The House in Fez

by Dianne Noble

  A different room now, not so white. She shivered at the arctic feel of cotton sheets which snapped with starch. A blanket was drawn over her and she felt its comforting weight.

  Juliet’s face was wet with tears.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her lips took their time to form the words. ‘I’m sorry, Jules. I know I promised.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I’m just glad you’re still here.’

  Portia wasn’t entirely sure she shared her sister’s relief. There was movement on the other side of the room, and she turned her head. Miranda was on her phone, face lined with exhaustion, yesterday’s mascara giving her panda eyes.

  ‘When you’ve… when they’ve… we’re taking you back to the riad,’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘No.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘Not there.’

  ‘She wants you to.’

  Portia looked from her sister to her mother who was talking urgently into the handset, a frown line between her eyebrows. ‘Does she? Even after this?’

  ‘Yes. She’s going to collect your things from the hotel and settle the bill. Then she’ll come back for us.’

  ‘But how can I..?’

  Juliet pressed her back down onto the pillows. ‘It was her idea. I didn’t ask her.’

  Portia relaxed. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost, after all. She closed her eyes, allowed herself to sink into the thick, warm blackness of sleep.

  Juliet

  It was only breakfast time when they arrived back at the riad, but already the courtyard simmered with heat. Hasan and Halima were on their hands and knees, pushing toy cars across the stone tiles and making the appropriate engine noises. Juliet smiled to see them playing so happily together. Halima gave her a quick glance, but didn’t interrupt her play and a small pang of loss pierced her heart. Maybe she wasn’t as important in Halima’s life as she thought. She knelt to remove Portia’s shoes and helped her slip on the babouches. As she guided her sister towards the stairs, she had a fleeting memory of their first days in the riad, when the fatted calf had been led out in the form of a rosewater and pistachio cake. How long ago it all seemed.

  In the bedroom she straightened the sheets, still rumpled from Halima sleeping in them, all the time casting anxious looks at Portia. God, she looks just terrible. The sour taste of fear filled her mouth. How could she put Portia’s world to rights? Ought she to contact Gavin? Shouldn’t he know what was happening to his wife? She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it arrived. That would be a sure way to lose her sister’s trust. ‘Come on, love. Let’s get you into bed.’

  Portia stood still and obedient, her eyes closed, as Juliet took the blanket from her shoulders. In just her underwear, it was apparent she had lost a great deal of weight. She sat her on the edge of the bed then lifted her legs, swung them onto the mattress and eased her with infinite care into a lying position, terrified she’d knock the bulky dressing on Portia’s arm.

  ‘Could you eat something?’ she whispered.

  Portia shook her head, eyes still closed.

  ‘A drink, then?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Juliet tucked the sheet up around Portia’s neck, brushed her hair away from her face, then stood a moment looking at her in the dim light. As she watched, Portia’s eyes opened a little.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘So sorry.’

  Juliet went back downstairs to find Miranda and Zina deep in conversation. How strange. They’d rarely exchanged more than a few words before. Were they now unlikely allies, joining forces against the common enemy, Portia? She hesitated, confused, then Zina spotted her and hobbled away. ‘Zina?’ she called after her.

  Zina stopped, took a second before she turned back, then raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Thank you for seeing to Halima.’

  ‘Is okay,’ she said coldly before moving away.

  ‘Is Portia asleep?’ Miranda picked up a plate from the table, didn’t meet Juliet’s eyes.

  ‘Yes. Probably the best thing for her.’ Her throat tightened. ‘I’m so afraid. She looks so ill—’

  ‘Well she would, wouldn’t she? Given what she did.’

  The floor seemed to shift beneath Juliet’s feet. She pulled out a chair and sat down hurriedly. How callous her mother’s words sounded. She surely didn’t mean them. She licked her dry lips and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. ‘Miranda—thanks for helping. I couldn’t have done it on my own.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, I’m her mother.’

  Her voice lacked any warmth and Juliet stared at her, puzzled. She had thought and so, probably, had Portia, that there had been a thaw and that maybe bridges, however tenuous, could be built.

  ‘It will be best if she stays upstairs until she’s recovered enough to travel.’

  All the breath left Juliet’s body. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ she busied herself collecting the juice glasses, ‘it would be awkward.’

  ‘Awkward?’ she shouted, leaping to her feet. ‘Awkward for whom?’

  ‘Well, me for a start.’ She turned to face her. ‘And also for Zina. Not to mention my husband.’

  ‘Zina is a liar.’

  Miranda shrugged. ‘She is adamant Portia pushed her. She wants to prosecute.’

  Prosecute? Would the police take her word for it? Could Portia go to jail? Oh my God, what if…

  ‘But Samir has persuaded her not to, for my sake.’

  The strength drained out of Juliet’s legs and she dropped back into the chair. She tried to control herself, to calm her breathing. ‘You can’t shut her away up there, like the mad woman in the attic. She’s your daughter.’

  ‘As I am well aware.’ She put the glasses back down on the table. ‘I have nothing more to say on the matter.’

  Miranda marched away, leaving Juliet stunned, numb. For one brief, shining moment, only a few days ago, she had thought they were all going to be a proper family.

  When she took soup, bread, and a bottle of water upstairs, Portia’s eyes opened.

  Juliet put the tray down while she opened the shutters a little, dust motes dancing in the air like glitter.

  ‘Thanks, Jules,’ Portia said, raising herself up on one elbow. ‘You really shouldn’t be waiting on me, though.’

  ‘Of course I should.’ She plumped the pillows and handed her the bowl and spoon. ‘You’re looking a bit better.’

  ‘I feel it.’

  Flooded with relief, she watched her sister dunking pieces of bread into the chicken broth. Thank you, God.

  ‘Where’s Halima?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Playing cars with Hasan. No school for him today. Looks like they’re becoming best buddies. Shall I fetch you some more bread?’

  ‘No, that’s plenty for now, thanks.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t impose on your good nature further. I’ll come down for dinner.’ Opening her eyes, she gave a rueful grin. ‘Even though it might be a tad embarrassing.’

  Colour flooded Juliet’s face.

  Portia gave her a baffled look. ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘It’s just—Miranda said...’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Portia said wearily. ‘Spit it out, Jules.’

  ‘She doesn’t… she doesn’t want you downstairs,’ she muttered miserably, looking at the floor.

  ‘But I thought…’

  ‘So did I.’ Juliet took the bowl from Portia and put it on the floor, then took both her sister’s hands in her own. ‘It seems her maternal instincts only stretched far enough to rescue you.’

  ‘And no further,’ Portia replied flatly. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Portia slithered back down in the bed. ‘I don’t care.’

  The anger Juliet felt towards her mother was a painful thing which seared her stomach, left no room for food, but Halima needed feeding so she took her down and sat at the dinner table with them all, eating little and saying
less. To think she’d considered staying here, becoming part of this poisonous family. How misguided she had been. But it left her with a dilemma. What would happen to poor little Halima if she wasn’t here to take care of her?

  ‘Miranda?’ All eyes turned to her. She cleared her throat. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘What?’ she asked aggressively.

  She thinks I’m going to ask if Portia and I can stay. Fat chance.

  ‘I’m worried about Halima.’

  Miranda and Samir exchanged glances. Zina stopped eating, paused, her knife held in mid-air.

  ‘When I’ve gone… can Halima… would you keep her? Here?’

  Zina’s knife crashed onto her plate.

  ‘Of course not,’ Miranda snapped. ‘Her being here was only ever a temporary arrangement.’

  Zina spoke rapidly to Samir in Arabic, and he pursed his lips.

  ‘I know, but to send her back there to be beaten up is just… inhuman.’ Her gaze moved from Zina, who glowered, to Miranda, who sighed audibly.

  ‘I told you at the time Halima could only stay a while,’ Miranda said.

  ‘Does that witch of a woman know she’s here?’

  ‘Well…no.’

  ‘So then…’

  ‘You’re missing the point.’

  The child caught either her name or the atmosphere, opened her mouth wide and let out a wail.

  ‘Shush, shush, it’s all right, love.’ Juliet swept her onto her knee and rocked her, then appealed to Samir, with tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t send her back there. Please don’t.’

  He put down his coffee cup. ‘You are a kind woman, Juliet. I understand your distress but—’

  ‘Please, Samir, I beg you.’

  He looked off into the middle distance, tapping a finger on the table. She watched him, waited, and hope leapt in her as he nodded, slowly.

  ‘What I can do is employ her—sewing slippers with the other children.’

  ‘But she’ll be no better off than when she lived with that woman.’ She bit her lip, trying not to cry.

  Zina muttered and he spoke sharply to her in Arabic. Hasan watched, eyes wide.

  ‘Of course she will,’ Samir said. ‘She will not be beaten, she will earn money and have somewhere to sleep, with Fatima.’

  She tightened her arms around the child. This wasn’t at all the way she had envisaged Halima’s future unfolding. ‘Do you treat the children well?’

  ‘Yes. I know you are offended by what I do, but by the standards of North Africa the children are very well treated.’

  ‘Would she be better off in an orphanage?’

  ‘Most definitely not.’

  The thought of the child stitching slippers in that dank room hurt her—but she’d have food, shelter, company. ‘Thank you, Samir. I appreciate your offer.’

  She took bread and meat for Portia when Halima went upstairs to bed, put it on the chest while she settled the child in her blankets, then gently shook her sister awake. ‘Brought you some supper, love.’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Please, Portia.’

  She regarded her sister’s inert body for a moment, then ran down to confront her mother. ‘I’m taking Portia home the minute I can arrange a flight. Will you take us to the airport, please?’

  A flicker crossed Miranda’s face. What was it? Regret? Remorse? Contrition? ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You do realise she’s not your responsibility, don’t you?’

  ‘Or yours?’ Juliet snapped. ‘She needs help.’

  ‘Let her husband help her. You have your own life, and your own husband to think of.’

  ‘Portia’s husband has little interest. In fact he has another woman and—’

  ‘But what about Darren? If you’re planning to take on your sister’s problems, you—’

  ‘I don’t love him anymore. I can’t keep on pretending.’

  ‘What about my grandson? What about Jacob? Will you turn your back on him, too?’

  Juliet swallowed. ‘You haven’t seen him for years,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And neither have I. I have no idea where he is.’

  Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘What? Why haven’t I been told? Why..?’

  ‘When? Just tell me when you were ever around to be told anything?’

  ‘It was my turn to have a life.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘All those years I sacrificed myself—’

  ‘Shut up, Miranda. Stop banging on about it.’ She clenched her fists. ‘I am going to take care of Portia, and when she’s better—well, who knows where life will take us?’

  ‘Will it bring you back here, Juliet? One day?’ She put a hand on her arm. Her fingers were cold.

  She pulled away. ‘No. It won’t.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JUNE 21st

  Juliet

  ‘You ready, Portia? Miranda’s waiting.’

  Portia nodded, but didn’t move. ‘When you took Halima to the sweatshop…’

  Juliet remembered the bewilderment on the child’s face, even though Samir had explained to her she would be living there with Fatima. Would she ever be able to forget it? The piteous cries would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  ‘Sorry, Jules.’ Portia put her good arm around her. ‘It must have been awful for you. But was Fatima all right? Did she look well?’

  ‘She did. No need to worry. I gave her the money and she put it in a hidey hole she’s made behind a loose brick.’

  ‘They’ll be company for each other, won’t they, Halima and Fatima?’

  ‘They will.’

  For a minute they stood close, then Portia reached for a tissue and dried her eyes. ‘What’s Darren going to say when you bowl up with me?’

  Juliet gave her a reassuring smile. ‘He’ll say you’re welcome. He’s the kindest man in the world.’ She dreaded the painful conversation that would have to take place. How could she inflict such hurt on him? But living a lie was no longer an option. She needed to move forward, with her sister, helping each other.

  The journey to the airport was made in silence. When they arrived Miranda parked the car and, still without speaking, carried Portia’s case into Departures.

  The milling crowds and the tannoy announcements reminded Juliet of meeting her sister at Heathrow. Could it only have been three short weeks ago? She pictured her immaculate trousers, killer heels and full makeup, remembered the authoritative way she organised everything. And now, she saw a depleted woman in crumpled cotton clothing, with unwashed hair. She felt fiercely protective. She would take care of her. Whatever it took, she would get her well again. ‘Ready to join the queue for check-in, love?’

  Portia nodded, and between them they trundled the cases into the line. Juliet turned to thank Miranda for the lift, but she had gone. She saw her blonde head bobbing in the distance as she walked briskly away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  NOV 17th

  Juliet

  She drew the kitchen curtains against the swirling November fog. The year was drawing to a close; the pumpkins had come and gone, to be replaced by glass baubles and tinsel in shop windows. She waited until the kettle came to the boil and then made the tea, carried it to the table and sat down. The lid didn’t match the pot; in fact all the crockery was a crazy mish-mash of plain and patterned, bought from charity shops.

  ‘So, are you going to answer it?’ Juliet nodded towards Gavin’s letter lying on the table in front of Portia.

  ‘I am not. It can go straight in the fuck-it bucket.’

  Juliet laughed. Her heart sang to see how much stronger Portia had become, the way she stood taller. ‘What about the girls? You’ll keep in touch with them, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Weird though, isn’t it? I never expected my stepdaughters to come out on my side. They’re phoning every week now, and they want to come and stay for a few days. What do you think?’

  ‘Of course they’re welcome, but they might find it a bit cramped. Sounds like
they’re used to something a bit more palatial.’

  ‘Do them the world of good. Anyhow, we’ll soon be able to afford somewhere bigger.’ Portia reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘My divorce settlement’s imminent and now I’m back on my feet I can get a job.’

  Juliet turned towards her sister with a frown. ‘But I can’t contribute anything like as much as you.’

  Portia’s grip on her hand tightened. ‘You are the one who’s giving the most. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t been for you. It’s not all about money.’

  ‘Okay.’ The tension leaked away. ‘Thanks for that. What did Gavin actually say?’

  Offhandedly, Portia flicked the letter over the table. ‘Read it if you like. Can’t live without me, yada yada, and Melanoma—I mean Melanie—is definitely history.’

  ‘So he’s trying to win you back?’

  Portia snorted. ‘More likely the wild oats of youth are being overtaken by the All-Bran of middle age.’

  Juliet giggled, then sobered as she thought about Darren, his shock and distress when she told him she wanted to move out, and how bad she had felt. But after a while he had begun again to bury himself in work, building up the business, and seemed heartened that she didn’t want a divorce. It felt a little fraudulent when she knew she would never go back to him, but if it let him down more easily, she’d just have to live with it.

  Pictures of their last days in Fez flashed across her mind, the way they had stumbled to their painful conclusion.

  As if picking up her thoughts, Portia said, ‘What a balls-up it all turned out to be.’

  ‘D’you think so? I don’t see it like that. It brought things to a head, certainly, but it feels more like a…’ she cast around for the right word…‘a resolution.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. We never knew where we were with our mother and now we do.’ Portia sighed. ‘Seeing all the Christmas stuff in the shops reminded me—do you remember the year we all sat on the floor in that draughty sitting room, trying to stick those god-awful strips of paper together to make chains?’