by Farah Cook
Nursemira: Sure. Anything.
I bite my lip. I feel so sorry for Meena and hope it’s nothing serious. She seemed so happy about the live-in position when we last spoke. I wonder what’s happened? Did she regret her decision? I need to be there for her. I have to help her.
Thelonelymouse: Tomorrow morning? Meet me at the Caledonian Canal. We’ll find some place to go for breakfast. My treat.
Nursemira: I’m sorry. I can’t tomorrow.
That’s when I plan to take Shafi out to visit Mum. I want to take her out for a walk on the beach.
Thelonelymouse: Please Amira. You are the only person I can trust. I really need to talk to you as a friend. As a sister. Please! I am desperate.
I think of Mum and of her disappointment when she finds out I am not coming. I don’t blame her. I have only myself to blame. Perhaps I am a failure after all.
Nursemira: Don’t worry. I’ll see you then.
Meena types a message with her number in case I need to reach her and says she’ll meet me at eight o’clock. I save it on my phone and log out. I go upstairs and fall into bed, but I don’t sleep. I stay awake, worried. Guilt surges through me like a sharp sword. What am I doing? Failing Mum to meet with a stranger I met online.
I check my phone for emails. Nothing. The care home never confirmed my visit. Perhaps it’s because I said I’d bring Shafi with me. But that shouldn’t matter, should it?
Mum may not even remember I am coming tomorrow. And I can always pay her a visit the next day. I’ll just have to tell Shafi we’ll go some other time. It’s not like Mum remembers him anyway.
Mano jumps into bed and lays next to me. He looks at me with sleepy eyes.
‘I will make it up to her,’ I tell the cat. ‘Over the holidays, I’ll have Mum stay for longer. She can stay an entire week.’ He meows and places his chin on his paws.
It will be just like before.
Me, Mum and Mano.
Chapter 29
AFRAH
Saturday, 21 December 2019
I drift through the room like a stray cat, my hands touching the surfaces around me. I caress the walls, pieces of old furniture and lifeless oil paintings. I don’t feel anything. Things are just things, and these things do not belong to me. The memories they carry are blank. I look around. This is the life I live now.
A draft slips in and the lamp swings in the breeze. I shut the window tight. I turn.
My heart almost stops when I hear a strange tapping. There’s a sound of footsteps outside the room. Slow and deliberate. I swing open the door.
No one is there. The hallway is empty.
My fingers trace the walls as I travel down Morton Wing I imagine the deep blue sea bashing against the cliffs in the perpetual cold rain outside. How soothing it would be to be carried along by the waves, a gentle rock of comfort.
‘What are you doing out here?’ asks Nisha. Wrinkles bunch together as she creases her nose. ‘You shouldn’t be out at this time. The woman in white might see you.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ My mood darkens. ‘Who is the woman in white?’
The house feels cold and lifeless. An icy sensation itches at my spine.
‘I am going back to bed.’ She adjusts her nightgown and closes the door to her room.
I wander back to my room and creep under the duvet. I don’t sleep. The window is open and the wind rattles the room. A bad feeling wells up inside me. I hope that nothing bad has happened to Amira. And I pray my daughter pays me a visit soon.
We walk down the winding path that leads us out of Ravenswood Lodge and into the quiet of the forest. A flock of deer pass through the other side of a creek. I tell Zahra how Nadeem and I once saw thousands coming out of the woods like an army of soldiers.
We walk in silence towards the bay hugged by cliffs. Now at the shoreline, cold nicks my skin. The bitter sea wraps around us like a blanket. The current blows in strong and draws back towards the horizon. I look out at the sea under the shadow of the umbrella Zahra holds above our heads. We sit down on a tree trunk. Shoes nestling into the pebbles. Black, grey and white shiny stones wet from the rain.
‘When she was little, she loved coming to the sea.’
‘Which one of your daughters? Amira or Mona?’
I stare at her in surprise. ‘How do you, did I—’
‘You told me about your other daughter, Mona.’ She digs out a piece of paper from the inner pocket of her coat. ‘You said she was fourteen when she was with your husband in a fire and went missing. I went to the library and got this for you.’
I take the paper from her and unfold it. It’s a front-page news article describing the tragedy.
‘It took me some time to find it. Afrah, it happened over thirty years ago.’
Zahra relates to my pain. She knows how it feels to lose someone you love.
‘The night of the fire I lost everything.’ I press a hand against my lips, strangling my sobs. The heavy burden of their loss presses hard against my chest.
‘You still have your daughter, Amira. But I understand, losing your daughter and your husband is a deep wound, which can never heal. When I lost my parents, I was devastated. I was fortunate I had the love of my auntie. But there’s nothing like the love of parents.’
Wind blows in from the sea, the article ripples in the wind and sweeps out of sight. Zahra runs to catch it. But it’s too late. It is gone with the wind.
I struggle to breathe. ‘I never told Amira. She doesn’t know—’
‘What are you afraid of, Afrah? Did something else happen?’ She looks at me disbelievingly. ‘You ought to tell her the truth.’
I shake my head. ‘I was afraid she’d ask questions. Afraid she might try to contact Nadeem’s friends. I didn’t want her to have anything to do with them. They’d tell her lies – turn my own daughter against me like Mona turned against me.’
‘Is that because you felt mistreated by them? You mentioned you were accused of stealing?’
‘Sultana, the mother, with her pride, her arrogance. She looked down on me, on us, for not having money. We were an ordinary Pakistani family. Just happy and living within our means in a working-class neighbourhood. Nadeem didn’t have a fancy job. He was a teacher in the local school. I was taking small jobs, like sewing. We weren’t good enough in their eyes. The more I wanted Mona to stay away, the more time she wanted to spend with that awful girl, Naima. She was so angry with me for not seeing her. I couldn’t I tell her about what had happened. She wouldn’t have believed me.’
‘What do you mean, tell her what?’
‘Have I told you the story? The allegation was absurd. I never laid hands on Sultana’s jewellery. We had an argument. I never told anyone about it.’
‘What was the argument about?’ She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘It’s okay, you can tell me, Afrah, don’t be afraid.’
‘I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything about that fateful day she came to the house.’
Chapter 30
AFRAH
Saturday, 15 August 1970
I raise my head from the toilet. Wipe clean my mouth with the sleeve of my wool kameez. I pull myself up to the sink. The cold water pouring from the tap feels soothing against my skin. I hear Nadeem call out for me.
‘What’s taking you so long, Afrah Bibi?’
I tell him I am coming and rush out like a dutiful wife to attend to his needs over mine. He removes the sleep from his eyes when I draw the curtains. A sunny day breaks through.
‘This ongoing morning sickness must be terrible for you,’ he says.
I touch my belly. ‘I’m fine. Except for too much spicy food. Those green chillies you bought from the market, I was generous using them in every chutney and every dish.’
He laughs, I think, to fill the empty vacuum. ‘Whatever you do, do not use chillies in anything you prepare for lunch today. Hashim isn’t particularly fond of spicy foods. Neither is Sultana.’
I almost forgot his friends were c
oming over. ‘Will they be alone?’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Sultana’s parents will also be joining. Pashtun families are close, and ever since they had their baby her parents —’
‘I get it.’ I swallow hard, remembering Sultana’s words. ‘When are you going to have a baby of your own? It’s been three years already. I say, go to our family doctor – Dr Mohsin – and have yourself checked out.’ I didn’t tell her I was pregnant. ‘What is worse, people are talking. Asking all sorts of questions, like: “Is Afrah barren?” Well, are you?’ She stroked her matka-like belly with one hand while the other was pressed firmly against her back. I didn’t answer.
Baby Naima was born in July. Milky skin and a head full of light brown hair. And those green eyes must be a result of their Pathan genes, according to Nadeem, who mentioned it with a hint of admiration. After she was born, Sultana kept her hidden for days, swaddled tight in a blanket where only a scrap of her pink skin was visible. When she had the special amulet made to protect Naima from Nazar, the baby was shown to the world. And what a show it was. They hosted a magnificent party at their house. Hashim arranged for a singer to perform. Waiters served exotic food on silver platters. Sultana wore the most beautiful white silk sari I had ever seen. And her ears, arms and hands were adorned in gold.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say to Nadeem, and spread a fake smile across my face like a clay mask. ‘I’ll cook an impressive meal to their liking.’
Nadeem looks happy. He’s not worried. Why should he be? He’s not pregnant, with swollen hands and feet, having to cook all day in the kitchen.
At the front of the house, a black car parks in the free space. Mercedes-Benz S-class, I hear my husband mumble.
‘Who do they think they are,’ says Nadeem. ‘Showing off like that with their new car? Just because they have money doesn’t mean—’ I nudge him.
‘Areee, kush nahi hota, it doesn’t matter,’ I say.
I open the door and put on a big smile. My muscles ache. I release the tension from my face when no one smiles back. Sultana carries a rich and sweet scent. I think she smells like jasmine. She walks straight in, nodding at me. Several rings sit on her fingers, embellished with red and green stones. Gold earrings with pearls and diamonds swing from her lobes. The gold bracelets on her wrist clink when she adjusts the pehlu of her peacock blue silk sari, embellished with gold strings. I can tell by the design that she is wearing another one of her Banarasi. Purple, red, green, in shimmering treads.
They all sit at the dining table, baby Naima nestled in Nadeem’s arms. Sultana corrects him, tells him not to hold her daughter that way, but this way. Hashim glances over but doesn’t really seem to care. He writes something down in a notebook.
‘Always working,’ Sultana’s mother shakes her head. Her father reveals sleepy eyes under a bushy set of brows.
We perch around the coffee table after lunch and I serve mithai and jalebi. Hashim helps himself to gulab jamun. Sultana hands him a napkin, a gesture to wipe the grease from his beard. She takes a ladoo from the tray, eats it in one mouthful. I offer to refill her tea, remove the cosy from the pot, its threads shredding. She declines.
‘No thank you, I need to lie down to feed baby Naima. She is hungry.’ Tiny red lips puckered in search for milk, press against Sultana’s bosom.
I take her upstairs to our bedroom. ‘Please can you hold her while I untangle my sari? She hands me the baby and takes off some of her many pieces of heavy jewellery. I stare at the girl’s face, plump and puffy. Light as a feather, she’s in a white cotton dress. She smells sweet like honey. She clutches onto my dupatta when I pass her back into her mother’s arms.
‘The wool, isn’t it itchy on the skin?’ asks Sultana. I don’t reply. I look down at my plain clothes. ‘It must be, just look at her.’ she shows me the baby turned red. ‘You’ve given my daughter a rash.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’ I shut the door, catching a glimpse of Sultana’s cracked nipple, large as a pointy fingertip. I feel a tingle in my own and I shiver.
Sultana’s parents are taking a nap on the sofa. Heads resting against one another. Outside, Nadeem is chatting to Hashim while he peers over the rose bush looking bored. I join them, absorbing the sun smiling in a cloudless sky. The grass is soggy from last night’s rain, roots sinking into brown squelchy mud. I don’t lift up the bottom of my shalwar, drifting in patches of mud. My body begins to itch. I will change into something else. Now, I have reason to.
Sultana is done feeding baby Naima. She puts her on the bed, her little chest rising and falling with soft flows of breath. Sultana puts on her jewellery, smoothly slipping on her gold bracelets, six on one, and six on the other wrist. She also puts on a heavy looking gold necklace, earrings and several rings.
I open the wardrobe and take out a blue cotton sari, which I quickly wrap around my body. She notices the muddy edges of my shalwar, which I shove into the laundry basket. I don’t tell her I think the wool itches. That would prove her point about what she said earlier. Sultana only wears silk and chiffon.
‘Soon you will also have your baby in your arms. Make sure Nadeem gets you something nice.’ She shows me her bracelets. ‘Hashim bought them from Saudi, twenty-two carats each. A gift for having Naima. I have a kada cuff also. Special custom-made design. What do you have?’ I show her mine, a simple set of six gold bracelets. ‘You should have them melted into one big bangle. I can show you the design of my kada.’
‘I like what I have,’ I say.
‘Here, why don’t you try them.’ She hands me her bracelets. ‘They are much nicer.’
‘No, no.’ I pull back. ‘I said, I like mine.’
‘Nothing beautiful about plain and simple jewellery. So boring.’ She takes offence in what I said, her nose twitching from side to side. ‘What’s to like?’ she laughs. ‘You barely have fifty grams worth of jewellery. Here, give them to me.’
I refuse and hide my arm behind my back.
‘Even baby Naima has gold bracelets worth more than yours.’ She shows me the baby bracelet, beautiful with black beads and diamonds. ‘See, twenty-two carats. Custom-made and costs more than £1,500 . . . Probably more than what Nadeem earns in a month.’
‘My husband makes enough for the both of us.’
‘Does he now? And when you have children, then what?’ she says curtly. ‘Would you like to have my kada? Here, have it. I can buy ten just like these.’
‘Really Sultana, that’s very kind of you but—’
‘But what Afrah, huh? What?’ She stares at my bracelets. ‘Give them to me. They look shameful. At least wear something decent.’ She tries to force her bangles onto my wrist again. I tell her to stop, but she doesn’t listen. Jewellery is a woman’s treasure, her safety gifted by her parents when she leaves their home upon marriage. They may not be fancy but my bracelets have an emotional value that cannot be measured in any amount of money.
‘No,’ I push her back. ‘I don’t want your charity.’
‘What did you say? Badtameez. Is that how you treat my kindness?’ Sultana’s breath is heavy. ‘I would have thought you knew how to behave around your husband’s friends. You are nothing but a common girl. You will never be of our standard. Who do you think you are in your itchy and cheap wool clothes, and worthless jewellery?’
I want to leave, but she blocks my way.
‘You have no idea what I can do to you,’ she says, smiling predatorily.
‘Sultana, why would you say that? We are like family.’ I feel my heart twist as if she’s stabbed me with a knife.
She laughs, glaring at me. ‘That’s why you treat me like this in your home? Like a stranger. You barely look at me or speak to me. Are you jealous?’
‘I am not.’ I look right at her. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I ignore you. Let’s forget this incident,’ I reach out for her and apologise.
‘No, Afrah.’ Her cheeks are pink. ‘And don’t ever think we are like family. The only reason we remain friends
is because Hashim feels sorry for Nadeem.’
‘Well, he has nothing to feel sorry about. We are happy.’ I try to leave the room, but she pushes me away. I fall to the floor, but don’t do anything. I sit there while she goes through my things.
‘Pitiful choice of clothes, don’t you think?’ she laughs, an evil cackle.
Her words crawl over my skin and climb through my flesh. I get up and tell her to stop. I grab her wrist and push her away. ‘You are nothing, Afrah. You have no style or taste. I will make sure—’
Tears burn my cheeks. ‘Let me go.’
She blocks the door when I try to leave. I force my way past her, through the doorway. I hear her say, ‘I will make sure everyone knows what a common girl you are.’
I stand at the end of the landing, my head raised. Sultana frowns at me with pure malice. The look in her eyes tells me she isn’t going to let this go. She is thirsty. Thirsty for a fight.
That night Sultana calls to announce she is on her way back to our house.
‘What for?’ I ask. ‘Everything OK?’ I glance at the clock. It’s almost ten o’clock.
My husband shakes his head, puts down the receiver. She forgot something in our bedroom. Have you noticed anything? I tell him I haven’t. Creases form on his forehead. His hand scratches the back of his neck. He heads upstairs without a word.
Sultana goes straight into our bedroom while Hashim waits in the Mercedes-Benz.
‘I left my gold bracelets on the nightstand,’ she says, pointing to the vacant spot, illuminated by a pool of light from the bedside lamp. ‘They are not there. Afrah where are they?’
I look everywhere. Under the bed, beneath the bedding, in the drawers. ‘I haven’t seen your bracelets, Sultana. Sure you left them in here?’