But Susannah wasn’t a little girl. He had the feeling that even when she had been, when she had first come here, Susannah had been different.
Of all of them, Susannah had a more certain future to go back to. Yet she had chosen to stay here, to guard and help the others and to guide them back. What had given a girl strength to do that?
Susannah took her book out of the pocket of her apron and handed it to him. ‘Twenty-six. Count the names, if you like.’
Faris opened the book. He stared at the careful, rounded printing. ‘All of the others went back through the door?’
‘They have. Some went back the first day. As though they just needed a few minutes to catch their breath, to get their thoughts clear, then dive back to where they’d been. Billy is so sore when that happens.’ She looked indulgently down at her friend, jumping high to grab the ball from the air. ‘Arrivals are really the only changes in our lives.’
‘How often do new people come?’
‘Now that I can’t be telling you. I try to keep track of days. But someone will come, and say it’s 1930, and two days later another will be from 1945. I don’t know if time is different here, or if it’s me and I can’t keep it straight.’
She looked at Faris squarely. ‘Not that it matters. You go back to when you came from, no matter what happens here.’
‘Juhi thinks she can go back with Mudurra.’ Susannah shrugged.
‘Who knows?’ She grinned at him. ‘I have the question you should be asking. Why is there such a terrible lot of hating in the world? Why do we hate so much that we try to kill those who aren’t like us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sometimes I’m thinking that we need to love more. That if enough of us do good things, it might balance out the hate. Nikko!’ Susannah’s voice changed as the small boy climbed the sand hill. ‘Are you going home early?’
The little boy nodded. ‘There is stifado tonight. The best stifado in Australia.’
‘Tell Faris what stifado is like.’
Nikko considered. ‘Good,’ he replied, as though that was all that was needed to be said.
Susannah laughed. ‘Tell Faris about your mam then.’
‘She is just a woman,’ said Nikko. He paused and added, ‘But she makes the best stifado in our village. Everybody says so.’
‘Every night?’
Nikko nodded. ‘I have to go,’ he said quickly. ‘She’ll have dinner ready.’ He ran over the sand hill.
Faris looked at Susannah. ‘You’d make a little boy leave all this, to drown in the sea?’
‘You think it’s better to be six years old forever?’ she asked hotly. ‘To live the same days over and over?’
‘But what if you’re wrong? What if we just go back to our deaths? Or even if some of us survive and others die? How can you be so sure?’
He looked at Susannah again. ‘You’re not sure,’ he said.
‘No.’ She met his gaze. ‘Some nights I’m crying myself to sleep, knowing what I’ve sent a child back to. But we can only do what we think is right, Faris. So this is what I do. It is the hardest thing in the world sometimes. But I think that what I do is right.’ She gazed at the doorway, the driftwood of its arch becoming darker as the shadows grew. ‘I had a friend once,’ she said softly.
‘Aren’t we all your friends?’
She smiled at that, rubbing the tears from her cheeks. ‘There are many kinds of friends. Bridget was like me. Ten years old, from Ireland. She was here when I arrived. She knew what I was feeling. It’s how we all feel when we first get here. Happy at first, thinking that somehow we’ve broken free and made it to Australia. And then day after day unfolds, and suddenly we realise that what we have left is still waiting for us, that the place we have come to will never change.
‘Bridget was here for me, when I remembered. I sat here on the sand, right where we sit now. Trembling and shaking and crying I was, and she held me and stroked my hair.’
‘Was she from your time too?’
Susannah shook her head. ‘From long before me. 1849 she said she sailed in a ship of rotting wood from Galway. It was the potato famine. Have you ever heard of that?’
Faris shook his head.
‘The English owned the land. We Irish rented what was once our own. In Bridget’s time there were only potatoes to eat and milk from a cow. But then a disease killed all the potatoes, made them rot in the ground. All you could smell was the rot, she said. And then you could smell the death too, as people starved. Whole villages, too weak to leave their doorsteps. Bodies in the lanes and gutters.
‘Her mam had a gold ring. They sold it for passage to Australia. America was cheaper and not so far, but her mam’s brother had gone to Australia and she thought he might give them a home. Anyhow the ships to America were all full and they had no more money to feed the family till a passage could be found, only a sackful of potatoes that had escaped the blight. And that sack had to feed the family as they travelled to Australia.
‘They lived on those potatoes, she said, half cooked because that made the hunger less. They were halfway across the ocean when there were no more potatoes. The captain wouldn’t give them food. He said they had paid for their passage and no more; there was no food for the likes of them. They lay there in the dark belly of the ship and felt the hunger take them. She woke up here.’
‘What sort of Australia had she imagined?’
‘Like mine, it was. All her family safe. Puddings on the table, potatoes mashed with butter, big white loaves of bread, a bucket of milk with cream rising to the top.’
‘But she left.’
‘She did that. Stayed with me till I’d stopped my crying. Days or weeks or months, who knows how long? That last day I walked to the doorway with her. I watched her pull that skin back and just for a glimpse I saw it, smelled the stench of dying, saw the white faces in the dark.’
‘She went back to that?’ asked Faris slowly.
‘She did. But she wasn’t the girl who came here. “I’m not going to lie there in the darkness,” she said to me. “I’ll not let that captain win. We’ll take his plum puddings and his salt beef, and if we can’t, I’ll catch rats and make the cook boil them on the stove. But I’ll get us to Australia even if we have to eat the rats. You’ll see.”’
‘Do you think she did?’
‘I saw her face that day. I knew that death itself would give way to her, at least for a while, till she’d got her family to Australia. They’d given up, you see, from all the losses, with the hunger and the smell of death. But Bridget found her courage again here.’
‘Did you have other friends?’
‘Mei Ling. Jane was a friend too for a while — she was English, but from a place called Singapore,’ Susannah said quietly. ‘Japanese soldiers invaded. They bombed the ship when she and her mam tried to escape. Their planes shot at them in the water, as they tried to swim to shore. Jane swam through blood. Then she was here.’
‘But she went back?’
‘I stood with her as she went through the door too. I’d told her about Bridget, how staying here had made her strong. Jane said that she wouldn’t die neither. She wouldn’t give in, till she and her mam were safe. And I have to think she did.’
She stood up. It seemed to Faris that she stood as the old woman she should be, not as a ten-year-old girl. ‘No, I’m not just thinking it. I know it. I’ve seen their faces as they go. Ah Goon and Jane, Bridget and Mei Ling, Big Johnny and Abdulla … I saw their faces, every one. They were the faces of those who will survive,’ said Susannah fiercely. ‘That’s what this place has given them. A refuge, a space to learn what they need to know about themselves.’
‘But some won’t go. Some shouldn’t go.’ Faris nodded at the players on the beach.
‘They’ll go some day,’ said Susannah. Suddenly her voice was weary. ‘Every one of them. Then at last I can go as well. You’ll be goin’ next. Good night, Faris,’ she added. ‘May good angels watch over your dreams.�
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Faris watched her walk down the sand hill, watched the lamp come on in the stone cottage, heard the long low sound he supposed came from a cow. He looked away, back to the beach for a second. When he looked down the hill again, it was his own street before him.
He walked down the sand hill and put on his shoes. She was right. Impossible, arrogant, impudent small girl, but she was right.
One day soon he would go back. He’d face the wave with Jadda once again.
One day. Not yet.
CHAPTER 12
‘Want to see my farm, matey?’ asked Billy casually next afternoon.
Faris hesitated, curiosity warring with wariness, remembering Billy’s talk of cut-throats and knives. Billy’s world might be frightening. ‘All right,’ he said at last.
Billy laughed. ‘Don’t worry, matey. Ain’t no tigers there to bite you. Ain’t no coves with knives to stab you in the guts neither. All’s sweet as apple pie.’
They walked up the beach, leaving the others to the game. Susannah nodded as they passed.
‘Want to come too?’ asked Billy.
She smiled. ‘Not today.’
Faris looked down. Billy’s world was already there: a narrow dirt road with neat hedges on either side of it. Fat cows and sheep so white they looked like clouds grazed on one side of the road. On the other side a big three-storey stone house with at least a dozen chimneys sat among fruit trees — apples, pears, peaches and others Faris didn’t know all laden with fruit.
‘Are your parents there?’
Billy grinned. It wasn’t a happy grin. For the first time Faris saw that several of his back teeth were missing as well as the one in front. ‘Ain’t got no parents. I were a workhouse brat, till I was sold to Mr Hallop. He were the best dabs in the street. Pickpocket,’ he added when he saw that Faris didn’t understand. ‘He taught the whole gang of us brats to pick pockets too. Give geezers a cosh in a dark alley too.’
‘A cosh?’
‘Bashed ’em on the head,’ said Billy cheerfully. ‘I was good at it. Thought I’d ’ave me own gang one day. But Spriggy Pierce were jealous of me. Turned me in to the Bow Street Runners when I had this cove’s watch on me. I were lucky to only get seven years, and not the gallows.’
Faris stared at him, then at the farm below. Billy was a thief! Not just a thief, but a violent one. He might even be a murderer.
Did he want to go into the world of a thief?
‘Race you to the front door!’ yelled the bigger boy. He ran down the slope, leaping over the hedge instead of going through the gate.
Faris glanced back at Susannah. ‘It’s safe,’ she said. Once again she almost seemed to know what he was thinking. ‘Billy’s changed, since he’s been here. He won’t hurt you.’
Faris hesitated. He’d look like a coward if he didn’t follow. Billy might be angry too. He ran down the sand hill and up the road. The boy waited at the front door for Faris to catch up to him.
‘Aren’t you going to open the door?’ Faris looked at the big iron-bolted front door warily.
‘Nah. Why should I? Got servants for that.’ As he spoke, the door opened. A young girl in a bright white apron dropped a curtsey. ‘Welcome home, young master,’ she said to Billy.
‘Master!’ said Faris.
Billy grinned. ‘That’s it, matey. That I am.’
‘She has to do everything you tell her to?’
Billy looked at him, suddenly fierce. ‘Don’t you be thinking I don’t treat me servants well. They eat as good as me. A cut off the roast for dinner and a bed to themselves, aye, and a bedroom to themselves too, with a fire in it, an’ sheets and everything. It’s a good life for all of us.’
He led the way into the house and down a wide passageway with paintings of cows and horses in big gold frames on either side. Two young men in striped silk trousers and white wigs bowed as he and Faris passed. ‘Welcome, master,’ said one of them.
Billy ignored them. ‘Come down to the kitchen. We could eat in one o’ the dining rooms — I got two o’ them, great big dining tables, silver candlesticks an’ all — an’ me butler could serve us — but the kitchen’s better.’
Faris nodded uncomfortably. A world where Billy was master, where everyone did as Billy said. Billy, the thief. Billy, perhaps a murderer.
He didn’t like it.
The kitchen was stone-walled, with full shelves and a big wooden table. A fat woman in a striped apron and cap looked up from kneading dough as they came through the door. Behind her a big hunk of meat roasted on a spit over the fire, next to a big black oven. The woman smiled. ‘Welcome home, master. Welcome to your friend too.’
‘This here is Far Eyes.’ Billy grinned at her. ‘Far Eyes, this is Mrs Bonnet, me cook. Mrs Bonnet makes the best ginger nuts in the whole world.’
Faris wondered what a ginger nut was. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said politely.
‘Now you sit down.’ Mrs Bonnet pulled out a chair for him. ‘I’ve got a nice apple pie ready in the oven, and a good hunk of cheese to eat with it. Put your feet up by the fire. Mabel!’ she yelled to someone in the next room. ‘Bring the apple juice for the master and his friend.’
Mrs Bonnet eyed Billy’s red trousers. ‘They’re damp,’ she said sharply. ‘You been paddling in the water?’
‘No, Mrs Bonnet.’ Billy tried to look concerned.
Mrs Bonnet snorted. ‘And the mice are going to dance at suppertime. You go and change them wet trousers now, you hear? I don’t want you catching cold.’
‘But Mrs Bonnet —’
‘Now don’t you argue. The pie will be out of the oven when you get back. And there’s mutton chops, just the way you like them, and baked potatoes and jam buns. Off you go. Shoo!’
‘Won’t be long.’ Billy looked half embarrassed, half the most content that Faris had ever seen him.
Faris looked back at Mrs Bonnet, lifting her pie from the big black oven as Billy went upstairs. What had his friend’s life been, growing up on the streets, grabbing what he could?
‘Have to look after the lad,’ said Mrs Bonnet. ‘Make sure he eats right, feed him up. Needs looking after, he does.’
Faris smiled. This was the heart of Billy’s world.
The pickpocket might not know it, but Faris had just met Billy’s mum.
CHAPTER 13
He went to Jamila’s world the next day.
‘No,’ said Jamila, as he ran after her as she walked up the beach to the sand hill and asked if he could come with her.
‘Why not?’
Jamila didn’t look at him. ‘Because I say so.’
Suddenly Faris felt he understood. ‘Your father wouldn’t like you bringing a strange boy home, would he? Nor your brothers. Even if we just walked through the street together, someone might tell them.’
For the first time Jamila looked him straight in the face. ‘You think my father might whip me? Men might whisper, “Look at that girl, she walks with a boy along the street”?’
‘Maybe,’ said Faris cautiously.
Jamila began to stride up the sand hill. ‘Then you can come with me.’
Faris hurried after her. Jamila nodded to Susannah as they passed.
Susannah stared at Faris. ‘You’re not taking him, are you?’
Jamila laughed. It was a good laugh, like the wind. ‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ Susannah stopped.
Faris looked from one girl to another. ‘What’s wrong with Jamila’s world? Have you been there?’
‘Not a thing wrong with it,’ said Susannah cheerfully. ‘And I’ve been there, though Billy hasn’t, nor David. You have a nice time of it.’ She grinned.
Faris took another three steps behind Jamila, then looked down.
The city was white. The tiny houses in Nikko’s world had been white. But this city was built of marble, almost as glowing as the sun.
Flowers lined the road, small flowers like a carpet, trees with garlands of flowers hanging from their branches. Every
house was two storeys tall, flat-roofed, with low-walled courtyards. Fountains bubbled gently, set among a mosaic of coloured tiles. Apricot trees with small speckled fruit sheltered white stone benches, where girls in silk headscarves and bright dresses bent over books, or wrote at marble tables.
He looked around at the hills. Tall white spires almost reached the sky. A school, he thought. Or a university.
‘Are you coming?’ called Jamila.
Faris looked at the courtyards. Each one was different. This one had a large fountain, this one a big domed outside oven. Even the patterns of the tiles were different.
He shook his head. His own world was so limited compared to hers, the same house over and over again. He looked down at the flowers at his feet. Each one had eight petals. Each was perfect, its perfume wafting up.
‘Faris!’ called Jamila.
He hurried after her.
They walked along the street together. The houses gave way to a marketplace. Women in bright embroidered headscarves offered pastries to other women, and small cups of tea that smelled of mint or cardamom, or hot sweet milk. Spices spilled out of sacks. Faris recognised cinnamon, nutmeg, saffron, but there were tens of others he didn’t know. Two strong women hauled wooden paddles topped with just-cooked flat bread out of a rounded earth oven. Another woman stirred chunks of chicken in a giant wok.
‘Where are we going? Your house?’
‘No,’ said Jamila.
A woman in a dress of bright blue edged with gold embroidery and a coin necklace offered them a tray of silver-and-enamel bowls of apricots and pistachios, a silver plate covered with a paste of what looked like nuts and raisins, and another silver plate piled with tiny pastries. ‘KhoDa PushTho PaNai Tho,’ she said.
Jamila stopped and took a pastry. ‘Thank you. Try one,’ she said to Faris. ‘It’s good.’
Faris bit into the pastry as they walked. It was good — almonds, honey and spices, sweet and savoury at the same time. All around them women offered bolts of silk, carpets, scarves …
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