by Jon Walter
Malik shook his head quickly. ‘It’s not that. I like it very much. But I need to go back, and I can’t leave it too long or I’ll forget things.’
Lucy laid her hands out on the table. ‘Malik, the town where you came from is still very dangerous. It won’t always be that way, but at the moment I can’t think of anyone that would take you back there. I doubt whether there will even be a ship that goes there.’ She hesitated. ‘Could I ask why you want to go back?’
Malik watched her carefully. ‘People don’t always believe me.’
Lucy put her hand on his. ‘I will believe you and perhaps I can help.’
Malik made a decision not to tell her about the diamond, but he told her about the soldiers coming to his house and he told her about the dying dog in the cellar and how Papa had tricked him into getting on the ship. And he told her that Mama had disappeared and he didn’t know how to find her.
When he was finished Lucy said, ‘We can write some letters. That’s not difficult. It’s all about knowing how to do things and luckily I have some experience.’ She pulled her glasses down her nose and gave him a straight look. ‘But you should know, Malik, that these things take time. Sometimes they take a very long time and you don’t always get the answers you are looking for. You must promise me you won’t stop living while you wait.’
Lucy found Malik a school that was close enough for him to walk to. It had small classes and was accustomed to refugees. She bought him a blazer that was too warm and a shirt with a collar that was stiff to begin with, but Malik was pleased they wore long trousers. He made new friends who showed him new games and were impressed that he knew a magic trick to make things disappear. After a little while Malik accepted that the lessons weren’t so different from the way he had been taught back home.
Lucy made a point of paying him his allowance on the first day of the week. ‘This is for you,’ she would say and count out three blue notes and fold them into his hand. ‘You can save it or spend it as you wish.’
Malik spent the money the same way each time. He saved one of the notes in the drawer of his desk. He spent another on a bag of fudge from the sweet shop, and he spent the third on a bus ticket down to the port, where he watched the passengers disembark from the tall ships that docked there every Saturday. On the journey he would look out for Steffan and Oskar, thinking he might see them on a street corner somewhere, though he never did.
When the winter changed the weather for the worse, Malik acquired a coat made from sheepskin, a woollen hat and a scarf with the crest of an eagle on it. Lucy often took him to the theatre as she had promised to do and they wrapped up warm, walked back after dark and had a late supper in the bar across the street.
Lucy asked Malik lots of questions about his life before he came to live with her. She asked him Papa’s surname, what he did for a living, whether he knew this man or that man, where Mama used to work and what she did for a living. She asked about the name Kusak. Was it common where he came from? Did he know anyone else with a similar name? She asked him the names of the streets in his town, and when he didn’t know many of them, she bought a map to work them out. She said there were all sorts of questions that might give them information to help them with their search and Malik didn’t mind – he found it a good way to keep from forgetting.
On one such evening, they were in the bar. They had eaten pasta and Lucy had ordered coffee. She put a hand in her bag and produced a large brown envelope that had been folded in half. Malik recognized the stamps on the front.
‘I think I have some news of Papa.’ She took papers from the envelope and held them out so Malik could see. On the top was a copy of Papa’s passport; it had his name, Salvatore Bartholomew, and a photograph that left no doubt.
‘That’s him!’ Malik touched the face with his finger. ‘That’s Papa! Where did you find him?’
‘Malik, I’m sorry but this isn’t good news.’ Lucy showed him another piece of paper. ‘It came with this.’ She held out a copy of a certificate of burial, from a graveyard on the outskirts of the town. Malik remembered seeing it on the map they had at home.
Lucy took his hand. When she touched his face, Malik couldn’t feel it. ‘See the date there? That’s about three months after you came to live with me. I think this must be true.’
Malik took his hand away from hers. He put it down under the table and held the front of his trousers. ‘What about Mama?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is there anything there about her?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I’ve heard nothing of your mother yet. Not a word.’
Malik stayed in his bedroom for a week without coming out.
He heard Lucy ring his school and tell them he was ill.
He heard her clip the lead to Booty’s collar and take him for a walk.
He heard her leave plates of food outside the bedroom door.
Later, when Malik decided to come out of his room, he went and stood by the photograph in the hall.
‘That’s me there,’ Lucy told him. ‘I’m the little baby in my mother’s arms. There’s my daddy and my older brother George.’
‘You told me you came here in a ship on your own.’
‘I did.’
‘And did they ever come and find you?’
Lucy smiled sadly. ‘No, sweetheart, they never did. That house we are standing in front of was bombed with all of us in it. I don’t know why it was bombed, but I know when and I know by who. We weren’t very wealthy and my mother had put me in a drawer to sleep and that’s where I was discovered. I had to find all this out later, you understand, when I was grown-up. But it’s better to know, I think.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘It will get easier with time. Really, it will.’
‘I don’t want to know. I mean, if you get a letter about … Well, I don’t want to know.’
Lucy nodded. ‘That’s OK. If that’s what you want. But don’t give up hope, Malik. Don’t ever give up hope.’
In the spring there were daffodils on the verges at the side of the busy roads, big banks of yellow flowers. The glass buildings in the city turned pale blue in the mornings and a soft pink in the evenings, just before the sun set.
Malik had a job delivering free newspapers to the houses in the streets around the apartment. He pulled a shopping cart behind him and took the papers out one at a time, folded them and posted them through the letterboxes.
One day it rained while Malik was delivering the newspapers. He had completed only half of the houses when the droplets began to land on his face and he decided to return home. He lifted the canvas lid back over the top of the cart to protect the undelivered newspapers and he pulled it along behind him as the rain came down heavily and spattered the concrete paving stones where he walked.
At the bar across from Lucy’s apartment, the waiters were struggling to pull the awning over the line of tables. Malik waited for the traffic to pause so he could cross the road. On the opposite pavement, a woman in a red dress walked past the window of the gentlemen’s outfitters, her head obscured by a black umbrella. She rang the doorbell to Malik’s block and stepped inside and Malik saw her hand shake the rain from her umbrella and close it before the door clicked shut.
He stepped out from the kerb, found his way between the stationary cars and pulled the cart up onto the opposite pavement. He let himself into the building using his key which he had hung on a piece of string that was tied to the belt of his trousers. He pulled the cart inside, wheeled it across the stone floor and parked it next to the caged lift, then he pressed the CALL button and waited. He heard the metal gate open and shut on a floor above him before the elevator began to descend, the cables swinging against the edge of the lift shaft with a dull thud.
Malik ran his fingers through his wet hair. If it continued to rain, Lucy wouldn’t take them far to eat this evening. Probably they’d visit Guilio’s and have pizza at a table by the window. Perhaps they would have a sandwich across the road and Lucy would scowl at the men w
ho stood and smoked at the bar.
He let himself into the flat and hung his coat up on the hook beside the door. As he stepped out of his Wellington boots, Booty brushed up against his ankles, waiting to be fed. He could hear Lucy talking loudly in the living room down the hall and he shouted out, ‘Hello’, went into the kitchen and took an open can of cat food from the fridge. He forked it out into the three bowls that he lifted from the floor.
‘Come in here,’ called Lucy. ‘Don’t worry about the cats for now. Come in here.’
Malik put the bowls down beside the fridge and the cats hurried to sniff at each one, eager to see if there was any difference between them. He walked down the hall and into the living room.
Lucy stood up from her chair and gestured to the armchair opposite. ‘There’s someone here you will want to see, Malik.’
Malik saw a red dress without flowers and a sweep of blonde hair that was longer than he remembered. The woman stood up. She took a step towards him, holding her arms out nervously, and Malik took the tips of her fingers in his and moved toward her. She was the same as he remembered but different, familiar but changed. The woman put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly, her chin brushing the top of his head. Malik could smell lavender soap on her neck.
‘You’ve grown,’ Mama said eventually. She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘What have you done to your hair?’ she said, and he said, ‘I don’t know. It’s probably the rain,’ and she said, ‘No. It’s not that. It’s different.’
Malik stepped back. He saw that she was crying, the kind of crying that makes no noise, the crying that makes your face tremble and run with tears. Malik wanted to see her smile, but his mother kept crying and she stood shaking, one hand held up to her mouth, unable to even speak.
‘I’ll make us all some tea,’ said Lucy.
Malik took Mama’s hands from his arms. ‘I have something for you,’ he told her. ‘Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.’ He ran to his bedroom, unscrewed the bed knob on the bottom left column of his big brass bed and scooped out Papa’s tooth with a single finger. The diamond sparkled in his palm as he closed his hand around it.
From the hallway, he could hear Lucy in the kitchen, putting cups and saucers onto a wooden tray, filling the china jug with cold milk from the fridge.
Malik walked back into the sitting room with his hand closed tight. Mama had sat back in the armchair. She dabbed a white cotton handkerchief to the edges of her eyes and Malik reached out and touched her shoulder.
His mother smiled up at him.
It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, just for him, better than he remembered or could ever have imagined.
And he hadn’t even opened his fingers.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my agent Sallyanne Sweeney, who has been variously inspiring, patient and hardworking on my behalf.
Thanks to everyone at David Fickling Books, who have taken such good care of me. In particular, Hannah Featherstone and Bella Pearson, who both worked on the text till it sparkled, helping Close to the Wind become the book I always intended it to be.
Thank you to David Dean whose artwork looks so splendid on the jacket, and to Sue Cook for her helpful suggestions.
Whilst writing this book I attended courses at New Writing South, tutored by Susannah Waters and Catherine Smith, who both have a gift for knowing what works and are generous enough to share it with the rest of us. Thank you to everyone on those courses who may have commented on my work, particularly Philip Harrison, Sam De Alwis, Roz De-Ath, Stuart Condie, Yvonne Hennessey and Judith Bruce.
And lastly to my family, who make it all worthwhile – to Tanya, for never once saying this was a bad idea; to my lovely boys, Jonah and Nathaniel; to my mum and dad, my sisters Ann and Katie, and to Jessica Smart.
Thank you all.
Copyright
Close to the Wind
First published in 2014
by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street, Oxford, OX1 2NP
This ebook edition first published in 2014
All rights reserved
© Jon Walter, 2014
The right of Jon Walter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover Illustration by David Dean
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978–1–910200–25–4