No Way Home

by M S James

  Whenever Faisal had free time that coincided with mine we went out together exploring the city or the countryside around. We walked and walked and talked and talked. He was the perfect elder brother. In my heart I would have liked more – but I knew that he was committed to Amal and I resolved to be grateful for this interlude with him.

  Rana and I spent a lot of time discussing our college work and how we might be able to fit in with the education system back home. Bahrain was much more liberal than Saudi – she could even drive a car there – but we would have to adapt what we were learning to a different system. Perhaps we could influence that system to be more child-centred and lead to a more investigative approach, away from rote learning. We had lots of ideas.

  One evening, we were watching television in the common room when I saw a programme that was to change my life. It was about hypnosis – something I knew nothing about. A hypnotherapist had hypnotised a woman and was slowly taking her back into her past. It was amazing to watch the woman, who was German, gradually change her demeanour from a confident adult to that of a wary, uncertain child. At one point she stopped understanding English and the rest of the session had to be conducted in German. She curled up on her chair and sucked her thumb. Eventually, the therapist could go back no further since the woman/child could not understand any language.

  ‘I would like to do that,’ I told Rana.

  ‘Become a hypnotherapist?’

  ‘No, be taken back into my early life and find out where I came from.’

  Rana looked stunned. ‘Why, what happened to you?’

  I explained that my early life was a mystery. My parents could not or would not explain where I had come from. I was not their natural child but I had possibly come from an English family.

  I made my mind up to find a hypnotherapist who could help me.

  Finding one was surprisingly easy. There were several in the Yellow Pages so I selected a therapist who operated in a clinic not far from the college. I made an appointment for a consultation and on the following day called in to put the therapist in the picture. Ophelia Fitzpatrick was a tall, elegant woman with a calm and friendly approach. She said she thought she could help me and did not object when I said I wanted my friend Rana to be present and that Rana would be videoing the session. I then went into town and bought a small video camera and spent the rest of the day with Rana learning how to use it.

  The hypnotherapy session was later in the week. Rana set up the camera on a stand ready to start filming and was then free to help with translating, should I revert to speaking only Arabic, like the German woman in the television programme.

  Looking at the session later, it seemed I was gently led into a deeper and deeper level of relaxation when my mind was almost in a dream-like state. The process of regression took the form of movement down a long mental corridor where different doors opened onto past events in my life. At each open door I could revisit the sensation of being in places with people that I had long forgotten. We eventually reached the time when I was newly with my Saudi parents and I became visibly uneasy and bewildered. I was still speaking English to Ophelia but describing an environment which was distressing. Later, I found it difficult viewing. I then continued along the corridor to the next door through which I remembered a sandstorm where all was confusion, noise and fear. I called out ‘Mummy!’ and ‘Daddy!’ repeatedly and cried piteously. Watching it later, Rana held my hand and comforted me. Further back in time I was happy and cheerful. The sensation of my earlier life was of a positive environment with my parents, my real parents. Ophelia asked me what I remembered and I could see the faces of my mother and father and my brother. His name, Jake, came to mind. I saw us in our house where we had a white cat and lots of kittens. I saw a smashed glass table which I had somehow broken. When Ophelia asked where I came from before Saudi I answered, ‘Arstin.’

  ‘Where is Arstin? Is it near another town?’

  I thought for a while before answering, ‘Camrij.’

  ‘Cambridge?’ asked Ophelia.

  ‘Yes!’ I replied.

  ‘Did you go there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Mummy got me some flower earrings. They hurt!’

  The session came to an end with me feeling at peace with my early life. As I came out of the trance-like state I felt contented and calm.

  ‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Rana on our way back to college. ‘That was amazing. Can you remember much about it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, but it will be interesting to watch the video. Did I actually say I lived near Cambridge?’

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Rana. ‘Perhaps your parents are here? Perhaps you can find them?’

  My mind was in turmoil, knowing that my real parents might be living within easy reach of my college. But I had no idea where to find them and couldn’t locate Arstin.

  At our next meeting, Faisal suggested that we might like to visit Hatfield House which was a short drive south of Cambridge. I discovered that the house was not a house but a beautiful 400-year-old palace. Another example of British understatement. As we left Cambridge we passed through a village which I scarcely noted, but its name, Harston, rang bells.

  ‘Faisal, I think I have been here before!’ He slowed down as I scanned the houses but nothing looked familiar. Towards the end of the village there was a turning. ‘Please, go down there, Faisal.’ He did, but was looking at me questioningly.

  ‘How can you know this place?’ he asked.

  As we drove down the street I recognised the shape of the street, its curves, trees and houses. The last house was a small cottage, which, with a rush of delighted emotion, I recognised as my very own home. I had seen this house in dreams and had no idea why it had appeared to me in my sleep. It was so small! But it still had a yellow front door and the brick steps where I had sat watching my daddy paint it. I could hardly speak but eventually whispered, ‘This was once my home.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I took a deep breath and told him of my visit to the hypnotherapist.

  ‘Without my permission!’ he chided me but, nevertheless, looked suitably impressed. He listened intently to my story and how I guessed that Arstin was in fact Harston. And sure enough, here in front of us was the house that I remembered.

  ‘Do you think your parents still live here?’

  I shook with excitement at the very thought. The nerves in my face prickled and a hot, clammy sensation swept over me. Could they be here?

  We tentatively rang the doorbell and a young woman answered. She did not know who had lived in the house twenty years previously but suggested we spoke to the neighbour over the road. This time the door was answered by an elderly woman who eyed us suspiciously. Yes, she could remember the family who had lived in the cottage but they had moved to the Middle East. They sold the cottage and she had no idea where they were now.

  ‘What were their names?’ I asked.

  ‘Thomas. Mr and Mrs Thomas.’

  For the rest of the day I was very quiet, my mind in turmoil. Where were they? Somewhere in Cambridge, somewhere in Riyadh? How could I track them down?

  Faisal was concerned and sympathetic. He also warned me that finding my real parents would cause considerable apprehension to my Saudi parents. He suggested that we keep our discovery to ourselves for the time being.

  Faisal was ending his research project in Cambridge and was shortly due to resume being a doctor at the Riyadh Eye Hospital. I was very miserable at the prospect of us not being able to continue our friendship but kept up a cheerful appearance. I didn’t want his memories of me to be of a dull, pathetic creature. We had a last meal together when we discussed everything, except what we hoped would be our personal futures. I didn’t want to hear about Amal and he didn’t enquire about my intentions regarding marriage.

  We shook hands and he briefly kissed my forehead.

  I went
back to college and cried.

  Rana and I completed our teaching course and became proud owners of Certificates in Education from Cambridge University. We vowed to keep in touch and hopefully visit each other.

  My last few days in the calm greenery of Cambridge were blown asunder by a highly excited call from my mother in Riyadh.

  ‘It’s happened!’ she shouted down the phone. ‘Faisal is going to marry Amal! Your Aunt Salma is floating on air!’ She went on and on about the coming wedding and I said nothing. Eventually she asked if I was still there. ‘Isn’t it wonderful news?!’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Terrific.’ Apparently, Faisal’s and Amal’s fathers had been discussing the suitability of the marriage and concluded that a marriage between the cousins would be highly beneficial to all concerned.

  My nine months in Cambridge had been eventful. I had gained a highly regarded qualification, located the place where I came from, though not yet my birth parents, and had made two valued friends. One I would see regularly in the coming years and the other hardly ever.

  I stopped off at Montreux on my return to Riyadh to meet up with my mother. To my huge irritation, Aunt Salma and Amal were there as well. It was wedding, wedding, non-stop wedding. Where would the ceremony take place, what would Amal wear, where would she buy the gown? I clamped my teeth together and made the semblance of a smile. Eventually Amal noticed I was not as delighted as she thought I ought to be about her coming nuptials.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased about my wedding, Hannah?’ she enquired.

  ‘Thrilled,’ I lied. But there was one thing I was interested to know. ‘When did Faisal propose to you?’

  ‘Propose to me! Of course he didn’t propose to me. Our families arranged it. That’s what we do in Saudi. You’ve been away too long, you ninny.’

  ‘So, you haven’t talked to Faisal about the wedding?’

  ‘There’s plenty of time for that,’ she responded with an airy gesture.

  She was about to leave the room but suddenly stopped and turned. ‘You saw Faisal in England.’ It was more of an accusation than a question.

  ‘From time to time. He was very busy.’

  ‘Did he talk about me?’

  ‘No, we didn’t talk about personal matters.’ Amal seemed mollified by this response.

  She then left to look at jewellery and dress shops with Aunt Salma. I declined to accompany them. Somehow, I got through the week without smacking her. I took myself off to Verbier for a day, saying that I was going to Montreux to look for math books at the bookshop in the town centre. Nobody wanted to come with me. I travelled by train and then took a cable car up to Les Ruinettes on the lower slope of Mont Gelé and made my way to the cycle station. Feeling free of family encumbrances and disapproval I hired a scooter and helmet to repeat the descent that I had experienced as a child. I had several months of cycling in Cambridge to give me confidence but, if I fell and broke my neck, too bad.

  I went down quite slowly but nevertheless felt the exhilaration of the speed and the freedom of doing something outside my comfort zone.

  Back in Riyadh I prepared myself for my future career. I had already approached the British International School who had said that I could spend my probationary year with them, teaching math to the older students. Before he left Riyadh for his annual leave in England, the head of the math department had left me the school’s math syllabus to study.

  As I was working my way through it one morning, I heard the front gate bell ring and saw our gateman open the gate – to Faisal! Whatever was he doing at our house? My mother came bustling into my room with the exciting news. ‘Faisal is here! I expect he has come to invite us to the wedding.’

  She looked at me with irritation. ‘Oh do try to show some interest in Amal’s wedding.’ She threw up her hands and departed for the kitchen. We would have to wait some while to find out what the men had been discussing.

  After an hour or so my father came into my room, looking strangely out of sorts. ‘Please, Hannah, go down to the garden, Faisal wants to speak to you.’ I felt my face go crimson. I went to the bathroom to splash water on me, comb my hair and gain a sense of equilibrium. I loosely wrapped a white veil over my hair.

  Faisal smiled at me in welcome. ‘Hi, Cousin!’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Faisal. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’ We wandered over to the bench beneath the gazebo and sat at either end of it.

  After a considerable silence he said, ‘Hannah, you would make me the happiest of men if we could be married.’

  ‘You are going to marry Amal!’ I shot back.

  ‘No, I am not. She is the last person I would want to marry.’

  ‘Oh, she’s not that bad,’ I replied magnanimously.

  ‘She is very nice but I am a doctor and know enough about consanguineous marriages to avoid one like the plague. We are too closely related. I want a wife who can give me healthy children.’

  One moment I was elated, the next I felt completely deflated.

  ‘Oh, so you want to marry me because I am not your cousin! How very convenient for you. We are, for all intents and purposes, cousins but you and I know that we are not.’

  Faisal shuffled along the bench towards me and took my hand saying, ‘Dearest Hannah, this conversation has not gone the way I intended it to. We have got to know each other very well over the past few months – far better than we could have done under normal circumstances.’

  I kept my face severely expressionless and let him explain away the apparent cynicism of his proposal.

  ‘I thought you a lively and adventurous child when we rode down the mountain together. That is why I was happy to be your guardian in Cambridge. We have talked many times about our hopes and expectations and I have grown to respect your opinions and your desire to help our country. I have also fallen in love with you. I kept my distance from you in Cambridge because I did not want anything to impede my decision, my hope, that one day we would be married – if you accepted me. Do you think you could love me?’

  I could keep it up no longer. ‘Yes!’ I exclaimed and kissed him on his lips, disregarding what my watching parents would say. He kissed me back and disregarded them too.

  ‘I have loved you from the time you took me down the mountain,’ I confided to him. ‘I thought you were destined to marry Amal so never let myself hope for anything more than friendship. Why did Aunt Selma think you were going to marry Amal?’

  Faisal sighed and recounted the ferocious arguments he had had with his father. The two fathers had decided that Faisal and Amal were a suitable match and hadn’t expected opposition from Faisal. His father is a doctor and could understand the objections on health grounds. He had seen the misery of the early deaths of my parents’ sons and gradually conceded that Faisal had a point. Marrying me was keeping the family ties close but without the danger of close genetic inbreeding. Eventually Faisal had convinced his father that I was a suitable match and left his father to disentangle the arrangement with Amal’s father.

  Needless to say, my mother was deliriously happy, Aunt Salma was livid and Amal was incandescent with rage.

  We married only two months later and our son, Ya’cub, a fine healthy child, was born early the following summer. We named him after my brother, Jake. Ya’cub means Jacob which is Jake’s real name.

  This is the end of my story, so far. Much has happened in my relatively short life and I am wondering what new surprises await me.

  To be continued, insha’allah…!

  Once more, once less…

  I lost count of the trips I made to West London over subsequent years. I usually combined visits to the great emporiums of Knightsbridge with visits to the V&A or the Science Museum or architectural gems such as Leighton House.

  The day I found Anna was initially no different from those of any of my previous visits. I was wandering around Harro
ds and had made my way through children’s wear, marvelling at the confections of lace and embroidery as well as the astronomical cost of them. From there I casually perused the evening gowns of Room 7 and, yet again, declined the assistant’s offer of help. I then called in to the cloakroom near the department selling electronics and technology and checked the time. Would I catch the 4pm train home or eat nearby at Zia Teresa and catch a later train after the rush hour? In most departments there were Arab women completely veiled over, wandering about following their husbands or in small groups of family members. As it was then twenty-four years since I had last seen my daughter, I was now looking for a young woman, probably of my height and colouring. But if she was swathed head to toe in black veil and abaya, it would take more than a casual glance to recognise her.

  I left the cloakroom and paid a visit to the toy department, noting a clutch of Arab women at the far end. As I slowly made my way towards them my eye was caught by a display of Hello Kitty merchandise. I smiled to myself in fond memory of the frequent visits to the shop next to the Euro Marché supermarket in Riyadh where Anna loved to visit. I knelt down to examine some umbrellas, and selected one, not unlike the one that got me through the ear-piercing debacle. Someone else was taking it from the other side of the display. I apologised and stood up. I smiled at the black-veiled woman and caught my breath. She didn’t have dark liquid brown eyes but pale green ones, just like my mother. We stood staring at each other. All I could see of her face were her eyes but she could see all of my face.

  ‘Anna?’ I whispered. She stared hard at me for several moments.

  ‘Mama?’ she replied.

  I held onto the display with an iron grip as my head swirled in a vortex of emotional turmoil.

  As I steadied myself I said, ‘Anna? Is it you?’