A Hen in the Wardrobe

by Wendy Meddour

  “What?” exclaimed Ramzi.

  “Look,” said Scheherazade, pointing to a fading yellow page.

  Scheherazade shut the book with a SNAP.

  “He meant you,” she said.

  Ramzi was lost for words. He didn’t know what to think. “I better go,” he said at last. “They’ll be asking where I am.”

  “Of course,” grinned Scheherazade. She looked happy. “Just don’t tell anyone about me. And here – take my stick! I don’t need it any more.”

  Ramzi smiled and stood up. “Thanks. And thanks for the tisane. And for – well – you know. But will I see you again?”

  “Oh yes,” said Scheherazade. “Of that I’m sure.”

  Sugar in the Soup

  When Ramzi got back to town, Hamza was waiting.

  “Here’s your stupid old stick,” said Ramzi. He wasn’t scared of Hamza any more. He brushed him aside and walked into Nanna Ramadan’s house.

  Hamza looked puzzled and surprised.

  “Where have you been?” asked Mum. She looked worried.

  “Sorry, Mum, I dropped my inhaler. I had to go back and find it.”

  “Well, you should have told us where you were going,” said Mum.

  “I said he’d be all right,” grinned Dad. “Young boys need a bit of adventure!”

  Meccy and Amel were in the lounge playing games on Nanna’s mobile phone.

  “Alhamdulillah! Thanks be to God! You’re alive!” they shouted when they saw that their cousin was safe.

  Ramzi winked.

  “What a strange thing to say!” said Nanna Ramadan. “Now, give your Nanna a kiss. I’ve made you all some of my special crunchy biscuits. Come on.”

  They all kissed Nanna on the head and helped her up and into the kitchen.

  “Did you do it? Did you see Boulelli? Did you get the stick?” whispered Meccy excitedly, biscuit crumbs shooting out of his mouth.

  Ramzi nodded – his cheeks too full of sugar and crunch to speak.

  “You are amazing,” sighed Amel.

  ***

  That summer, Ramzi didn’t see the Spider – or Scheherazade – again. But he thought about her often. And he remembered what she’d said: only he could save his father from his nightmares. But how? That was the question. Or maybe it didn’t matter any more? After all, Dad seemed so much better now. It was Ramzi and Mum who were beginning to struggle.

  You see, in the town on top of the hill, the wedding season had begun. Parties echoed off the mountains and the banging of drums and whistle of pipes filled the streets. Rifles were fired into the air amid the dancing, and women ululated from the windows. And just when the noises of the night had quietened down, the call to prayer began. Ramzi, Mum and the town on the hill top never really slept!

  But Dad did. The shadows disappeared from under his eyes and the bounce came back in his step. Every morning, he raced down the staircase for breakfast. Every morning, Ramzi and Mum rubbed their eyes and stumbled along behind.

  “My son,” said Nanna. “You’ve not changed! You’re still my young lion that stretches on top of the mountain.”

  Dad leant over and kissed Nanna on the forehead.

  “Subhan’Allah! God is glorious!” she said as she looked into his mouth. “And you’ve still got all your own teeth!”

  Dad laughed.

  But Nanna looked thoughtful. “How much longer will Ramzi and my bride be with us?” she asked. Nanna always called Mum ‘my bride’.

  Dad held Nanna’s star-patterned hand in his. “We’ll have to return to England soon, Yemma,” he said sadly.

  Nanna looked away.

  The next time Nanna spoke, her voice was cold and hard. “Here, Ramzi, eat these,” she said. She passed Ramzi some dates. “Just look at your bony knees – The English don’t feed you properly!”

  “OK, Nanna,” said Ramzi. He looked at his knees – they were a bit bony. Perhaps she was right? He kissed her conker-coloured hair and ate as many dates as he could.

  “Now take me outside, Mohamed,” Nanna ordered. She waved her hand towards the door.

  Dad picked up a cushion and helped Nanna to her favourite spot, from where she always watched the passers-by.

  Ramzi was playing with some children in the street. Everybody wanted to be his friend. They had all heard about how he’d stood up to Hamza. And about how he’d escaped from the Spider.

  “Tell us about it? What did he look like?” whispered the children.

  But Ramzi just shook his head and yawned.

  Meanwhile, Dad tried to speak to Nanna. But she folded her arms and looked the other way. Eventually, Dad gave up and headed back inside.

  “Oh, this is awful!” cried Mum. She was in the kitchen, stirring a great big saucepan. Wisps of pale-brown hair clung to her hot face.

  “It’ll be fine, whatever it is,” said Dad quietly.

  “Don’t be silly,” snapped Mum. “It won’t be fine. Last time I cooked, I gave your brothers food poisoning!” She burst into tears. “Sorry – it’s just that it’s all so different here. I don’t even know what most of these things are.” She pointed to a shelf covered with bags full of brightly coloured spices. “And I think I’ve just put sugar in the soup!”

  Dad smiled and tasted a spoonful.“Not enough salt, that’s all,” he said gently.

  “Will you take over, please?” begged Mum.

  ***

  It was getting hotter outside. Ramzi hadn’t slept properly for ages and his legs were beginning to ache. He came in to shelter from the sun. But it was hot everywhere. Even inside.

  “Cinnamon Grove’s never too hot,” thought Ramzi. “And I bet Shaima’s not all hot and sweaty. I want to go home.”

  He wanted to be on his own. So he dragged his dusty feet across the marble floor and slumped on to the hard stone stairs. Grumbling to himself, he watched Dad in the kitchen. Dad was a brilliant cook. He added a dash of one herb and a pinch of another to Mum’s soup, and soon delicious smells filled the house. Not that Ramzi cared. He wasn’t hungry. But Mum smiled with relief and gave Dad a hug.

  Dad looked thoughtful.

  “What’s the matter, Mohamed?” asked Mum.

  “I was just thinking… we’ll have to go back to England soon.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mum. “The sleepwalking has stopped now.”

  “But that’s just because we’re here,” said Dad. “It’ll come back in England.”

  Mum forced a smile. “Of course it won’t, love.” But she didn’t look sure.

  They both fell silent and listened to the pan bubble. Ramzi didn’t move.

  “I suppose we could stay here?” suggested Dad.

  “What? Forever?” Mum gulped.

  “Why not?” said Dad. “Ramzi’s happy here.”

  “I think the soup’s burning!” said Mum.

  Ramzi ran upstairs and slammed the door.

  A Sheep in the Kitchen

  “Argghhh!” screamed Ramzi. He dropped his empty cup on to the hard floor.

  “What is it?” yelled Mum. She’d just woken up and was still in her nightdress.

  “Mum – I think I’m sleepwalking…” stammered Ramzi. “It’s just that… it’s just that I think I can see a sheep in the kitchen!”

  “What?” shrieked Mum. She ran down the stairs to join him.

  “Look!” said Ramzi.

  Mum peered through the hatch. “You’re not sleepwalking, petal,” she said slowly. “There is a sheep in the kitchen.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Ramzi.

  “Baaaaaaaaaaa,” said the sheep.

  Just then, Dad bounded up behind them.

  “Aha!” he said. “You’ve found her. Isn’t she beautiful? We got her from the market just before sunrise.”

  “But why’s a sheep in the kitchen, Dad?” asked Ramzi.

  “This is where we’ll keep her ’till the party,” beamed Dad.

  “What party?” asked Mum.

  “Uncle Kader and Nanna have arranged o
ne to celebrate our homecoming. Everybody’s coming!” Dad was brimming with excitement.

  “But why is a sheep coming to the party?” asked Ramzi cautiously.

  “Well,” said Dad, “the guests will need to be fed.”

  “You mean…” stuttered Ramzi.

  “Oh!” gasped Mum.

  “BAaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” said the sheep.

  ***

  The party was a great success. There was dancing and singing, and the food was delicious.

  But when everyone left, Ramzi and Mum looked glum.

  “Come on, you two!” said Dad. “Cheer up!”

  “We’re just a bit tired, love,” answered Mum.

  “Huh,” grunted Ramzi. He was staring at the remains of the lamb couscous.

  “It’s better than buying it from a supermarket,” said Dad. “We thanked Allah and we made sure the sheep was treated kindly.”

  “Huh,” grunted Ramzi again.

  “It just takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all,” said Mum. “Besides, we’re so tired.” Mum yawned but Dad’s face clouded over.

  “You don’t want to stay here, do you, Ruby?” he said.

  “It’s not that, love, it’s just that…”

  “It is that!” shouted Ramzi. “I want to go home!” He jumped up and ran out of the door.

  Dad’s sun-tanned cheeks went suddenly grey.

  “Take no notice!” said Mum. “There’s been too much excitement. We’ll all feel better after a good night’s sleep!”

  But that night, no one could rest.

  Under the Stars

  As the long days passed, the air grew hotter and hotter. Soon Ramzi couldn’t play in the street. When he tried, the sun nearly knocked him to the ground. Besides, there was no point – the whole town went to sleep after lunch, even the children. Ramzi tried to sleep too but he couldn’t. So he just listened to the whirring of the fan as it blew stale air around the room. Sweat gathered behind his knees and his throat became dry.

  But Dad looked more boyish every day. After one hot, stuffy siesta, Dad jumped up from his mattress, his eyes bright and wide.

  “Come on, Ramzi,” he said. “Why don’t you join me and my friends for a game of cards?”

  Ramzi groaned. He was hot and tired and didn’t want to move.

  “Go on,” said Mum. “It’ll do you good.” So, with hands dug deep in his pockets, Ramzi went.

  Outside, the day was beginning to cool. There was even a slight breeze in the air. Shops were lifting their shutters and cafés were opening their doors.

  Ramzi began to feel better as he walked with Dad through the narrow streets of the town.

  At last, they came to a huge, bustling café. It was full of men in white gowns huddled around metal tables. Some were puffing smoke out of a long pipe and others were chewing pistachio nuts.

  “Over here, stranger!” called a man with an enormous moustache.

  “Mustafa!” shouted Dad. He pulled Ramzi’s arm and they squeezed through the tables towards a group of smiling men.

  The men stood up and took it in turns to hug Dad. “Where have you been hiding?” they said. “We thought you’d forgotten us.”

  “How could I?” said Dad. There were tears in his eyes.

  “And this must be your son!” said a man with a big straw hat.

  Dad grinned.

  The men ruffled Ramzi’s curls and kissed his cheeks.

  “Assalemu Aleikum,” said Ramzi.

  “Subhan’Allah!” cried the man with the moustache. “He can even speak Arabic!”

  “Of course he can!” laughed Mustafa. “He’s a Ramadan, through and through. Just look at that hair!”

  Ramzi smiled.

  A waiter brought a tray full of food and drink to the table. “Welcome back, Mohamed! It’s on the house,” he said.

  Dad’s friends sprinkled peanuts on top of their steaming mint teas while Ramzi gulped down a glass of fizzing lemonade. Then the card game began.

  That evening, Dad remembered old times and laughed until his sides ached.

  Ramzi had never seen his Dad giggle so much – he seemed so happy, so alive.

  “This is the best place to be!” thought Ramzi. “By my dad’s side.”

  Later that night, as they walked home through the empty streets, Dad said. “I need to talk to you, son.”

  “Sure, Dad,” answered Ramzi. Dad sounded serious.

  “You know that everyone here loves you, don’t you?” said Dad.

  “Yeh!” Ramzi blushed in the darkness.

  “Well.” Dad paused. “How would you feel about staying here? Just for a year or two?”

  Ramzi looked up at the stars. Suddenly, he felt so small.

  “What is it, son?” asked Dad sadly.

  “I do completely love it here, Dad,” Ramzi began, “and I’ll really miss everyone when we go home. But…”

  “But… this isn’t your home, is it?” sighed Dad. He looked like a broken man.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said Ramzi. He felt awful. He remembered his dad at the card game – giggling and swigging mint tea. Ramzi hugged Dad tightly. Dad hugged him back.

  “No, of course it’s not. No man can have his heart in two places! I know that better than most!” Dad sounded very far away.

  “But I want to come back every single year, Dad. Honest.”

  “Do you, son?” Dad brightened.

  “And I don’t want you to start sleepwalking again, Dad. Not ever.”

  “No. Nor do I.” Dad looked thoughtful. “Don’t worry, little warrior. We’ll think of something,” he said.

  ‘I have to think of something,’ thought Ramzi. Suddenly, he remembered Boulelli’s book. How could he have forgotten? But what could he do? His mind was blank.

  So together, each alone with their own thoughts, father and son walked through the darkness and back to the house.

  A Trip to see the Wise-Man

  Dad spent the following morning in the mountains. When he got back, he was twitching with excitement.

  “I’ve just seen Aunty Merzouka,” he said, “and she’s given me an idea.”

  Mum and Ramzi listened as Dad began. “There’s a man in the countryside who cures people if they’re bewitched.”

  Mum’s eyebrows shot up into the air.

  “Are you bewitched, Dad?” asked Ramzi.

  Dad smiled. “No, but listen. There was a man from a nearby village who was so bewitched by a woman’s beauty that he followed her day and night for a whole year! He forgot to harvest his fields, he lost all of his flock, and he wasted all of his money. He just followed her wherever she went! Now, this wise-man cured him. I think I should visit him too.”

  “So who’s bewitched you?” teased Mum.

  “This is serious, Ruby!” snapped Dad. “He might be able to stop my sleepwalking for good. Otherwise, I won’t go back to England.” Dad folded his arms and looked grim.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Mum.

  “Let’s go,” said Ramzi.

  ***

  Mum and Dad had a siesta but Ramzi couldn’t rest. Thoughts kept whizzing through his mind. ‘Maybe Boulelli was wrong... Maybe he was mad... Maybe the wise-man will cure Dad, not me.’

  Later that day, they set off into the hills in Uncle Kader’s little yellow car. The sky was dotted with black-and-white storks, their huge, heavy wings carving great paths through the sky. They drove through bustling street markets with stalls full of olives, fresh watermelons and dates. They passed through villages where old men stared and women jostled for gold.

  It was beginning to cool down when the car turned off the bumpy road and on to a dusty dirt track.

  The landscape was bare. There were no trees up here. Just empty wheatfields speckled with white rocks.

  In the distance, there was a little stone house breaking the blue horizon. As they drove closer, Ramzi noticed that it had a tiny door but no windows. Outside, on the dusty ground, was an old piece of wood that rested on three large stones. Th
e car came to a halt.

  “Is this it?” asked Mum.

  But Dad was already out of the car. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he sighed as he gazed across the fields.

  Mum stood with him and held his hand. “Is this where you were born?” she asked.

  Dad nodded and took a deep breath while Uncle Kader wandered off to look for a well.

  “Look at this!” shouted Ramzi. An enormous, black stag beetle was crawling along the ground in front of him. It wobbled along the dry earth, and was nearly as big as his hand.

  “Watch out for scorpions,” said Dad.

  Ramzi got on his knees and crawled after some huge black ants as they scrambled across the soil.

  Dad knelt down next to Ramzi. “We used to call them French ants,” he said mischievously. “Be careful though, they bite.”

  “AHEM!” The noise made them all turn around.

  In the door of the windowless house stood a tall, slim man, with sharp cheekbones and a curious smile. Some of his front teeth were missing but his eyes glistened. His long white gown touched the dusty floor and his turban curled round his head like a big white cat.

  “Assalemu aleikum,” he said. His voice was soft and deep. He beckoned them to enter. They followed.

  Inside, the room was empty apart from an espresso maker, a rug, a prayer mat and a tiny gas stove. The wise-man asked them to sit on the brightly patterned rug while he sat cross-legged on the dusty earth. He clutched his bare feet in his hands and spoke in the same deep, syrupy language as Nanna.

  Dad told him about England and his dreams.

  “Open your heart, Mohamed Ramadan, for God has no shame of the truth,” said the wise-man.

  So Dad told him about Dr Slight, the hen in the wardrobe, the frogs in the pantry, the boat trip to the moon, the snow leopard and even the fire brigade.

  The wise-man shook his head as he chewed on a piece of wheat. “History has no mercy,” he said. “Your country haunts you and it was right you returned to your land. For it is only here that you can banish your demons!”

  The wise-man started to scratch shapes into the earth with a twig. Then he closed his eyes and fell silent.