In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Sara MacDonald

Maman and Papa will not talk to me about what happened. They are always trying to send me off to friends’ houses but I will not go. I dare not ask questions any more. Maman shouts.

  ‘Gabriella, enough! Your sister is living with Aunt Laura now and that is the end of it …’

  When she is angry Papa turns and walks out of the house. I watch him from the window. He does not seem quite so big any more and that worries me.

  I have planned my den. Well, really it is going to be a little house where I can come. The canvas is going on the ground and the roof will be ferns and branches. I just have to work out the sides and how I balance the roof. I try an old bit of trellis for one side and tie it to the lower branches with string.

  I fetch some old bits of wood from Papa’s workshop but I cannot get them to stay in the ground. It begins to rain and my wellies sink into the wet earth. I want to cry but I won’t. I think again. I need a roof to stay dry so I take the trellis and wedge it between some lower branches. I cut string to tie it so it won’t move when I put ferns on top of it. I move the wet canvas under it and go to the hedge to cut ferns.

  They are pale green and new and unfurling like little fingers. Rain trembles on their fronds like diamonds. I forgot that ferns only go brown in autumn. I cannot kill them and I have no roof. I stand with the rain dripping off the trees and down my nose and my hair. I feel more miserable than I have ever felt in my life. The sea and sky have disappeared into a swirling grey mist that hides the village. The rain slants sideways, almost unseen. It drenches everything. The world outside this garden has disappeared. I am disappearing.

  I turn towards the house. I do not want to go inside. I see Papa sitting on the wooden steps of the conservatory getting wet. His arms are resting on his knees. He is looking out towards me but I cannot tell if he can see me standing against the tree in the mist. Rain is sliding down his face, flattening his hair. If it were not raining I would think he is crying. He does not want to go inside either.

  I stand still against the tree and suddenly Papa sees me. He gets up and walks through the wet grass towards me. He looks down at the soaked groundsheet and the wobbly trellis in the branches of the apple tree.

  ‘May I help you, sweetie?’

  I nod.

  ‘I think we need to build a little structure so that the den will last, don’t you?’

  I nod again, grateful.

  ‘You’ve chosen a great place by this tree. Would you like your den facing out to sea or towards the house?’

  ‘Facing out to sea with its back to the house,’ I say, firmly.

  ‘Okay, let’s go to my shed and get a measuring tape and see what wood I have.’

  Papa and I spend the rest of the day building my den in the rain. At one point Maman comes out onto the steps and shouts, ‘For heaven’s sake, Tom, it’s pouring. What are you doing? You’re both getting soaked.’

  Papa calls out that we are fine and we will be in soon. I hold wood while he hammers posts in with a wooden mallet. Then he gets some left-over chicken wire and places it on the roof and sides. Then he puts some roof felt on top of the wire and tacks it on so that the den will be dry.

  I am a little doubtful about the structure; it is bigger than I had imagined and a bit ugly too. It is summer, but after three hours I begin to shiver with cold. Papa looks at me. ‘Come on, you need to get dry and eat something. I’m going to go and get a few things from Penzance and then we can finish it off together this evening. Look, the sky is beginning to clear …’

  Maman has put a flask of soup and sandwiches in the conservatory. Papa makes me have a hot shower and get into my fluffy dressing gown. When he gets out of the shower we sit by the log burner and eat the soup and sandwiches. I am glad that Maman is always cold and lights the fire whenever there is a storm or the sun does not shine.

  I fall asleep and when I wake Papa has gone. Maman is sitting watching me with a cup of tea in her hand. She smiles and I nearly smile back before I remember I have not forgiven her.

  I sit up. ‘Is Papa still in Penzance?’

  She nods. ‘Would you like a piece of chocolate cake and a drink?’

  I shake my head. The room is now too hot. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  ‘Okay,’ Maman says. ‘If you change your mind the cake is on the kitchen table.’

  I stop by the door. ‘No grown-ups are allowed anywhere near my den when it’s finished.’

  ‘Understood,’ Maman says. ‘You better explain that to the chickens too.’

  I shoot her a look. Does she think she is being funny?

  Papa returns from Penzance with a camouflage net from somewhere and he pins it around the structure and then he covers the roof with branches that drape over the sides until it is all completely hidden and part of the apple tree. There is a little door with a latch from an old kitchen cupboard.

  ‘I will replace the net with bark strips over the summer as it will get damp and smelly eventually, but it’s good for now …’ He grins at me. ‘Go on up to the house now. I have one last surprise. I will call when I’m ready …’

  I run inside. The grey mist has lifted and evening sunshine slants across the orchard and over the hens pecking under the trees. Maman stands on the balcony with a glass of red wine, holding her face up to the last of the sun.

  When Papa calls I shoot out. He has hung little strings of white lights out in the branches of the apple tree all around my den. He has turned it into a magic place.

  ‘I’ve put a thick rubber safety casing over the lead,’ he says, ‘so you can use the electricity from my shed. I’ll put a timer on and the lights will come on at night and you will be able to see them from your bedroom and know your little house is here …’

  I am overwhelmed. I walk round and inside my house. It is so much more than I imagined. My heart swells with pride and happiness. I run and clutch Papa’s arm to me, closing my eyes, pressing my face to his warm skin.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you! You are the best Papa in the whole world.’

  ‘I wish I was, my lovely. I wish I was …’ His voice sounds muffled and lost against me.

  When I look up he is staring across at Maman. She is very still. Then, slowly, she raises her glass to him and seems to smile.

  I don’t move but I feel the tenseness in my father’s arm relax. I keep looking at Maman. I don’t understand, but I sense something, a moving on. I suddenly know I want that too. I want to be happy. I want everything to be all right.

  Maybe, I knew in that moment, life would never be the same as it was, but I could not keep up my anger or misery forever. Life slides forward whether we want it to or not. I had a beautiful little house in the orchard. I wanted to laugh and love my parents again. I wanted them to love each other and love me and for us to be a family again. I remember the contradictory swirl of guilt I felt, the sensation of betraying Dominique.

  Maman went to get a beer for Papa and a drink for me. I was desperate to move back to happiness and that is what I did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Karachi, July 2010

  This morning it is too oppressive to go outside into the burning heat of the day. I make myself go downstairs to the Cinnamon Lounge with my laptop. Two bored young waiters rush to bring me ice-cold cinnamon beer and a little cake I did not ask for. They smile and place their hands on their hearts and admire the colours of my shalwar kameez. You wear just like Pakistani woman, mem.

  Rana comes and hovers, her sweet face full of concern. ‘How are you doing without Mr Michael, Mrs Michael? Naseem tells me that you eat breakfast like a little bird. Please, if there is anything you wish for, please to ask us and we will endeavour to find it for you …’

  She leans towards me, and smiles. ‘This hotel is your home now and we want to look after you while Mr Michael is away …’

  ‘Shukriyah,’ I say, touched. ‘Thank you, Rana. You are so thoughtful. I have all I need. I am happy here.’

  It is in a sense true. I do not wish to be anywhere else
at this moment. Where else could I disappear from my life? I need this sensation of losing myself. I hide myself in beautiful materials; fold myself away from the world, wrap myself in exquisite dupattas and roam the hotel to find empty spaces to hide.

  I melt and meld into the landscape. I am one of a harem of bright birds. I feel without substance, incorporeal, as if my reactions are changed in some way by wearing clothes designed to hide women’s bodies away. Or, maybe, it is simple envy, a wish fulfilment to escape responsibility. A disguise. By embracing another culture I avoid being myself.

  When Rana has gone, I sit with my open book. I am reading Daniyal Mueenuddin’s short stories all over again, the ones that have no happy endings. This fatalism, this acceptance of things as they are, how do I learn it?

  I drink my cinnamon beer. I eat my little cake. I have a terrible thought.

  What if Dominique is going to tell the girls about their grandfather?

  I grab my laptop. As I type Dominique’s name an overpowering lethargy creeps over me, a strange resistance to making contact with my sister. As if doing so will make it all real and not a bad dream.

  Dom, please don’t tell Aimee and Cecile. I do understand why you might want to talk to them, but Maman and Papa were good grandparents to the girls. Don’t take their happy memories from them. What does it achieve except more heartache for those you love? Please, talk to me, first. I can fly out. I can be with you in days …

  I do not have the right to judge Dominique but the thought of my nieces being told the truth makes me shiver. My parents adored and cherished those girls. They had such a close and special relationship, years rich with love and happy times.

  Dominique’s life may have teetered chaotically from one crisis to another, but Aimee and Cecile are Dominique’s success story. Aimee fell in love with an American doctor and is happily working in their private practice in New York.

  Cecile, a violinist, went out to New York with her orchestra, loved the vibrant New York music scene and stayed on to study and teach in Manhattan. They grew into clever and successful women and, as far as I know, contented ones.

  Dominique has always been proud of them and fiercely protective. Despite having disastrous relationships, she never let any man live with her until her children left home. My sister was a much better mother than she thinks she was. She is fragile and disturbed and I cannot be sure she won’t feel the need to tell them.

  I go back up to my room and drink cold bottled water from the fridge. My throat is dry and my head aches and I climb into bed in the air-conditioned bedroom. There is a sudden ping of an email. To my surprise Dominique has come straight back to me. I sit up to read it.

  Darling Gabby, I am so sorry. I know my letter will have hurt and shocked you and made you sad. I have been thinking of you so much. You will have retreated into your own little world, as you always do when life makes no sense.

  Gabby, if I could undo posting that letter to you, I would. Please forgive me for unburdening after all these years. There was a trigger, but I deeply regret telling you, now.

  I am with Cecile at the moment, being beautifully looked after by both my daughters. Aimee insisted I had some vitamin injections and I do feel better. I am calmer and feel more together just getting out of Paris. Let’s talk, but not now. When I am back in Paris, when you are back in London.

  Please, don’t worry about me. There is no need to fly out. I am in good hands. I will stay until I get back to myself. I was going to tell Cecile and Aimee the truth, but I can’t do it. Perhaps, I just needed to tell someone and now you know I feel less alone with it. Forgive me, darling. Stay in Pakistan, have your adventure, despite me. Promise? It’s important. Then, we will get together. I love you so much. D xx

  Until I get back to myself. The sentence leaps out at me in all its sweetness and grief. Back to the laughing child, back to the beautiful girl, back to the troubled woman and mother she became.

  My sister banished at fifteen from the one safe place that was home. My sister, who spent the rest of her life searching for love from appalling men; my sister, who somehow, heroically, managed an uneasy relationship with my parents so that her girls could have all she had lost. Apologizing to me for causing me hurt, when I am the one who got to keep her childhood.

  Dom,

  Don’t you dare apologize for telling me. You did the right thing. I’m an adult, not a child. These were our parents; this is what they did. Of course, I am shocked and hurting, but why shouldn’t I know the truth of what really happened to you? I wasn’t the one harmed. Rest and heal and enjoy being with your lovely girls. I am so glad they are taking care of you.

  I need space and time too. All these years of not knowing what happened to you, but I could never, ever have imagined the truth. Somehow, I have to learn to live with it, as you had to. My silence will just mean I am withdrawing for a little while, darling. Let me know when you are home. Nothing you could say or do could ever stop me loving you. Just get strong and well again.

  G xx

  I get out of bed and make tea and toast. I am selfish. Dominique is safe with her children and I feel relieved. If she had needed me, if I had left Pakistan and Mike now, I would never have returned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Karachi, 2010

  I am just out of the shower when the hotel phone rings. Thinking it must be Mike calling from his room in Islamabad, I run for it, but it is Rana.

  ‘Mrs Michael, I am sorry to ring early. I am not on duty this morning. I am taking my eldest son to Quaid-e-Azam House for private visit for his school project. It was house of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, and I think, maybe, Mrs Michael, she would be interested in accompanying us to this truly interesting place in Karachi. It is not far from the Shalimar, so you will not get overheated. Would you enjoy coming, Mrs Michael?’

  I smile. ‘Rana, I’d love to see Ali Jinnah’s house …’

  Rana arranges to pick me up outside the hotel after breakfast. It is kind of her, but my heart quails at the thought of making bright, cheerful conversation with Rana and her son. I go downstairs in the lift and I’m suddenly angry with myself. Is this what I’ve come to? Flitting like some ghost through the hotel, trying to disappear. This is an unexpected chance to get out of the hotel and see something of Pakistani history. I know I am not supposed to leave the hotel with anyone that is not vetted, but this is Rana, and Quaid-e-Azam House is only a hop from the hotel.

  I have a quick breakfast inside today. Baseer brings me delicious goats’ yogurt in an earthenware bowl. Naseem brings fresh apricots and two tiny croissants.

  ‘This morning Rana is taking me to see Ali Jinnah’s house,’ I tell them.

  They both nod at me, delighted. ‘Quaid-e-Azam House, very good, mem, you will enjoy.’

  I wait for Rana in the cool, just inside the glass doors. The doorman calls me when her little car arrives at the entrance. She jumps out beaming and ushers me into the back seat. As we drive away from the hotel I feel a moment’s irrational panic. It seems so long since I left my safe womb.

  Rana’s son, Ahmed, is a polite young man, but he is as self-conscious as all teenagers are and I don’t embarrass him by trying to make conversation with him through the Karachi traffic.

  We park in the drive of an impressive yellow-stone mansion with imposing arches and balconies. At the front of the house there are small formal hedges and colourful flower borders, palm trees and a large fountain that no longer cascades with water. Old trees cast shade across the grounds, but there is, somehow, a suggestion of casual neglect.

  ‘This was once called Flagstaff House,’ Rana says. ‘The British Indian army, they rent it for their officers. I arrange for private trip round house with housekeeper who is friend of my husband …’

  The elderly housekeeper comes stiffly out of the house in a white shalwar kameez and Rana greets him. ‘Assalam-o-alaikum.’

  ‘Alaikum-a-asalaam,’ he replies. Rana introduces me. His name is Mohammad.
He bows his head politely and beckons us to follow him inside.

  ‘When this was Flagstaff House,’ Mohammad tells me, ‘General Douglas Gracey, he live here. He was second commander-in-chief of Pakistani army …’

  I have no idea who he was, but I nod sagely. Like any house frozen in time, the atmosphere is heavy and hushed, the rooms full of artifacts and delicate antiques. There is a long, shining dining table, high padded chairs and dark polished wood floors. Draped white curtains shield the rooms from the sun and add to the feeling of muffled voices, as if someone has just got up and left the room ahead of us.

  We gaze at Ali Jinnah’s books, his display of china, a copy of the Koran with his name imprinted in it; a map of Pakistan made of broken glass. I try to avoid thinking of the violence and bloodshed it took to forge two countries out of one, to found Ali Jinnah’s dream of a Muslim Pakistan.

  Upstairs are family photos of Jinnah and his sister Fatima sitting elegantly at each end of a long sofa, as if they are not talking to each other. On the wall there is a photo of Jinnah’s daughter, Dina Wadia.

  ‘Did Ali Jinnah’s wife die?’ I ask, wondering how and when. Mohammad nods but does not elaborate.

  Ahmed asks if it is true that Ali Jinnah never actually lived in this house but only stayed here occasionally. Mohammad says that it is true, Ali Jinnah actually took up residence in the Governor General’s House, but he did stay at Flagstaff House regularly. ‘He die in 1948 and his sister, Fatima Ali Jinnah, she live here alone until 1967 …

  ‘After Fatima Ali Jinnah die in 1967 the Quaid-e-Azam Trust, they put up Flagstaff House for sale. Pakistan Archaeology department, they buy it and make it into museum and call it Quaid-e-Azam House …’

  I stare at Ali Jinnah’s portrait; his long, intelligent face is without warmth. I remember reading that, unlike Gandhi, he did not identify with the masses; he did not like to touch the poor. This cerebral face tells you that.

  Yet, it is not the elegant rooms full of expensive artifacts that touch me. It is the personal that reaches out from the past. There is an expensive pair of Ali Jinnah’s shoes sitting alone on a polished bench where he must have sat to pull them on. I cannot stop looking at these shoes. It is as if Jinnah expected to come back to change into a pair of slippers.