Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

  “The economic climate, increased cost of materials, labour. More bureaucracy. You name it. Anything that has to be paid for, the price has gone up.”

  “I see.” And she did. She sensed an opening and forged ahead. “Baba, you give me a great deal of money each year to support me.”

  “It is necessary, Beti, while you study. You need a good place to stay.”

  “I know, but perhaps there is a way to reduce what you need to give me in support so that you can help our brothers complete the mosque.” Hazaar kept her voice light and schooled her face into a contemplative look. The same as she had adopted as a child when she had tried to figure out puzzles.

  “Hazaar, the money I give you is not in the same league as the sums we are talking about to complete this project.”

  Hatim sniggered and threw her a look that told her how stupid he thought she was.

  “I understand that, Baba, but it is a start, and perhaps if you are able to be a little more generous it will make others in the community think about ways they could possibly contribute a little more.”

  Her father nodded and smiled at her. She knew that he often felt others in the community should contribute far more than they did and that their greed was a major character flaw. “It is a good thought, but if I reduce what I give you, and give it instead to our brothers for the mosque, what will you do about the shortfall?”

  “Well, I may be able to find someone to share the expenses of living in the apartment. A girl at university I study with has a problem with the place she was going to live for the upcoming year, and because it’s so late she’s struggling to find another suitable place to stay. I could ask if she would like to share with me.”

  “Hmm. She is a friend of yours? This girl?”

  “We worked together on several projects last year. She’s going into her second year now, but she’s a more mature student and we’ve worked well together. I would class her as a friend, yes.”

  “And is she Muslim?”

  “No, Baba, she is not.”

  “Then I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

  Hazaar felt nauseous, and at that moment, she wished she was anywhere else in the world, but she had made a promise. She knew that Charlie felt at times as though she didn’t matter to Hazaar, that she was still a fleeting affair, and she needed to show her that wasn’t the case. She closed her eyes momentarily and gathered her courage. “Baba, over the past year Charlotte has demonstrated good morals and an understanding of our culture when we have talked outside of class. Whilst she is not Muslim, she is not prejudiced or disrespectful either. I believe she would provide a good solution to this issue.” She placed a subtle emphasis on the phrase “she is not prejudiced” and hoped that it would play on her father’s conscience. She wanted to believe that all his talk of acceptance and not insulting non-Muslims was about more than his own business prospects.

  “And when she gets a boyfriend and wants to bring him home? Or drinking? Will she bring alcohol into your home?”

  “I suggest we discuss with her strict rules about what is and is not acceptable. If she agrees to abide by them, then I think we should give it a chance.”

  “Hazaar—”

  “Baba, the community needs the mosque. It is our duty to do everything we can. This is a small price for me to pay to support our brothers and sisters.”

  Her father tore off a piece of naan and chewed on it slowly. “Have you spoken to her about this?”

  “No, Baba.” She rubbed her hands along her thighs, a feeble attempt at drying her sweaty palms. “I only thought of it when you spoke of the mosque’s needs.” Hazaar prayed that her face looked as innocent as she hoped and that no one else could hear her heart as it pounded in her chest.

  “How do you know she is still looking for somewhere to live?”

  “I spoke to her only a couple of days ago about her situation. She was still struggling then. I assume the situation hasn’t changed.”

  He tore some more bread, obviously considering her suggestion, and Hazaar tried to keep her expression neutral. She felt bad manipulating her father’s good intentions, but she could see they would all win out of this arrangement. Is that really such a bad thing?

  “But, Baba, she is talking about living with a kafir. That is not acceptable.” Hatim’s voice rose in pitch with each word.

  “Enough, Hatim.” Her father slammed his hands down on the table. “I have already spoken to you about your use of language. That word is not acceptable in my house.”

  “But it is not acceptable for her to live with them. They will corrupt her.” Hatim pointed his finger at Hazaar, and she willed herself not to move.

  “Your sister is talking about bringing one girl into her home, for both of their benefits.” Her father stared at the defiant Hatim, and Hazaar could see his beard trembling and she knew the muscles in his jaw were clenching tightly as he controlled the anger he undoubtedly felt. “Am I correct, Hazaar?”

  “Yes, Baba.” She couldn’t help but wonder if Hatim’s objections would work in her favour.

  “She is talking about letting a kafir into her house. She will be tainted. No man will want her for his wife.”

  “That is enough. This is my house. If you cannot control yourself in front of your mother and sister, how do you expect me to trust you to control yourself in business? You will leave now, and you will not be accompanying me to Pakistan on my next trip. You will not be accompanying me anywhere until you prove that I can trust you to behave in a respectful, honourable way.”

  “But, Father—”

  “Go.” He turned away from Hatim and threw his bread back onto his plate. “Now.”

  Hatim stood quickly and kicked his chair away so violently it clattered to the floor. Hazaar flinched as he stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Fatima was quick to follow him, mumbling her apologies as she went. Hazaar stared at the closed door, not knowing what to say or do next. The room was silent a long time, and Hazaar took her cue from her mother. She stayed still and silent as stone while they waited for her father to decide what would happen next. She chewed on her lip and picked at nonexistent fluff on her pants. She heard raised voices outside, the ringing slap of a hand against flesh, a sharp cry, and then a whimper as car doors slammed and tires squealed as the car drove away.

  Her heart sank the longer they sat in silence, and she was certain her father would want nothing further to do with her suggestion. She had to fight back tears as she realized just how much she wanted Charlie to move in with her, and now she feared it would never happen while she remained tied to her family.

  Her father cleared his throat and reached for his tea, sipping gingerly before he smiled sadly, first at her mother and then at her. “Your brother forgets his place. He thinks now that he is married that he deserves respect. He has yet to realize that respect is earned, not given, and that his lack of respect is dishonouring us all.”

  “I’m sorry, Baba.”

  “It isn’t for you to be sorry for your brother’s failings in this matter, Beti.”

  “I didn’t mean to provoke him.” She couldn’t look up from her plate.

  “You didn’t. He has been spoiling for a fight for some time now. If not this matter, it would be some other. His intolerance and prejudice is causing problems in my business, and it must end. It isn’t what the Quran teaches us, it isn’t what I’ve taught you all, and it isn’t good for business.”

  “You’re right, Baba. Still, I’m sorry for the pain it causes you.”

  “You’re a good daughter.” He got up from the table and kissed the top of her head as he passed. “Perhaps we should discuss this plan of yours further. If I am to agree to this, I think I should meet the young lady in question. If she is suitable and will agree to the rules that must be adhered to, I don’t see why it couldn’t work.”

  Hazaar was trapped between elation and terror. Meet her? Oh fuck!

  Chapter Sixteen

  The North
of England, then

  Charlie smoothed clammy palms over her long black skirt and checked herself in the mirror, hoping she’d pass the inspection. She adjusted the frilly edge of the collar on her blouse and flattened a wrinkle she spotted. She wanted to look respectful but casual. And instead you look like some sort of school mistress from a Charles Dickens novel. She shook her head, accepting that it was too late to rethink the wardrobe choice now. Part of her regretted insisting that Hazaar get her father’s approval, but another part of her was intensely curious to get a glimpse of this part of Hazaar’s life.

  She smoothed her hair down and walked out of the bathroom. Hazaar was dusting the living room for the third time that morning. Charlie could see her hands shaking as she held the cloth and moved around the room aimlessly, muttering to herself in Urdu, and Charlie strained to make out the words. Charlie had convinced her to teach her the language as something else for them to share, to bridge a bit more of the gap between them. She could make out the words “crazy” and “idiotic plan” and “why won’t my damn hands stop shaking.” The fact that Hazaar was so nervous actually helped to calm her own nerves a little.

  “Can I do anything to help?” Charlie asked.

  “No.” Hazaar swiped the cloth over the TV. “No, it’s fine.”

  “You sure? I can put the kettle on for tea or something?”

  “Oh, yeah. Actually—” The door buzzer sounded, and Hazaar jumped, dropping the cloth and can of furniture polish. “Shit.” She picked the stuff up and tossed them at Charlie. “Can you put them away, please? I’ll get the door.”

  Charlie shrugged and took them to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil while she was there. When she came out of the kitchen, Hazaar’s father was walking into the living room. Charlie was a little surprised at how tall he was, and guessed he was easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a full beard. He wore a traditional shalwar kameez, and although his smile was welcoming, his eyes looked wary.

  “Baba, this is Charlotte Porter.” Hazaar motioned in Charlie’s direction. “Charlotte, this is my father.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Alim.” Her stomach knotted as she held out her hand. “It’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

  “And you, Miss Porter.” He shook her hand and indicated the chair. “Shall we sit?”

  Charlie sat where he indicated, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands in her lap. She smiled and waited, knowing that the questions were going to come. He sat in the chair opposite and waited for Hazaar to bring tea. He sipped slowly, and every second he delayed intensified the urge Charlie had to speak and to get the interrogation under way. But Hazaar had warned her how much of a mistake that would be. Let him lead. Don’t try to push him or you’ll push him into saying no. Hazaar’s words played over and over in her head, and she studied the elaborately decorated teapot to distract herself from her nerves.

  “Hazaar tells me that you are a singer.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And what kind of music do you sing?”

  “Almost anything. But I particularly love to sing blues and jazz, and choral music.”

  “I take it that like Hazaar, you have studied for many years?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It takes much dedication and love for the music to devote oneself to it so completely.”

  Charlie nodded and waited for him to continue. Hazaar sat on the sofa, wringing her hands, her eyes wide.

  “So why did you not enroll straight from school as most students do?”

  Shit. “I had a few issues to deal with.”

  He nodded. “I see.” He sipped his tea. “Please forgive me, but I must ensure that your issues do not cause problems for my daughter.”

  “I understand. When I was a child, I had a close friend. We grew up together and were more like sisters.” Well, we were closer than friends, but not in a way I can tell you. “When we were in college, she and her father had a disagreement and he beat her very badly, and while she was in hospital it was discovered that he had abused her. After that, she came to live with me and my family, but my friend was unable to recover physically and mentally. We, my family and I, tried to help her, but we weren’t able to get through to her.” Charlie couldn’t hold his gaze any longer and stared at her hands as she held back the tears that threatened. She felt conflicted. She didn’t like hiding any part of herself, but the situation between Hazaar and her family was between them. It was Hazaar’s decision and not one she was going to push. But she felt like she was dishonouring Gail’s memory by not admitting the true nature of their relationship.

  “She took her own life?” His voice was gentle, and when Charlie looked up she could see sympathy in them.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

  Charlie looked down again. “Yes, it was.”

  “Our religion does not condone suicide in any way. Despite the wider world view of us, the Quran tells us that it is a sin to take any life given by Allah, especially our own. And it will have grave consequences for our spiritual journey.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But for a child of Allah to feel she has no other choice is the greater sin. Children should be protected and cared for. It is a great shame, and I can see how deeply this has troubled you. Thank you for telling me the truth about a difficult matter. You’ve set my mind at ease that this situation is not something that I need worry for Hazaar’s welfare in, and that you are a young woman who cares deeply and takes care of her friends and family to the best of her ability. That your family was willing to try to help a child not their own also pleases me.” He leaned back. “These are admirable qualities.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled. “Are you still interested in staying here with Hazaar while you continue your studies?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “You understand that there would be certain stipulations I must insist upon in order to make this an acceptable proposition?”

  “I understand that there are certain things that I wouldn’t be able to bring in here.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his coat and handed it to Charlie. “This is a list of food and beverages that are not allowed in a Muslim household. Please read through it and tell me if you think you can adhere to this list.”

  Charlie read through quickly, finding nothing on it that Hazaar hadn’t already prepared her for. “That’s fine, sir.” She held the paper out to him, but he waved his hands.

  “You may keep it for reference.”

  She glanced quickly at Hazaar, to gauge her reaction to the comment, and was pleased to see her smiling. “Thank you.”

  “There is one other very big point that must be agreed upon.” He cleared his throat. “Boys.”

  Charlie nodded. She’d been expecting this one. Hazaar had quizzed her on pretty much any question she could think of her father might ask, and this one was a biggie.

  “There can be no male visitors to the apartment unless Hazaar has an appropriate chaperone here also. There can never be overnight male guests.”

  “You have my word, Mr. Alim. I will not bring any man into the apartment save my own father.”

  “He cannot be here alone.”

  “Is it acceptable if I’m here, or my mother?”

  “Yes, that will be fine.” He smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  “Then I am agreeable to this proposal. Shall I contact your father to make the financial agreement?”

  “I fund my education myself, so I’ll make whatever payments we agree on.”

  “Very well.” They spent a few minutes agreeing to the rent and utility payments before he stood to leave and shook her hand again. “I am trusting you with my daughter, Miss Porter. Look after her.”

  Charlie swallowed hard, deeply conflicted. She was glad he had given his consent, but she was bitterly angry at having to lie to him. He was a good man, a good father, and he
deserved to be treated better than this. In her heart she questioned Hazaar’s belief that he would cast her aside if he knew the truth. Yeah, but you knew Gail’s dad for years and look how that turned out, fool. She smiled, forcing herself to ignore the acid that churned in her stomach.

  “You have my word, Mr. Alim.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pakistan, today

  Watery sunlight shone off Charlie’s curls and her smile lit up her beautiful blue eyes. Hazaar could smell freshly cut grass and meadow flowers, hear the sound of water as it lapped gently at a pebble-covered beach, and see the stone walls of the ruined castle stood sentry over them. Bowmen in kilts stood atop the ramparts, their arrows all pointing in the same direction, but their target was beyond her view. No doubt some evil foe was aligned against them ready to storm the castle and do battle, to slaughter the cattle, women, and children, to burn fields of crops, sow them with salt, and leave them as barren as their hearts.

  “Hey, gorgeous, I missed you.” Charlie’s voice sounded strange―distorted and far away. There was a tinny vibrato to it, like it was being carried over an old-fashioned telephone line. The faint beep in the background sounded like water dripping into a puddle. The sound was repetitive, rhythmically hypnotic, and tugged at her concentration, drawing her focus away from her beautiful Charlie.

  “Charlie?” She reached up to touch her face. She needed to be sure she was real, to make sure she was really there with her, to touch her once again, but she couldn’t lift her arm because it hurt too much. The pain made Charlie’s face foggy and blur around the edges. She faded in and out of focus. Hazaar didn’t want that to happen, so decided the pain didn’t matter, she would just keep still. All that mattered was that Charlie was there with her, helping her, touching her, and hope blossomed in her chest, eclipsing the pain that had woken her. “I’ve missed you so much, baby.”

  “Try to stay still.” Charlie pressed a cool cloth to her cheek.

  “Okay. What are we doing here?” She looked around, noting the warmth of the sun shining down on them, but the stars and moon filled the sky. The arrows of the bowmen were aimed at Charlie’s head, all focused on a single point. The promise of a spring day rapidly filled with fear, dying hope, and a growing sense of inevitability. Good-bye hung in the air like a cloud of mustard gas over the trenches and the sour, bitter scent coated her tongue. What the hell? “I don’t understand, Charlie. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”