by Francis King
He shrugged and again tugged at the fringe of the moccasin. Suddenly she noticed that that morning he must have gone out without shaving. He was always so particular about looking just so. There was a dark shadow of stubble on the lower half of his face. In a weird way, it made him look even more handsome, she thought. But it was odd that he hadn’t shaved. Perhaps he had had some premonition.
‘Do you?’ she persisted. ‘D’you think you can find something else?’
‘I must try.’
‘Perhaps I can ask Mr Jarrett – the chappy who runs the Rat and Parrot. He was a chum of Eric’s. Sometimes I had a real job keeping Eric away from that place.’
‘Yes, a pub good. I like that. Please, Mamma. Yes, ask him.’
‘He’s quite a hard taskmaster. I remember that one of the girls there told me that. Always fussing and chivvying them around.’
Mehmet laughed. ‘I deal with that.’
Meg glanced over to him, her eyes brimming with love. ‘Yes, you can deal with anything.’
For the rest of that evening, he did not watch television, as he usually did when he had not decided to go out, he never told her where, but instead sat perched on the edge of an armchair in a corner of the sitting room, head bowed over one of the puzzles that from time to time he brought back to the flat. Familiar to her from her Pakistani dentist’s waiting room, she had long since decided that these puzzles had become an obsession with him. In this one, there were eight balls that, skidding erratically, like bubbles of mercury, hither and thither, had to be coaxed one by one through an elaborate maze into eight holes. Usually, frowning in concentration and sometimes biting his lower lip, he eventually succeeded. But on this occasion, though he stuck at the task all through Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and some minutes of an old Astaire and Rogers film, he never did so.
‘No luck?’ she looked across to ask him when she yet again heard a muffled grunt of rage.
Without answering he threw the puzzle across the room on to a chair opposite to him.
‘Fuck!’
He had never before used that word in her presence. ‘Mehmet! Please!’
Without even a word of apology, he jumped to his feet and ran out, leaving the door open behind him. Soon she heard, far, far louder than usual, the sound of Albanian music blaring from his room.
Next day, soon after noon, Meg dragged herself up to the Rat and Parrot and then sat on and on, a glass of Guinness on the table before her, while waiting for Mr Jarrett to come back from the betting shop.
‘Hello, sweetheart!’ he greeted her, with obvious pleasure, on his return. ‘ Long time, no see.’ He appraised her and then looked briefly at the heavy stick with the rubber ferrule resting across the chair opposite to her. ‘You look a lot better.’
‘I am better,’ she said. ‘ I’m having what they call a remission.’ As always she brought out the word as though it were a foreign one.
‘Well, long may it last.’
Since the bar was virtually empty, he went and fetched himself a gin and tonic and then, having moved the stick to another chair, placed himself opposite to her. Again he appraised her. He had always thought that she was a handsome woman and, after Eric’s disappearance, had even wondered whether there might not be something doing there. But then she had fallen so ill, and illness always put him off, he could not do with it.
They began to talk of general things. Mr Jarrett produced a series of frisky innuendoes, and Meg alternated between looking shocked by them and throwing back her head and laughing so hard that the tears welled out of her eyes. Then, at last, she broached the subject of a job behind the bar or in the kitchen for Mehmet.
‘Yes, I know who you mean,’ Mr Jarrett said, surprising Meg, who had had no idea that Mehmet had ever entered the Rat and Parrot. ‘That Albanian, yes? He comes in here from time to time – usually for a game of pool.’ The game of pool was also a surprise for Meg. ‘Nice bloke. Always quick to buy his rounds – unlike a lot of those foreign ones. But’ – regretfully he shook his head – ‘ I just daren’t take him on. It’s different now, you see. Last year I had that Hungarian girl. Lili. You may remember her. That was OK, no one was any the wiser, cash in the hand. But now …
They’ve become strict, very strict. Oh, yes. I could get the brewery a hefty fine. And then – well, I might be out on my ear.’
When Meg told Mehmet of Mr Jarrett’s response, he was less crestfallen than she had feared. ‘Yes, I told you,’ he said. ‘ Not easy now. But … I must continue to try.’
She admired the way in which he refused to be worried by the setback. She herself was worried sick.
Some ten days later, Mehmet came home after an absence of many hours to announce that he had got a job – not a good job but a job – as a kitchen porter in an Arab restaurant off the Edgware Road. He did not really like Arabs. But he could not be choosy, he must take what was offered.
‘But a kitchen porter!’ Meg exclaimed. ‘You’re too good for that, dear. You’re an educated man. You can’t do a job like that.’
‘I must. Nothing else.’
‘Oh, you poor thing! It’s terrible.’
He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Not too terrible, Mamma. Mehmet will survive.’
‘Well, no doubt Mehmet will. But Meg feels terribly sorry for him.’ When he spoke of himself in that way in the third person, it always for some reason made her feel uneasy.
Mehmet would leave for work in the restaurant in the early afternoon and then return long after midnight. Meg would lie awake listening for him. But when she at last heard the key in the door and then the creak of the loose floorboards as he tiptoed to his room, followed by the banshee wailing of the hot-water system, she restrained herself from calling out to him, since she had guessed that he did not like it. Instead, at last at peace, she would curl her body into a foetal position, put a hand under her cheek, and at once fall asleep. When she awoke in the morning, long before he had, she would sniff as, leaning on her stick, she heaved herself along the passage to the bathroom. There was still a residual smell of rotting food in the air, and by now she knew that he brought it in with him. No doubt one of the poor lamb’s jobs was to haul away the rubbish from bins crammed to overflowing with leftovers, and their stink then got on to his clothes.
One day, almost a month later, Mehmet was clearly brooding on something when he came into the kitchen, long after eleven, to have his usual breakfast of cereal, toast and honey, and Nescafé made in the mug which he himself always washed out and which, he had made clear, was for his use alone. He had once told Meg he’d been given the mug, which had Shakespeare’s face printed on it, as a souvenir by an American tourist met by chance on a visit to Stratford.
Mehmet was silent once he had greeted Meg with a wan good morning and a peck on the cheek. Meg, who had also made herself a cup of coffee when making his, sat opposite to him, with an expectant look on her face. Something was up. Surely he would tell her?
Finally, her patience exhausted, she said: ‘What is it, dear?’
He raised the coffee cup and stared down into it. If Nescafé left any dregs, he might have been seeking an answer about his future from them. Then he said: ‘That job finished.’
‘Oh, Mehmet!’ She clasped her hands together, as though to implore him to confess to her that it was not true, he was only pulling her leg. ‘How did that happen? Did the – did the police make a problem?’
‘No. I made problem.’
‘How on earth –?’
‘I was idiot.’
He began to tell her what had happened; and, as he did so, she suddenly thought that his English seemed suddenly to have become even less fluent. Could the shock of losing his job have done that to him?
It transpired that that ‘ bloody Syrian’ (as Meg would always now refer to him) had been paying Mehmet only two pounds an hour – ‘Can you imagine, two pounds an hour?’ – even though he was working halfway through the night. There was another illegal who was getting the same pittan
ce. But the regular workers were getting three pounds fifty, even though they were always leaving the heaviest jobs to the two illegals. Eventually, Mehmet had decided that it wasn’t good enough, and before leaving the restaurant for home had told the proprietor that he must have a raise. What sum did he have in mind? The proprietor, who was young and graceful, with full, soft lips, soft hands and a soft, silky moustache, looked up at him with an oddly yearning expression as he put the question. He sounded amenable, even eager to do what Mehmet asked. But when Mehmet said ‘Three pounds fifty,’ the proprietor gave a high-pitched, jeering laugh. Out of the question. He couldn’t possibly pay as much as that. Didn’t Mehmet realize – it was possible to get an illegal Indian or Pakistani to work, not for two pounds, but for one pound fifty an hour?
Mehmet had said nothing more. He had collected his belongings and, still silent, had walked out of the restaurant, never to return.
‘Are you very worried?’
He nodded. ‘ Not very worried but, yes, worried. And angry.’ He sipped from the by now cold coffee left in the mug. Then he said: ‘What worries most is how Mehmet pay Mamma.’
‘Pay me? Pay me for what?’ Obtusely, at first she did not understand.
‘For room. Rent. Now I have a little money, but very little. I leave restaurant and do not ask for my money. One week.’
‘Oh, Mehmet, how silly of you! Why did you do that?’
‘I am Albanian.’ he said in a cross voice, as though that explained it.
‘Yes, the Albanians are a proud people,’ Meg said, having read or heard that somewhere. ‘But how are you going to manage now?’
‘I can always manage. But …’ He raised both hands and then dropped them to his knees. ‘Maybe it take long time to find other job. And then – what about rent?’
‘Oh, that’s the last thing to worry about! Forget it! What does worry me is what you’re going to live on.’
‘But I must pay rent. You need rent. Yes, Mamma?’
‘Well, the rent is certainly useful. I won’t say it isn’t. But there it is. When you have a job, then you can start paying me back by instalments.’ But she knew already that she would never keep him to that. She felt an extraordinary secret happiness at the thought of his living on in the flat for nothing. ‘In any case, you do so much for me. So to let you off the rent for the time being is only a small return.’
‘Mehmet does not do so much for Mamma now. You are much better, no need.’
‘You do a lot for me just by being here.’
Impulsively she put a hand on his knee, and slowly he then covered it with his own.
Meg never liked it when Sylvia arrived unexpectedly.
This time they had hardly greeted each other when Meg said in an irritable, aggrieved voice: ‘ I do wish you’d give me some sort of warning. Then I could get things nice and ready for you.’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly. I am your sister, aren’t I?’ Sylvia pulled off her gloves and then her navy-blue, military-looking overcoat with its wide collar, heavily-padded shoulders and large brass buttons. ‘You don’t have to make any preparations for me, for God’s sake. I happened to be driving up Kingsland Road after one of my committee meetings and I suddenly thought, Hey, I haven’t seen Meg for an age, why don’t I look in on her?’
‘Well, anyway, it’s nice to see you,’ Meg conceded grudgingly. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
Sylvia pulled a face. ‘Oh, Meg, haven’t you learned after all these years? Coffee never agrees with me. But’ – she looked at the watch on her wrist – ‘is it too early for a drink?’
‘In my view, it’s never too early for a drink.’ Meg began to scramble out of her armchair, hands pushing down on its arms and slippered feet pressing on the floor.
‘Oh, don’t get up! Don’t get up!’
But by then Meg had succeeded in raising herself. ‘You can see that I’m much better than when last you saw me.’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful. A miracle.’
‘It’s only a remission, mind. Who knows how long it will last?’
‘Well, some remissions last for ages – even for a lifetime. There’s this colleague at the school, cancer, a mastectomy. The poor dear was told, oh, ten, fifteen years ago that the cancer had already spread all over the place. But there she still is, bright as a button, busy as ever, seemingly cured.’
‘What d’you fancy?’
‘Have you got some sherry?’
‘You know I can’t abide the stuff. I’ve got – let me see – vodka, gin, Scotch. Oh, yes, and some liqueur of some sort, I can’t remember what. Eric brought it back from that last cruise of his. He didn’t like it and I didn’t like it.’
‘What about some tonic water?’
‘Yes, I can manage that. But can you really drink it?’ Meg pulled a face. ‘Like drinking quinine.’
‘Well, it does have quinine in it, you know.’ Sylvia began to ease down the cuticles on the fingers of one hand with the fingers of another.
‘Lucky I asked Mehmet to bring me in two bottles yesterday when he went up to Safeway for some fags. It’s a scandal the way that tobacconist on the corner charges twenty p more than Safeway for a packet of Superkings Light.’
‘You’re not smoking, are you?’ Sylvia said, as she took the tonic, in its smeary tumbler, from her sister.
‘Oh, lordy, no!’ Meg lied. ‘Well, just one now and again. But Mehmet smokes them.’
Sylvia sipped daintily; then burped behind a raised hand as the bubbles exploded in her throat. ‘You must have read about the dangers of passive smoking.’
‘Oh, who cares! I’m far more likely to die of this MS thing than of breathing in other people’s smoke.’
‘I didn’t know that he was still with you. I thought … Now why did I think that? He lost his job, didn’t he?’
Meg was pouring herself some gin. She splashed in a finger and then, after a moment’s thought, head tilted to one side as though she were listening for something, splashed in another. She would often say that Sylvia was enough to drive one to drink. ‘He lost two jobs. His problem is not having a work permit.’
‘Does he have a residence permit?’
Mehmet had repeatedly told Meg not to reveal the details of his situation to anyone. She wished now that she had not said anything to Sylvia. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said evasively, hiding her face in her tumbler.
‘I bet he hasn’t!’ Sylvia took another dainty sip. ‘It’s a disgrace that so many of these people have managed to hang on in this country without either work permits or residence permits.’
‘I feel sorry for them.’
‘What about feeling sorry for the English people they keep out of jobs?’
Meg decided not to answer.
‘What about his rent?’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, is he paying it?’
Meg, the younger of the two sisters, had learned as a child that it was useless to tell a lie to Sylvia since, uncannily, she would always sniff it out. ‘From time to time.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, sometimes he gets a temporary job and then, well, he tries to pay me something. He’s good about that. Once he gets a permanent job, then I’m sure I’ll get the whole caboodle.’
‘You certainly won’t! I’ll take a bet on that.’
Over the years there had been innumerable unsettled bets between Meg and Sylvia; they were constantly telling each other ‘I’ll take a bet on that’, only to lose all subsequent interest in the outcome.
‘He’s honest,’ Meg said firmly. ‘Absolutely honest. He’s been here months and I’ve never missed a thing. I leave my bag around, he could easily pinch something. No, in due course, he’ll pay me everything he owes me. I’m dead sure of that.’
‘Well – we’ll see. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Over the years the two sisters had warned each other of innumerable disasters, few of which had ever occurred.
‘Are you sure you wouldn�
��t like some vodka or gin?’
‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Thank you.’ Sylvia looked around her, with that half-pitying, half-contemptuous expression to which Meg had long since become habituated. The Highgate house was always spotless and neat. Sylvia was constantly saying that, if there was one thing that she hated, it was mess. Mess was something to be excluded as strenuously from her life as from her house. ‘ That cover could do with a clean,’ she said, indicating the sagging sofa, piled high with magazines and newspapers and with three of Mehmet’s puzzles in one corner.
‘A lot of things here could do with a clean. Fiona is a dear, I’ve become very fond of her, but …’
‘You should complain about her to the social security people.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of doing that! She’s become a real friend. Fortunately Mehmet does his share. Muslims aren’t domesticated, one just has to face that, but if there’s something really urgent to be done, I can always rely on him.’
‘You always make him sound like an angel,’ Sylvia said derisively.
Meg wanted to retort: Well, he’s the nearest to one that you’re ever likely to come across. But she merely sighed and said: ‘ He’s a good sort.’
Sylvia began to speak about her family. Had she told Meg about Dennis? After the handover in Hong Kong, she and Paul had been so afraid that the business might be affected and that he would have to come home. But things seemed to be getting better and better. Oh, it had been such a relief! And Mo was now pregnant and the two of them, she and Dennis, were just praying for a girl. Francine was still up at Somerville. She had got over that anorexic phase, thank goodness, largely due to this wonderful man she had been seeing at the Maudsley, yes, all that was now far behind her, and it really looked as if she were on her way to a First. PEP, they called it – Philosophy, Economics and something or other. Politics, was it? She was also tipped as a future president of the Union, they had women presidents from time to time now, oh, and she had just been cast as Perdita in a college production of that Shakespeare play, she could not for the life of her remember the title for the moment, her memory was getting so bad …