The Carmel Sheehan Story

by Jean Grainger

  ‘And he introduced you to Joe?’ Nora asked.

  ‘Well, Dolly had known Joe’s brother Brian here in London; they were reunited after years and years completely by chance, and she’d told him the story of what had happened from her end—what their father had done to her, and to me. Brian wanted Dolly to contact Joe, but she refused. She said she didn’t want to disrupt his life and too much time had passed.

  ‘Later, I met Joe at Brian’s funeral. We met, and instantly, I liked him. He knows the truth now, but he thinks he’s my dad and so do I. He left it up to me, and I decided against a DNA test, because what good would it do? I can’t bear the thought that the man I see as my father is actually my brother and my grandfather is my father. It’s all too horrible. So as far as both of us is concerned, Joe is my dad, and we’re leaving it at that.’

  Carmel stopped speaking, and Nora just waited. The silence wasn’t awkward; if anything, it was soothing.

  ‘Our time is nearly up, but this week I’d like you to give some thought to this: Why are you not telling Sharif about wanting a child? Maybe do some of those guided meditations I gave you. Stillness can clarify our thoughts.’

  Carmel nodded, putting on her jacket.

  She had a lot to think about.

  Chapter 7

  The trip to Ireland was six days away, and Carmel was counting down with dread. She knew she was being ridiculous. It was just a holiday, she was a grown woman, and they weren’t going anywhere near Birr or Bill or Julia. She needed to get a grip.

  She’d slammed her computer shut yesterday when she heard Sharif’s key in the lock because she’d been looking at pictures of newborn babies. She knew she should talk it out with him, but something was stopping her. Besides, he had so much to organise in order to get away. He would never pry; she’d have to tell him. He didn’t ever interrogate her about the counselling, and at the beginning, she’d felt she should tell him how things were going with Nora. But over dinner the first night after Carmel started seeing her, he’d said,

  ‘I know this therapy is a process, because when Jamilla died, I found it so hard—not just her loss, but the fact that I was a doctor who could help others but could do nothing for her. I just sat there, watching her fade away in front of my eyes. In the end, I went to speak to someone, a therapist, and it helped. I was against it at first—doctors are terrible patients—but in the end, my grief, depression, whatever you want to call it, was taking over my life. The man I saw was great, and he gave me good advice. He said not to talk to people about what happened there. Not to let the work that was done in the therapist’s office spill out into my life, and he was right. Deal with it in there, say what you need to say, and then get on with your life. Sometimes when we are working through issues, we feel a need to share it with those around us and then, afterwards, regret it.

  ‘In the months after Jamilla died, sometimes, I talked incessantly about her, then other times I didn’t mention her name for weeks. It was weird. After a while, George explained that I needed to get things clear in my own head first, and so, at his suggestion, I told my parents that I would speak to them when the time was right. I asked them if they could just accept that I was dealing with it my own way and give me the space to do that. They understood, and though they were worried about me, they never pried. And, in due time, we got to talking about her again. I want you to have that same space, so I won’t be badgering you to tell me how you’re getting on. Talk to me, anytime you want, of course, but only when you decide.’

  He was so understanding, so emotionally evolved, that sometimes he intimidated Carmel. He never lost his temper, or got frustrated or upset. He really was a very calm person, very mindful. But sometimes she wished he could be a bit more flawed. Immediately she thought it, she felt a pang of guilt. She’d had years and years of marriage to an emotionally stunted man, totally incapable of even the most perfunctory of human interaction, and now, here she was with Sharif, and she wished he was different. It wasn’t even that she wanted him to be different—he was funny and charming and handsome and kind, everything you’d want in a husband—but she felt inadequate beside him, no matter how often he told her that in the eyes of the world they were equals, that only she saw all her hang-ups and imagined shortcomings.

  With six days until they left for Ireland, Carmel was pottering about the apartment, taking a rare day off. Sharif was very busy at the clinic today, but he checked in by text whenever he got a moment. She’d gone out for sushi with Zane and Ivanka last night and woke at three in the morning vomiting. She thought the sushi had tasted off, but since she’d never had it before, she didn’t want to appear gauche in front of her friends and ate it. Sharif gave her an injection to stop the nausea and left her with strict instructions to stay in bed and take it easy. Though she felt like death warmed up, he assured her it was a mild case of food poisoning—Ivanka and Zane were off with the same complaint.

  She had stayed in bed for an hour, but a lifetime of early rising was ingrained, so eventually she got up.

  She might as well pack her bag for the trip. She was a bit early, but she liked to be ready and, anyway, couldn’t venture too far from the bathroom today. In the bottom of the wardrobe lay her little brown suitcase; it looked like the one Paddington Bear carried, Sharif had joked. The idea that she had fitted everything she owned in that just a year ago astounded her as she surveyed her walk-in wardrobe with the long shoe rack. She still didn’t spend much, lots of things she picked up in charity shops or in the sales, but still her wardrobe was so much more diverse and glamorous than it used to be.

  She was choosing which jumpers to bring—even though it was summer, the evenings got chilly—when the doorbell rang. Sharif was working, and anyway, he had a key and so did Nadia, though she never really called unannounced.

  Carmel went to the door, her heart sinking as she saw the colourful bulk through the opaque glass of the door. She opened it with a fake smile on her face. This really was the last thing she needed.

  ‘Zeinab, how nice to see you. Is Nadia not with you?’ Carmel desperately looked behind Zeinab in the hope of seeing her mother-in-law. She’d never had to deal with Zeinab alone before, and she was nervous.

  ‘No, she is not my keeper, Carmel. Can I not visit my nephew’s house without a chaperon?’ The way she pronounced Carmel’s name seemed to leave out the middle R, sounding more like Camel. She was sure it was deliberate.

  ‘Of… Of course... Please come in.’ Carmel moved aside to allow Zeinab to enter. She swept imperially into the apartment, perfectly able-bodied despite the incessant complaints about her knees and her hip and her back that drove Nadia up the walls.

  ‘This really is such a small place, considering Sharif owns this entire complex.’ Zeinab glanced around their lovely home dismissively. ‘Why does he live so modestly, do you think?’

  ‘Er... Well, we like it here. And we don’t need much space...’ Carmel wished she could be more forceful and tell this old bat where to get off, but she didn’t dare.

  ‘Well, I expect that for you it must seem like a palace, after all you’ve been through?’ The tone was sickly sweet, but the words cut Carmel.

  She didn’t need sympathy, and anyway, what Zeinab was offering wasn’t sympathy—it was condescension.

  ‘Actually, the house I grew up in was very large, lots of rooms, so this is nice and cosy.’ She tried to inject some brightness into her voice. Zeinab reminded her of those predators she and Sharif had watched on Planet Earth on the BBC, David Attenborough explaining how they sat and waited, sensing fear and then pounced on their prey.

  ‘Yes, an orphanage, Nadia said, and then you were sold into some kind of arranged Catholic marriage or something?’

  Carmel swallowed down the lump of hurt. She was fairly sure Nadia would never have spoken about her like that. This was Zeinab twisting the knife, trying to belittle her.

  ‘Well, it was a children’s home, not an orphanage, and my first marriage wasn’t arranged. It
just didn’t work out, that’s all, and now… Well, now...’ She had started well but faltered.

  ‘Now you’re happily installed here, married to my very wealthy nephew. How nice for you. It must be a relief to live so comfortably after years of uncertainty.’ Zeinab smiled, but it never reached her eyes. She was eagle-eyed as her gaze rested on photographs and the few special items Carmel and Sharif had chosen to decorate their home. She went on, ‘I was looking at the property pages this morning. There really are some lovely homes to be had around here. Not of the standard you’d find in Karachi—space is at such a premium here in London, so people have to forego the extensive grounds and so on that we enjoy in Pakistan—but very nice homes nonetheless.’

  Carmel had no idea where this was going, but she was convinced it was going somewhere.

  ‘Have you ever looked at those?’ Zeinab asked, that smile again. It gave Carmel the shudders.

  ‘Er... Well, I’ve seen some houses for sale when I go for a walk sometimes, but I can’t say I’ve taken too much notice, to be honest.’ Carmel tried to steer the conversation into less bewildering waters. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She tried to quell another sudden wave of nausea. The injection Sharif had given her had stopped the vomiting, thankfully, but she still felt very queasy.

  ‘Yes, tea.’ Zeinab sat herself down on the sofa and took up the framed wedding photo on the side table. Carmel and Sharif were laughing in it; Zane had taken the picture on his phone the day they got married. Though they’d had an official photographer, and his album was really lovely, this was the photo they liked best. Carmel would always remember the moment it was taken. A very disgruntled Ivy, one of the cleaners at Aashna, had just returned from the ladies’, where, she explained, the cast-iron guaranteed-to-have-no-spare-tyre slip she was wearing beneath her dress had rolled up from the bottom and down from the top and had been attempting for the entire wedding ceremony to cut her in half around the middle. Her descriptions of the struggle to get the cursed thing off in the bathroom had the entire table in stitches.

  ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear Sharif had remarried, he so loved dear Jamilla,’ Zeinab interrupted the happy memory. ‘She was such a wonderful girl, an angel, I never thought he would get over it. Then I suppose one never truly recovers from the loss of a spouse. A love like they had, well, it only comes along once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky.’ She accepted the cup of tea from Carmel.

  ‘He often talks about her,’ Carmel said, trying to ignore the jibe. ‘She sounded like a wonderful person. I know they were very happy together.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she really was. She was a nurse, such a kind, caring girl, and her family are very well respected. Her uncle runs a lovely country club just outside Karachi, and her mother’s people are very wealthy, property tycoons really you could say. I remember how she came to my house when I hurt my back years ago; oh, she was so knowledgeable, so gentle, but you just felt like she was so competent. I begged her to go back to Sharif once I was able to get around, but she insisted on staying until I was totally better. Oh, and my Tariq, he adored her. Well, everyone did really.’

  ‘She went to care for you in Karachi?’ Carmel tried not to sound incredulous. The idea that anyone would leave Sharif to spend time with this old bat mystified Carmel.

  ‘Yes.’ The normally verbose Zeinab was surprisingly tight-lipped. She gazed at Carmel, her dark eyes scheming, and then she spoke.

  ‘She needed some time, after all she’d been through...’ She sipped her chai.

  ‘With the cancer?’ Carmel asked, not out of curiosity as much as not wanting to appear unfeeling.

  ‘No... Well, yes, among other things... Well, I’m sure Sharif has explained.’ She smiled sweetly.

  Carmel had no clue what she was going on about but was determined not to show her ignorance of such a huge part of Sharif’s life.

  ‘He’s told me a lot about the life he and Jamilla shared. They were lucky to have known such love.’ She didn’t really know what else to say. She’d never felt threatened by his dead wife before now, not like she had with Bill and the huge wedding photo in the living room of his dear departed Gretta. Bill was not free, that was the fact. It seemed so obvious now, but she’d wasted all those years trying to get him to feel something for her. His rejection merely confirmed what she’d known all her life: that she was unlovable. She was trying so hard o foster feelings of compassion for her younger self. It wasn’t that she was unadoptable–her grandfather had ensured nobody could adopt her. Likewise, Bill didn’t reject her because of anything she was or wasn’t—he’d just never gotten over losing Gretta. Carmel had to keep reminding herself of these facts.

  Sharif, on the other hand, acknowledged that he and Jamilla had been good together but it was in the past. She was gone and they were here, and he was convinced she would want him to move on and be happy.

  But Zeinab droned on. ‘Yes. Everyone loved Jamilla. Especially Khalid, Sharif’s father. Oh, he adored her, and she him. And of course, Nadia, Tariq and I, she had everyone under her spell. Now, tell me more about you. As I said, I was so surprised to hear Sharif was remarrying, but I suppose, men, they have needs, and Sharif is not the sort to just have a string of romances behind him. Still, there must have been something special about you?’ Her tone suggested that Carmel being remarkable in any way was most unlikely.

  Carmel resented this cross-examination, the feeling that she had to make the case for her and Sharif’s marriage, and on top of that, she got the distinct impression there was something Sharif hadn’t told her about him and Jamilla, something everyone else in the Khan family knew. They were normally so open and honest with each other, it hurt her to think there was something important he had kept from her.

  ‘I don’t know, really. We just met and sort of clicked, I suppose. He said I remind him of my mother, and he was very fond of her, she was almost like another mother to him...’ That was definitely the wrong thing to say, judging by the look on Zeinab’s face.

  ‘Really? I thought she just worked for Nadia. I know she and Khalid gave Dolly—was that her name?—some support, financially, I mean, but I thought that was simply because she was a loyal employee of Nadia’s business.’

  Carmel gritted her teeth. Zeinab knew well the relationship between her mother and Sharif’s family, but she was trying to unsettle Carmel.

  ‘No, Nadia and my mother were partners in the dressmaking business, and she certainly was more to the Khan family than just that. She and Nadia were best friends, and she helped nurse Khalid in his final months. It was because she meant so much to him that Sharif found me. He promised her that he wouldn’t stop looking.’

  Zeinab seemed to be enjoying getting rise out of Carmel, as they say in Ireland. She barely suppressed a smirk.

  ‘So, you are Dolly’s daughter, and your father—I know you’ve met him—and his family? He was married to someone else?’ Her brow furrowed dramatically. She was making it sound like Carmel’s family was not only highly distasteful but also utterly confusing.

  How dare she? Carmel was seething now. Normally, she was very open about her story—well, the part about her mother and father, anyway. Very few people knew her true story, the reason she was never adopted, and she did not care to enlighten them. She prayed Nadia hadn’t inadvertently let something slip.

  ‘Oh, Joe is wonderful. I love him dearly. Yes, after he and my mother parted ways, he married a lovely lady called Mary, and they had two children, Luke and Jennifer. You’ll meet them. Sadly, Mary died a few years ago.’

  ‘And does he live alone?’

  Carmel was thrown by the question. Everything Zeinab said was heavily loaded, so this was a bit of a random enquiry. She wondered what was behind it. She longed to chuck the nosy old biddy out, but she was Sharif’s aunt and Nadia’s sister, so Carmel didn’t dare.

  ‘Er... Yes... Jennifer lives close by with her husband and little boy, and Luke has an apartment in the city. My sister Jennifer is a s
tay-at-home mum at the moment looking after my nephew Sean, and my brother Luke is a detective in the Irish police.’ She felt the familiar surge of pride at saying the words ‘my brother,’ ‘my sister.’

  ‘How interesting that they would consider themselves your siblings though you were a stranger up until recently. It must take some adjusting, to suddenly find yourself at the centre of a big family when for so long you were alone?’

  How did Zeinab manage to make everything she said sound mean, when those words from anyone else’s lips wouldn’t be seen as such? Carmel berated herself—she was being too sensitive. Zeinab was trying to rile her, and Carmel was damned if she would allow it.

  ‘Yes, it is a bit different, but I’m loving it.’ Carmel smiled serenely.

  ‘And your father lives alone? Is he fit and healthy?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in great shape. He loves DIY and all of that, so he’s always doing something.’ Carmel glanced at the clock. Sharif wouldn’t be back for ages, and she could think of no other way of ending this audience with Zeinab, but she wasn’t going to spend her whole afternoon talking pointlessly with her.

  ‘Well, when someone is fit and healthy, then it is fine, I suppose. I was never alone, thankfully. I always had Tariq, bless his soul. But now that I’m older and not as agile as I was, well, it is different. So many of my friends are lucky to have children to take care of them, but Tariq and I were never blessed with a family. It is a struggle to keep going, I can tell you.’

  Nadia had told Carmel that Zeinab had all kinds of help in the house and that she got out and about all the time. She had a chauffeur, and a maid and a gardener—as they say in Ireland, there was no fear of her, but she was angling, no doubt about it.