Close to the Wind (2 page)

Malik stood with Papa at the foot of the staircase. He should have known, the moment they’d sneaked in through the back, that this house would be no good.

There had been a time when Malik used only front doors. He would ring the bells or give two raps on the knocker and his friends would come outside or they would invite him in. Everyone he knew had
nice houses, not all of them as large as his, but always pleasant in one way or another and there would be food and drink and games to play.

He stared at the front door of the cottage. It had two panels of frosted glass that were dark with the night. A single brown envelope hung from the inside of the letterbox, halfway up the door, sticking part in, part out. Papa reached out and pulled it free. He put the torch close to the paper, read the name on the envelope and then opened it. Malik saw writing in red ink.

‘Final notice from six weeks ago,’ said Papa. ‘They must have left the house before it arrived.’

They climbed the stairs, Papa out in front and Malik following behind, his Wellington boots squeaking on the wooden staircase. At the top of the stairs was a bathroom that had the fittings removed. The outline of the bath and sink could be traced from the tiles that finished halfway up the wall and the toilet was nothing but a sluice pipe that sat up ten centimetres from the floor.

They pushed another door and found a bedroom. This room at least had furniture. A white painted wardrobe was at the other end to the door and there was a single wooden chair and a bare mattress on the
floor. The window had a thick blue curtain drawn back to one side. Balanced on the windowsill was an ashtray brimming with the crushed tips of thin cigarettes that had been rolled by hand.

Papa looked inside the wardrobe. He let the rucksack drop to the floor beside the mattress and shone the torch back to the doorway where Malik stood. ‘We have a mattress. At least it’s something. It’s better than last night.’

Malik shrugged.

Papa said, ‘Who’s going to have it? You or me?’

‘Mama should have it.’ Malik hesitated, but he asked the question anyway. ‘When will she be here?’

The questions about Mama always annoyed Papa the most, but Papa answered him gently. ‘Not tonight, Malik. I said she would meet us when the ship sailed, and that’s not till tomorrow. We’ll see her at the dock when we go there tomorrow. I’m sure we will.’

Malik’s head dropped. He saw the dandelion in his fist and he held it up. ‘What shall I do with this?’

Papa took the dandelion from his hand. ‘Let’s go and see whether we have any water.’

They went downstairs to the kitchen. Papa turned
the metal tap on the bare pipe and it shuddered and spat and ran with water. He took a drinks can from the bucket, pulled the ends to straighten it out and filled it with water, then he dropped the stalk into the can so that the yellow head rested on the silver rim and he put the can onto the windowsill where he said it would get the morning sun.

Papa touched Malik’s shoulder. ‘Now let’s see if we can get some rest.’

They went back into the hallway and the beam of the torch picked out chipped paintwork on the bannister. They climbed the stairs to the bedroom and Malik sat down on the mattress while Papa pulled the curtain across the window. ‘It’s thick enough to shield the light,’ Papa said, more to himself than to Malik. ‘I’ll light us a candle. Let’s see if we can make this place more comfortable.’ He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the wooden chair.

Malik put the torch on the floor and picked at a loose end of cotton ticking while Papa retrieved the rucksack from beside the wardrobe and put it down in the beam of light that spread out across the floorboards.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked Malik.

‘Nothing.’

Papa removed a pair of blue denim trousers and a white shirt from the sack and laid them on the floor. He brought out a pair of socks, some shorts and a warm brown jumper. ‘Do you want this on?’

Malik shook his head and Papa placed the jumper on the pile of clothes.

Papa then found a box of six wax candles with one already used. ‘Here we are,’ he said. He slid one of the white candles from the box, opened the lid of the brass zippo that he took from his trouser pocket and lit the wick. He turned the candle upside down so that the wax dripped onto the floorboard before he stood the candle upright. ‘Better turn the torch off,’ he told Malik. ‘It will save the battery.’

Malik left the torch alone. He twisted the loose piece of material round his finger instead, let it go, then twisted again.

Papa reached across and switched the torch off himself. The light in the room became faint and yellow and it flickered. ‘Why don’t you tell me what the matter is?’

Malik wouldn’t answer him.

It had been two days since the soldiers had come to the house and his mother had hidden him in the wardrobe. She had told him not to move, told him not
to make a sound, and Malik had waited and waited. He hadn’t said a word. Even when he’d thought he’d heard Papa’s voice, he hadn’t called out.

‘Do you want to see my magic trick?’

Malik shook his head.

Papa put the clothes back into the main body of the sack, then he opened one of the large side pockets. He brought out a ball of thick yellow twine, a hammer, a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, which he lined up along the floorboard behind the candle. He looked over at Malik. ‘Well, there must be something I can do to cheer you up.’

Malik showed a flicker of interest as his eyes glanced up to Papa’s face. ‘Can I have a knife?’

‘You don’t need to think about knives.’

‘You’ve got one. I’ve seen it. You keep it in your jacket pocket.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘I saw you holding it last night when we went to sleep in the cellar. Was that because of the dog?’

‘No. Of course it wasn’t because of the dog. The dog was half dead, he wasn’t going to hurt us.’

‘I know.’

Papa held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘Oh, good grief.’ He stood up and fetched the key
ring from his jacket pocket, unfastened a penknife that was the length of his smallest finger and handed it to Malik. ‘Be careful of the blade. It might be small but it’s very sharp. And I don’t want you to lose it. I had that knife for my tenth birthday. It was the only thing I asked for and my father bought it for me.’

Malik put his fingernail to the main blade and pulled it out from the handle.

Papa watched him. ‘Perhaps I’ll give one to you as a present when you’re ten.’

‘I’m already ten.’

‘Never. Are you sure?’

Malik looked at him with disgust. ‘Of course I’m sure. It was my last birthday.’

‘Was it? And I didn’t give you a knife?’

‘No. You gave me a geometry set.’

‘With a wooden and brass compass?’

The boy nodded and Papa thought about it. ‘Well, I’ve got them the wrong way round. Why would I do that? You should have a Swiss army knife when you are ten and a geometry set when you are eleven. That’s what I was given as a boy. I wonder what I was thinking?’ The old man looked confused. ‘What did I get for your ninth birthday?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘No. Nor can I. It’s all too long ago.’

They paused.

‘Mama would know. She can tell us tomorrow.’

Papa pressed his forehead with the tips of his fingers but he nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I expect she will.’ He began to search through the rucksack again. He took out a toothbrush and toothpaste and waved them in Malik’s face. ‘You should do your teeth.’ He found the red steel water bottle from the rucksack. ‘Come on, come to the bathroom.’ He got to his feet slowly, his hand on the small of his back. ‘And bring the torch with you.’

Malik shone the beam down the broken end of the pipe where the toilet had been but could see no water. Papa got on his hands and knees to inspect it further. ‘It will be OK. It doesn’t smell and it must still lead into the sewers. We can use that.’ He got to his feet so slowly that Malik expected his knees to creak. Papa straightened up, nodded at Malik and then at the pipe. ‘You will need to pee.’

Malik looked into the deep black hole. ‘I’m not using that. I don’t like it.’

‘I’m sure you don’t but we don’t have a choice. You can pee standing up if your aim is good – and
you don’t have to flush. That’s one less thing to think about.’

Papa went back into the bedroom and Malik pushed the door till it was almost closed. He leaned the torch against the wall to give him light and then he sluiced his mouth with water from the bottle and swallowed it. He scrubbed his teeth and spat the white foam down the hole.

Papa had brought the toothpaste that Malik liked. It wasn’t the one Mama used – that tasted of aniseed. Papa had brought the minty one that was Malik’s. He had remembered his toothbrush too. So this must have been planned, just like Papa said it was. And that meant Mama would be at the dock tomorrow.

The thought cheered Malik up, though not enough that he was going to have a pee. He looked at the pipe sticking up from the floor. If he waited till the morning he would find somewhere better.

Papa was packing the tools back into the
rucksack
when Malik jumped onto the mattress.

‘Hey. None of that.’ Papa waved a hand in his direction. ‘Come on. It’s time for sleep. You must be shattered.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You must be tired. You walked twice as far as I did.’

‘I walked the same as you.’

‘The same distance, yes, I’ll grant you. But your legs are only half the length, so you had to make twice as many strides as me.’ Papa felt the back of his thighs. ‘If I’m tired, you must be too.’

Malik jumped again. ‘Well, I’m not tired. My legs are fine.’

Papa frowned. ‘In that case you better let me have the bed. Anyway, it should be mine by rights, since I’m the one who aches. I probably have brittle bones.’

Malik stopped jumping and stepped quickly off the mattress. ‘You can have the bed, Papa. I don’t mind.’

Papa stood up from his chair. He sucked at his teeth, put his hands on his hips, thought about it, then sat back down. ‘No. You better have it. It wouldn’t be right. I was simply saying you should appreciate it. That’s all. You shouldn’t take it for granted. Now, be a good boy and take off your boots.’

Malik slipped off the green Wellington boots, picked them up and stood them against the skirting board by the door.

‘Are you too hot to sleep in your clothes?’

Malik shook his head.

‘Then you must lie down and go to sleep.’

‘You said you would show me your trick again.’

‘So you want to see it now?’ The old man heaved himself up again with a sigh. ‘OK. I will do it for you, but only the once.’ Papa took a coin from his pocket. He held it on the open palm of his hand, right in front of Malik’s eyes. ‘What do we call this trick?’

‘The French Drop,’ said Malik.

‘Exactly. The French Drop. Good. You take an everyday coin and …’ Papa yawned and stretched out the sentence. He closed one hand with the fingers of his other and put the hand holding the coin to his mouth. When he opened it the coin was gone.

Papa let his jaw drop wide so Malik could see his big pink tongue. ‘It’s not in my mouth.’ He leaned towards Malik, took the coin from behind Malik’s ear and held it up in front of his face. He grinned. ‘Did you see that? Do you remember how it’s done? You can’t have forgotten already?’

Malik stood up and held his hand out for the coin. Papa gave it to him and sat back down in
the chair, waiting to be entertained. ‘Remember, sleight of hand. A larger action covers a smaller action. That’s why I did the big yawn.’

Malik had tried the trick before and he always dropped the coin. He couldn’t hide it in the palm of his hand like Papa did – he didn’t think his thumb was the right size. He held the coin up to show it to Papa, then closed his fingers across the top with his other hand. He coughed, putting one hand to his mouth while the hand with the coin darted down the front of his trousers.

Papa scoffed and slapped his thighs. ‘What are you doing?’

Malik showed him an empty palm as though he had got away with it.

Papa shook his head and smiled. ‘How will you make it reappear if it’s down your pants?’

‘I’m concentrating on the disappearance.’

‘I can see that. But I’m not going to be happy if I don’t get my coin back. Mind you, I’m not sure I want it back now I know where it’s been. Why not practise hiding it like I do? It’s easier to hide it in your palm. See?’ Papa took another coin from his pocket and held it in his palm using only his thumb, to show him how it was done.

Malik shook his head. ‘It’s too difficult. I can’t do it. It’s easier in my pants.’

‘But I saw where you put it. Trust me, it’s easier in your hand. It just takes practice, lots of practice, until you get it perfect.’

Malik put his hand into his underpants, retrieved the coin and gave it back to Papa, who turned the coin once in his fingers before putting them both back in his pocket.

‘That’s enough for now. It’s time for sleep.’ Papa sat back in the chair and flicked a finger at Malik, indicating that he should lie down on the mattress. ‘I hope you’re not hungry. We only have a little food and we should save it.’

Malik put his head on the mattress. ‘I’m not hungry.’

He would have liked to eat. If he were at home he would have had a good supper, perhaps dumplings with fried potatoes. Mama would have made him hot chocolate when he went to bed. She might have given him his favourite biscuits, the ones that had jam in the middle.

The thought left Malik sad and hungrier than he really was. He tried to think of something else, remembering his bedroom at home. He had a shelf
full of books and posters of his favourite films on his wall. He also had model aeroplanes, which hung by strings from the ceiling – they were perfect replicas of planes from the last war and he had painted them himself and slid the transfers from the sheet when they were still wet.

Malik closed his eyes.

The mattress smelled damp and the room was dusty.

At home his bed had clean sheets. But he was lucky to have a mattress at all. His eyes flicked open. Papa was in the chair over by the window.