by Sara Alexi
‘I don’t think two rabbits and some babies is going to be enough to get an eviction order.’ Mrs Todman pulls her cardigan more tightly around her. Saabira does not find the wind off the moors as cold as she did when she first arrived. In fact, these days she considers the breeze refreshing, invigorating. Today, with the sun out, there is warmth to it and she wonders if there is an aroma to the purple flowers that cover so much of the common ground.
‘What about the smell, then?’ Mr Brocklethwaite persists.
‘Well, I for one am grateful the wind is blowing the way it is right now,’ says Dawn Todman. ‘But yes, we can look into that. But it will take longer. Perhaps the best option is to get in touch directly with the landlord. Do we know who that is?’
‘You are talking as if Cyril isn’t right here!’ Saabira’s voice comes out high-pitched.
Mr Brocklethwaite looks first at Saabira, then at Mrs Todman, who is looking at the ground, and then at Cyril who is scanning the open moor, no doubt for signs of white tails and long ears.
Mr Brocklethwaite begins to say something but then starts to cough. The wind is changing again and Mrs Todman is inching away from the back of the house towards the moor path, back the way she came. Saabira watches the woman pull the sleeve of her cardigan over her nose.
Mr Brocklethwaite’s coughing continues with no one coming to his aid until Cyril, eyes still on the open ground, slaps him hard on his back. Mr Brocklethwaite nearly falls forward with the force, his flat cap shifting over his forehead.
‘I – I could have you done for assault,’ he stammers, putting his hat straight. His face is red, blood vessels showing in his eyes as he regains his breath.
‘Oh, come on,’ Mrs Todman says through her bunched-up sleeve. ‘Let’s not get ridiculous.’ The pair step through the gate and head towards the back of Mr Brocklethwaite’s house. Saabira wonders if she should be concerned to be breathing in whatever it is that they are both so keen to get away from. After all, every smell is particulate.
‘You’re right. We should get in touch with the landlord. But you know what, I’ve just realised summat.’ Mr Brocklethwaite seems very pleased with himself suddenly. As he steps out of view into his own backyard his voice can still be heard behind the stack of cages. ‘He was renting off Archie and Archie died – what? Nearly two year back.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Mrs Todman follows him.
‘I’m saying he might not be a legal tenant, that’s all. Who’s he paying rent to? I can’t think why I didn’t think of this sooner.’ He sounds excited.
‘Well, if that’s the case he cannot stay.’ The words are stated very seriously by Mrs Todman, but Mr Brocklethwaite titters.
‘You’ll take a sherry with me and t’ wife before you head back then, Mrs Todman?’ he asks.
‘Dawn, me name’s Dawn,’ she replies. The back door closes and no more can be heard.
Chapter 16
Aaman is back later than usual, and Jay has been fed and bathed and is now sleepy.
‘Hello, my love. I am sorry I am so late, but the bus did not come for nearly an hour and then two came at once.’
‘And you were waiting outside in the cold?’ Saabira helps him off with his big English coat and he takes his shoes off with a deep sigh.
‘Never mind, I am home now.’ His shoulders drop.
She moves in, her arms around his waist, her head against his chest. The days seem long without him. Aaman hesitates for only a second and then his arms are around her too and he is kissing her hair, enjoying the moment, his tiredness forgotten, or at least pushed to one side.
‘Did you go to the phone box? Did you talk to anyone back in the village?’ His voice is slightly muffled as his lips kiss her under her ears and then move down into her neck.
Last night she shed a few tears for her loneliness and the lack of familiar faces around her. It is a feeling that comes and goes these days and is not as bad the insistent nagging ache in her chest that she had felt soon after they moved in, once the new house was in order and Aaman going to work every day had become a routine. It is just that her days seem so long and, except for the care of Jay, without purpose. There is too much time to think. She misses her family, her neighbours, the buffalo, the chickens, even the dust that she used to spend so much time sweeping from the house. Last night she missed her old life so much it was a relief to curl up in Aaman’s arms and cry, just for a little while, just to release the feelings rather than bottle them up.
‘No, I did not go to the phone box. Today I did not feel the need to spend all that money phoning home.’
‘I think that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to come into Bradford with me one morning. We can meet for lunch and later come home together. Bradford has many shops and so many of the owners of the smaller shops speak Urdu, and there are interesting places to visit.’
‘But what about Jay? She still needs her naps?’
‘She would be fine, would she not? She can sleep resting against you, or we can get a…’ He pauses, and a frown passes across his brow, ‘Ha! I am not sure what they are called. Like a pram, but for older children. I see a lot of those being pushed through the town on my way to work. Talking of which, how is my beautiful daughter?’
Jay is on the rug by the fireplace. Saabira lit the fire half an hour ago to make the room cheerful for her husband’s return. Their daughter’s face is illuminated by the flames, the orange dancing on her brown skin. The doll she was holding is abandoned and she makes an attempt to stand as Aaman approaches her. Yesterday she walked three steps from the sofa to his outstretched hands.
Taking a cloth from the kitchen sink, Saabira opens the oven door and steam permeates the room. She stirs the vegetables and closes the door again.
‘That smells wonderful, my love.’ Aaman has Jay in his arms now, and she turns and reaches for the doll. With the fire behind them it is the perfect picture. It may not be home but, with the curtains drawn, and the sound of the wind creating a background hum, there is something very seductive about the English autumn.
‘And how was your day?’ Saabira asks.
‘It was good. Every day I get quicker at programming and I am always learning something new. It is very exciting.’
‘The other programmers, are they all very experienced?’
‘Some are, but some know less than me. How was your day?’ He sits down with Jay leaning against his shoulder, her eyes closing.
‘She tried to eat by herself but she made such a mess.’ Saabira moves towards them both, strokes the curve of her daughter’s back. ‘She was using a spoon but she kept using it with the bowl of the spoon upside down and she could not understand why it worked when I used it and not when she did, but I think she got it in the end.’
‘Ah, my clever girl,’ Aaman replies.
‘I had a strange day.’ She lays the table. ‘I invited Cyril for lunch and I sat with him.’
‘You are a good neighbour.’ Aaman slowly lowers himself into one of the seats at the table with his daughter still resting against him. Saabira takes out the aloo gobi from the oven and puts it down on the table, and then gently takes Jay and lays her back in her nest of cushions on the sofa. Saabira leaves a bracelet with her; she twists and turns it in her small hand, feels it in her mouth.
‘Mr Brocklethwaite is the man who lives above Cyril and he came with a woman to try to remove both Cyril and his animals. Mr Brocklethwaite was very harsh in the way he spoke, and he had no time for Cyril at all. He reminded me of old Barkat, do you remember? Aswab’s cousin, who had only one eye and was always quarreling with the neighbours? Do you remember, once your daadi tried to reason with him, and he tried to push her into the buffalo dung pile!’
Aaman shakes his head in memory of such disrespect to his grandmother.
‘Not everyone has your view of the world, Saabira.’ Aaman holds his plate out to her.
‘But also, the woman that was here the other day came again. I suppose she is just
doing her job, trying to keep the peace, but she has a way of making me feel as if she has insulted me.’
‘Perhaps it is just the different culture. What is rude in one place is acceptable in another. But is all this fuss just over a few rabbits? Why does Cyril not just get rid of the lot?’
‘How can you say that?’ Saabira smiles as she speaks. ‘You, who told me how you cried as a boy when your goat was taken for the village feast?’
‘Ah, yes, well, she was different, we were friends.’ Aaman selects a roti and starts on the potatoes and cauliflower in a thick spicy sauce that Saabira has placed before him.
‘Anyway, I do not think it is just the rabbits. It is also the smell, judging by the way they were reacting.’
‘I am just glad the wind tends to blow up the street. It is a pretty invasive smell.’ Aaman takes a mouthful of food, chews, closes his eyes, breathes through his nose and swallows. ‘This is really good, my love. It is taking me straight back to my mother’s house.’
‘I think perhaps he just needs some help. No doubt he is not very good at cleaning, and maybe it has all got too much for him. Your mother, she taught me this dish.’
‘The ginger is perfect.’
‘I was going to say something, you know. Offer to help, but I wonder how he would take such an offer from me?’
‘You are very kind, Saabira. Can you pass me the jug of water, please?’
‘It might be better if a man was to offer help. You know, so as not to show him up.’
‘Yes, perhaps you are right. This is so good, I hadn’t realised quite how hungry I was.’
‘So will you talk to him?’
‘Me?’
‘You are very sensitive in the way you talk to people. You would never offend anyone. But if it is the smell that is causing the problem for our neighbour then I am sure we can help him with that. Can’t we? Then maybe they won’t be so keen to make him move. Also, if the smell bothers you, it will be an opportunity to remedy the situation.’
Aaman chews thoughtfully.
‘But I am bombarding you, my love. I am so sorry. You have been working all day and I am certain you do not want to be bothered with all this.’ The potato she picks up with her roti falls apart as she pinches it and she wonders if she has overcooked it.
‘Sorry?’ Aaman seems to pull himself out of a daze; he faces her but his eyes flicker left and right. He has not heard what she said.
‘I was just apologising for bombarding you, my love,’ she repeats.
‘No, Saabira, no. You are not bombarding me. I am a little tired, that is all. But your life is my life and I will deny you nothing. If you want me to talk to him, I will. He is lucky to have a neighbour such as you.’ He puts down his knife and reaches for her hand. ‘Anything, Saabira,’ he adds, more breath than words, and the familiar feeling of tightness in her chest raises the memory of what she put him though. She does not deserve him.
Chapter 17
It is a Saturday and Cyril relishes the fact that he does not need to go into work today. The first birds begin to sing and the sun is shining through the curtains. His legs are pinned to the bed, as usual, by Coco, who is fast asleep, and Blackie Boo is on the floor by his bedside table. He does not need to open his eyes to know she is there as her snoring makes it all too clear.
‘Coco?’ he whispers. The morning feels too unbroken to speak out loud. Coco lifts her head. But he cannot say what he is thinking. If he says it, it might become real. His hands tremble ever so slightly and he feels a little bit sick. What if they make him move?
‘Coco,’ he starts again. Coco does not lift her head this time. They will try to make him move if he does not get rid of the smell. That means he must tidy. He clenches his fists.
After his mum was dead he was moved into the big house with too many rooms. At first he shared a room with four other children but after a few weeks the grown-ups put him in a room of his own. He was glad to be on his own. In the shared room the boy on the next bed spat at him as he slept and it clung in his hair, and the boy in the opposite bed would take his blankets off him after last check because it was so cold. All of them were very noisy, laughing and making jokes about him long after lights out.
But when he had his own room it was soon the adults who picked on him. They said his room was a mess, that he must tidy it. He tried, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. How does anyone know what they will need in the future? You can’t throw things away unless you know. Also, his things filled the spaces. Staring at blank walls, uncluttered surfaces, made pictures come into his head: Mum’s bloated face, her arm hanging over the edge of the bed all grey, her shoe on the floor, the painted nail of her big toe poking out through a hole in her stockinged foot.
‘You need to get this room tidied now. This is your final warning. Don’t come for dinner until it’s done.’ Mr Richards was the staff-in-charge, and he closed the door more loudly than was necessary.
Cyril gathered a handful of orange peel from the windowsill and put it in the bin. The smell of oranges filled his nose.
‘A nice smell,’ he declared to himself, and he took the peel out of the bin and put it on the radiator to perfume the room.
He took an unfinished drawing from his desk. It was no good. But the back of the paper was not used, so he put it back, upside down.
Yesterday’s shirt was on the bed and it looked messy, so he hung it on a wire hanger, but it smelt so he took it off again and threw it behind the door ready to be washed.
He made the bed, which made the room look much better but then he found a pen without a lid, and he hunted for the lid and in the process the bed became a mess again.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, you’ve done nothing.’ Mr Richards stood in the doorway. ‘You’ve got another half an hour then your dinner’s going in the bin.’ He slammed the door this time, and it stayed shut. Cyril went to bed hungry.
The next day Mr Richards and the other staff came. They put him in the television room and locked the door and would not let him help. The other children chanted Septic Cyril, and pulled faces at him through the television room door, which had sections of glass in it with squares made of wire. Whilst he was trapped there the adults took everything that was his away in black bin liners. They cleared the walls and the desktop and tidied his wardrobe before he was allowed back. His pencil with the dinosaurs on it was gone, and his ruler with the picture of the Thunderbirds and the end missing. His book of knots was gone too, and so was the bootlace that he had found and was saving to practise tying the knots.
‘Coco.’ He kicks his legs about a little, and she gets up, yawning, pushing her tail into the air with her nose and lowering her chest to stretch. ‘We need to tidy.’ There, he has said it. But the image of the house downstairs fills his head. He cannot throw it all away. He rescued everything from being smashed up and dumped in a hole that scars the earth. He saw them on the television at Highroyds. Someone must want a bureau, a chest of drawers, a bookcase, surely? He just has to find them. He hasn’t thought how to do this yet.
Now Coco is awake, Blackie Boo stands and the two of them whimper for breakfast. The yard – he will start with the yard. If he does as Saabira says the cages will empty. Even now, only two of the six are occupied. He can chop the cages up, stack the wood ready to burn and not rescue any more rabbits.
Eager to put this plan into action, he jumps out of bed, pulls on his clothes, and dashes down the stairs. The dogs get biscuits for breakfast and he goes into the yard. The day has not really begun yet but he is chopping wood, and he grins as he chops. He could make his yard like Saabira’s – get a table, or use one from inside.
Soon the unused cages are smashed and the debris is scattered over the yard floor. The creak of the hinges tells him Saabira has opened her back door. She will be pleased to see what he has done. She understands.
‘Good morning.’
Cyril tightens the grip on his axe as Saabira’s husband comes out into his own yard. There is no pr
ivacy now the cages have gone.
‘My name is Aaman. I don’t think we’ve met. You are Cyril, isn’t that right?’ Saabira’s husband extends a hand over the low wall between them. Cyril looks down at his palms. They are dirty from the axe and a blister has burst at the base of his first finger. It will hurt if it is squeezed. It hurts anyway, now he has stopped.
‘Are you alright? Have you hurt your hand?’ Saabira’s husband, Aaman, asks, taking a step closer to see. ‘I found it was best to wear gloves when I was a gardener,’ he says. ‘I think we have some plasters, do you want one?’
‘No.’ Cyril finds his voice but the one short word is all he can say. Aaman is like Saabira in the way he speaks: gentle, concerned, non-judgmental. But he is not Saabira and he does not know him. Cyril takes a step backward.
‘Shall I help you to stack all this?’ Aaman changes the subject and points to all the smashed cages. ‘Come, it will be quicker with two people.’ And, uninvited, he steps over the wall and takes a pair of seam-split leather gloves from his back pocket. Cyril feels rooted to the spot. ‘These are my old gardening gloves,’ Aaman says as he puts them on. ‘I kept them as a memento but today we shall make them work, shall we not?’ He starts to gather the wood and stack it by the two remaining rabbit cages. Cyril watches.
‘Here is a good place, yes?’ Aaman asks. Cyril nods and then without a word picks up some pieces and hands them to Aaman.
They continue in this fashion until all the wood is cleared. The patches where the cages once stood are surprisingly clear, thanks to the wooden bases they sat on, but the animal faeces covering the stone flags in the centre of his yard remain.
‘Ah! I have an idea.’ And with a hop Aaman is over the wall and back again, bringing with him the hose that is attached to a tap outside his back door. He puts his finger over the end and the trickling water suddenly comes out with force. Cyril wants to giggle. He would like to try, and he reaches for the hose.