Comfort and Joy

by India Knight

  The house is, if anything, lovelier even than it was in the pages of Condé Nast Traveller. The little pool shimmers green in the tiled central courtyard, the edges of which are lined with low-level seating and round, ornate brass coffee tables. There are coloured glass lanterns everywhere, and metal ones all around the pool. The man in the djellaba is called Moustafa; his wife Fatima is standing in the courtyard with fresh dates and almond milk for us all. I notice Pat is staring at the couple intently; they smile back at her.

  ‘Thankee,’ she says loudly, accepting her glass of almond milk and sniffing it suspiciously. She does this with any unfamiliar foodstuffs and it drives me mad: it’s so canine. ‘Thankee kindly.’

  ‘Why are you talking like that, Mum?’ asks Sam.

  ‘Abroad,’ says Pat authoritatively. ‘It’s all right, this nut milk, even though you can’t milk a nut. Doesn’t make sense. Still, nice and sweet.’

  ‘They have tiny udders,’ says Evie. ‘All nuts do.’ She puts her glass down. ‘Urgh, I was trying to make a joke and now I’ve made myself feel sick. This house is glorious and I wish I lived in it. Well found, Clara. Oh, I really wish I’d asked Jim now.’

  ‘You look very at home,’ I tell her. ‘Perfect outfit. And you should have done.’ Jim is Evie’s relatively new boyfriend; she was anxious about subjecting him to the fullness of our family Christmases, probably with good reason, so he’s stayed in London.

  ‘One of the advantages of not having children is that I can wear really fabulous clothes,’ says Evie. ‘You know, without anyone peeing on them. Do you think Hope’s going to get up the duff, by the way? Now she’s found that man?’

  ‘Phil. I don’t know. I suppose if she got on with it there’s still just about time for her to bang one out.’

  ‘I never understood it, you know,’ says Evie. ‘That total compulsion to breed. I don’t have it at all. Never did. Don’t expect I ever will.’

  ‘Well, you never know. You’ve got a while to make up your mind’

  ‘But I do know, that’s just it. I love the neffs and nieces to death, you know I do, but they do give one a startling insight into what parenting is really like.’

  ‘I love that you don’t particularly want children. It’s so refreshing,’ I say.

  ‘I think so too. I love myself for it,’ Evie says with a delighted smile. ‘There’s only one boredom, except it’s a biggie.’

  ‘What? Does Jim want them?’

  ‘It’s never been mentioned, so I’m guessing not. He has two already. No, the boredom is other people’s fixation with kids,’ says Evie. ‘We should get this luggage upstairs, come on.’

  ‘Non, mesdames!’ cries Moustafa as soon as we approach our cases. ‘I will do. My friends will do. Please.’

  ‘How nice,’ says Evie. ‘Very kind of you, Moustafa. Vous êtes très gentil.’ She grins her megawatt smile at him and he beams back at her.

  ‘Let’s just find our rooms, then,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Clara. What was I saying? Oh yes – the bummer. The bummerus giganticus.’

  ‘Other people’s children?’

  ‘Not so much the actual children,’ says Evie. ‘I like the children. Well, I like most of them. And Jim’s are sweet, as you know. But the endless going on about them. Why do people do that? You don’t and Flo doesn’t. But if I go out with my girlfriends and they’ve had children, they can literally spend the whole evening telling me about potty training or choosing a nursery.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never really understood it.’

  ‘I mean,’ Evie continues as we climb up the stairs, ‘I can see that those things would preoccupy one. But I’m pretty much the only one left who doesn’t have kids, so why pick on me? Why not tell the other people who are interested, and talk to me about shoes or politics or the weather or books? You know?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I remember it well. I do have children and I used to hate those conversations as well. Ten minutes, fine. Entire evening: you start longing for death. See also schools, school places, church attendance, moaning about the teachers, moaning about the governors, moaning about the lack of facilities in inner London state schools – there’s no end to it just because you leave babyhood. Actually no, that’s not true – no one much discusses teenagers, which is pretty weird because they’re the ones shagging and smoking weed.’

  ‘It’s so off-putting,’ says Evie, pushing open the door of one of the bedrooms. ‘Oh my God, look at this. I have died and gone to heaven. I want it. How shall we do it – shall we draw straws?’

  ‘They’re all nice, I gather,’ I say. ‘Have this one.’

  ‘Oh, blissful joy. I suppose it’s to do with how women define themselves,’ Evie continues, flinging herself onto the enormous bed as I open the elaborately carved shutters. ‘I don’t really get that, either. I must be the purest imbecile. You’re you, and then you go and get knocked up, and then you’re not you any more, you’re this other person who has literally mutated overnight, like in Kafka except not into a cockroach. Do you want to do flat bouncing?’

  ‘Okay.’ I lie on the bed next to Evie and we bounce on our backs, a traditional family pursuit when supine. The aim is to gain enough momentum to rise off the bed by several inches while still horizontal.

  ‘I love flat bouncing. Anyway. Sorry to go on, very boring even to myself.’

  ‘No, it’s interesting. Tell you what I hate: when women play along with the idea that pregnancy and children make you giddy and thick. Oh, silly me – I used to have a degree but now my brain has turned to absolute mush, ha ha ha ha ha.’

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ says Evie, still bouncing. ‘I do really cute eccentric things and I’m super-forgetful, because I had a baby. Why, I’m practically retarded. Yay feminism!’

  ‘Can I play?’ says Flo, coming into the room. ‘Our bedroom’s amazing, by the way. It’s got a little room off it for the twins. Who are sleeping, thank the baby Jesus.’

  ‘Feel free,’ says Evie. ‘Join us. We’re flat bouncing.’

  ‘I can see,’ says Flo. ‘Shove up. What I hate most is the bitching. There’s this big fat lie that you’re all sisterly and in it together because you’ve all had babies, and it lasts about two minutes. After that it’s back-to-back competitiveness. Ooh, she’s stopped breastfeeding. Ooh, he’s already on solids and if you ask me it’s a bit early. Ooh, I don’t think she was watching him very carefully at the park because she took a call on her mobile. Ooh, she’s gone back to work. The ghastliness.’

  ‘Thank God we’re us,’ says Evie.

  ‘Ah, there you all are,’ says Kate, swishing in. ‘The fruits of my loins. How nice to be here with you in this simple North African home.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Kate,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Kate, waving her hand airily. ‘It’s a typical Moroccan house. They may be poor, but my God they have style.’

  ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Kate, stop pronouncing it like that,’ says Flo. ‘It’s “pore”, not “poo-er”.’

  ‘Don’t abuse me,’ says Kate. ‘I speak how I speak.’

  ‘The poo-er are always with us,’ says Flo.

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Flo. Anyway, what are you doing? Max is having a nap, Sam and Pat have taken Maisy and Cassie for a dip, Ed’s drinking mint tea downstairs, and I imagine Jake and Tamsin are in bed going at it hammer and tongs. Shall we go for a little stroll?’

  ‘Let me check with Ed,’ says Flo. ‘In case the babies wake up.’

  ‘Glorious news on that front. I was talking to Fatima about menus and she said she’d be delighted to babysit any number of children at any time.’

  ‘A simple homestead, with typical staff,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Kate.

  ‘Would they mind not knowing her?’ I ask Flo.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. They love strangers,’ says Flo. ‘Another one of my maternal failings. Show them a stranger and my children hurtle towards them, squealing with joy. So it�
��s got to be worth a try. Provided she’s kind. Is she kind, Kate? She seemed nice.’

  ‘I thought she had kind eyes,’ says Evie. ‘You can always tell. Sometimes mean people have kind faces, which is so wrong and upsetting, but you can always tell by the ole eyes.’

  ‘She is absolutely lovely,’ says Kate. ‘We had a long chat. I would trust her implicitly.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Flo, bouncing off the bed. ‘I’ll go and tell Ed.’

  ‘I need to decorate,’ I say. ‘Though I suppose I could do it when we get back.’

  ‘How do you mean, decorate?’

  ‘Well, I brought a few things from home. For, er, continuity.’

  ‘Rather mad of you,’ says Kate, ‘though I suppose not a bad idea. It’s marvellous to be here, but I can’t honestly say Marrakesh exudes Christmas spirit. I brought a few things too, actually.’

  ‘So did I,’ says Evie. ‘What shall we do, then? Shall we walk? I rather fancied the look of those horse-drawn carriages, except they were back in the new town. Do you remember, Clara, when you started me on Georgette Heyer? I used to want to go everywhere by phaeton.’

  ‘I was made for sedan chairs,’ sighs Kate. ‘I was born in the wrong century.’

  ‘I think we should walk,’ I say. ‘Get a bit lost and see what happens. We’re bang in the middle of everything – we don’t actually need any transport.’

  ‘I want to take Pat with us,’ says Flo.

  ‘Flo! She’s not a sort of creature you can carry about like a pet,’ says Kate.

  ‘I totally would, though, wouldn’t you? If she was chihuahua sized and I could stick her in my handbag,’ says Flo. ‘I would ensure she never left my side.’

  ‘I would feed her tiny treats,’ says Evie. ‘Wee snacks. She would be blissfully happy and well cared for.’

  ‘I’d brush her fur,’ says Flo.

  ‘I’d put ribbons on her ears,’ says Evie.

  ‘You are absurd, girls,’ says Kate. ‘Quite ludicrous. But fine – let’s ask her if she wants to come along. I’ll go. We’ll leave in ten minutes, to give Clara time to change out of her grotesque costume.’

  ‘It was for the plane,’ I say. ‘Leggings have a lot of give. They help me curl up into the foetal position while I scream on the inside. I’ll put on a dress.’

  ‘Mind your bosoms,’ says Kate. ‘The exposure thereof.’

  ‘I thought the dark blue, with the décolleté to the navel,’ I say. ‘And no underwear. No?’

  ‘Teach us, Mother. Teach us the ways of the local peoples,’ says Flo.

  ‘The poo-er locals. I thought the boob tube,’ says Evie. ‘Or maybe just a bikini top.’

  ‘Just pants,’ says Flo. ‘Let’s all go in our pants. And maybe go and hang outside a mosque. You have raised us well, Kate.’

  ‘You’re exasperating,’ says Kate. ‘All of you. I was just reminding you to be culturally sensitive. I could go out without a stitch on and nobody would bat an eyelid, but you all have the wrong sorts of faces. You promise much. I wonder why. None of you got that from me.’

  ‘What do you mean, “promise much”?’ I ask, suppressing a laugh.

  ‘She means we’re hot,’ says Evie.

  ‘She means we’re vulgar,’ says Flo.

  ‘She means we look come-hitherish,’ says Evie. ‘Not at all the vibe I was going for, which is much more noli me tangere glacial ice-queen.’

  ‘I mean nothing of the sort. I mean you look knowing. Rather wild.’

  ‘Grr,’ says Flo, making tiger shapes with her hands. ‘Roar. I’m a-swishin’ my tai-yul, mamma.’

  ‘Too silly,’ says Kate. ‘I’m going downstairs to find Pat now.’

  Fifteen minutes later we finally head out into the heaving street. Kate almost immediately suggests that our first port of call should be ‘a burka shop’, which given the amount of attention we are getting – perhaps my sisters and I are leering wildly and knowingly without being aware of doing it – doesn’t seem a bad idea.

  ‘Go and ask that lady where the nearest one is, Clara,’ Kate says, gesturing to a grandmotherly-looking woman.

  ‘I don’t know, Kate. It might be, you know, a tiny bit culturally dubious to stick ourselves inside burkas just because we don’t particularly enjoy being looked at.’

  ‘That is the entire point of burkas, you goose,’ says Kate, rolling her eyes. ‘That is why they were invented. To prevent ogling.’

  ‘I adore being looked at,’ says Evie.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know that one can just turn up and appropriate a religious custom in that way …’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Kate. ‘Don’t lecture me about local customs. I am exceptionally well travelled. Everyone will be thrilled. Not that many women wear them here. We’ll be among the special few.’

  ‘I still think –’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Now you’ve taken so long that the old woman has gone.’

  ‘The only reason people are staring is because of our clothes and because there are so many of us. It would help if we weren’t walking five abreast,’ I say.

  ‘And because of our come-hither faces,’ says Evie. ‘That promise much.’

  ‘And because of Pat’s sombrero,’ says Flo. ‘To be frank.’

  ‘Aye. It’s getting a fair bit of attention,’ says Pat, who is not tall and who looks like the cartoon drawings of Mexicans we used to do at school: a huge hat and two tiny legs. ‘Oops!’ she says, as she brushes the hat right into a man’s face. ‘Forgiving,’ she says to him.

  ‘Pat,’ says Kate. ‘Why have you been speaking in that odd way ever since we arrived?’

  ‘It’s easier for them to understand,’ says Pat matter-of-factly.

  ‘Ah. Right. Quite a lot of them speak English, you know. As well as French. And Arabic.’

  ‘I am speaking English,’ says Pat. ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘I want to learn it,’ says Evie. ‘How do you do it, Pat? How would you say, “I’d like a mint tea, please”?’

  ‘Greeny tea, choppy,’ says Pat, without thinking twice.

  ‘It’s basically speaking in tongues. The power is flowing through you, Pat, you marvel,’ says Flo. ‘How would you say, “I would like a remedy for my bunion”?’

  ‘Sore toot-toot. Fixy!’ says Pat instantly.

  ‘Open to hideous misinterpretation, that one,’ Kate murmurs.

  ‘How would you say, “Do you have it in the pink?” ’ asks Evie.

  ‘Rosy have prithee?’ says Pat. It’s like automatic writing: she doesn’t even have to think about it.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll do the speaking,’ says Kate. ‘Ah, now look. This seems interesting.’ We have arrived at what seems to be an enormous furniture barn; its doors are open. Elaborate, multicoloured glass lanterns like the ones in our house dangle enticingly from the ceiling; the tables are piled high with china, pottery, tea glasses, brass teapots, beaded quilts, cushion covers and so on and on: it’s ye olde traditional tourists’ Aladdin’s cave.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ says Flo. ‘It looks fabulous.’ Which indeed it is: beautiful things as far as the eye can see.

  ‘It’s that exotic here,’ says Pat, looking around. ‘Back home, we’d call it a pile of old junk. Don’t they sell anything new?’

  ‘Excellent point, Pat, to which the answer is no,’ says Kate. ‘It’s to do with class, tiresomely enough. We like old junk, partly because we think it shows we have souls and partly because we don’t think owning broken, rickety things makes us look like they’re all we can afford. You’d probably prefer something shiny and new from a department store.’

  ‘I would,’ says Pat. ‘Though I like a nice rug.’

  ‘Rugs over there,’ says the sales assistant, pointing to another room. ‘And may I offer you all some mint tea while you look around?’

  ‘He speaks English,’ Pat says. The man is standing three inches away from her. ‘He speaks English! Would you listen to that? Oh my days.’ She looks the man straight
in the eye, holds two erect thumbs aloft and says, louder than is necessary, ‘Speaky bueno!’

  The man from the shop smiles a tight little smile and gestures again towards the rug room, then claps his hands and asks a young boy to bring us tea.

  ‘I’d like one with cats on,’ Pat tells the man. ‘They had one in the Argos catalogue. Do you have anything with wee cats on? Taily-miaow?’ Still unconvinced by his demonstrably fluent English, she mimes being a cat, which involves an unbearably coy expression and doing weird paw-things with her hands, much like Flo’s tiger act earlier, but creepier. I love Pat, but I am beginning to find her Abroad-mode challenging.

  ‘It’s so disturbing when elderly people do little-kid things,’ says Evie. ‘I hate to look upon it.’

  ‘I can’t believe you said, “It’s to do with class,” ’ I tell Kate while Pat takes a seat and the men busy themselves unrolling carpets.

  ‘What?’ says Kate. ‘Of course it’s to do with class. Absurd not to say so when it’s perfectly true. My relationship with Pat is based on honesty.’

  ‘I know, Kate. But we’re not supposed to allude to the fact that we are relentlessly bourgeois. We’re supposed to be more sort of … elastic.’

  ‘Ludicrous,’ says Kate. ‘Can’t stand any of that nonsense. We’re perfectly elastic but I don’t have class shame, and neither does Pat. I don’t see what the issue is. She is more proletarian than us. Simple fact of life.’

  ‘Yah,’ says Flo. ‘Let’s buy some old junk.’

  The shop owner and his two assistants have by now laid a good two dozen rugs out for our delectation. We sit on some low banquettes while he explains the provenance of each, the differences in weave and pattern, the origins of the dyes that have been used – and, of course, the prices, which being in dirhams mean very little to any of us. The tea arrives; Pat automatically raises the glass to her nose before sniffing it deeply.

  ‘Pat!’ I say more sharply than I’d meant to. ‘It’s mint tea. It’s mint leaves and water and sugar. It’s delicious. Please don’t sniff it.’