The Black Cat Detectives

by Wendy Meddour

  “I know you do, love. All right. But make it a chamomile tea,” said Mum. “According to the midwife, it helps to soothe the baby.” She joggled the screaming bundle of pink blankets against her shoulder.

  “BURRRRP.”

  “Better out than in,” smiled Mum, patting Baby Zed’s back. Then she wandered across the room and crumpled on to the sofa – the bundle of blankets held tight in her arms.

  Very softly, Baby Zed started to snore. “Sssssssss.”

  “Mum,” whispered Ramzi, “I think she’s gone to sleep.”

  Mum closed her eyes and smiled.

  ***

  When Ramzi came back with the tea, Mum had fallen asleep too. He put the mug down and took Baby Zed out of her arms.

  “Hello, little caterpillar,” he said, stroking his baby sister’s thistledown hair. He popped her in the wicker basket in the corner of the room and then put a blanket over Mum.

  She looked different, somehow. Not like Awake-Mum. Asleep-Mum’s face was flushed, her hand tucked under her cheek. Ramzi went and got his notebook from his rucksack. It had been Shaima’s idea – to write things down. But his notebook wasn’t like hers. His was messy – full of sketches, maps and thoughts – not neat little experiments and tidy observations. He scribbled down the word: SLEEP. Then he looked at Mum again.

  Suddenly Ramzi looked worried. He tiptoed over to the wicker basket and peered inside. Baby Zed was still pink. She was still snoring. She still looked the same. Ramzi breathed a sigh of relief and scribbled:

  Ramzi was picking muslin cloths and bits of cotton wool off the lounge carpet when Dad came in through the front door.

  “ASSALEMU ALEIKUM,” shouted Dad.

  Ramzi rushed over to the hall. “Sshhhhh. They’ve only just gone to sleep.”

  A broad grin spread across Dad’s face. “Ahaaaa,” he said, “with every difficulty comes relief! Now, my little warrior, tell me what you’ve been doing.” He put his arm around Ramzi’s shoulders and steered him into the kitchen.

  “Well,” began Ramzi, “loads of stuff. Shaima’s got this totally cool aunt and she’s an insectologist and studies beetles and stuff and she’s got this really cool bag full of stuff and this totally rare beetle went up her arm when she was getting the pawn out of Iqbal’s nose and...”

  Dad raised his eyebrows. “Getting the what out of where?” he asked. But before Ramzi had time to answer, there was a noise from the lounge.

  “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

  “Sorry, Ramzi,” said Dad, “you’ll have to tell me later.” He hurried into the lounge, picked up Baby Zed and crept back to the kitchen. Pressed against Dad’s warm shoulder, Baby Zed went suddenly quiet. Dad started to sing a strange wordless lullaby:

  “La, la laaaa, la laaa, la laaaa.”

  It sounded funny.

  “Dad, you still haven’t taken your jacket off. It’s covered in baby dribble,” grinned Ramzi.

  “That’s OK,” smiled Dad. “It’s a blessing.”

  Steaming Open the Inbox

  “QUICK! Ramzi, quick – we’ve got mail!” yelled Shaima. Her tiny head was poking out of the door of Number Twelve.

  Ramzi ran down the path, yanked off his trainers and followed Shaima into Mr Stalk’s study. To his surprise, a little old woman wrapped in a chocolate-coloured shawl was sitting at the laptop.

  “A... a... assalemu aleikum, Nanna Stalk,” stammered Ramzi.

  “Wa’aleikum assalem,” she replied, spinning round on the office chair. Nanna Stalk’s face was smaller than Shaima’s but her glasses were just the same, only thicker.

  “I told Nanna all about the website,” grinned Shaima.

  “What?” gulped Ramzi.

  Nanna Stalk beckoned Ramzi to join her. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry. Not at all. In fact, it’s a wonderful idea. So glad you could join us. It’s just what we need – a man’s perspective. You can help us choose.”

  Ramzi blushed. “Choose what?” he asked.

  “Choose a husband. For Aunty Urooj,” grinned Shaima.

  “Perhaps you should let her choose her own husband!” shouted a voice from the kitchen. It was Mrs Stalk.

  “Well, she hasn’t found one yet, ” yelled Nanna Stalk.

  “Sit down,” said Shaima, pushing Ramzi on to a chair.

  Ramzi cringed. He hated this sort of thing – weddings and stuff. It was so, well, embarrassing. He tried not to look at the Truly Deeply Muslims homepage but the flashing red love-heart kept catching his eye.

  “Was this your idea, Ramzi?” asked Mrs Stalk, throwing her oven gloves on the desk.

  “No!” said Ramzi, shaking his head. “Actually, Mrs Stalk, I think I better go. Baby Zed’s not been sleeping and...”

  “You can’t go now!” said Shaima. “I’m just about to open the inbox.”

  Ramzi watched her tiny fingers as they logged in.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” said Nanna Stalk excitedly.

  “Astaghfirullah. What have you two done?” sighed Mrs Stalk.

  “But Aunty Urooj wants to, Mum. Honest. Doesn’t she, Ramzi?” said Shaima.

  “Ramzi?” Mrs Stalk grabbed him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Did Urooj actually tell you that she wants you to find her a husband?”

  Ramzi’s cheeks began to burn. “No... I mean... not exactly.” Shaima pinched him. “Ouch!... She just sort of said... that she was a bit lonely. That’s all.”

  “There. See. I told you this was all nonsense,” huffed Mrs Stalk.

  “Nonsense?” cried Nanna Stalk. “NONSENSE? That’s fine for you to say – married to my son – with three children of your own! But think of my daughters – Zakiya and Urooj – all alone in the world. What will happen to them when I’m gone?”

  “Don’t talk like that, Ammi,” said Mrs Stalk. “Insha’Allah, you’ll be given a long life.”

  “Insha’Allah. But I might be gone tomorrow. Each day’s a blessing – what with my sugar levels. There’s no point sticking your feet in the sand, Amira.”

  “Head, Nanna,” said Shaima. “It’s ‘head in the sand’.”

  “That’s what I said, young lady. And remember...” She waggled her finger. “I’ve been here a lot longer than you.”

  “Sorry, Nanna,” said Shaima.

  Mrs Stalk put her arm around Nanna Stalk’s tiny shoulders. “Ammi, I’m sorry too. You do whatever you think is best. Now, I better get on with the cooking. Mustafa’s expecting bhajis.” Mrs Stalk picked up the oven gloves and hurried back into the kitchen.

  Ramzi looked at his watch and got up to leave. “My mum’ll be wondering...”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” scowled Shaima.

  Ramzi sat back down.

  “Now, tell me, Shaima. How many letters are there?” asked Nanna Stalk, squinting at the screen.

  “Five,” said Shaima. She hovered the cursor over the inbox.

  “Five!” exclaimed Nanna Stalk. “Subhan’Allah! This is better than Pakistan. What are we waiting for? Quick! Steam them open.”

  ***

  They all agreed. Yusef was too short. Irfan was too fat. Suleiman was too silly. And Adam was a show-off. Which left Rasheed: the ‘Earnest entrepreneur seeking clever and dynamic career woman for marriage and life-time spiritual companionship.’

  “Perfect,” said Nanna Stalk. “Shaima – write him an invitation. He must bring his parents, of course. Ask them round on Friday evening.”

  “What – here? At Cinnamon Grove?” asked Shaima, typing as fast as she could.

  “Of course here,” replied Nanna Stalk. “Your Aunty Urooj is coming anyway, so there’s no need to invite her. And your father has Friday off.” Suddenly, a look of worry spread across Nanna Stalk’s face. “If we were at home,” she sighed, “we’d know about his family. His reputation.”

  “We are at home, Nanna,” said Shaima.

  Nanna sighed again. How she missed the taste of fresh mangos and the sound of chickens scratching in the yard. “But how will we know he’s f
rom a good background?” she said. “How can we check he’s of good character?” She chewed on the arm of her spectacles while they all tried to think.

  “Monopoly!” cried Shaima at last.

  “What?” asked Ramzi, puzzled.

  Shaima nodded until her plaits shook.

  “Monopoly?” exclaimed Nanna Stalk. “Is that the best you can do? We need to find out if he’s a good Muslim – with a sound job and a respectable reputation. And you want to know if he’s talented at party games!”

  “But you don’t understand, Nanna,” said Shaima. “I was reading this book called The Psychology of Board Games – and recent research suggests that games are a great way of making people reveal their ‘true selves’. Monopoly would be perfect.”

  “And why would that be?” asked Nanna Stalk, still unsure.

  “It’s simple. Greedy people will buy up everything. Lazy people won’t ‘pass go’. Clever people will buy the utilities and...”

  “And if he’s not a ‘good Muslim’,” giggled Ramzi, “he’ll keep getting ‘stuck in jail’.”

  “That is so not funny,” said Shaima.

  They both looked at Nanna Stalk.

  “Well... I don’t have any better ideas,” she said, “and time is running out. After all, your Aunty’s nearly thirty-one! Monopoly it is. Now, let’s post the invitation. I’ll go and get a stamp.” Nanna Stalk bustled into the hall to fetch her handbag.

  Meanwhile, Shaima winked at Ramzi and pressed

  SEND.

  The Larval Stage

  Aunty Urooj was blissfully unaware of the goings-on at Number Twelve. Whilst Shaima and Nanna Stalk were checking the inbox (one last time before bed), Aunty Urooj was staring down a microscope in her university laboratory. A curious-looking beetle was waving its unwieldy antennae under her lens.

  “Excellent,” said Aunty Urooj, jotting something down. Then, very carefully, she put Gulliver on to the back of her hand and let him down into a large glass tank in the corner of the room. It was packed tight with dank earth and dead wood. Gulliver scuttled behind a rotten branch and disappeared from sight.

  As she watched him go, Aunty Urooj caught sight of herself in the reflection of the glass. She smiled. Yes. The bright red headscarf went perfectly with her white overcoat and laboratory glasses.

  She went over to her desk and picked up a clipboard and a bag of sticks and leaves. Then she began walking round the laboratory. It was full of glass containers – some misted up with condensation, others dry and crystal bright. There were mini-deserts and micro-jungles, cold forests and steamy swamps – all lovingly prepared. For although her work centred on British beetles, Aunty Urooj’s collection came from all over the world.

  The larvae would arrive in boxes bursting with bubble-wrap and stamp-marked with mysterious sounding names: Burkina Faso... Eritrea... Kyrgysztan. Fingers trembling with excitement, Aunty Urooj would open the packages and help the unborn beetles thrive in their newly-made homes.

  This evening, like every other evening, Aunty Urooj was doing her nightly check. She increased the humidity level for one beetle and popped a willow leaf in for another. It usually took about forty-five minutes. But tonight it was taking longer. For tonight wasn’t just any night. Something was about to happen – at least, she hoped it was. If her calculations were correct, a Rhinoceros Beetle from South America was due to emerge from its larva!

  Aunty Urooj’s shoulders were tense with anticipation. She checked the thermometer one last time. Perfect. She glanced at the label on the container.

  Pressing her face against the glass, Aunty Urooj peered in. Still no sign. She sighed and looked out of the window. It was getting late. Putting her clipboard back on the desk, she took off her white laboratory coat and hung it on a peg. Then she picked up her carpet bag, turned off the lights and opened the door. A yellow post-it note flapped on the glass. It said:

  Aunty Urooj peeled off the note and stuffed it into her trouser pocket.

  “Insha’Allah, your journey will be easy,” she said to the dark laboratory. “Sleep tight, Gulliver.”

  There was a faint rustle of leaves as the door clicked shut.

  When Iqbal Completely Forgot

  The following evening, the Stalk family came round to coo over Baby Zed.

  “I’ve knitted her something to keep her warm,” said Nanna Stalk. She pulled a pink cardigan out of her bag and passed it to Mum. “Why don’t you put the heating on, Ruby? The baby will catch cold.”

  Mum smiled uncertainly.

  “It’s summer,” giggled Shaima. “We’re the only ones in Cinnamon Grove with the heating still on.”

  “Summer? You can’t call this summer!” exclaimed Nanna Stalk.

  Mum laughed and held the cardigan in the air. “It’s perfect,” she smiled, “Jazak Allah kheir.”

  Mr Stalk was on the other side of the lounge, talking in whispers with Dad.

  “It’s true,” sighed Mr Stalk, “my sister is tired of being on her own. And marriage is half of our religion. But is it right to interfere in these things? And in such a manner?” He rubbed his long fuzzy beard.

  “Well, brother,” said Dad, patting Mr Stalk on the shoulder, “if you don’t find her a husband, who will?”

  Mr Stalk nodded. “Yes. But Truly Deeply Muslims Online Marriage Services? Does it sound halal to you?”

  Dad shrugged. “Well, as long as you follow Islamic guidelines, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be.” He walked Mr Stalk over to the window. “We Muslims must move with the times, Mustafa. We can’t rely on family connections here. We have to do things for ourselves. Look at me,” he glanced at Mum, “I found myself a jewel.”

  Mr Stalk smiled nervously. “So you think we should meet him, then? This Rasheed Khan – the ‘earnest entrepreneur’?”

  “Why not?” beamed Dad. “Especially if Urooj is happy with the idea.

  Nanna Stalk fidgeted on the sofa.

  “Ammi, you have told her, haven’t you?” said Mr Stalk.

  “I will,” said Nanna Stalk, whipping her knitting needles out of her bag.

  Mr Stalk’s jaw dropped open. “Ammi! How... could...” he stammered.

  “Don’t worry,” said Dad. “If it’s not written, it won’t happen. When are you meeting him?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Nanna Stalk.

  “Tomorrow!” exclaimed Mr Stalk. “But...”

  “Look,” said Nanna Stalk, glancing at the clock, “it’s time for Asr prayers. Mustafa, stop chatting.”

  ***

  Everyone lined up on the brightly coloured prayer mats just waiting to begin. Even Baby Zed joined in. Mum had strapped her into the sling.

  “Come on, Iqbal,” said Ramzi. “You can stand by me.”

  “Iqbal not weady,” said Iqbal. He was trying to touch his nose with his tongue whilst balancing Mr Stalk’s car keys on his chin.

  “Iqbal,” said Dad kindly, “you’re a big boy now, masha’Allah. When you do salat, you should try to forget about the things of this world.”

  Iqbal ran into the kitchen.

  “Now where’s he gone?” asked Mr Stalk. Mrs Stalk, Nanna Stalk, Shaima and Mum all shuffled into their line.

  “Go and get him, Ramzi, we’ll wait,” smiled Dad.

  Iqbal was raiding the fruit bowl in the kitchen, his mouth stuffed full of grapes. Ramzi dragged him back to the lounge and did the iqama. Iqbal stood very still with his hands cupped behind his ears – copying Ramzi. Then everyone began their rakats: heads bobbing up and down in neat little rows. Iqbal did quite well at first. But then he saw a black cat on the window ledge and raced over to stroke the glass.

  “Hello puddy cat. Iqbal pwaying,” he said.

  With foreheads pressed against soft prayer mats, no one said a word. But the room filled with silent smiles.

  When everyone had finished their prayers, Dad asked the Stalks to stay for dinner.

  “I’ll make you boureks,” he said.

  “Don’t go to any trouble,” sa
id Mrs Stalk.

  “Trouble? What trouble? Days like this are a bounty from the Creator,” said Dad cheerfully, stroking Baby Zed’s hair.

  Mr Stalk smiled. “Perhaps, brother, you could teach me how to make these boureks? I could put them on the menu at The Spice Pot.”

  Dad rubbed his hands together and beamed. “A Pakistani restaurant with an Algerian twist. Classic. How long have we got?”

  Mr Stalk looked at his watch: “Well... I’ve left Abdullah in charge until 9pm. Plenty of time.”

  “But Ruby,” said Mrs Stalk. “Think of all the dirty dishes.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mum, “Mohamed’s right – we just need a bit more cumin and cheese.”

  “Your wish is my command,” grinned Dad, taking a little bow. “Brother, let’s fetch the supplies.”

  “Iqbal coming too?” asked Iqbal.

  “And us?” chimed Shaima and Ramzi.

  “Of course. Get in the car.” Dad took Baby Zed out of Mum’s sling and squeezed her into her tiny cardigan. She looked like a doll.

  “Why don’t you leave Baby Zed with us?” said Mum.

  “Why?” asked Dad, surprised.

  “Because she’s six weeks old. And three children and a baby is a bit of a handful,” said Mum.

  Dad laughed. “She thinks we can’t manage it, brother. Now, where are my keys? I’m sure I left them in here somewhere.” Dad looked on the shelf above the fireplace.

  “I don’t even know,” announced Iqbal proudly.

  Dad turned round.

  “But you were playing with them, Iqbal,” said Shaima. “Where did you put them?”

  Iqbal shrugged and grinned.

  “Iqbal,” said Mrs Stalk, “Tell Mr Ramadan where you’ve put his keys.”

  “I have completely forgot,” said Iqbal.