Everybody laughs.
‘Selfridges is better than Harrods these days,’ says Rachel, ‘isn’t it, Martha?’
‘Oh yes. Selfridges is fab. You mustn’t miss it.’
Sally says, ‘Or Harvey Nics.’
It’s lucky that at this point, Mona backs out of the room. My friends have talked to her quite enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I carry the steaming tagine into the sitting room.
If I were at home, as I should have been this weekend, we would never eat in such a lavish way on a Friday night. We would be content with a simple couscous. Or the cheap cuts of meat the butcher sells off at the end of the day. And this thought causes a torrent of resentment towards Dora for refusing to let me go home just for a short while.
Here she is, laughing with her friends, charming them, as she did me when I first arrived.
I now wonder whether this is all an act. Amina’s message has unsettled me. But Zidana was a young girl who probably didn’t know how to look after herself.
Ali once whispered to me that when people took advantage of him, as they sometimes did when he worked as a guide, he found ways of retrieving what they had taken from him in terms of his dignity. He might take something small from them, or he might give them a piece of false information that led them to a rough neighbourhood rather than a tourist attraction. Just some little practical joke that gave him a sense of redressing the balance.
At the time I was shocked, and told him he was wrong, but now I’m understanding more and more that when you’re a subordinate, you have to do little things to preserve your sense of self.
As I carry the dish to the table, I pass two women who sit close together – a couple, I’m guessing – one with grey hair shorn like a boy’s, the other tall and black, her long legs sprawling across the other’s. She stares at me as I move and I wish I was invisible, that the tagine could carry itself across the room so I was not the subject of their curiosity.
A short fat man opens his tight little mouth as I pass.
‘Did you make these . . . whatever they are?’ he asks.
‘Briouates,’ I say, and nod.
I feel his eyes on me, the way men’s eyes are drawn to a woman’s body.
The others smile politely, and wait for me to leave. They all have glasses in their hands; they’ve already drained one bottle of wine, and Dora’s going about filling their glasses.
Outside the room I pause, put my ear to the door. They’re discussing me. It seems one of the women is concerned for me.
‘Is she attending ESOL classes?’ she asks.
I could burst in, shout, ‘No, I’m not – but I’d like to. Even better, I’d like to attend IT classes. Please, have a word with Dora. Suggest she lend me the money to visit Ummu.’
Of course I don’t do this. I know my place.
I return to the kitchen.
I take a knife from Dora’s block and slice oranges. The blade’s so sharp it slips straight through the flesh, sending juice spurting up into my eyes where it catches and stings. I place the glossy slices on a decorative ceramic dish she must have bought when she lived with Roger in Morocco, lift it, weighing it in my hands, imagining the crunch it might make were I to drop it from a height . . . sprinkle the orange slices with sugar, add cinnamon from a tiny glass jar.
As I move across the kitchen there’s the ping of a text coming into a mobile. I look around. My phone is tucked in the bottom of my bag, and the sound was closer than that. Then I spot it – Dora’s phone that she left lying on the kitchen table when she was having her large martini before her guests arrived.
I click ‘inbox’.
I can just about work out that the text is from Dora’s man. Max.
I peer at it.
I wonder if I’ll ever meet him, this wealthy doctor. I think of Ummu, her insinuation that it’s the men who one can make use of when one is in need. Perhaps she has a point. After all, he’s from the States, that legendary land all my friends used to dream of getting to – including Ali.
There’s a photo of a statue with the text. A naked girl with a dolphin. What an odd fascination Dora and Max have with these monuments! The girl in the photo by Dora’s bed, then the day she went off to meet him beside the famous Boudicca statue. Ummu will find this amusing.
I can’t read the text which is, of course, in English, but I pick up my phone and put Max’s number into my contacts box. Just in case. Just because you never know who might come in useful. It’s something Ummu taught me, to look out for those who might help you get out, move on.
I put my mobile back in my bag, take another look at the text and smile.
‘What are you doing?’
I look up.
Dora is standing in the kitchen doorway watching me, and I freeze.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘Nothing,’ Mona says. ‘I’m doing nothing. I heard a text. I think it’s yours.’ She hands me my phone.
I take it from her, see at once there’s a text from Max. My heart lifts.
‘I’m going upstairs,’ I say. ‘Mona, kindly take in the next course.’
If it wasn’t for the fact Mona can’t read a word of English, I might have felt disturbed by the fact she had my phone in her hand, but I’m far too eager to read Max’s message to worry about anything else now.
In London on 12 December, he writes. Be under the Girl with a Dolphin. By Tower Hotel St Katherine’s Dock. 7 p.m. Can hardly wait. Miss you badly.
I smile. Tower Hotel! I know what this means. He only books hotels if he doesn’t have to leave before morning. I’m filled with warmth and goodwill. I sit down on my bed and compose a text to send back to him. It’s as if he has a sixth sense, knows how much I have been yearning for him all evening.
When I get back downstairs, Mona’s sitting on a stool amongst my guests, a book open in front of her.
Sally is pointing out pictures of London monuments, and giving Mona a potted history lesson.
‘You must try and go to St Paul’s while you’re here,’ she’s saying, ‘and, of course, the Houses of Parliament.’
I grow hot. If I say anything to Mona in front of my friends they’ll think me unreasonable. Mona’s not stupid, that’s becoming more apparent each day – she knows I won’t want to appear harsh in front of them. But if I say nothing, I’m letting her step over a boundary – mixing socially with my friends. She must know this is not allowed. So why is she flouting an unspoken rule? Is she trying to inveigle her way into the affections of my friends as well as my father and son?
‘That’s an interesting book,’ I say.
Mona looks up, startled, realising I’ve come into the room. Seeing my expression, she relaxes and smiles back.
‘Sally, she offered to teach me about London.’
‘I did indeed,’ says Sally. ‘I was telling Mona she should go to the Tower, Madame Tussauds, and both Tates while she’s here.’
‘Mona, it’s Daddy’s bedtime,’ I say.
She put Daddy to bed some time ago, but I raise my eyebrows at her, hold her gaze.
She blinks up at me. Gets the hint.
She picks up the book. Turns as she gets to the door, looks at Sally, or is it Bob – I wonder again if she’s flirting – and says, ‘There is just one problem. I haven’t time to go to see these beautiful places. Or the money.’
It’s gone 2 a.m. when Sally and Bob – the last of my guests – leave. I go into the kitchen. Mona’s gone to bed. She retreated into her room hours ago, but the dinner-plates are piled unwashed on the side, the sink is full of pans.
I push open her door, switch on the light. She’s asleep. I shake her awake.
‘The kitchen,’ I say. ‘You haven’t cleared up. You’re to finish your chores before you sleep!’
I march upstairs feeling her eyes on me as I go, refusing to look back. How dare she insinuate to my friends that I’m not paying her enough? How dare she suggest I’ve not given her time off?
; I lie in bed, listening to her crashing about with the dishes until sleep finally comes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I work in the kitchen while the rest of the world sleeps. The hums and clicks from the fridge and the pipes keep me company; the light from a streetlamp outside lends everything a soft orange glow. The constant vibrations beneath the city cease for a while. The cat creeps in and jumps onto the work surface. I push it off, shoo it down the hall and out of the front door.
Sayed has Ali’s photo! I can tolerate any amount of scrubbing and washing pans and scouring to be with Ali again.
The first time Ali left our small village to study in the city, I thought that once there, he would meet new clever educated women and forget me. But he came back, brought me to the white house, where I lived as his wife while he studied and worked. That was my happiest time – when I fell pregnant with Leila, and then when she was a baby, Ali working by day, studying by night. We were the perfect, happy family. I learned to love cooking, and cleaning, and caring for Leila. I didn’t miss my work at the garment factory. At first I missed the talking with my women friends there, but then I started to meet with a group of mothers in the Andalusian Gardens where we’d sit with the children and exchange gossip and recipes.
It was the first time I’d had equipment with which to make the dishes I liked. A tagine, a couscous steamer, pans and earthenware bowls. People came to our house for dinner and congratulated me on my bread, my sfouf, my harira and clafoutis. I dreamed one day of working as a cook, not a garment worker. Sewing was dry and methodical, but cooking was sensual and comforting. At the same time I was learning some English phrases from Ali, who came back each day more convinced he would be fluent enough to find work in Britain or in the States once he’d qualified.
When he came home each day, he’d grab Leila, throwing her into the air so she laughed with such intensity I was sometimes afraid she would explode. Then he’d put her down on one of the couches that ran along the walls and kiss her. I’d never seen him so lit up. We were both happy. His silence now can only mean one thing, that he’s become stuck somehow, lost his phone, his papers, unable to go home to Morocco or to contact me.
I go to my bed at last at about three, locking the door behind me, welcoming the privacy.
I wake up to a harsh banging. It’s already morning.
I drag myself up. Look at my mobile. It’s 6 a.m. – I’ve only been asleep for three hours. The thumping comes again.
‘Why did you lock the door?’ Dora’s scowling, her face rumpled after her drinking last night.
‘I need to sleep. I didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘I hope you had the monitor on, for Daddy.’
‘Of course.’
‘Today you’re to buy a Christmas tree from the market. I want it placed in the front window. Leo will help you. He needs to get out and about and he’s always enjoyed getting the Christmas tree.’
‘A tree? In the house?’
‘Yes, Mona. Christmas is coming, I want to make it nice for Leo and Daddy. The decorations are in the loft. Hoover up first. The room must be clean for the tree. I’ve left a list of shopping for you to do. Then the washing needs sorting. I’m popping into work to do a bit of research.’
As soon as she’s left for work, I phone home. Leila answers, which is unusual.
‘How’s Tetta?’ I ask, alarm surging through me. Why hasn’t Ummu picked up? Did the scan find something serious that needed operating on immediately?
‘The doctor says she must stay on the pills. We buy them with your money. But it’s never quite enough. Hait’s coming in every day to help me. When are you coming home, Ummu?’
‘Soon, sweetie. I’ll come soon.’
‘Before Eid?’
‘Of course.’
I think she knows I’m lying. That I have no idea when I’ll be home.
‘Are you being a good girl?’
‘Yes, I am. Ahmed has lent me his scooter. We’ve been playing out on the alley. But I’ve been watching Tetta. I make her mint tea – Hait showed me how.’
‘Good girl. Let me speak to Tetta.’
My mother’s voice is even rougher than it was before. She has to break off the call to cough.
‘How was the scan, Ummu? Have they told you anything?’
‘No results yet. I have to go back and ask next week. But I don’t feel any better, Mona, if you must know.’
‘Ummu, I’m worried about you. Is there anything else I can do?’
‘You can just carry on with what you’ve been doing. The money’s what we need. Badly. Mona, once we’ve bought medication, there’s barely enough for food. Can you send more?’
Perhaps it’s the bad night’s sleep I’ve had, or the lack of sunlight, or hearing Ummu wheeze into the phone, but everything feels hopeless, and home, and Ali, and everything I’ve been working towards further away than ever.
I give Charles his breakfast, get him into his coat, help him up the steps and round to the front door. I fetch his wheelchair from the cupboard under Dora’s stairs and push open the drawing-room door.
‘Your mother wants a Christmas tree,’ I tell Leo. ‘I can’t carry a tree with the wheelchair by myself. You’ll have to get up, get dressed, and come with me.’
I leave Leo and his grandfather choosing a Christmas tree from a stall on the High Street and pop into Sayed’s shop. If he’s heard anything, anything at all, it will give me the strength to carry on.
He tells me he’s on the case, but so far there’s been no news.
‘I’ve got a mate who says he can check out the immigration holding centres,’ he says, looking at me askance, ‘but he’d want skrilla for more info.’
‘Skrilla?’
He rubs his thumb and fingers together. ‘Money, mate.’
‘I already gave you money, Sayed. How much more does he want?’
‘Ooh I dunno. I’ll ask him. But he won’t do it for nothing.’
If I could, I’d check these centres myself, but it’s impossible with my inability to read English. I think of the city, sprawling for miles in every direction. The thought of venturing into its endless crowded streets, finding my way through the traffic, and the buildings, the subways, the shops and tower blocks and across its great river, is so intimidating I shiver.
Yet I can’t afford to pay anyone else to search, with Ummu so badly in need of every dirham I earn.
I give up, tell Sayed I’ll think about it and, feeling worse than ever, go out to find Leo and Charles.
Charles is pleading with Leo to take him home so we rest the tree on the handles of the wheelchair and push him back down the street, the spiny branches scraping against my arms as we go.
Leo sets the little green fir tree in a pot in the window of the drawing room, where it gives off a fresh piny smell like the trees in the forest where the basket-weavers work at home. Then he says I’ll have to help him get the decorations down from the loft.
We leave Charles in the drawing room, and I follow Leo upstairs to the spare room beside Dora’s bedroom. I haven’t noticed the trap door in the ceiling before. He unhooks it with a pole, pulls it open, letting down a ladder which he then climbs up, his head disappearing into the black hole.
‘You’ll have to come up,’ he calls.
I climb the ladder and follow him up into the roof.
There’s a massive space above the house, a secret cavern overhead, full of suitcases and trunks, boxes and crates. Through the darkness, for there is no window here, I can make out the shape of a child’s cradle, a cot, a train set. Remnants of Leo’s childhood stashed away and forgotten.
Leo has disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the attic. The sounds from outside, from downstairs, fade. We are alone in this strange dark space. I remember the way I was afraid of Leo when I first saw him and I stay near the ladder so I can move quickly if I have to.
‘I’ll show you something,’ Leo says. ‘I don’t think even Mum knows about this. Wat
ch.’
He’s in the shadows by the far wall, pushing against a tiny door, barely big enough to crawl through. The door gives and he goes forward on his hands and knees.
‘Come and look!’
From behind him I can see that the door opens onto another greater, lighter space.
‘Next-door’s attic. Desiree’s. I wonder if she’s got anything worth nicking?’
‘It’s not your house!’ I say, feeling a little thrill at his nerve. It reminds me briefly of Ali, when he said it was OK to take from those who stole your dignity. I don’t think I really knew what he meant until I came to work for Dora.
‘You’re not to steal,’ I tell Leo, thinking of the woman on the street who greets Charles but always ignores me. ‘You’re not to take things from next-door’s house.’
He’s backing out towards me again. ‘I’m worried I might not squeeze back through if I go in there,’ he says. ‘I used to fit – before I put on weight. I used to go right to the other end. Meet up with Sayed and Johnny from the shop. The attics interconnect. I guess the original builders couldn’t be bothered to put partitions up.’
I remember now, Sayed saying he lived in the same street as Dora. You never know who lives nearby, with the doors all permanently closed. For a wild second I imagine that Ali could live in one of these houses, that we might just have missed each other, coming and going at the wrong time of day and night. Then the thought strikes me as foolish, one that only serves to make the reality harsher.
I leave Leo hanging the decorations on the tree and go to complete the chores Dora asked me to do. It’s almost dark again by the time I return. The tree is now covered in little animals and baubles and figurines, and a string of white lights.
‘When you’ve finished your fussing with the tree, you can take me to Billingsgate,’ Charles says, watching from his chair.
‘OK, we’ll do it, won’t we, Mona? Take Grandpa to Billingsgate,’ Leo says. ‘We’ll leave really early one morning. Before five. It can be your Christmas present, Grandpa.’
The Darkening Hour Page 18
