Calm down, woman! She sees to a washing load while listening to Walter stomping around upstairs. Now he is in the shower. Slouching. Hairs on his back bristling. Swilling his cock. Is he thinking about sex? Has he any idea of this drying-up inside her, this encroaching emptiness? Does he, too, miss them tasting each other to the full, wet and holding? My God, what’s happening now? There is a loud chitty-chitty-bang-bang as the machine shudders to a stop. The sheet has got entangled… in the dishwasher, not the washing machine! Can she be that senile already?
Gwen waves to Andy and Sue walking past the windows on their way to the extension. Time’s up. But why is her boy coming back? This morning is exceptional. She doesn’t mind being late, sorting out the post and reminiscing. He has no idea how much she missed him in the first years, going back to his bedroom, picking up his things and putting them back in the same place, mystified by her incomprehension, displaced by objects sketching out a life that she hadn’t loved well enough – so he had shouted. Later, when the clutter stopped leaking accusations like a burst drain, she stacked cardboard boxes until the room, clean and harsh, bereft of Joe Orton, Leonard Cohen and Elton John, allowed her to give the things away for jumble. It helped, though her boy would never change. His email is typical: “Back on 10/08. Heathrow 6pm. You’ll recognise me, won’t you?” Casual and cheeky. Prodding the lean and fat of friends and foes alike without thought of the offence it might cause. She hasn’t forgotten the pretexts he deployed to leave the practice, each one a slap in the face. These are ugly thoughts. Naïvely, she had half-expected that he’d help to run the business. He has a good head for figures and is a better organiser than Virginia, bless her.
How can the same parents do fine by one child and not the other? There was an incident over an air rifle he got hold of. She didn’t let him keep it. ‘You never trust me, but you trust Virginia.’ Something like that. Enough to hit the bull’s eye. To love, and not to trust who you love, destroys you. How could he know that already? They told themselves ‘let him live his own way, have his affairs outside’. Why his anger? And now here is Zaida threatening to walk away too.
It is during a break, when Virginia is getting the couch ready for the next patient, that Gwen hands her a fax from Khalid:
Zaida does not want to return to Britain now. Don’t panic. We’ll book another ticket soon. We are off to more celebrations at country relatives for the next few days. Zaida won’t be in touch before we’re back to the modern world. Sorry for the concern this may cause you. You know I will never hurt my daughter, or go against her. Please understand Syria is such an exciting place for her. Take care. My best wishes to your parents.
‘That’s it! The son of a bitch cancelled her flight! She won’t be back on the 7th. I knew it, I knew it all along!’
Gwen took her sobbing daughter in her arms, stroking her hair, repeating, ‘Zaida is in safe hands, Khalid is not an abducting father. Come on. Wipe your eyes. There is a patient waiting. Zaida is having a great time. She’ll be alright. And we’ve got Ian to think of as well.’
Wrenching herself from her mother, Virginia sniffs into a hanky, hiding her annoyance at the suggestion that Ian matters as much as Zaida. Throwing her white coat onto a stool, she storms out, back straight, repressing a thousand questions. Is Khalid trying to soften her up, email by email, with his honeyed tongue? What is Zaida looking for in Syria? Are her hands tied? But Gwen is right. They have loads to do. Ring her solicitor again. Get Ian’s bedroom ready for Sunday. And now Marianne talks of leaving earlier to give space to the family and Ian. Is she afraid of seeing him?
One hour later, Gwen, pale and dazed, hands Virginia another fax.
Dear dear Mummy
Dad told me to send you a fax. I’m fine and nobody is forcing me to stay. I’m having such fun with my new family. Loads of them and great music. I’ve learnt a few dances. I can’t move my bottom and my shoulders like they do, they say I dance like a pigeon! I can say a few things in Arabic. It makes Grandad Abdul laugh to tears, I hope they aren’t rude words. I can do a few clicks with my tongue and they clap. Mummy, don’t be cross with me, rich people here laugh all the time as in the films. The women have lace, jewels on their scarves. The food is fab. They say we are going to another wedding in the country. Yippee! I love you, Mummy, and Grandpa and Granny. Dad will fix my ticket when we’re back. It will be cool when I go back to school. Love you, love you. I can make basboosa with honey and lemon, almond rings and a bean dish with currants and cumin. I have written the recipes for you. Your loving daughter, Zaida.
‘Reassured, darling? She wants to stay a couple of weeks longer, that’s all.’
‘Mother! You don’t think she wrote it herself, do you?’
‘It sounds just like Zaida.’
‘OK, she wrote it herself, but are they tricking her into thinking she’ll be back? Oh, how I wish I could go there!’
‘Maybe one of us should go.’
‘What about Ian? We must be here for him! God, why is this happening to us?’
Leaving Marianne to clear the lunch and Virginia to take a call from her solicitor in the hall, Walter and Gwen have their coffee in the William Morris room. Walter conceals his thoughts behind The Independent. There is no word from Khalid. Their favourite Duchy Originals untouched on a tray, husband and wife, hardly on speaking terms, stare into cups decorated with cheerful peacocks untroubled by the strain. Virginia comes in, her soft features creased into a grimace. Gwen rushes to her.
‘Darling, sit down and tell us every word of it.’
‘Under English law, Zaida is old enough to be asked her preference and motivation for overstaying. You see what I mean? Teenagers can arbitrate between parents, it’s monstrous!’
‘What else?’
‘Her usual line, “keep things in perspective”. But Khalid knows the loopholes in domestic and international law well enough, I’m sure of that.’
‘What can he do?’
‘Ask for permission not to return the child. The English court will reject his case and order Zaida to be sent back to Britain where she normally lives, but the Syrian family courts will be on the dad’s side, especially if the child wants to stay. Angela says her job is to consider the worst-case scenario. I can’t bear thinking about it. I can’t, I can’t. I don’t want to.’
‘Angela’s awfully clever.’
Virginia sits cross-legged on a chaise longue, skirt tucked beneath her knees, leaning her head back, rubbing her eyes as if full of sand, not wanting to know anything. But is there a coconut smell, Zaida’s hair, coming from the upholstery? Her baby is now a big girl, she’s getting breasts! Can she be allowed to decide things? It’d be an outrage!
Her instinctive faith in people is dissolving at the prospect of the battle ahead. Could she trick Khalid? She loved tricking Ian. Once walking a tightrope between the two apple trees, he annoyed her by inventing acrobatic games she couldn’t do. Out of sight, she shook the main branch, which knocked him howling to the ground. A puff of wind, she claimed. When Zaida is back, she should find a way to shake Khalid off for good. Get him banned from entering Britain. The law will be on her side, Angela says, but on whose side will her girl be? Drained of energy, she crouches forward, hair drooping over her lap.
Walter twiddles with the Chinese figurine and absent-mindedly traces out the acupuncture points as if they were prayer beads. Keen to nurture an illusion of normality, Gwen hustles in and out, tidying up or briefing an over-solicitous friend on her mobile. ‘Yes, we’ve got to be patient.’
‘Nice coffee, Gwen. Merci beaucoup.’
Marianne takes a couple of biscuits. How can a loving child not understand her family’s misery? Has Zaida been plotting with her father for months? No-one speaks. Bold flecks of colour from the garden, framed by the large bay windows, distract her attention from the turmoil of the room. She is used to the grounds around Chateau Mourel, bare most of the year, all bur
nt sienna and scorched oaks. In England, she never ceases to admire the romance of gardening, the idylls of order and luxuriance that generations, irrespective of wealth, aspire to. A mild autumn brings apple-green lawns, riots of dahlias and roses, begonias, late-flowering creepers.
A tinkling of spoons brings Marianne back to her friends. She has offered money – what else can she do? She has read Zaida’s odd blog. Nothing. No clues. That should comfort Virginia. But there is a gap, she realises: no-one knows anything about the Al-Sayeds’ businesses in Syria. Who are they mixing with? How safe is Zaida? Leaping to her feet to check a potential lead online, she knocks to the floor a porcelain box perched on a side table by her armchair.
‘Oh, my Limoges piece!’ Gwen looks at Marianne coldly, the corners of her mouth turned downwards. The carpet has hardly softened the blow to the lid. Shining with brown and green glazes, the two wrens no longer coo, one of the tiny heads rolled away inches from its slim body.
Scarlet, Marianne cringes. ‘Oh I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it!
‘You won’t. No, leave it to me!’ Gwen prevents anyone from collecting the fragments. The leaf clasp is not working. The perfect fit has gone. Kneeling down, she cups her hand to hold the head as if alive, examining it for more damage.
‘Can it be… stick?’
‘Too many of these crazy things around if you want my opinion!’ Walter grumbles as Gwen goes for the dustpan and brush.
‘She’ll get someone to glue them back.’
Reduced to whines, Marianne moves to the other side of the room, away from the table where father and daughter lay minute fragments onto a sheet of paper by the decapitated body, glossy eyes interrogating the future.
At breakfast two days later, there are traces of sleepless nights. Nobody listens to the radio droning on. The real news comes from Virginia. There has been no response to her emails; Zaida is now cut off, as Khalid warned a few days ago. Virginia’s solicitor is sending him a recorded delivery letter instructing Zaida to return to Britain by November 7th to be met by her mother at Heathrow. And, after that, if there is no voluntary return, Angela Wright will start legal proceedings for the wrongful retention of a child. The fresh scent of jasmine tea envelops the family as she unfolds the plan.
‘That should scare him. I feel more confident. Zaida should be returned to her “place of habitual residence”. I’ll spare you the jargon. Britain is her home, Angela says – there are no two ways about it, he should send her back.’
‘I’m not with you. Have you started... what’s the word… a process in Syria?’
‘Not yet, but we are putting things in place in case Zaida isn’t back on the 7th. The bad news is that Syria hasn’t signed the Hague protocol, which deals with transnational cases. If there is no immediate return I’d have to hire a Syrian solicitor to appeal to a family court, under Sharia law – the Al-Sayeds are Sunnis. And that could be dreadfully expensive! Thousands of pounds.’
‘What? Come on, Virginia, isn’t Angela Wright making it up as she goes along?’
‘Cost depends on each case and how long it lasts. She refuses to go into detail.’
‘I’d like to know more about your legal costs.’
‘For God’s sake, it’s too early to worry about that. One thing at a time.’ Gwen glowers while pouring him more coffee.
‘Angela knows her job. It was good to meet her yesterday for the first time.’
She had taken to her immediately. On the phone, the posh voice suggested glitzy offices in one of the towers thrusting glass and wealth into the Birmingham sky. So she was caught unawares by the crammed rooms of a bleak community centre housed in a disused chapel where Angela ran her surgery next to a Refugee Council soup kitchen. What bowled her over was Angela herself, a graceful Hindu in her thirties, strong, open, a beaky nose under a red dot on her forehead.
Virginia turns towards her parents, repeating how much she trusts her solicitor. ‘I’ve already phoned the helpline she recommended. Reunion, they are called. They advise parents from any country in the world. There’re loads of us in the same boat! With partners from abroad, families splitting up, mums going back to parents with the baby, dads not returning kids from vacation, you name it!’
‘Terrible! But also reassuring, if you see what I mean, darling. Do you want more toast?’
‘No, thanks. The Reunion man advised me not to let my feelings play havoc.’
‘How so?’
‘I have plenty of time, he said, to think things through. “Don’t give Dad hell yet.” It seems there are ways to put pressure on him. I don’t know how though!’
‘Do you want me to take one of your patients so you can phone?’
‘As you know, the patient heals the practitioner. I’ll ring at 4, I’ve got a free slot. And I expect there’s a lot to do before Ian arrives. There’s his old room to sort out!’
‘We’ve got four days left. I’ll look for some nice photos of him for the sitting room. Will he care for our changes to the house?’
Gwen gestures to the enlarged bespoke kitchen they put in a year ago, an abrasive display of black marble and stainless steel. Ian may love the cold glamour, like his father who was unsentimental at seeing her old things being dumped: sky-blue cupboards stencilled with red flowers, 1920s flying ducks, egg baskets and dark-blue glass bottles collected from car boot sales – all banished. Homemaking is not the same, she feels, missing what Walter called her “airless cottage clutter”.
Walter gazes around, bearing in mind the cost of the whole thing, pushing down Gwen’s real question: how has Ian changed? She has always worried over him. Over-protective. And it has been the same with Zaida, well before the divorce, whenever the tiny tot stayed at her other grandfather’s, wondering in case the Al-Sayeds were not up to looking after her. No reason. She was so cuddly, perky smiles bursting into little frowns when she was displeased. She has always had this stare, testing people out until she crumples into your arms, sticky as a lump of fresh dough.
He pushes the papers away. Headlines are all about bad news since 7/7 – suicide bombers, phone hacking victims, housing bubbles, cuts, and more losses in Iraq and Afghanistan. Secretly, Walter rejoices that his son will be back, however stressful. A journalist! They’ll enjoy discussing the news, watching the BBC, switching over to football with beer and crisps. In an ebullient mood, he turns his attention to Marianne.
‘Why change your flight? If you don’t want to stay, we understand. But don’t be shy of Ian.’ Marianne looks bewildered. Walter acknowledges the gaffe. ‘Sorry, none of my business! Sorry, folks, Andy wants a word with me.’
Walter saunters off, confident that Marianne will forgive his faux pas – so will Khalid – and also reassured by Virginia having hit it off with her solicitor. Moving in harmony, their energies will feed a single purpose. Gwen hears the optimism in his steps and resents it since such foolishness prompted him to pester Khalid. And annoy Marianne?
‘It is sweet of you to suggest you leave earlier. There’s no need. The house will be full, but we love having you here. And Virginia needs you to talk to. But it’s entirely up to you, dear.’
Marianne hears the stress in Gwen’s voice – the tension is taking a toll on a woman who habitually makes a cult of reticence. She folds her napkin into a neat square, saying how much she enjoys sharing a family breakfast, a rare treat for a single woman.
‘I’m clearing up this morning. Off you go, Mesdames.’
Doors slam upstairs. They’ll be late. Most unusual. What did Walter mean earlier on? She sweeps the terracotta tiles and makes a show of two Victorian vases, filling them with roses. She raises her eyebrows at the mirror. Pas mal. Safe in French, asking the daft question haunting her since the news of Ian’s homecoming. Had he not been gay, what would have happened? She tests the sentence again, this time in English. She fumbles for words, not familiar enough with the bloody language
to interlock hypothesis and conditional, but old enough to know that such entanglement is the stuff of regret for anyone, whatever the grammar.
Virginia catches Walter alone in the clinic washroom. ‘Dad, this isn’t the best moment, but have you been thinking of my suggestion – you know, me registering for a new course?’
‘You know what I said. Traditional Chinese Medicine is what I learnt years ago alongside Professor Fosmey, I’m proud of it and it is what we do here. Nothing else.’ Walter snatches the nail brush from her to scrub his fingertips furiously. ‘Thousands of generations have lived by the Five Elements. Haven’t we got the same bodies, the same basic emotions, the same blood, the same organs?’
‘We can’t be blind to other therapies on the basis of ancient teachings.’
‘Aren’t you proud of what we’ve achieved here?’
‘I am, but can’t we do more?’ She holds her ground, her anger resilient at not being taken seriously.
‘Is Mary Angel giving you trouble?’
‘Maybe the Eight Principles will treat her better.’
‘What if the unbalance is deep down? Have you tried what I suggested?’
‘Nothing has been released. She can’t have sex because of the searing pain, and she is hysterical at the prospect of never having a child.’
‘Remember Joyce Sweeny and Kirsty Shears? Two breech positions you sorted out. Why are you so defeatist? There is no such thing as a bad patient.’
‘Her pulses are weird. Choppy. She panics and she’s very angry. Like me about Zaida. I really want to help her. I have a kid and she hasn’t.’
‘I know, love, how tough it is for you. You can refer her to me or Andy.’ Avoiding Virginia’s face, he turns to place the towel back on the rack, giving her time to respond.
‘Sorry, Dad. No, I must get through by myself. Somehow, it keeps my mind off my little devil!’
– 9 –
Homecomings Page 9
