Thicker Than Soup (26 page)

Was it a coincidence that the panels were evolving towards four seasons? In the first, red and blue hues radiated like a summer sunset, whereas the second, a smaller monochromatic panel, brought bright winter light into the dark, narrow Bristol premises it had been created for. Now this panel, considerably larger than the other two, with three fresh green rectangular planes on an ochre base, suggested spring. Did it augur a fourth; an autumn?

The new panel shimmered as John circled it at a distance and became a stroll through spring woods at sunrise. Moving forward, he stood in front of it with arms raised as if to embrace it and with his face almost touching the surface, he inhaled slowly. In some crazy way he trusted these paintings. He'd often sat, silent and alone with the first commission, freeing his mind to roam around a dilemma until his thoughts cleared. The outcomes had been good. Always. He stood now, in front of this new canvas and exhaled a gentle breeze that trembled the surface as gently as a kiss might tremble a lover's skin.

“Hiba's sick and you are her mother. It is your duty to stay here.”

Arif's tone was authoritative but Sally continued to gather her papers. She knew he didn't have a clinic that morning. He could stay with Hiba for a few hours if he chose to. But, though he adored his daughter, it wasn't his place to look after her and she knew it would be futile to suggest such a thing. She forced herself to speak calmly. “Hiba has a cold. That's all it is. Another cold. She's not a baby. She's six years old! She'll be fine. She's crying now because she wants her way, not because she's sick. Shamila's here this morning, and so is your mother. Arif, I have to go to work this morning; Mr Kahil and Rachel cannot teach three exam classes at the same time.”

“My mother is old and still sleeping and it is not Shamila's job to look after Hiba. Shamila is here to relieve you of the household chores. She's not here to relieve you of your child!”

Our child, thought Sally. “Arif, I want to stay with Hiba. But how can I? Until Shazia comes back I have to teach her class. They have exams; it's their last class!” When Shazia had failed to turn up for work a few weeks previously she'd called at her home and found it empty. Her students had spoken of a charge of blasphemy, saying that the family had fled. “I'll call at Shazia's house again; the neighbours may know more. I'm sure she'll be back. I can't believe the family have gone, just like that.”

“No, Sally. You must not go to Shazia's house!” Arif gripped her arm. “Listen to me Sally, you must not get involved. If there's any truth in the blasphemy rumours and you are seen to support her, anything can happen. Even though you are Muslim, some people don't like that you drive and work and such things. You must not draw attention to yourself in this way.”

There was enough truth in Arif's warning for Sally to know she shouldn't intervene. But Shazia had become a friend as well as an employee, and she couldn't simply turn away. “There must be something I can do for her.”

“Sally, there is nothing. The family have gone. Even if she were to come back you cannot employ her again. You must not go to the house or ask about her.” Arif was adamant. “Sally. You must promise.”

She knew that though the blasphemy laws outlawed criticism of all religions, in practice, accusations of anti-Islamic behaviours had become a cruel weapon, often based on no more than hearsay, and sometimes, lies. Most of those arrested were eventually released, but often faced retribution of some kind. Arif's warnings were justified, and she had to concede. Nodding her assent and with a heavy heart she reconciled herself to finding a teacher to replace Shazia.

*

The practical side of the dilemma resolved itself within a few days when the son of a student, a young man planning to go to university in England, asked if there were any opportunities to teach English before he went. His timely request, adequate English skills, and immediate availability relieved her from the inflexibility of classroom teaching and life resumed the normality of relative peace, broken only by the children's squabbles.

Having resolutely ignored bickering for some time Sally eventually interrupted. “Enough! Sammy, stop teasing your sister.”

“He's stolen Bandy!” Sally could see Hiba's favourite toy, a bendy monkey, behind Sammy's back.

“Why is it always me who has to stop? She's never told to stop.” Sammy flicked the monkey back at Hiba. “You're such a baby!” At twelve, he was as robust as Hiba was not.

“Samuel, stop it. First of all Hiba's not well, and secondly, she's a lot younger than you. Can you tell me why you behave so childishly?”

Sammy turned away but not before she saw him pull a face at Hiba, whose similar response resulted in giggles. “I give in!” Picking up her handbag she told Sammy he was in charge. “I have to go to the market.”

“I don't want him in charge of me,” Hiba protested, “he's too bossy.”

“You won't be, will you, Sammy?” She looked threateningly at her son. “Are you old enough to be responsible?”

Sammy pulled himself to his full height. “Of course.” His voice cracked and Sally frowned a warning at Hiba, who seemed to find this recent change in her brother amusing.

“Well Daadi is upstairs if you
really
need her, but she's resting so try to not disturb her. Hiba, I'll get some yogurt to get rid of your nasty mouth thrush and it won't hurt to swallow. I'll be back in no time.” Picking up car keys and umbrella, she instructed the children to behave, pulled the door closed and ran through the last of the rain to open the gates. Puddles soaked her feet as she unlocked and relocked the padlock, but at least the monsoons were warm.

*

The ground was steaming in sunshine when she returned and lying on the driveway an ink smudged pale blue airmail envelope, tossed over the gate by the postman, had become almost indecipherable. She tried to read the sender inkblot as she carried her shopping indoors and seeing Sammy watching a noisy TV programme, his leg swinging lazily over the chair arm, demanded he help her. Most of it's to feed you anyway,” she told him. Unlike Hiba, who hardly even picked at food, Sammy's incessant hunger was a constant challenge. The contrast between them was remarkable; strong, healthy Sammy, and tiny, fragile Hiba who was susceptible to all the ills and ailments that blew her way. But she was a happy, sweet child and Sally thanked Allah for her family.

She dabbed the airmail letter dry with a tissue and slit the sealed edges carefully with a sharp knife – a method she'd discovered was particularly important if the letter came from her Mother, who got full value by covering the entire surface, precisely and economically, in tiny script. But this letter was an unfamiliar script and Sally looked curiously as she unfolded the page. She recognised the address immediately, and her eyes shot to the bottom of the page where the name, Michael Sommers, caused her to sit down sharply. John's father!

Something terrible had happened to John?

‘
What had happened.'
Her very words! Guilt and remorse that she thought buried forever kicked her ribs as her eyes raced down the page.

Some years ago….. John work ….. party at your friend, Diane's …… photograph of your wedding ….. Sammy….

The words described a world that Sally had once known intimately and which now excluded her.

…..Frances's illness…. trust fund …. without our grandchildren….

As memories churned Michael's voice echoed love, shame, and heartache and she read that a trust fund, to be managed by their solicitor, would come into effect when Sammy reached thirteen. Michael hoped the money would provide for Sammy's education as his wife had wished, but it would need Sally's involvement to be administered and he asked her to contact the solicitor at an address in Bath.

The letter was succinct. It left Sally feeling weak.

“Maa!”

Sammy's voice intruded. “Sorry?” Looking at her son she saw John's features.

“I'm starving. Can I have some of these?” He'd discovered a packet of biscuits in the bags he'd carried to the kitchen.

Nodding, she returned to the letter. ‘
….without our grandchildren…'
She tried to read the tone. It was concise. But was it curt, or merely factual? She imagined Michael writing the letter with old sorrows overlaying fresh mourning as he carried out wishes that had been made in joy. Trying to set aside her own sorrows she wondered how she would shape her response. Condolences and sadness she truly felt would be the easy part. She'd liked and respected Frances and had occasionally considered writing as Sammy grew up. Each time, fearing rejection or worse, she'd veered away. But now she must write, and finding words to bridge the empty years would be difficult.

“Maa! Wake up! I've spoken to you three times!”

Sally looked at Sammy. “Sorry?”

“Ha! You're just like Hiba, you have a world of your own!”

“Sorry Sammy. What were you saying?”

“I was telling you that whilst you were out Pazir rang. She needs some money for books for her course. She said she'll try to ring again this evening.”

She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. “Right. Thanks Sammy.” Despite her heavy heart she couldn't help but be amused as he yawned dramatically and flopped back into the chair, actions designed to reinforce her awareness of his boredom. In another week the long summer break would end and he'd start his second year at the Abbottabad School, but this time as a boarder. Though only ten miles out of town, he'd garnered Arif's support to join his boarding friends, claiming he was missing too many activities and eventually, she'd agreed, reluctantly. With Karim now at college in Peshawar and Pazir in The States, the house appeared to be closing down around her.

“Sammy, would you mind making some tea?”

Sammy wound catlike, round the side of the chair. “Where's Shamila?”

“Come on Sammy. It would be very helpful if you'd clear up your breakfast things too whilst you're making tea. Shamila has plenty to do and she's not here to clear up after you, particularly when you don't get up until late.”

Rolling from the chair, he lumbered his frame across the room. “I'm going. I don't need a lecture.”

He wouldn't have spoken in such a way in Arif's presence, but distracted by the letter, she let it pass. ‘W
ithout our grandchildren'.
Was Michael apportioning guilt or expressing sorrow? She didn't know what John had told his parents or what their reactions had been, and now, so distant in time as well as miles, it felt unreal. Perhaps it was she, Sally, who had changed. In embracing Islam she'd searched her soul, challenged her guilt, and found truths to live with. Sammy's birth had been a decisive step for her and John; one that might have strengthened their unity, possibly for the rest of their lives, had it not been for ‘what had happened'. Though Sammy was clearly and thankfully John's child, their break-up was undeniably due to alcohol and adulterous sex, unemotional and meaningless and which bore no relationship to the passionate union that had once bound her to John. The part she'd played in the sequence of events and eventual outcome was deeply regrettable, but forgivable – as Diane had once insisted it should be. Before she'd accepted Arif's proposal she'd told him about John, and Sammy. And about James. For almost a week she'd waited to hear him say he no longer wanted to marry her but instead he'd told her that the past couldn't be changed. His only request, he'd said, was that they didn't speak of it again. But Michael's letter triggered once dormant emotions. Actions had consequences and there was no escaping the ripples of life.

That evening she showed the letter to Arif.

“We don't need this money,” he said brusquely.

“Yes, but Michael wouldn't know that. They set up the fund when Sammy's future was insecure.”

“It is secure now.” Arif coughed the persistent cough that worsened when he was agitated. “So what will you do?”

“Your cough isn't getting better. Hiba was coughing today, too.”

He took a small bottle from his pocket and rattled it. “Antibiotics.”

“Good. Could you get some for Hiba?” He nodded.

She looked again at the letter. “I'll write, but it won't be easy. I don't know what to say. I don't know how Michael is financially. If he needs to use the money he should keep it, but I don't want to offend or hurt him.”

Arif turned away. “I don't know what you should do but I pay Sammy's school fees. I am his father now; he knows no other. That's the way it is. You should see this Michael when you go to England during the December holidays and tell him so.”

“You'll come to England, too?”

“No, I don't want to use my vacation time like that. You go. It's end of term so Sammy and Hiba can go; your mother will be happy to see her grandchildren.”

The conversation was at an end but the letter dominated her thoughts throughout the week. As she sewed name tags on to Sammy's uniform, packed his trunks, encouraged Hiba to eat food, and taught English lessons at her school she composed and recomposed a reply to Michael. Eventually she wrote first to her mother, telling her that she, Sammy and Hiba would come for the Christmas holiday. Then she wrote a second letter, to Michael, asking if she might visit.

*

The night was eerily quiet and infused with white light when Sally woke. Somewhere in the house a sound had disturbed her sleep and she held her breath as her ears strained beyond Arif's chesty breathing. When she heard the sound again she recognised it. Used to nursing Hiba's feverish colds or bouts of sickness she was already running up the stairs by the time Hiba called, “Maa, Maa. I'm sick!” She found her daughter pale and shivering and smeared with vomit. “Oh you poor little thing!” Stripping the sheets from the bed, she wiped Hiba's face and carried her, swiftly, to the bathroom. It was very cold and she worked quickly, aware that she too, was beginning to shiver. Through the window the amber glow of the street lamp was alive with a flurry of white specks. “Oh! No wonder it's so cold. Look Hiba, it's snowing!” Within minutes, clean and wrapped in a blanket, Hiba curled into a chair whilst Sally changed the covers on her bed.