Swimming on the Lawn Page 2

  ‘Let’s make some new clothes. We can cut out and colour our own,’ says Selma. ‘I’m going to make my doll a proper party dress and I’m going to use some of that glitter we’ve got.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got any glue left,’ I say. ‘But we could make some more. Come on, we’ll go and pick some now.’

  ‘Can’t you go on your own?’ asks Selma.

  ‘It’ll be quicker if you come,’ I say. ‘Then I’ll make the glue while you make your doll’s dress.’

  ‘Oh, all right!’

  We run down the drive, turn left outside the gate, and then jog past three houses to the end of the street. The asphalt ends and we take the dirt track that is a shortcut to the airport road only a kilometre away. Along this track are lots of thorn trees of various kinds, and among them are several acacias that we call the glue trees. They exude golden sap that makes excellent glue. We know this from our friends Nadia and Azza. When their elder brothers want to make glue, they come the week before, and with a sharp knife make little cuts on some of the tree branches so that the sap will slowly seep out of each cut and make a golden ball like a glittering jewel.

  Selma runs ahead and is looking up through the branches of the first glue tree. I see a flash of red. The nabk tree I’m passing is full of fruit. The small, round, red and yellow berries are the size of large peas, and they are protected by long thorns. Saliva fills my mouth as I remember their taste, sweet and sour at the same time. I’ve never seen so many berries on the tree before.

  ‘I found some glue,’ Selma calls.

  I abandon the nabk and go over to see where Selma is pointing. The nuggets of glue are fairly old, so the outside has got a hard crusty look that is slightly opaque, but they are not too far up the branch. I jump up and catch the end of the branch and pull it down towards me. ‘Here, hold this and keep it still.’ Selma holds the end with both hands as I push my way towards the centre of the tree. Lower branches catch at my dress and scratch my arms with their thorns. I slowly reach up and break off three bubbles of gold the size of large marbles, and then carefully make my way out again.

  ‘You can let go now. Look.’ I hold out my palm so that she can see. I pick up one of the pieces and bite into it. The crunch of the crust sounds like hard toffee breaking, and then my teeth glide through a smooth, firm, gelatinous centre. I chew. It tastes like the smell of freshly cut wood, with an aftertaste of weak unsweetened black tea. ‘Do you want a bite?’

  ‘No. You shouldn’t eat that. It’ll glue up your insides.’

  ‘Of course it won’t. They use this to make chewing gum.’

  ‘No they don’t.’

  ‘Have a look at the packet next time you get some.’

  ‘You know we’re not allowed chewing gum. And stop eating it, we won’t have any left to make the glue.’

  We walk the rest of the way home in silence.

  Back in the kitchen, Selma traces around her doll onto a piece of paper and then starts to draw a dress that will fit over the outline. I put the two and a half lumps of resin into our smallest saucepan with a tiny bit of water and light the gas. As the water simmers, I stir and stir until the resin melts. I pour the hot glue into a small jam jar and leave it on the draining board to cool. I wash out the saucepan and put it away, and sit down at the table. ‘The nabk tree is full of ripe fruit,’ I say, as I draw a large straw hat. I add flowers across the crown.

  ‘I didn’t see any. You should have said and we could have picked some.’

  ‘I was going to, then I forgot. We could go there tomorrow and maybe take the goat. It would probably like the nabk leaves.’

  Selma is colouring the last blue stripe on the skirt of the party dress, so I bring the jar of glue to the table. I watch as she uses a paintbrush to paint glue onto the bodice of the dress and between the blue and white stripes of the skirt, before sprinkling silver glitter over the glue.

  ‘That looks lovely,’ I say.

  Goat

  We’ve had our dinner and done our homework. Dad has gone to visit one of his cousins who is in hospital. Selma and I are lying on the cool tiles of our bedroom floor with our heads on our pillows. We are directly under the ceiling fan, which is on the highest speed. We are reading our books, which we are holding firmly to stop the pages from turning in the wild breeze. Mama and Amir are having a lie-down in Mama’s bedroom, and Sami has gone to play next door.

  I’m caught up in Moonfleet and I’ve just got to the part where the main character, John Trenchard, is trapped in the crypt. I stop reading and shiver with dread and excitement trying to imagine how John would get out of the tomb, so it takes a while for me to realise that someone is clapping by our gate. I look at Selma, but she is totally engrossed in her book and hasn’t heard anything. Putting my finger between the pages to keep my place, I run through the house and out onto the verandah. Four men I don’t recognise are by the gate, and when they see me they walk along the drive towards the house. One of the men, tall and very light-skinned, suddenly veers off to the side garden and I see him untying the goat.

  ‘What are you doing? That is our goat,’ I call out. I’m scared. The man is stealing our goat. The other three men have reached me, and they are smiling. They each hold out a hand and I automatically shake each of theirs.

  ‘Your father met us at the hospital, and he’s invited us and some other friends over for the evening. We are here early to help prepare the supper. Where shall we kill the goat?’ a thin-faced man says.

  I can’t speak. Panic has left me paralysed. I see the tall man dragging the goat round to the back and out of my view. I turn and rush into the house and run down the corridor to Mama’s room.

  ‘Mama!’ I cry, as I almost trip through the doorway. Mama is just getting up. ‘There are some men here and they are going to kill the goat. Please hurry, and stop them!’ I have a lump in my throat, and I realise that tears are pouring down my face and my nose is running. Mama quickly brushes her hair and I follow her out.

  Only two of the men are still waiting on the verandah. I stay in the doorway as I watch Mama go up to them. They shake hands. They are saying something, but all I hear is a buzzing in my ears. Mama turns to me as the two men disappear round the side of the house. She closes her eyes briefly, then takes my arm and we go into the kitchen. She sits me in a chair at the table and puts the kettle on.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she says, then kisses my forehead. I just cry and cry.

  Scorpion

  It’s late afternoon when Mama comes into our room. Selma and I are still reading. Since the goat was killed a few days ago Mama has been extra gentle with me. ‘I want you two to have a shower and put your polka-dot dresses on. Sami and Amir are already dressed.’

  ‘Why?’ says Selma. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘No. You’re all having your photographs taken in the garden. Then we can send them to Granny.’

  Selma and I stand together in front of the gardenia bushes, our hair in high ponytails held with wide red ribbons, and our best short white socks are neatly folded down over our ankles. Dad checks the readings on the light meter in his hand and then sets the shutter speed on the camera he has on a tripod.

  ‘Say “cheese”,’ Dad says. Selma and I smile at the camera. ‘One more! Okay, one at a time now. Come on, Sami. What about sitting on the swing?’

  ‘Can I stand on the swing?’

  ‘May I,’ says Mama.

  ‘May I stand on the swing?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad. Sami stands on the swing’s seat and tries to keep it still. Selma stands behind Dad and makes faces at Sami. Sami is doing his best to ignore her.

  ‘Don’t look so serious, Sami. Smile.’

  ‘My turn,’ says Selma. ‘I want a photo of me standing on the swing.’

  ‘Give it to Mama!’ I turn as I hear the panic in Mama’s voice. Mama is holding her hand out to Amir who is showing her something on his outstretched palm.

  ‘Mine. Found it.’

>   ‘I know you found it, but you can’t keep it, it’s dangerous. If you don’t want to give it to me put it back on the ground. It wants to go back to its own house.’

  ‘No!’ says Amir, at the same time closing his hand and putting it behind his back. In two seconds Amir is screaming and Mama has picked him up and is running towards the house. Dad runs after her and the rest of us follow. We are all in the bathroom where Mama is washing Amir’s hand. Amir is still screaming, frightened by the fuss more than the pain. Dad has opened the bathroom cabinet and is tearing the wrapping off a new razor blade. Mama holds Amir’s hand still while Dad makes a quick cut. Amir sees the blood and screams louder. Mama holds his hand under the running tap while the rest of us watch. Selma and Sami look as if they’re going to be sick.

  ‘There, there. It’ll soon be better,’ says Mama. ‘Let’s dry your hand and we can put a nice big plaster on it. Farida will put the kettle on and make a lovely pot of tea for Mama. Would you like a glass of milk, Amir? You’ve been a very brave boy. Let’s go and sit on the verandah and Selma will get you some milk.’

  Selma follows me to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and gets out the jug of milk while I fill the kettle and put it on the stove. She pours some milk into Amir’s glass and then says, ‘What happened? Why did Dad cut Amir’s hand?’

  ‘He got stung by a scorpion,’ I say. ‘But it was only a baby one.’

  Train

  Uncle Yousif comes to visit us just before Eid al-Adha. He’s taking me on a holiday to his village to stay with Aunty Zahra and my cousins. It will only be for a few days, but it will be a long journey on the train. I am excited at the idea. I haven’t been on a train before and I’m really looking forward to it.

  I have been on the train for hours. My tummy hurts and I think I am going to burst. I don’t know where the toilet is, and I can’t ask my uncle.

  ‘I’m going to play cards with some friends in the next carriage,’ he tells me. ‘Stay here and don’t go wandering off on your own. I’ll be back before it’s dark.’

  A few minutes after he leaves, I go to the door and look out into the corridor trying to work out where the toilet might be.

  I see a little boy. He looks back at me, and stares. I leave my compartment and approach him along the swaying corridor. As I get closer, he smiles, and I can hear laughing and squealing coming from the open doorway beside him. I peep in. It is full of people.

  ‘Do you know where the toilet is?’ I whisper.

  ‘Over there,’ he says in a loud voice, pointing to the end of the carriage.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ calls out a voice.

  ‘To the pretty girl.’

  ‘What pretty girl?’ a woman comes out and looks at me. She is a grown-up, but not very old. She has shiny black hair, tribal scars on her cheeks, and very white teeth. ‘Where are you from?’ she asks me.

  I point back along the corridor.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Farida.’

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘I’m going to the toilet.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your mother with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your big sister, then?’

  ‘I don’t have a big sister.’

  ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘My uncle. We’re going to the village.’

  ‘Aah. Well come along then. I’ll guard the door for you while you’re in there.’

  We go to the very end of the carriage, past an open doorway with metal steps to the outside. The lady opens a door. ‘In there,’ she says.

  I step into a tiny room with a small hole cut into the middle of the wet and stained wooden floor.

  I look into the hole, and air rushes up into my face, and all I can see is sand and every so often a glimpse of a railway sleeper that has been exposed by the wind. There is nothing to hold onto and the train keeps swaying. I lift my skirt and squat over the hole. The train lurches and some of my pee splashes onto my underpants.

  There is a tap on the wall, and I wash my hands and rinse out my underpants, wringing them as hard as I can before putting them back on. I knock on the door and the lady opens it.

  ‘You coming over to play with the other children?’

  ‘I have to go back to my compartment first.’

  ‘Okay, see you in a bit then.’

  Back in my compartment I quickly open my little bag and find a clean pair of underpants and put them on. I don’t know what to do with the damp pair. I can’t hang them anywhere to dry, so I look at the hot and flat and stony desert and think about throwing them out the open window. But they are my yellow pair with flowers on them, so I stuff them into a corner of my bag, and go out to meet my new friends.

  Boat

  It is dark when the train stops. ‘This is where we get off,’ my uncle says as he picks up my little bag and holds it in the same hand as his holdall. The only light outside is from an almost full moon and a few kerosene lamps. I follow him along the corridor to the door of the carriage, passing the empty compartment my new friends had occupied until a few hours ago. Stepping off the train I look around. It’s nothing like a station, but there is a noisy, chaotic crowd, and clouds of dust. My uncle holds out his free hand and I take it.

  There is a lot of shouting going on to one side of a small mudbrick building. My uncle walks towards the angry voices. I hang back and slow down but my uncle holds my hand tighter, crushing my fingers and pulling me along.

  ‘Come on, hurry up,’ he says. ‘Or we won’t get a place on the boat.’

  Next he has let go of my hand and he is pushing me in front of him, through the yelling crowd, his hand on my shoulder steering me until he stops me in front of two men sitting cross-legged on a palm-frond mat, with a paraffin lamp between them. One of the men has what looks like a tiny writing pad, and in front of the other is a rectangular metal box with its hinged lid open. The box is full of bundles of banknotes. I have never seen so much money. On a tray next to the box are little metal tubes, which I realise are perfectly stacked coins. I can see other ticket sellers further along, some on mats and others on low stools.

  The smells of sweat and dust and kerosene fill my nose. The solid noise slowly separates into individual voices as I make out names being called. There is an argument about prices, which intensifies and then calms down before new frustrations build up. The sound makes me think of Red Indian smoke signals billowing up into the sky in perfectly spaced puffs. The people behind us keep pushing, and I am trying not to step onto the mat with my shoes.

  ‘Hello, Mustafa,’ says my uncle in a voice that is loud but respectful. ‘How is your family? How are your wife and children? I heard your father went to the city for treatment. May God bring back his health and keep the rest of your family safe. This is my cousin’s daughter come to stay with my family for a holiday.’

  Mustafa glances briefly at me, and nods.

  My uncle hands some money to Mustafa, then the other man on the mat hits his writing pad hard with a wooden stamp, as though squashing a cockroach, and when he lifts the stamp I see the silhouette of a lion. Then the man rips the page off the pad and hands it to my uncle, who accepts it and says, ‘Come on, Farida, this way.’

  We push our way out of the crowd. After the brightness of the ticket sellers’ lamp, it is as though I am suddenly blind, but my uncle seems to be able to see in the dark. My feet stumble, then my eyes adjust and I see that we are following other groups of people down a narrow street with mud walls on either side. My uncle swings our two bags over his right shoulder and walks fast. The moon makes everything look silvery yet dark at the same time. I feel as though I am inside one of my black-and-white comic books: all the colours have disappeared. I look down at my blue dress. It looks grey. My uncle’s turban is a slightly paler grey, even though I know it is whiter than our best china tea set at home.

  The walls end, and we turn left and go down a stee
p track. Below us are lots of lamps, and I can see large wooden boats on the river. There are two trucks parked on the firm ground well above the wet mud of the lower part of the bank.

  ‘Wait here,’ my uncle orders. ‘I’m just going to check which boat is ours.’

  He puts our bags down to one side of the path and tells me to sit on them.

  As I wait, I notice the queue of men behind one of the trucks. Two men lower a large sack from the truck onto the first man’s back. The man bends under the weight and staggers a few steps like a baby learning to walk. I watch as he regains his balance, before he steps carefully onto a wooden plank that leads up to one of the boats. The middle of the plank bends under his weight and almost touches the water.

  A strange cry and a metallic rattle turn my attention back to the trucks. Something moves very fast over the top of one of the cabs. Then there is a flash of light and the same metallic sound again, and then the shape disappears into the shadows. I concentrate hard, straining my eyes to see. I hear a donkey calling out and another donkey answering from further up the bank. I hear the strange sound again and see the shadow stop halfway across the cab roof. It is a little monkey on a chain that trails into the cab window.

  ‘Come on, Farida, time to go.’ The suddenness of my uncle’s voice gives me a fright.

  ‘Uncle, I saw a monkey on that truck, can I go up to it?’

  ‘No, they are filthy and bite little girls. Now stay close and watch your step. There have been lots of animals through here, so try and keep your sandals clean.’

  I follow him down to the riverbank. As we pass the truck with the monkey, I look for it but can’t see it anywhere. Maybe it has gone back into the cab to sleep.

  Dust swirls around us and gets into my eyes. I can hear the hissing of the kerosene lamps as we get closer to the boats. My uncle puts our bags down, helps me up the plank and hands me down to another man who tells me to sit on a sack of grain in the bottom of the boat. The boat is full of sacks stacked around the wooden mast. Men sit around the edge of the boat, while women and a few children sit on the sacks.