Maman was connected to the earth in a very French way. Gardening mainly meant food and I loved watching her grow a huge array of fruit and vegetables in the kitchen garden. Papa dug out a small allotment for her out of the corner of the small field behind the orchard.
She planted sweet peas and flowers between the fruit and veg and she fed half the village. When she got chickens Dominique and I hastily gave them all names so that she could not cook and eat them. Tilly, Misty, Hetti, Susan, Agnes …
Maman capitulated and grew to love all her chickens. She would pick them up and stroke them like cats. She cried as hard as the rest of us when the fox did his worst, which he often did.
Neither Maman nor our aunt Laura ever talked about their childhood or our grandparents. It was a mystery, a closed book. Aunt Laura once told Dominique and me that it was the kind of childhood you left behind as soon as you could and tried never to revisit.
Maman was an enigma. She loved to help people yet there was a core of steeliness in her that sometimes shocked. I hoped that when she grew old she would tell me about her childhood, about my grandparents, but she never did. Her paternal grandmother had been Moroccan but we only knew this from Aunt Laura.
She was also unforthcoming about her life before she met Papa. As Dom grew older she was naturally curious about her biological father. She wanted to know how she came to be born. Maman was unnecessarily truthful and evasive at the same time. She always said the same thing: Dominique’s father had just been someone she had gone out with a few times. He was a student. She knew little about him. He had disappeared before she even knew she was pregnant. She was sorry, but there was nothing more she could tell Dominique about him.
How old was he? What was he studying? Was he good looking? Was he nice? What had they talked about? Dominique would not let it go. Was she like him? Had Maman got a photo of him?
The stories our parents tell us of our birth root us in family life. How hard would it have been for Maman to make up a little comforting fairy story for Dominique? But she never did. As I got older, I realized there must have been shame and trauma attached. Maman simply could not bear to talk about him.
If Dominique appealed to Papa for more information he would look uncomfortable. He was loyal to Maman and, I think, embarrassed about how little he knew of her life before he met her. Maman must have told him something about Dominique’s father before she married him, but Papa was never going to talk to us behind her back.
He would beg Dominique and me not to upset Maman, to respect her wishes and her right not to talk about her past.
‘Don’t I have a right to know who my own father was?’ Dominique would cry.
‘I hope you think of me as your papa, my little bird. I couldn’t love you more,’ Papa would reply.
It was true and Dominique knew it. But once she became a confused and difficult teenager with hormones screaming round her body, the onslaught of questions about her father began all over again. She was constantly at war with Maman and screaming at Papa.
‘You are not my real father. You can’t tell me what to do!’
Mostly, Papa was patient but one day he had had enough.
‘Dominique, stop this! It is pointless and cruel to constantly bully your mother for answers she does not have. Stop making yourself miserable. Just accept that your biological father was a good-looking, nice young man Maman knew little about. She cannot change what happened. Isn’t it enough that you are beautiful and much loved? You are making us all miserable … especially Gabby, is that what you want?’
I never doubted Maman loved Dominique but she was hard on her when she reached puberty. Sometimes, when I look back, I wonder if, subconsciously, Maman was punishing Dominique for her own mistakes. Papa and I both tried to protect her from Maman’s tongue, even though Dominique pretended she did not care.
My feisty, stunning sister was a free spirit. Her beauty made her stand out as she grew up. She drew everyone to her like a magnet. It was not hard to see why Maman was terrified that life would repeat itself.
I can still see Maman out in the orchard with her dark hair pinned back in a neat plait only the French can manage. She could look chic even in wellington boots. She was slim and always wore blue denim jeans or white shorts, with crisp cotton shirts, topped with a navy guernsey; like a sort of uniform.
She would pick the apples from the ground, wary of wasps, and turn them carefully searching for bruises, placing them on old wooden trays so they did not touch, like they used to do in Loveday’s time. Every now and then she would smile and lift her head and gaze out to the blue sea shimmering sinuously below the house. It was as if she could not quite believe she was here, in this garden, in this safe place that had become her whole world.
This world was small and insular but she was a loved and respected teacher. She had standing in the village and I sensed, even when I was small, that Maman would fight like a lioness if anything ever threatened her home, her family, or the life she loved.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Karachi, 2009
The Shalimar lies on the edge of Karachi. The large windows of Mike’s apartment look across tree-lined roads that surround the hotel from two sides. There is the distant roar of traffic hurtling towards the centre of the city and I can glimpse cranes rising from the docks on the skyline where the sea lies invisible.
The hotel is having a facelift so half the floors have been modernized but Mike’s apartment is in the old wing at the top of the building.
As we come out of the lift and walk across the reception area for breakfast Rana calls out, ‘Assalam-o-alaikum, Mr and Mrs Michael! Good morning! Good morning!’
Two breakfast waiters are standing by the door of the restaurant like sentinels. They rush over to Mike and usher him to a table by the window.
‘Good morning, Naseem. Good morning, Baseer,’ Mike says.
‘Good morning, sir. Good morning, mem.’
I can see this is a morning ritual. Mike grins as both Naseem and Baseer shadow me around the abundant islands of food laid out on crisp tablecloths. Fruit cascades among glittering ice. Bread and croissants nestle in baskets. On a separate island there are heated containers.
‘This, halwa puri cholay, mem,’ Naseem tells me. ‘It is Pakistani breakfast. Sweet halwa, spicy chickpeas, hot crunchy puris …’
I smile at him. ‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for a Pakistani breakfast yet, Naseem.’
Naseem smiles back. Like Noor, he has the startling green eyes of a Pashtun. I choose fruit, fresh yogurt and order a delicious coriander omelette.
I seem to be the only woman in the restaurant this morning. I am conscious of curious eyes of both waiters and businessmen following me around. It makes me self-conscious. Mike glances at me.
‘Anyone new and foreign is interesting for the staff here. You’ll get used to it …’
The restaurant looks down on the garden where an empty swimming pool glitters invitingly. Small tables are dotted about under the trees in the shade.
I watch a pool boy below us fishing leaves out of the pool with a long net. The garden is empty and the scene as peaceful as a painting.
When we go down the steps into the garden the pool boy rushes over with towels to place on our loungers.
‘This is Zakawi,’ Mike says.
Zakawi beams at me. ‘Mem, you like shade?’
‘Please.’ I smile as he fusses with the towels and the angle of the lounger.
‘Let’s swim while it’s early and the pool’s empty. The garden will fill up later and I know you have reservations about baring your limbs.’
I walk across the grass to the changing room. I do have reservations. Mike has told me that although diplomats and embassy staff come to swim, Muslim women stay covered and out of the water. I bought a very conservative black swimsuit, not unlike the one I wore at school. I cover up again in my linen trousers and top to walk back across the grass. By the time I reach Mike I am so hot nothing would have stopped m
e jumping into the water.
‘Wrap yourself in your towel and leave it on the edge of the pool,’ Mike says, encouragingly.
I move as fast as I can into the water and sigh as it envelops me.
‘Bliss. Oh bliss.’
Mike swims away from me and turns on his back and looks at his watch.
‘It’s only nine fifteen and humid already. It’s going to be baking. You will have to be careful, Gabby.’
We swim contentedly up and down the small pool stopping to chat every now and then. All feels so well with my world. I close my eyes against the blue, blue cloudless sky and smile. I so nearly did not come.
Mike climbs out and stands on the steps of the pool and wraps my towel around me. Why couldn’t he have shown me these small acts of affection in front of Will and Matteo? It would have reassured them.
Mike says, ‘Dry off and then we should go inside. You need to get used to the heat slowly. We’ll come back down after four when the temperature has dropped.’
I last another half an hour and then we make a dash for the air-conditioning. Mike has a meeting with two of his colleagues in the coffee lounge and I answer work emails and Skype Will and Matteo.
It is New Year’s Eve and I see they have a houseful already. I check Emily is staying over, as we arranged. The boys do not resent this as they consider Emily cool.
‘What do you think of Karachi then, Mum?’ Matt asks.
‘The drive to the hotel was terrifying and fascinating at the same time, but I haven’t been out of the hotel yet.’
‘Are you partying tonight?’
‘We’re going into Karachi for an early meal with some friends of your dad’s. There will be no drinking, though.’
Will grins. ‘No danger of not drinking here. Stay safe, Mum. Say hi to Dad.’
I make my usual speech about the dangers of going out drinking in London on New Year’s Eve and send love to Emily and her new boyfriend who are in the early phase of mutual infatuation and are happy to stay in, house-sitting.
It is late afternoon and the garden is now almost deserted. Mike is on a lounger beside me reading a book. There is the rustle of a breeze against some palm trees and the sound of running water from a small fountain in the courtyard by the steps.
Beyond the wall the distant traffic growls, but the garden is a small place of calm. I close my book; a huge sun is dropping theatrically from a sky turning dusky pink. Kites wheel and hover overhead, dark shadows circling and swooping in an elegant dance of dusk.
I have sudden, dislocating déjà vu, as if I am watching a film reel of myself. I struggle to hold onto a scent, a sound, a thread of a memory. For a fleeting second I feel a sense of a place lost, a homecoming: a sensory moment before dark when the world falls still.
When birds call out and fly low into the tamarisk trees on the edge of the coastal path. When the sun sinks behind streaks of clouds, making a golden path from sea to land. Where, just for an instant, primitive shadows rise from the earth and hover between light and dark and the sliver of lives long gone slip away on the air and evaporate.
In this warm, tropical garden, as a bird calls out a shrill warning and flies into the ivy on the wall, I am standing, a child in the dark by the scarlet camellia tree that sheds its blooms on the lawn like a ruby carpet. I am on the outside looking up at lighted windows where the shadows of people I love move about inside.
I shiver. Mike looks up from his book. ‘Did someone walk over your grave?’ he asks, swinging his legs to the side of the chair.
‘Something like that.’ I turn to him. ‘I had this disturbing feeling I’ve been here before. A flashback, a lost memory that came from nowhere.’
‘Déjà vu.’ Mike smiles. ‘With me, it’s sometimes a place or a building that seems familiar in a country I’ve never been to before. I expect the heat triggered some familiar smell or sense. Do you want another swim before we go up?’
I shake my head. The sun has gone and the poolside is filling up with businessmen staying in the hotel and young Pakistani men showing off to each other.
The lift from the garden basement takes us straight up to our floor, avoiding the foyer. I look at myself in the large lift mirror as the lift takes us up. I look flushed and hot and relaxed. Mike grins at me over my shoulder and pats my wild hair down.
‘You look sexy and happy, Mrs.’
I laugh. Inside the apartment we find a bottle of white wine sitting on the table in a cooler. There is a note from Charlie Wang wishing us a Happy New Year.
‘Charlie must have sent one of the waiters up with a bottle. He’s in Kuala Lumpur with his family for Christmas.’
‘How sweet of him.’
‘Let’s have a quick shower and start our New Year now.’ Mike grabs two glasses. ‘We won’t be able to drink with Shahid and Birjees.’
We stand by the long window looking out at the sun dropping over the rooftops. Mike stands close to me so our shoulders touch.
‘Shall we take our wine to bed?’ he asks softly.
I turn to look at him. ‘What a good idea.’
It is the first time Mike has made love to me this Christmas and I feel a surge of joy in being wanted again, and in the familiarity of our bodies fitting together as they always have. Sex, the wonderful glue of our marriage that means all is well. I stretch and glow with contentment. All is very well.
‘Think you might come to Karachi again?’ Mike asks, propping himself on his elbow and looking down at me.
I smile. ‘Thinking of asking me again? I’d love to come back and explore Karachi properly.’
Mike hesitates. ‘We both have demanding jobs so it’s not going to be easy to plan, but I think this Christmas has shown us both that we need to find ways of spending more time together. The boys are nearly off our hands and that’s when couples drift …’
His mobile bleeps. It is Shahid. I get out of bed to find the wine bottle. The danger of drifting is real. As I cross the floor there is a faint thud and I see a cloud of smoke rising out of the window in the distance. Mike jumps off the bed and comes to the window.
‘Yes …’ he says into the phone. ‘I just heard another explosion and we can see the smoke … No, we can’t risk it. It’s a shame; I wanted you and Birjees to meet Gabby before she went home … Really? If you’re sure it’s safe that would be wonderful, Shahid. Great. We’ll see you later.’
He hangs up. ‘There’s a demonstration going on at the other end of the city,’ he tells me. ‘It’s not safe to drive into the centre. However, Shahid’s going to book a table at a French restaurant this side of town. They’re going to pick us up early because the traffic will be bad later …’ He puts the bottle back in the fridge. ‘Let’s save the last trickle to see the New Year in …’
He adds suddenly, ‘Thank you for coming on to Karachi to see the New Year in with me. I know you wanted to go back to London with the boys. You always worry about them on New Year’s Eve …’
I look at him, surprised. ‘I do, but I’m glad I came, Mike. I can visualize you wandering round this faded apartment like a deposed potentate when I’m back in London.’
Mike laughs and I go to change. I am childishly excited to be going out into the city to meet his friends.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Karachi, New Year’s Eve 2009
The French restaurant has a courtyard with round ironwork tables covered in white tablecloths and chairs with white cushions. It is chic and very French, despite Pakistani waiters and no wine menu. The setting on the edge of Karachi feels a little unreal, like a stage set. Fairy lights are slung in a circle through small trees and the tables beautifully decorated for New Year’s Eve.
Shahid is a tall man with a bushy moustache and kind eyes. Birjees is small and neat with glossy hair and a sweet rather serious face. She wears a beautiful shimmering, pearl grey shalwar kameez and a long flowing dupatta that keeps slipping from her shoulders. The night is cool and we sit outside as guitar music strums softly in the back
ground.
‘Welcome to Karachi, Gabriella.’
‘It’s good to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about you from Mike. You have transformed his life in Karachi.’
Their faces light up and Shahid apologizes for not being able to take me into the centre of Karachi.
‘It is bad luck to have a demonstration tonight of all nights.’
‘I’m just happy to be here. This is perfect,’ I assure him.
‘You’ve brought my wife to a French restaurant!’ Mike jokes. ‘Of course she’s happy.’
A haughty young Pakistani waiter produces huge menus and takes our order for cold drinks. Shahid and Mike exchange amused looks.
‘It’s an art form,’ Mike says. ‘French restaurants must insist on waiters with an innate ability to look down their noses …’
‘Then we will try not to be patronized, Michael,’ Shahid says.
Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘I would like to see him try with Gabby.’
I am already looking at the menu. It looks delicious. I am pleased to see that Shahid and Birjees take the ordering of food as seriously as the French. It takes us all a long time to make up our minds and the young waiter grows irritated, although the restaurant is nearly empty.
When I order our food in French the waiter stops being surly and beams. He tells me his brother is the chef. They both trained and worked in Paris for fifteen years. They were very happy there and only returned home to Karachi because their mother became ill.
As he hurries away with our order, I am struck by the fact that two young men gave up their careers to come home and look after their mother.
‘If a woman does not have husband then the eldest son must, of course, take responsibility for looking after her and family,’ Birjees tells me, looking at me surprised. I do not say that I would hate Will and Matt to give up their lives to look after me.
In a Kingdom by the Sea Page 6