Iris and Ruby

by Rosie Thomas

  Every corner of the room, every shelf and cupboard and drawer, spilled hoarded belongings. Nothing was in any order. The collecting seemed to have little to do with quality, only quantity. To having and holding, Lesley guessed, maybe as a way of shoring up a world that might otherwise crumble. But for all the random, chaotic and overwhelming material clutter, the impression that it now held was of emptiness.

  Ruby had gone.

  Lesley placed her feet together and rested her hands in her lap as if to offer up her own composure in response to the room’s disorder.

  Ruby hadn’t gone like her contemporaries were going, on well-planned gap year travels to Asia and South America or amid clouds of A-level glory to good universities. Not mutinous, truanting, dyslexic and serially expelled Ruby. She hadn’t passed any exams, or spent a summer raising money to fund a year’s work with children in Nepal or wildlife in Namibia. Ruby had left the family house in Kent to lodge with Andrew’s brother and his family in central London, supposedly while she was attending sixth-form college. But college hadn’t lasted long and in Camden Town, Ruby had spent her days hanging out with new friends that none of the Ellises approved of. Then, just recently, she had abruptly moved back home again. She passed long hours closeted in her room and when she emerged she spoke only when spoken to. Andrew chivvied her for decisions about a career. Making a contribution to the world, as he called it.

  Ruby had lifted her black-painted eyes and stared at him as if he belonged to a species she didn’t recognise.

  Nothing could have enraged him more.

  And now, she had simply removed herself altogether. The absence of Ruby swelled to fill her bedroom and bled outwards, hollowing the comfortable house.

  ‘I love you,’ her mother said to the motionless, smelly air.

  Tenderness and longing sprang from the marrow in her bones. The feeling was turbulent, baffled, nothing like the calm, sturdy love she had for Edward, or her regularly thwarted affection for Andrew.

  Her love for Ruby was the deepest passion in Lesley’s life.

  The silence deepened. There was no ready explanation to be found, in this room or anywhere else, for what had gone wrong with her daughter. Or with me, Lesley added meticulously. It wasn’t that she blamed Ruby for being difficult. She took all the responsibility for that on herself, which further irritated Andrew. In their late-night conversations or in the car on the way to deal with another of Ruby’s situations she had asked the same questions over and over: what have I done wrong? Have I been a bad mother?

  ‘You have lacked a role model,’ Andrew tended to say.

  One thing did strike her with peculiar certainty now: this time the departure was final. Wherever she had gone, by her own choice or – please, let it not be that – under compulsion, Ruby wouldn’t be coming back.

  Lesley bent her head. She examined her knees in their second skin of smooth nylon mesh. She picked at a loose thread in the grosgrain hem of her skirt and, to her shame even though there was no one to see, tears suddenly ran out of her eyes and dripped on the fabric.

  Ruby opened her eyes.

  White light poured in through the arched window, filling the bare room until the air seemed almost solid with floating particles of dust. It wasn’t the sunshine that had woken her, however, but a burst of chanting. The words were incomprehensible, delivered in a rich sing-song voice distorted by heavy amplification. She pushed back the sheet and scrambled to look outside. Her eyes widened in amazement.

  In the street below, rows of men were kneeling on mats laid over the cobbles, with their foreheads pressed to the ground. They made a patient sea of white- and grey-clad fish backs, the soles of their feet turned innocently upwards like so many pairs of fins.

  The city was stilled. Ruby rested her own forehead against the thick greenish glass and tried to hear the prayers.

  A few minutes later a wave broke across the sea as the men kneeled upright and then stood up. The mats were casually whisked away and movement flowed back into the street again. Two little boys chased each other up some steps and scuttled through a doorway. A handcart loaded with fruit trundled past, pushed by two men. Realising that she was hungry, Ruby reluctantly turned from the inviting view.

  The house was so quiet. The stone walls must be very thick, she thought, as she wandered along the outside corridor. She couldn’t remember which way Auntie had brought her last night and the layout of interconnecting rooms was confusing. Here was a broader corridor with seats facing a carved screen with little hinged trapdoors in it. She peered casually through one of the propped-up hatches and was surprised by the grand double-height space it overlooked. This big hall was almost unfurnished except for a long table and some high-backed chairs pushed against the walls. At the far end was a low dais backed by a wall painting of entwined flowers and fruit and exotic foliage. Huge lamps of iron and glass were suspended on chains from the arched roof. It would be a pretty good space for a party, she reflected. If you half closed your eyes as you peered through the screen you could see the whirling dancers and hear the beat of the drums.

  After another full circuit of the gallery Ruby opened a low door and found a staircase. She ran down the steps and peered into the big room from this lower level. From down here the gallery was completely concealed.

  She suddenly sensed that there was someone behind her. Whirling round, she came face to top of head with Auntie.

  ‘Hello,’ Ruby said brightly.

  Auntie peered up at her. ‘Sabah il-kheer,’ she murmured. Her face was like a walnut. She didn’t smile, but there were quite kindly-looking creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  ‘I’m looking for my grandmother.’

  ‘Mum-reese,’ Auntie agreed, nodding. She indicated with a small hand movement that Ruby should follow her.

  The house wasn’t really as big as it appeared. Just a few steps round a corner brought another surprise.

  Ruby said, ‘Oh. It’s lovely.’

  At the heart of the old house was a little open courtyard. It was enclosed by terracotta walls pierced by simple rounded arches faced with grass-green and turquoise glazed tiles. In the four corners were big square tubs of trailing greenery and to one side a waterspout splashed into a green glazed bowl. The trickle of water was loud in the small space. A lemon-sharp slice of sunlight obliquely bisected the courtyard and in the shady portion was a padded chair. Iris was sitting there watching her. Her thin grey hair was held up with a pair of combs and she was wearing an elegant silk robe with a faint pearly stripe. She appeared less tired than she had done the night before. But she also looked displeased.

  Ruby considered. She wanted to find a way to stay, not just because to come here at all had been a last resort and she had no intention of being sent back home, but because it was so intriguing. Therefore she must say something appropriate, find a way to ingratiate herself. A shadow of a thought passed through her head – an acknowledgement that she was quite out of practice at making herself agreeable. She didn’t even know what to call this disconcerting old lady. She was way too unfamiliar and beady for ‘Granny’, which was how Lesley referred to her at home. Not that Ruby’s mother talked about her own mother very often.

  ‘Hi,’ she said in the end, shuffling her feet.

  Mamdooh had to remind me when he brought my morning tea that we have a visitor. The night was a long one, and it was after dawn when I finally slept. And then, dreams.

  Now here is the girl. She wears peculiar, ugly clothes. Are they the same ones as last night? A pair of dusty black trousers, safety-pinned in the front across her plump belly. The legs billow out from the knee like sails, and they are so long that they drag on the ground. The hems are all dusty and torn. When she takes a step I see that her huge shoes have soles four inches thick, so she isn’t quite as tall as she seems. On the top half, or third because the garment is so shrunken that it exposes six inches of white midriff, is a little grey thing with some black motif on the front. She has so many silvery
rings on her fingers that they reach up to her knuckles, more rings in her ears, one in her nose, and a silver stud pierces her top lip. She hasn’t washed this morning, there is black stuff smudged round her eyes. Her face is round, pale as the moon, and innocent.

  She slouches forward and utters some monosyllable I can’t hear.

  Why is she here?

  I search the layers, broken layers, of memory. Piecing together.

  Lesley’s daughter.

  ‘Don’t you have any proper clothes?’

  She sticks her chin out at me.

  ‘These are proper.’

  ‘They are not decent.’

  Her eyes meet mine. She scowls, then thinks better of it. Her metal-cased fingers pluck at the bottom of the vest garment.

  ‘Too short?’

  I am already tired of this exchange. There is a white shawl across the arm of my chair and I hold it out to her. She shakes out the folds and twirls it like a matador’s cape, and I am struck by the grace of the sudden movement and, yes, the happy exuberance of it. It’s pretty to see. Then she seems to remember herself. She knots my shawl awkwardly over her breasts so it veils her stomach.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Obediently, she perches on a wooden stool and leans forward.

  ‘Y’know, I don’t know what to call you. You’re my grandmother and everything, but it doesn’t seem right to say Granny. D’you know what I mean?’

  It hardly matters what she calls me. It’s a long time since I have been anything except Mum-reese or Doctor Black. ‘My name is Iris.’

  ‘Is that what you want me to say?’

  I rest my head on the cushions and close my eyes.

  After a minute, maybe more, she murmurs, ‘Iris?’

  The line of sunlight is creeping towards us. I rouse myself again.

  ‘Have you told your mother where you are? You’ll have to go back home right away. You do realise that, don’t you? It’s very inconvenient, this … this appearance in my house. You must telephone her at once, tell her where you are, and say I told you, to …’

  A shadow crosses the child’s face.

  ‘Yeah. I know, I know. Thing is …’ she half stands and rummages under the shawl in the tight pocket of her trousers. She produces a small silvery object. ‘My mobile doesn’t work out here.’

  ‘Is that a telephone? You can use the one here, I suppose. It’s through there. Mamdooh will show you.’

  ‘Right. OK. Um … I’m really hungry, though. Is there something to eat, maybe, before I call home and tell them everything’s cool?’

  ‘Auntie is bringing it.’

  Auntie and Mamdooh arrive together. Auntie’s quite lively with curiosity now but Mamdooh is offended, I can see from the way he puts down the tray with exaggerated care and doesn’t look at the girl. It doesn’t matter. She’ll be going back where she came from, maybe not today but certainly tomorrow. What was her name?

  It comes back to me surprisingly easily. Ruby.

  Ruby’s eyes lit up at the sight of breakfast. She was very hungry indeed, and here was a bowl of fat purple figs and – lifting a little beaded cloth that covered a bowl – thick creamy yoghurt. There was a basket of coarse bread, a glass dish of honey and a plate of crumbly, sticky little cakes. There was also a battered silver pot, a tiny wisp of steam rising from the spout.

  ‘Thank you, Mamdooh. Thank you, Auntie,’ Iris said. ‘We’ll look after ourselves now.’

  Ruby drew her stool closer.

  ‘Pour me some tea, please,’ Iris ordered. Ruby did as she was told and put the glass on the table beside her. The tea smelled of summertime.

  ‘Mm,’ Ruby said, after a long swallow. ‘That’s so good. What is it?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Mint tea.’

  ‘I like it. We don’t have it at home. Well, maybe Mum does. She drinks those herb tea things, but I shouldn’t think they’re like yours. Can I try some of this?’

  Iris nodded. She watched as the girl spooned honey onto bread and ate, biting off thick chunks and chewing with strong white teeth. Honey dribbled down her chin and she wiped it off with her fingers before greedily licking them too. After the bread and honey she turned her attention to the figs.

  ‘How do you eat these?’

  Iris showed her, slicing open the skin to reveal the velvet and seed-pearl interior. Ruby ate, her smudged eyes screwed up in a comical spasm of pleasure. She followed the figs with most of the bowl of yoghurt and then drank more tea.

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll have one of those.’ Iris pointed to the triangles of baklava. Ruby put the pastry on a plate, handling it as if it were burning hot so as to be seen to limit the contact from her own fingers, and set it next to Iris’s glass of tea. Then she stretched out her legs, sighing with satisfaction as she looked around the little courtyard.

  ‘It’s like another world. Well, it is another world, of course. Glorious Araby.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘When? Oh, that. I dunno, it’s from a poem or something, isn’t it? Don’t ask me who wrote it or anything. I suppose I read it or heard it. Probably bloody Radio 4, it’s always on in our house. You know how some things you don’t try to remember, quite weird things like bits of poems or whatever, they just stay in your mind? And other things you’re supposed to remember, however hard you try it’s just like, phhhhht, and they’re gone? Stuff you’re supposed to learn for exams, mainly?’

  ‘If it matters, you will remember it. You have to hope for that.’

  ‘Depends on what you reckon matters.’ Ruby laughed, then caught sight of her grandmother’s face. It had fallen suddenly into lines of anguish and the powdery skin under her eyes looked damp with tears.

  She bit her lip. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  Iris reached a hand inside the sleeve of her robe and brought out a handkerchief. She dried her eyes carefully and tucked the hanky away again.

  ‘I am becoming forgetful myself,’ she said. She made a little gesture with her hands, swimming them through the air and then closing them on nothing. It made Ruby think that memories were slippery, like fish.

  ‘That must be frightening, sometimes,’ she ventured.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  Iris turned her head to look full at her. ‘Try to … try to capture what you can’t bear to be without.’

  Ruby didn’t understand this but she nodded anyway. The sound of water splashing from the little spout filled the courtyard. The sun had crept closer and now the thin stream sparkled like a diamond necklace.

  ‘Well,’ Iris said in a different voice. ‘Have you had quite enough to eat?’

  ‘Maybe one more of these.’

  She bit into another pastry. Sugary flakes stuck to her lips and she darted her tongue to retrieve them.

  Mamdooh came through one of the arches and stooped beside Iris’s chair. It was time to move it further into the shade. As she watched him helping her grandmother and settling her again Ruby noticed he wore the same tender expression as last night, as if Iris were a little child.

  While they were talking quietly together, Ruby stared up into the parallelogram of sapphire-blue sky. She could just see the tips of towers, topped with slim bulbs of stone and spikes bearing crescent moons. There was a whole city on the other side of these walls, the teeming place she had seen out of the taxi windows last night. Now that she had found her feet she was longing to explore it.

  ‘Mamdooh is going to the market now,’ Iris said.

  Ruby leapt up so eagerly that her stool tipped over. ‘Can I go with him?’

  Iris lifted her hand. ‘You will have to ask Mamdooh.’

  ‘Please may I come with you?’

  He had round cheeks, rounded eyelids, full lips the colour of the breakfast figs, but his bald head was all speckled and his eyes were milky. His stomach made a sizeable mound under his long white robe. He didn’t look as old as Iris or Auntie
, but he wasn’t young by any means. He looked Ruby up and down as she stood there with Iris’s shawl knotted round her midriff.

  ‘To the market, Miss?’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘I’ll, um, put a cover-up shirt thing on? I’ve got one in my bag. I could help carry the shopping, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I do this for many years, thank you.’

  ‘I’d really like to come.’

  Iris closed her eyes. ‘Show her the market, Mamdooh, please. She will be going home to England tomorrow.’

  He bowed. ‘Of course.’

  When she came downstairs again with a man’s shirt buttoned up over her vest, Mamdooh was waiting for her. He had a woven rush basket over his arm, and a faded red flowerpot hat set squarely on his head. A black tassel hung down towards his left eye. Ruby felt a giggle rising in her throat, but Mamdooh’s expression quelled it.

  ‘Is this OK?’ she meekly asked, indicating her cover-up.

  His nod was barely perceptible.

  ‘If you are ready, Miss?’

  They went out through the blue-painted door and the sun’s heat struck the top of Ruby’s head. She took the few steps to the corner and looked up at an ancient crenellated wall, a cluster of smaller domes surrounding the large one and the three slender towers.

  ‘What is this place?’ she called to Mamdooh who was making stately progress in the other direction.

  ‘It is the mosque of al-Azhar. We are going this way, please.’

  ‘It’s very old.’

  ‘Cairo is a place of history.’ The way he said it told Ruby that he was proud of his native city and his reverence made her want to know more of it. She quickened her pace to catch him up again, and they swung down a narrow street and out into a much broader, almost Western-looking one. Out here there was a roar of traffic and hooting and tinny amplified music, and they were caught in a slow tide of people before Mamdooh ducked down into a tiled modern subway not much different from the one beneath Oxford Circus. When they surfaced again Ruby blinked.