Monday evening, Thursday afternoon

by Jenny Robson

  But you shook your head wildly and told me I didn’t understand. It was too hard for you to speak to your father. It would take more courage than you had. “It’s different for me, Louise. My dad is different from your dad.”

  And that was true, I suppose. I had only seen your dad a few times at your house. Mostly I just remembered his beard and how serious he was. Mostly he was on his way to his study, where the curtains were always closed and I could just see shelves and shelves of books by the light of the small TV. The TV flickered soundlessly there in the far corner until your dad shut the study door.

  *

  My mom argued in vain, just like your mom. Kyle had made up his mind and would not budge: London was the place to be. Uncle Geoff had found him a job. Aunt Helen had worked out which trains he needed to catch to get there. Everything was sorted, everything was ready. He was going to have the adventure of a lifetime.

  We all went to see him off at the airport. You as well, Faheema. And I was so glad you were there. It was a hard, sad time. The only one smiling and excited was Kyle, his hair even wilder than usual.

  “Hey, Mom, come on. Don’t cry. I’m going to be fine. And when I come back, I’m going to have so much money, I’ll buy you a Mercedes!”

  “Have you packed enough warm jerseys?” My mom asked maybe a hundred times over. “And you phone us. At least twice a week, you hear! I need to know you’re okay, otherwise I’ll go round the bend. Have you got your cellphone?”

  Kyle turned to me and gave me a big brotherly bear hug. Then he hugged you too.

  “You chicks behave yourselves,” he said still smiling while around us people rushed back and forth with loaded trolleys. “By July I want to hear that you are captain of the A netball team, Louise. And you’d better be vice-captain, Faheema.”

  Even that couldn’t make us smile.

  “And no boyfriends. You hear me, both of you.”

  That was when we burst into tears. Both of us.

  *

  But a strange thing happened after Kyle left. More and more often, my mom invited you to our house. Even when friends or family were visiting. And Dad always made sure that any meat he braaied was proper halaal so that you could have some too.

  “It’s lovely having Faheema round,” Mom would say. “She’s like a little ray of sunshine with those dimples of hers.” And then she’d go off to try and phone Kyle again.

  And then the arguments would start about how the phone bills were skyrocketing. And I would have to shut my door and stick my fingers in my ears ­again.

  *

  Meanwhile over at your house, the Habibia argument still raged quietly on. It seemed to get worse after I’d been to your house for an afternoon.

  But then you did something very brave, Faheema. I was so impressed when you told me about it. You went to your dad and spoke to him directly one evening in early April. Right there in his study. Even though it must have been very hard for you to do. Remember that whenever you tell yourself you’re a coward, Faheema, whenever you convince yourself that you give up too easily and don’t fight for what you want.

  “Dad, please,” you said with a tremor in your voice. “Please, Dad, I really, really want to go to Riverside High next year. Can’t I? Please, Dad? ’Cause Louise is my very best friend and I want to go to the same school as her.”

  Your dad looked at you in surprise, for the longest moment, there in the flickering light of the silent TV. But he didn’t give you an answer. Quietly, without hope, you left the study.

  *

  And then the best thing in the world happened. Your sister Yasmiena got engaged! To a Muslim man. And her fiancé wasn’t just any Muslim man. He was also the son of the imam from your mosque. Your parents were thrilled. Overjoyed!

  You came rushing through the trees beside the river to tell me.

  “Don’t you see, Louise. This might make my dad change his mind. ’Cause now Yasmiena is being a really good Muslim even though she never went to a Muslim high school. Yes, I’m sure this will make my dad change his mind.”

  I threw my arms around you and we hugged while our twin waterfalls trickled sadly down the rock face. It had been a long, dry summer. I hoped desperately that you were right. The thought of facing next year at high school without you was too awful.

  “And you have to come to Yasmiena’s wedding, okay? She says she wants you there!”

  That got my mom stressed. “But what are you supposed to wear to this wedding, Louise? I mean, they are very strict about what females wear in a mosque. This is going to be very complicated.”

  “No, Mom, there’s no problem. The women don’t go to the mosque for the ceremony. Only the men go. The women stay at the house. So I can wear anything I like, Faheema says.”

  “Only the men? How very, very strange! I’ll never get my head round the way they think. Anyway, we’ll get you something smart and special to wear. When is the wedding?”

  “November. Once Ramadan is finished.”

  “Plenty of time, then. Goodness, do you realise that by November Kyle will have been in London for nine months! By November he’ll be facing the start of another British winter!”

  *

  But, in the end, I didn’t go to Yasmiena’s wedding. Because that terrible, terrible Thursday afternoon hap­pened first – just a week after my birthday when you’d given me that cute cuddly toy monkey with the shiny brown eyes, remember? In the end, that terrible, terrible Thursday afternoon in July happened and changed everything.

  7. saba’a

  That Thursday in early July. It began badly and it just got worse. Downhill all the way.

  I woke up to dark Cape-winter clouds outside the window and a bitter cold wind blowing my curtains. My head pounded, my throat hurt and I knew I was getting the flu. Half the people at school had had flu already. Perhaps I should stay home?

  But no, Thursday was Art day and I loved our weekly lessons with Mrs de Jager. It was about the only subject I was good at. Well, apart from Mr Abrahamse’s creative writing. Even though you hated Art and used to mutter under your breath all through three periods. Remem­ber?

  “Look at this, Louise. This was supposed to be a chair! So why does it look like a kangaroo, please tell me? Pass me your rubber. I’ll have to start all over again … Why doesn’t Mrs de Jager just let me clean the paintbrushes? Or tidy the supplies cupboard? Even that would be more fun than this …”

  But that just added to the fun for me. You were very funny when you were annoyed and muttering and pulling faces at your paper. And rubbing out whatever you’d drawn for the tenth time.

  When we talked about the seaside cottage we would live in, we always agreed: I would be the one to decorate the walls with inspiring murals. And you would be the one to keep the paintbrushes clean.

  So I got dressed for school, dragging on my uniform between coughing bouts: white shirt, navy-blue skirt, two blue jerseys. The blood rushed to my head as I bent down to fasten my shoes.

  In the kitchen, Mom was humming cheerfully. “It’s going to be twenty-four degrees in London today,” she said. “And sunny. That’s what they’re promising on the news. Isn’t that wonderful? I need to think of Kyle being in some sunshine.” But she stopped talking about Kyle when she saw how sick I looked. I had to promise I’d come home straight away if I started feeling any worse.

  *

  I got to school to find that Mrs de Jager was off sick for the day. Flu too, so no Art lesson!

  I scowled while you smiled sweetly beside me and pretended to be sympathetic. “Shame, Louise. Never mind, I’m sure she’ll be better by next Thursday.”

  I almost decided to go home right then and there. But it just seemed too much of an effort.

  And then, while Mr Hawkins was busy trying to explain some complicated mind-bending geometry problem, Lattoya Seopela – captain of the netball first team – burst into the classroom with her clipboard. The first team was scheduled to play against our arch rivals, Naledi Primary School, tha
t afternoon.

  “Sorry, so sorry, Mr Hawkins. But we have HALF THE TEAM off sick with the flu. We’re DESPERATE!”

  I held my breath, hoping against hope against hope! Was this the moment? Was I about to be picked for the first team? Suddenly I didn’t feel sick at all. I felt strong and ready for anything. Dad would have to take off work so he could get a photo of me rushing around the court in the blue-and-silver diagonals of the first team kit – to put there amongst Kyle’s cups and medals. And I’d have to phone Kyle tonight, even though it wasn’t the weekend, just to tell him the news. He’d be so proud!

  Beside me, you were holding your breath too. I could sense the tension in your shoulders.

  “So. So, Faheema Majait, are you free to play this afternoon? Wing Attack, right?”

  And me? What about me? I was free to play. Any position at all! Just name it! But Lattoya Seopela was already dashing out of the classroom with her clipboard, the door slamming shut behind her. My head began to pound even harder than before.

  You looked at me, Faheema, and I could see in your face how torn you were. Between excitement about playing in the first team that afternoon, and sympathy for me because I wouldn’t be part of it.

  I was torn too, I admit. Part of me overflowed with jealousy. Why should you get the chance when I didn’t? It wasn’t fair. You were just as useless a netball player as me. So why were you the one getting the lucky break? And of course, the shame followed close behind. How could I be so mean when you were my best friend in the whole world? Why couldn’t I feel happy for you, take pleasure in your good fortune?

  But my jealousy won in the end.

  “Will you come and watch, Louise?” you said. “I know I’m going to mess up. But if you’re there, I won’t feel so bad.”

  “My head hurts,” I said without looking at you. “I’m going home straight after school.”

  *

  I was at the school gates and ready to leave before the final bell even rang. I just wanted to get home. My head was throbbing and my throat felt raw from coughing. But still, the strongest feeling was the envy seething through my chest, bringing me close to tears. I didn’t want to watch you dashing off to the change rooms to put on those coveted first team togs. That would have been too much.

  But worse, far worse, was waiting for me when I reached our house. I just didn’t know it yet.

  My dad’s car stood in the driveway. And that was a surprise. What was he doing home at this time of the day? Was there some anniversary I’d forgotten? Something urgent he needed to tell Mom that he couldn’t discuss over the phone?

  *

  Mom and Dad were both in the lounge. Mom had her cellphone clutched in her hand. Dad was replacing the receiver of our landline phone. They barely looked up as I came in. Their faces seemed frozen, their eyes glazed over. And I felt afraid. Panicked.

  The only sound in the room was a newsreader’s voice coming from the TV. Except the words didn’t make any sense to me. I saw the visuals there on the screen though: pictures of people staggering out of some dark entrance and into a sunny street; people covered in blood, supported by emergency workers. And paramedics carrying stretchers into nearby ambulances. Except the people on the stretchers were covered in blankets, even their faces. There were policemen everywhere, scattered around the TV screen. Policemen wearing yellow jackets. British policemen.

  “Three bombs have exploded on three separate London underground tubes,” said the voice of the newsreader. “The death toll so far has climbed to thirty-one. Emergency services are still trying to reach the tube just outside Edgewood Road station …”

  Mom put the cellphone to her ear, staring at the TV all the while. “Please answer, Kyle. Please, my sweetheart. Just answer your phone. Tell me you’re alright. Come on, Kyle …” Her hand shook. Her voice shook even more.

  And Dad picked up the phone again. “Let me try his office again. Maybe they’ve been reconnected. I mean, surely the emergency services don’t need every single phone line in the damn country!” He listened awhile. Then he shook his head. “Dead,” he said. “Still dead.”

  I sat down, sick to my stomach. Beside me, Mom was curling herself into a ball, the cellphone held against her heart.

  *

  We sat mostly in silence through that long, long Thurs­­day afternoon. Except for the newsreader’s end­less commentary. The death toll rose to thirty-three. Thirty-­five. I didn’t have lunch; Mom didn’t ask if I was hungry. The picture on the TV shifted to another un­derground railway entrance, to another scattering of people staggering into the sunlit street, wounded and bleeding.

  And I kept seeing Kyle! Every male victim seemed to have my brother’s face beneath the blood and the bandages. Every blanketed body carried past on a stretch­er seemed to have his shape.

  I wanted to phone you, Faheema. I wanted to hear your voice telling me that Kyle was alright. That nothing bad could ever happen to Kyle. That you were thinking of me. But, of course, you were running around the netball court in your blue-and-silver kit, along with the rest of the first netball team. And after that, you’d be at the madrassa, studying Arabic. Anyway, Mom and Dad wouldn’t let their phones out of their hands.

  Then, after all the silence, my dad began to rant. He paced the floor in front of the TV. He smashed his fist against the walls. It was strange and frightening.

  “Bloody Muslims! Bloody terrorists! What is wrong with them? What kind of sick religion have they got where it’s okay to kill and maim and bomb? And cause such terror and heartache to innocent people? Bunch of murderous bastards! They should be wiped off the face of the earth! Every last one of them. Nuked into oblivion along with their damned mosques. Places of worship – ha! They’re just dens of hatred and violence and bloody iniquity!”

  My mom didn’t even lift her head, didn’t even ask him to mind his language in front of me. She was pres­s­ing the keys of her cellphone again. Sobbing hope­­­lessly.

  Strangely, through all Dad’s ranting, I never once connected you to anything he said. I remember that now, Faheema. He went on and on about Muslims and Islam, about mosques and madrassas and imams. But you seemed to be in a totally separate part of my consciousness: my lucky, lucky friend rushing about the netball court in your first-team finery.

  Without me.

  8. thamaanieya

  It was after seven o’clock that evening of Thursday, 7 July that Mom’s cellphone finally, finally rang. By then, I think, we were all exhausted from the endless terror of waiting. From constantly fighting to control the awful pictures that kept painting themselves in our minds. I know my stomach ached – physically – as though the hours of panic had ripped their eagle claws deep through my insides.

  And then Mom’s cellphone rang, playing her favourite song: Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine. It took her a moment of fumbling before she answered.

  “Kyle?! KYLE!! Oh my God, Kyle! You don’t know what it’s like to hear your voice! Are you okay …? Yes, we’ve been trying and trying to reach you too … Even their hotline was busy … Oh, thank God you’re alright! We’ve been going out of our minds …”

  There were tears in my dad’s eyes, running down his cheeks. I think it was the first time I ever really saw him cry.

  “Hello, my son …”

  I had to wait quite a while before it was my turn. And then I didn’t know what to say. Kyle, as always, kept the conversation going. As though nothing was wrong. As though suicide bombers hadn’t been blowing up the London Underground where he was a daily traveller.

  “So, squashed-pumpkin face. Are you and Faheema in the first netball team yet? You haven’t let me down, have you?”

  *

  But it was only the next morning at breakfast that the bombshell fell. Mom and Dad were passing eye messages. I noticed that while I was eating my cornflakes, but still I wasn’t ready for what came next. Outside, the winter sun was shining. My head was feeling better. And I had finally overcome my jealousy of y
our first-team gig. I had talked myself into being glad for you, happy that you’d had such a great opportunity.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Louise, your mom and I both agree about this: after the terrible time we all went through yesterday, we’d prefer it if your Muslim friend didn’t come round here any more. ­Alright?”

  What?! I was stunned, Faheema, I’m telling you. What did you have to do with any part of Thursday afternoon?!

  I tried to argue, tried to make them see sense. There was a terrible, sick feeling deep down in my stomach. “But Dad, Mom, what are you talking about? Those bombings have got nothing, nothing, NOTHING to do with Faheema. This isn’t fair! This isn’t right!”

  But Dad wasn’t interested. “I don’t want to discuss this, Louise. You don’t know these people the way Mom and I do. They all stick together, these Muslims. They all support each other. They all secretly support this terrorism against the West. Underneath, they’re all the same, Louise. Every last one of them. You’re too young to understand that yet.”

  Mom joined in. “Yes, love. You’re getting big now. Next year you’ll be in high school. It’s time to start keeping to your own kind. You should be looking for friends who live the same way we do and think the same way we do. Friends like Annette. Or Susan down the road.”

  *

  At the river that afternoon, I ranted on and on. But you missed the point completely. On purpose, I think!

  “Oh, your poor mom and dad!” you said. “That must have been awful! That must have stressed them out like crazy! No wonder they are so upset. I don’t blame them!”

  I stared at you. Behind your head, our twin waterfalls formed beautiful twin rainbows side by side in the spray. “But, Faheema, don’t you understand? They say you can’t come to our house! As if you had something to do with all of this!”

  “Give them time,” you said. “It will take them a while to get over it. And anyway, you still haven’t asked me how the match went yesterday. Even though you deserted me.”