Swimming on the Lawn Page 11

  The library is a peaceful place. The librarian is always very polite and practises his English whenever we come in. I think we are the only children who come in on their own to borrow books without a parent. We hand in our books, and then Selma and I separate as we go in search of treasure. I’ve read almost all the books in the rather small children’s section, and so I go to the large print books that are colour-coded: black for mysteries and whodunits like Agatha Christie; red for fiction; and blue for romance. I look at the H Rider Haggard books, then the Agatha Christies, and choose Death on the Nile. I prefer Miss Marple, but I think it would be interesting to read a book set somewhere familiar, even though I know it probably won’t be recognisable or real, in the same way that the Enid Blyton books about the Famous Five and the Secret Seven aren’t real. Adventures like that never happen to us, but I am glad that we don’t have to eat cucumber or tomato sandwiches like they do.

  Then I look at the Miss Read books, and choose one called Village School, because it is the first in a series.

  The librarian takes the little cards out of our books and puts them in a box under our names. ‘Do you really read these books?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  Then he says, ‘You read every single word and you understand it all?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes if we don’t know what a word means we ask our mother.’

  ‘But she doesn’t tell us,’ Selma says. ‘She always says, look it up in the dictionary.’

  ‘Most of the time I don’t want to stop reading to look it up in the dictionary, especially if it’s an exciting bit,’ I say. ‘I just carry on and most of the time I can guess what the word means.’

  ‘I wish I could improve my English. It is very hard,’ says the librarian.

  ‘You just need to practise,’ says Selma. ‘You are lucky. There are all these books to read. You could start with the children’s books.’

  The librarian looks a bit surprised at the suggestion.

  On the way out, I notice a poster advertising a showing of Hamlet at the British Council film night on the following Thursday evening. We’d seen Madame Butterfly the previous month. Mama had thought it might be too grown-up for us to understand, but that it would probably do us good to see and hear something different. I remember it was really windy that night in the library garden, and halfway through the film the portable screen fell over, and the university students who’d come to see it clapped and cheered, some of them slipping away before the film continued.

  I will definitely remember to tell Mama about Hamlet.

  When we are walking home, Selma is quiet for a change, and then she says, ‘My friend Miriam said that Miss Layla is getting married.’

  ‘Yes. She’s going to get married in the next holidays.’

  ‘Can we go to the wedding?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we have to be invited.’

  ‘We could ask to be invited.’

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Miriam asked if she could come to my birthday party.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why is it different?’

  I can see a long argument coming on, and I’m hot and tired and just want to get home and have a nice cold shower and have something to eat, and then lie on the cool tiles under the fan with one of my new books. ‘We’ll ask Mama when we get home,’ I say.

  Then, all of a sudden, we hear what sounds like gunfire coming from different directions in the city. And then a series of louder bangs like explosions, and columns of black smoke rise in the air over the rooftops.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Selma asks in a frightened voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  Turning the corner into our street we see a cluster of army vehicles in front of our gate. Selma and I run home as fast as we can. A dozen soldiers with guns are standing around. The soldiers’ uniforms and the vehicles are all a dark colour, like clouds building up before a storm. The soldiers’ guns are not slung on their backs, but they are holding them in front of them, like the toy soldiers that Sami keeps hidden in his secret place in the garden where Mama won’t find them.

  A soldier steps in front of me. ‘Where are you going, little lady?’ he says.

  My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel frightened and that I’m going to be sick. ‘We live here,’ I manage to say.

  ‘She’s a little beauty,’ another soldier says.

  Selma and I run past the soldiers onto our driveway, and they don’t try to stop us.

  Another group of about half a dozen soldiers is coming towards us. Selma doesn’t notice that Dad is in the middle, and she runs to the house.

  Dad sees me and tries to stop, but the soldiers on either side of him, gripping his arms, keep him moving. My throat is dry, and my heart is beating so loud that for a few seconds I hear no other sound. I want to ask Dad what is happening and where he is going, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I run along to keep up with him and no one stops me. We reach one of the vehicles and a soldier opens the back door and they begin to push Dad in.

  ‘Dad!’ I cry.

  He resists the soldiers briefly, and looks straight into my eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Farida,’ he says. He tries to smile. ‘Go home, quickly! And help your mother.’

  The soldiers shove him roughly into the car. ‘Be a good girl,’ he calls. ‘Make me proud.’ And a soldier slams the door.

  Still clutching my library books to my chest I run towards the house.

  Leaving

  I’m in the garden sitting on the swing. I tilt back my head and feel tears trickling into my ears as I look up at the pale blue sky. My heart is breaking. We’ll be leaving this place I call home.

  From the verandah I hear Mama’s voice begin to lose patience. ‘You can’t take all those books, Selma. I’ve told you a hundred times. Just pick two or three of your favourites. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to share that suitcase with Farida.’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘I know it’s not fair,’ says Mama a bit more gently. ‘We’ve all got to give up things we don’t want to.’

  ‘Then why has Sami still got Goldie? You told him to find a new home for him, and he hasn’t.’

  ‘Sami, is it true that tortoise is still here?’ asks Mama. ‘I want you to take Goldie round to your friend’s house like we agreed. You can’t keep him here till the last minute. He’ll get left behind with no one to look after him.’

  ‘Can’t I keep him for just one more day?’ says Sami. ‘Please?’ I can hear how upset he is.

  ‘I’ll go with you, Sami,’ says Selma.

  ‘Farida!’ Mama calls. She sounds so tired.

  ‘Coming.’ I dry my face with the hem of my skirt. I remember Dad once saying that you can’t cry all the time. I get off the swing and take a deep breath. One day soon I will have cried enough.

  Glossary

  afrangia: A foreigner (female).

  As-salaamu alaikum: An Arabic greeting meaning ‘Peace be upon you’, to which the reply is Wa alaikum as-salaam meaning ‘And upon you, peace’.

  bikka: A traditional mourning ritual involving keening (literally: the crying).

  Eid al-Adha: An Islamic festival commemorating Abraham’s sacrifice as told in the Koran (literally: festival of the sacrifice).

  Eid al-Fitr: An Islamic festival marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan (literally: festival of fast-breaking).

  Hajj: A pilgrimage undertaken by Muslims to the city of Mecca, birthplace of Prophet Mohammed.

  jellabiah: A loose-fitting robe with long sleeves.

  karkadeh: A sweet and sour hibiscus drink.

  keffiyeh: A headscarf worn by men in some Middle Eastern countries.

  maidaan: An open field. Can also be vacant ground used as a town square, or a parade ground.

  Mawlid al-Nabi: An Islamic holy day marking the birth of Prophet Mohammed (literally: birth of the prophet).


  nabk: The edible fruit of the jujube tree (Ziziphus genus). Usually dried and sold as a snack.

  piastre: An English name for the currency of Sudan. One hundred piastre are worth one Sudanese pound.

  thobe: A women’s garment. A long, colourful length of fabric is wrapped around the body (over a dress) and one end goes over the head, around the chin, then over the shoulder.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the help and enthusiasm of the team at Fremantle Press. Also special thanks are due to my husband for his encouragement and support, and to my fellow writing group members for their thoughtful comments.

  First published 2017 by FREMANTLE PRESS

  25 Quarry Street, Fremantle WA 6160

  www.fremantlepress.com.au

  Copyright © Yasmin Hamid, 2017

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cover illustration and design by traceygibbs.com.

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group, Australia.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry available.

  Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.