A House Without Walls

by Elizabeth Laird

  He was right, but his reasonableness infuriated me. I gave the bucket a kick. It clanged loudly.

  Baba appeared at the tent entrance.

  ‘What are you two doing out there? Come back inside. It’s time we all went to bed.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The weather was getting worse. Sometimes ice crunched underfoot in the mornings and Malik had to keep deepening the trench to stop the tent from flooding every time there was a rainstorm. We couldn’t keep the cold out, and our blankets were too thin to warm us properly at night. After supper I’d light the gas stove and we’d huddle round it, stretching out our hands towards the ring of little blue flames, trying to warm up before we went to bed. Being warm had been one of the lovely things at Perfumes of Paradise. I was going to miss it badly.

  ‘Oh, habibti, here you are!’ said Um Khalid, as I pushed open the salon door on my last day. ‘Such a pity you can’t stay on. I didn’t know how much I needed help till you started here.’

  I hardly heard her. I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl who was sitting in my place behind the reception desk.

  ‘Jamila’s taking over from you,’ Um Khalid rattled on. My eyes opened wide in disbelief. ‘You can show her what to do. I’ll leave you girls to it. My first client’s waiting already.’

  ‘Sabah alkheer,’ Jamila said smugly. ‘You’re Syrian, aren’t you?’

  The word refugee hovered unspoken in the air.

  ‘From Damascus,’ I said as lightly as I could. ‘The gleaming pearl of the east. Once.’ I took off my stained old jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. ‘I hope you’re good at maths. The accounts need keeping up to date all the time.’

  Got you, I thought as she blinked uncertainly.

  ‘Um Khalid didn’t say anything about that. I’m sure she doesn’t expect me to—’

  ‘And then you have to keep the storeroom clean and tidy, check when things are running out and order more, answer the phone, book in appointments, deal with queries from suppliers . . .’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought what?’

  ‘I thought I’d be doing beauty treatments. Facials and things like that.’

  ‘Really?’ I was enjoying myself now. ‘You have to have a qualification before you can do all that stuff. Get on a course. Pass exams. There’s loads of science in it. Chemistry.’

  She was looking like a frightened rabbit.

  ‘Didn’t she explain? How did you get this job, anyway?’

  ‘Mama thought – I wasn’t much good at school to be honest, and I’ve always liked make-up and stuff. Um Khalid’s my mama’s cousin.’

  I took pity on her. I’d lost the job, anyway. Being mean to Jamila wouldn’t bring it back. Besides, she was the first girl of my age I’d talked to since we’d left home all those months ago.

  ‘Why don’t I show you what to do?’ I said. ‘See how you get on?’

  It was slow work teaching Jamila. I did my best, but she had to have everything explained at least twice, and the paperwork put her into a tailspin of panic. At the end of the afternoon we still had our heads bent over it when I looked up to see that Um Khalid was watching us.

  ‘Your mother’s downstairs, Jamila,’ she said. ‘She’s come to pick you up.’

  Jamila leaped to her feet as if she’d been released from torture, grabbed her coat and made for the door.

  ‘Good luck!’ I called after her. She turned her head and gave me a wan smile.

  ‘She’ll get the hang of it,’ I said patronizingly. ‘But I think the accounts might be beyond her.’

  Um Khalid was frowning towards the door through which Jamila had disappeared. I had a flash of inspiration.

  ‘I’m sure Baba would let me come back sometimes to help,’ I said, as casually as I could.

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ She gave me a quick hug, taking me by surprise. Then she stood back and held me by the arms. ‘You’re wonderful, Safiya. I hope you know that. I really admire you.’

  I wasn’t used to praise. It made me want to cry.

  ‘Here.’ She reached under the reception desk and pulled out a carrier bag. ‘It’s a little leaving present. Go on. Take a look.’

  My hand was already in the bag. I pulled out a soft blue woollen jacket, thigh-length and warm, with a thick, fake-fur collar.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ I gasped.

  ‘Not exactly new, I’m afraid. It was my sister’s. She’s got too fat for it. It’ll keep you warm, anyway.’

  ‘I – I love it!’ I could hardly get the words out.

  A car horn sounded outside.

  ‘There’s Abu Tewfik. Go on. Oh, and . . .’ She slid an envelope into my hand. ‘Open it when you get home.’

  My throat had tightened up.

  ‘Um Khalid, you’ve been lovely. I can’t tell you how much—’

  ‘No, no, habibti. No tears. Look, this isn’t goodbye, after all. Those accounts! You’re right. Jamila’s as hopeless as I am. I’ll still need you sometimes. One day a week, perhaps.’

  I climbed into the taxi behind Abu Tewfik, who was groaning away behind the steering wheel, and tore open the envelope. 10JD! Riches!

  I knew at once what I’d get. My feet had been growing and the shoes I’d bought in another life, that day with Farah, had started pinching painfully. It was time to get a pair that would fit from one of the second-hand shoe stalls I’d passed on the way to Perfumes of Paradise.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Your Baba came by earlier,’ said Abu Ali when I slipped across to the shop to buy food for supper. ‘He says you won’t be needing the charity food box any more.’

  ‘B-but . . .’ I stammered.

  Then I saw that he was smiling.

  ‘Don’t worry. I told him you have to give three months’ notice. It makes things complicated if you suddenly withdraw.’

  ‘You made that up, didn’t you?’ I said.

  He pretended to be insulted.

  ‘Who? Me? Never told a lie in my life. But that Baba of yours, he’s not the one who has to do the shopping and worry about buying enough food for you all, is he?’

  For the second time that day, someone’s kindness was making me want to cry.

  ‘Abu Ali, you are, you are . . .’ I couldn’t get the words out.

  He was scratching the top of his bald head, pretending he’d just remembered something.

  ‘And, while I think of it, the charity left these for you to pick up.’ He pulled a couple of enormous zip-up bags from under the counter. ‘One-off extras for people in tents. Winter supplies. Don’t pretend you’re warm enough at night! Four blankets. I didn’t like to give them to your father. I thought he might . . .’

  Refuse to take them, I finished for him in my head. Don’t worry! I won’t let him!

  ‘You’ll talk him round.’ He was beaming at me. ‘Now then, what did you come in for this afternoon?’

  ‘What’s in those bags?’ asked Baba as I shuffled off my shoes at the entrance to the tent, and put down my bulky load.

  ‘Blankets.’ I was watching him anxiously. ‘From the charity. It’s part of what they do. They left them for us with Abu Ali.’

  ‘That old rascal! He spun me a story about not being able to stop the food boxes. Nonsense, of course, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. You’ll have to take them back, say something polite, tell him . . .’

  ‘Yes, Baba,’ I said meekly. ‘If you like. But I’m really cold at night. Sometimes I can’t go to sleep and I’m starting to get chilblains on my hands. Look. And it’s only the beginning of December.’

  He sighed impatiently.

  ‘Oh, all right. When I’m back on my feet, I’ll make a donation to cover all this. Now, Safiya, Abu Mustapha has just called me. He’s coming again on Monday. We’ll need . . .’

  But I’d stopped listening. I’d unzipped one of the bags and was fingering the thick purple blanket. I could hardly wait to snuggle under it when I got into bed. />
  ‘. . . so we’ll go into town tomorrow to get a few things for the tent. A rug and so on,’ Baba finished. ‘Were you listening to me, Safiya?’

  Malik had come in. He was standing behind Baba, signalling to me with his eyes. I tried to concentrate on what Baba was saying.

  ‘You want to go shopping?’ I said, watching Malik who was shaking his head and pointing to himself, then to me, then back to himself again.

  Unlike my dear brother Tariq, I’m great at picking up signals, I gave Malik a tiny nod.

  ‘Haven’t you got enough to worry about, Baba?’ I said. ‘Why don’t you let me go with Uncle Malik?’

  Baba’s phone rang again.

  ‘All right. I’ll leave it to you.’ He picked up the phone and waved us away. ‘Abu Sami! Kifek? How are you? I was just going to ring you and . . .’

  ‘That was a good idea,’ I whispered to Malik. ‘Baba’s hopeless at shopping. He’d have spent all his money at once.’

  Malik nodded.

  ‘Takes practice to sniff out a bargain. We’ll go on Saturday. I’ll ask around at Friday prayers and get an idea of what’s available.’

  ‘You’re going to prayers at the mosque?’

  I don’t know why I was surprised. Unlike Baba and Tariq, Malik prayed regularly in the tent, carefully making sure that he faced Mecca, while I had let the habit slip.

  My question seemed to surprise him too.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. We’re not really religious, I suppose.’

  ‘Faith keeps me going,’ he said simply. ‘There’ve been times when it was all I had.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Shopping with Malik was the best fun. He’d only been in Azraq a couple of months, but he’d sussed out every shop and business in town while he was looking for work.

  ‘I hope Adnan’s not expecting miracles,’ he said as we walked into town. ‘Azraq’s hardly a beacon of style.’

  Just for a moment, he’d sounded like Auntie Shirin when she was being sarcastic. He was more like his big sister than he knew. I felt a sudden pang. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed my starchy old aunt.

  I soon began to notice that while we were shopping Malik was doing a little business of his own.

  ‘That downpipe’s loose,’ he’d say to a shopkeeper as we picked through a pile of gaudy cushion covers. ‘Needs fixing before the next rainstorm. I could do it tomorrow if you like. Now about those rugs over there . . .’

  ‘Uncle Malik, you’re awesome,’ I said as we walked home, rugs hanging over his shoulders and both our arms weighted down with bags. ‘You’ve got jobs lined up all next week, and we hardly spent anything! Baba will be stunned!’

  ‘He won’t notice,’ Malik said. ‘When it comes to practical stuff, my dear brother’s no more use than a baby.’

  There was Auntie Shirin’s voice again. I looked sideways at him. He’d put on weight, muscle rather than fat, and walked confidently. I couldn’t see in him the starving, desperate boy who’d been so scared of his big brother.

  He was right about Baba. He took our success for granted.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, glancing over the treasures we displayed to him. ‘I’ll be back later. I’m going over to see Yasser.’

  I couldn’t wait to get started on arranging everything and I’d expected Malik to help, but he went back outside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I called after him.

  ‘To start on your kitchen,’ he called back.

  Snowball ran into the tent and began to coil her tail round my legs.

  ‘There you are!’ I said happily, bending down to scratch between her ears. ‘I haven’t seen you for days. Now don’t get in my way. I’ve got a lot to do.’

  It took me all afternoon to arrange the tent while Malik hammered and sawed outside. Tariq, who’d been working at the bottling station all day, came in just as I finished. He stood at the tent entrance, taking in through narrowed eyes the two rugs, the bright cushions sitting on our new pink and purple blankets, the low coffee table with the wonky leg which Malik was going to fix, the chrome tray, sparkling glasses and colourful bowls for snacks, and the lamp, my favourite thing of all, made of perforated metal in a traditional style, through which a candle would glow prettily.

  ‘Where did all this come from? Safiya, you haven’t been . . .’

  I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Honestly, Tariq. You’re obsessed. Since you ask, it’s all bought and paid for. In a roundabout sort of way. Ask Malik.’

  He glared at me.

  ‘Paid for? What with? I can see I’ve been wasting my time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Slogging my guts out heaving water bottles around for a few miserable JD while you had a fortune stashed away to spend on all this stuff.’

  ‘Tariq! That’s not fair! Malik’s paying for most of it by doing jobs for the shopkeepers. We only spent a bit of the money Baba got from his new client.’

  ‘Oh yes? And what’s a bit of money?’

  I told him how much we’d spent.

  ‘Stop trying it on, Safiya. This lot must have cost ten times that.’

  I bent down to pick up a corner of the nearest rug.

  ‘There’s a tear in it, see? We didn’t have to give a cent for it! Malik’s going to mend the guy’s gutter. That cloth, the one I’ve pinned over the shuttering, it’s got a huge stain in the corner you can’t even see. He threw that in as well.’

  ‘Well, if you say so.’

  He didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Anyway, doing all this, it’s a – sort of like an investment. In case Abu Mustapha brings any business people with him.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose . . .’

  ‘You know what Baba’s like with money, Tariq. He hasn’t got a clue. We’re going to need your earnings as much as ever if we want to eat, especially now that I can’t work at the salon any more. But I’ll manage on as little as I can, so you can keep something for yourself. You need warmer clothes for a start.’

  He screwed up his nose, looking sheepish, then pulled open his jacket to show me the thick sweater he was wearing underneath it.

  ‘Where did you get that from? It looks almost new.’

  ‘Aunt Zainab gave it to me. It belonged to Fares but he’s too big for it now.’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘You cheat! Who’s taking charity now?’

  ‘OK, but it’s not exactly charity. I told you. It doesn’t fit Fares any more.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I said. ‘Aunt Zainab’s got a soft spot for you in that stony old heart of hers.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, yawning. ‘She’s not so bad when you get to know her.’

  I scowled at him.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  He was reaching for his books already.

  ‘Get me some tea would you, Safiya?’ he said. ‘I’m struggling to keep awake and I’ve got a mountain of homework to do.’

  I went outside to boil up some water and stopped short in amazement. I’d thought Malik was making a sort of canvas cubbyhole, but he’d built a proper room, with chipboard walls like the one in my bedroom, and even a real floor, made of strips of wood raised above the muddy ground.

  ‘It’s – wow! It’s huge!’ was all I could say.

  ‘I’ll take down this bit of tent wall when it’s finished,’ he said, standing aside to let me look in. ‘You’ll be able to hook it back to get in and out from inside the tent. Let me get on, will you? I’ve got to fix the tarpaulin over the roof in case it rains tonight.’

  I stepped out of his way.

  ‘Uncle Malik, it’s incredible! Where did you get the wood and poles and all that?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice them?’ He was talking through a screw clamped between his lips. ‘I’ve been stockpiling things behind the tent. I’ll do the bench and shelves tomorrow. Now if you don’t mind . . .’

  I went back into the tent.


  ‘He’s amazing, isn’t he?’ said Tariq. ‘This place is getting to be more like home.’

  I shuddered.

  ‘It’ll never be like home. Have you forgotten what a home is? It’s a house with walls. Solid walls. This is a cold, smelly old tent. It always will be, and I can’t wait to get out of it.’

  But later, as I dished up the supper I’d made – chickpea stew with a few pieces of lamb for flavour and large helpings of fluffy rice – I looked around the tent. In the soft light of the solar lamp it looked almost nice, I had to admit. I’d never get used to the mud and dirt, the chemical toilet, the bucket of cold water to wash in, the cold and the damp. I’d never stop missing our proper bathroom, the hot shower, the TV, electricity, Farah . . .

  I stopped myself before I got upset.

  Take a look round, Saba, I told my twin. We’ve made something of this, haven’t we? We don’t need to feel ashamed, whatever Baba says.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Aunt Zainab came rattling in through the gate soon after breakfast the next day.

  ‘So this is what all the banging and sawing was about,’ she said, pursing her lips at the unfinished extension.

  ‘Uncle Malik’s making me a kitchen,’ I said, watching her face uneasily.

  ‘I hope he asked Yasser’s permission. This isn’t your land, you know. We’d be within our rights to charge you rent.’

  My mouth fell open. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I shut it again.

  Aunt Zainab was walking round the outside of the new kitchen, testing the strength of the struts, tapping the chipboard wall and peering inside to check the wooden floor.

  ‘He’s got money, then, to pay for all this,’ she said at last.

  ‘He didn’t have to buy any of it!’ I wasn’t sure if she’d approve or not. ‘It’s all off-cuts from where he’s been working. Rejects, look, like this piece of wood that’s split up the middle. He’s managed to use it, anyway. He’s brilliant at getting stuff cheaply, Aunt. Come and see what we got on Saturday.’

  I led her into the tent, half wanting to show it off to her, half dreading her reaction.