begins to sound from the little bundle of bound cloth that the woman is carrying. The man and woman both turn their attention to it.
‘A baby!’ Cyril tells Coco, who is back by his side.
The woman speaks to the man. ‘Now we are in England I think we must speak English to this little one,’ she says, her delicate face now almost touching the bundle. Her accent is slight, and interesting. She looks at the man. ‘It is better, don’t you think, Aaman?’
Chapter 2
The back of the sofa is smooth to the touch. As she runs her nails across the surface she watches the indentations they make. A luxurious fabric. It is a moment she wants to take her time over, so as to make a more permanent impression and to savour their fortune.
The light from the window casts a square on the big flat stone slabs laid side by side, visible around the edges of the room, but mostly covered by a thick rug.
‘As she is sleeping, why don’t you put her on the cushions so you can look around?’ Aaman suggests, putting the two suitcases down and wriggling out of the straps of his rucksack.
The short, dark, shiny hair on the back of her sleeping daughter’s head feels as soft as the sofa’s padded seat. Saabira lays her Jay gently on the velour material, arching her fingers back so her nails do not touch the child’s skin. The baby sleeps on, her tiny mouth pulsing, sucking as she dreams. A well-placed cushion ensures she will not roll off.
With loosely hanging arms, Saabira shakes her shoulders, shrugs and then blinks slowly. A heavy sigh rids her of the last of her tension and she allows herself to shake off the stresses of the journey – the journey that began at five the previous morning is finally at an end. She has seen the inside of one taxi, two planes, two trains and a bus and spent twenty hours in the surreal, sterile, luxury of the Dubai airport hotel room where she dared not touch anything, where the air-conditioning was too cold, and where Jay fretted for hours before she finally cried herself to sleep only to wake an hour later and begin the whole process again.
But now they are home. It is a new home, and Jay is sleeping peacefully and she can touch everything. Her fingers feel again for the back of the sofa, partly to steady herself but also to reassure herself it is still there.
In front of the sofa the fire grate is laid with wood and coal ready to light. Against the opposite wall Aaman is fiddling with a solid metal piece of furniture painted light cream, which has four doors on the front, a black top, and two shiny metal upturned bowls, hinged at the back and with handles at the front as if they are designed to be lifted. It is obviously a stove but Saabira has never seen anything like it before. It is huge.
‘The notes say that this will heat the water in the taps, and the radiators.’ He looks at the booklet he holds in one hand and then around the room. With a boyish bound he is by the window next to the front door. ‘This is it,’ he says, stroking the radiator beneath the casement. A little shiver runs visibly up his arm; it must be cold. He returns to the stove and becomes absorbed in the written instructions.
As he crouches to open one of the stove doors he is hidden from view by the scrubbed wooden table and four chairs. Saabira continues to look around, to take it all in, make it real. Along the back wall on Aaman’s side of the room are a sink and cupboards, standing on the floor or hung on the wall. A door is centrally placed, opposite the front door, and to the left of this are a shoe rack and a tall fridge. The back left-hand corner of the room is boxed off with some wood panelling and another door that is partly open, showing a carpeted staircase. Carpeted! In total the downstairs space is about the same size as their home, back in the village, just outside Sialkot, but here there is a second floor, and this house is for just the three of them, not shared with Aaman’s parents and grandparents. Everything is so different. Nothing is at floor level, everything is at different heights.
‘It is exciting, is it not?’ Aaman’s head pops up behind the tabletop. His eyes are shining but they have sunk a little as they do when he is fatigued. He strikes a match inside the bottom left-hand door of the cream stove. There is a burst of light and he withdraws his hand quickly.
‘It is tremendously exciting.’ Saabira turns to look behind her and pauses at the picture over the fireplace. It is a photograph that looks like the countryside they passed on the bus from Keighley. Beautiful, romantic, and slightly bleak – wave after wave of flatly cushioned hills.
Aaman has left the stove to squat by the open fireplace where he strikes another match; it blazes quickly and illuminates his open and even features. Saabira reaches out to ruffle his hair.
‘You will be needing a haircut before you start your new job on Monday,’ she says, and pulls at his fringe. He yanks his head backward and the hair falls in his eyes. Her stomach turns in on itself and her cheeks glow hot with the effect he still has upon her. Looking at the picture distracts her, allows her to retain some control.
‘It is called moors,’ he says, standing by her side to admire the photograph with her, his hands reaching, fingers spread to feel the warmth of the barely lit fire.
‘Yes, Emily Bronté wrote a lot about it. I could almost believe I could observe Cathy proceeding across the wilderness out of the bus windows.’ A small giggle escapes her. Turning from the picture she surveys the room again, drinks in the creams and the whites of the decoration, the cleanliness of everything, the lack of dust and sand. There are no pegs in the wall to hang things on. The door in the back wall intrigues her. Is there another room? A key hangs from a nail by the brass handle. Aaman is behind her, and his hand slinks around her waist.
‘I love it when you say such highly educated things like that. Say more,’ he mutters into the hair behind her ear.
‘If you read English books yourself I would not need to say them,’ she teases. He has parted her hair and is kissing her neck.
‘Do as I say, wife.’ He kisses her shoulder, pulling away her shawl.
‘Read more.’ She reaches out for the key but as her fingers touch the cold metal Aaman snatches it away.
She turns on him, her hand held out, eyes wide.
‘If you are a good and dutiful wife you can have the key, but if you are bad and disobedient you will have to come and get it.’ He dodges away, putting the table between them, all tiredness gone, mischief in his eyes.
‘If you wanted a good and dutiful wife you should have picked someone who did not have the intelligence to answer you back!’ Saabira puts both hands flat on the table, widening her stance, ready to dodge one way or the other to catch him.
‘Shh, my beautiful and intelligent wife, you will wake the baby,’ he whispers in return. Saabira turns to look at the sofa, the back of which blocks her view of Jay, but all is silent. Aaman uses the distraction to dodge back around her and put the key in the door.
‘Come, wife, let us explore together,�
� he says softly, holding his hand out towards her, inviting her to turn the key.
As she twists the handle the wind blows the door open, pushing Saabira back.
‘Oh!’ Saabira grabs at the handle, and Aaman takes the strain. ‘That is quite a wind.’
‘Our back door opens onto the moors!’ Aaman looks thrilled. Puffy white clouds rear into the sky as if the monsoon is gathering. The sun, where it bravely breaks through, casts slanting rays across the purple heather. There are no buildings or any signs of civilisation all the way to the horizon.
‘It is so beautiful,’ Saabira breathes, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. ‘Beautiful but cold.’ She shrinks back inside.
‘I suspect we will not be using that very much.’ Aaman acknowledges the slatted wooden table in the small concreted backyard. A knee-high wall marks the border and the curls of fern tops peek over. To the left, the neighbour has stacked boxes to head height on the other side of the wall, and, to the right, trelliswork that supports a mass of greenery is mostly obscured by a neat stack of ready-chopped wood. The sight of this is very reassuring.
‘Come in, Aaman. Let us keep what heat we have inside.’ She beckons him and, with a last look, he helps her with the door, forcing it against the stiff breeze.
‘It smells like warm earth and green leaves,’ he says as they close the door. ‘Gritty and comforting but also sharp and with a crunch.’ He has never quite understood what she means when she asks him to explain smells with flavours. Never having had a sense of smell, she has never missed it and when her mother once described a smell to her as the taste of burnt oil she knew there were times when she was better off without it. Amman’s description helps a little but his odd explanations are often no use at all. But he makes the effort, and she kisses his shoulder as the door shuts.
