Swimming on the Lawn Page 6

  Mama opens her eyes and points to the bag of bananas.

  Sami stands up on the banquette and jumps down onto the wooden floor. The sound startles Amir and his body jerks, but he doesn’t wake. Selma and Sami line up all the bananas on the seat next to Mama and carefully examine each one.

  ‘They’re all the same,’ I say.

  ‘No they’re not,’ they both say together.

  There is a blast of a horn and our train starts to move. Dad hasn’t come back. I get up and go out into the corridor. People are standing at the windows calling out goodbyes and messages to their friends and relatives, but I can’t see Dad among them. The train is slowly picking up speed, but it is still slow enough for someone to run and catch up with it. I look towards the end of the carriage at the door to the steps, but Dad isn’t there. How can I tell Mama without Sami and Selma hearing? I stand in the doorway of our compartment and look at Mama, but she is looking out of the window and doesn’t seem worried, so I sit down next to Amir and don’t say anything.

  Sami and Selma are eating, their mouths too busy to speak. There is just the rhythm of the wheels on the track, the sway of the carriage, and the faint whooshing of the puffing engine.

  Someone is standing in the doorway. It’s Dad, and he is smiling. He pretends to frown at Sami and Selma and says, ‘You’re eating! And I’ve just ordered breakfast. It will be here in twenty minutes.’ He scoops up the bananas that are still left on the seat, hands them to Selma and sits down next to Mama.

  Suddenly I’m feeling very hungry.

  A while later we have grown impatient. Amir is still asleep, but the three of us are waiting in the corridor for our breakfast to arrive. At last a waiter in traditional jellabiah with a cummerbund is making his way towards us. He has one part of the round tray of food resting on his right shoulder, his right arm extended below the tray like a shelf and his right hand steadying the other end of the tray to keep it level as he walks and sways.

  ‘Breakfast is here!’ yells Sami.

  The waiter checks a piece of paper for the compartment number and as he tries to pass us, he says what sounds like ‘Squeeze me’. Selma and Sami glance at each other, then try hard not to laugh. I glare a warning. Their faces are all twisted up with effort, then it’s all too much. Held breath explodes out of their mouths like noisy farts. They lean onto each other and laugh so gleefully that it makes me want to laugh as well. I suck in my cheeks and go into our compartment, where the food is being spread out on the table that has been extended to double its previous size. I can smell fresh bread and breakfast beans with onion, garlic and dill.

  When we are all sitting, Mama uses some of the cold drinking water in the jug to wet wads of toilet paper from the roll in her bag and hands them out so we can clean our hands.

  ‘What about Amir?’ I say.

  ‘Let him sleep,’ says Mama. ‘I’ll save him a boiled egg.’

  After the breakfast tray has been cleared away Dad goes off to walk down the corridors to stretch his legs and to see if any friends or relatives happen to be travelling on our train. Sami and Selma are leaning out of the window opposite our compartment door, and Mama has gone to the toilet.

  I get my book out of Mama’s bag and settle in the corner of the seat behind Amir. I’m reading My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George, for about the fifth time. It is one of my favourite books and unlike Swiss Family Robinson, this story is much more real and I can imagine myself in the Catskill Mountains like Sam Gribley, all snug and warm inside a hollow tree while it snows outside. And instead of a pet peregrine falcon called Frightful, which I think is a silly name, my bird would be called Sheba.

  I’m up to the part where Sam hides the carcass of a deer that has been killed by poachers. He will smoke the meat for the winter and use the hide to make warm clothes. I love how he can look after himself by watching the creatures in the woods and by finding out how to do things from books in the library of the nearest town.

  Every time I read the book I imagine I’m far away, all on my own in my little homemade house, either in the woods or on a deserted tropical island. Either one would be perfect. I think I’ll probably have to be a scientist or an explorer when I grow up if I want to do these things, and I get impatient that I have to wait so long.

  The clinking of glass makes me look up. A waiter has brought tea on a tray and puts it on the table in front of Mama. ‘Thank you,’ Mama says as she gives him a tip.

  Dad hasn’t come back, and I can hear Sami and Selma playing some game further down the corridor. Mama pours tea into two of the glasses and adds some milk. She passes one to me and smiles. ‘You still enjoying your book?’ she asks. ‘You must know that one by heart.’

  ‘Almost. I’ve got two other books in the suitcase. If I run out I might have to borrow one of Selma’s, but she’s only brought fairytales. So I’ll probably just start reading mine all over again.’

  I hold my tea glass by the rim, so as not to burn my fingers. It is only half full in case the railway carriage suddenly jostles. I take a sip and it’s not too strong. Mama pours out two more glasses of tea for our second round before it gets too stewed in the pot.

  The train’s whistle blows and the train begins to slow.

  Tortoise

  Looking out the carriage window, I see mud houses in the distance. A small crowd of people are waiting for the train to come to a stop. They are the only sign that marks this place as a train stop. I can’t see a water pump or a ticket seller’s kiosk.

  I watch as passengers haul their luggage onto the train, and smiling babies are passed from relative to relative for one last kiss.

  Trays of round, flat freshly baked loaves of bread are balanced on young girls’ heads as they call out the price. Older women sit in the sun, using torn pieces of cardboard to fan the charcoal in their makeshift tin can stoves. Large pots of beans are gently simmering, and I can smell onions and dill. Passengers are stepping down from the train and they each buy a loaf of bread, then the bean stew lady slits the loaf into two halves with her knife, and spoons warm beans into the pocket of each half. Some men are so hungry that they stand and eat without moving from in front of the stew lady and have to be pushed aside by the next customer.

  I become aware that Sami must want something very badly, because the tone of his voice makes me turn around to see what is wrong. Sami is pulling Dad’s shirtsleeve. ‘Please, Dad. Just come and have a look. They are sooo lovely. They don’t cost much. Pleeease, I only want one. I’ll look after it, very carefully. I promise I will.’

  Dad gets up and Sami leads him out of our compartment and into the corridor. I look out the doorway and see Sami, Dad and Selma all looking out of a window. There is a discussion going on, then Sami turns and comes running back. His lips are trembling and he is trying not to cry. He pushes past me and goes up to Mama who is reading her book.

  ‘Can I please have one? Dad says I have to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ says Mama.

  ‘You’re not listening,’ he says. I can see he is very upset.

  ‘I am listening. What is it you want to say?’

  I can see that Sami is about to point out that she can’t be listening otherwise she would know what he wants, but instead he says, ‘I want a tortoise. A baby one. They don’t cost much, and I’ll look after it. Dad said I have to ask you.’

  ‘A tortoise? How are you going to look after it? We are on a train and we are going to be away on holiday. Where are you going to keep it? And what are you going to feed it?’

  ‘I’ll hold it. And it can walk about in the carriage. I’ll keep an eye on it. And it can sleep in my schoolbag, but I’ll have to empty my things out of it.’

  ‘And what is it going to eat?’

  ‘I can give it some lettuce and tomatoes when we have dinner, and the boy who is selling them has got some parsley that he says he’ll give me.’

  Mama sighs and looks at Sami. I know she is looking at his eyes and the tears that
are just waiting for Mama to tell them to fall out.

  ‘As long as you realise this is a living creature, and you have to look after it. Not just today and tomorrow, but for a very long time.’

  ‘I will,’ says Sami. He doesn’t wait for any more instructions, but rushes out the door just as the whistle goes.

  ‘Mama said yes! I can have one,’ he calls out to Dad. ‘Quick, before the train goes!’

  The train has picked up speed and the tortoise is on the table, surrounded by books to keep it away from the edges. It is small and has very pretty, almost hexagonal, black markings on its golden yellow shell. It isn’t at all shy and walks around on its little legs, confidently exploring.

  ‘What are you going to call it?’ asks Selma.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ says Sami.

  ‘Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I think it’s a boy.’

  ‘Well, if you choose a name that isn’t for a boy or a girl, then it won’t matter,’ I say.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like Speedy.’

  ‘Or Potato,’ says Selma, laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ says Sami.

  ‘Yes it is,’ Selma and I say together.

  ‘Mama, they are being mean to me.’

  ‘No we’re not. We are trying to help you choose a name,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t need your help. I’m going to call it Goldie.’

  ‘That’s a very nice name,’ says Mama. ‘It would probably be a good idea to sort out your bag, so that Goldie will be somewhere safe while we clear up the table for dinner.’

  Amir will be waking up soon, and he will think Goldie is really lovely.

  Spiders

  We arrive at the guesthouse in the late afternoon. We reach it by being driven along dirt tracks for about half an hour from the stop where we got off the train. The house appears to be isolated in the middle of a stony desert. It has four rooms – not counting the kitchen and the bathroom, which are in a separate small building. The verandah is enclosed with flywire.

  ‘Make sure you keep the flywire door closed at all times,’ says the caretaker, as we run outside to explore. The ground is slightly hilly, and around the house, in what would normally be a garden, there is just compacted dirt interspersed with rocky outcrops and patches of loose sand. Here and there are the remnants of dried-up small scrubby bushes.

  Although the sun is getting low over the horizon, I can feel the heat in the ground through the soles of my sandals. We play a game of tag. The rule is that we are all ‘it’ so we can all chase each other at the same time and are only safe if we stand on a rocky bit. We limit the space we can run about in as there is no fence. I stand on a rock and look out in every direction and imagine I’m on the moon. As I run from one rocky patch to another I notice small gaps and holes between the rocks and try to peer into them, but nothing stirs, not even an ant. Gerald Durrell would have been disappointed.

  Mama comes out to watch for a while, then goes for a short walk to look around. When she comes back she says, ‘There will be some tea in about ten minutes, if you want any. Or if you prefer, there is some karkadeh.’ Karkadeh is a sweet and sour hibiscus drink, and a seasonal favourite.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, as we carry on chasing each other in the heat.

  When we are hot and tired, we sit on the enclosed verandah and drink the karkadeh, which is much sweeter than when Mama makes it. It tastes good, and is surprisingly cool, even though there is no fridge. Mama and Dad drink their tea.

  ‘I don’t have to make my inspections until the day after tomorrow,’ says Dad. ‘So how about we go for a drive in the morning. This is a sugar-growing area, we could drive past the fields and maybe as far as the river if we have time.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ says Mama.

  ‘Can we get some sugar cane to eat?’ asks Sami.

  ‘I don’t think there will be any for sale, but you never know,’ says Dad.

  ‘Aww. I would have liked some! I’ve finished my drink, can I take Goldie outside for a walk?’

  ‘It’ll be getting dark any minute now, you’ll have to be quick.’

  As Sami goes to the cardboard box in the corner to pick up Goldie, the caretaker carries in a lighted paraffin lamp and hangs it on a hook that is dangling from the verandah ceiling on a length of wire. Light flickers in weird shapes on the walls as the lamp swings slightly when the caretaker adjusts the wick.

  ‘The children shouldn’t go out now. It’s best if they stay inside. It’s dusk already.’

  ‘They won’t be long,’ replies Dad, as Sami and Selma go out.

  The enclosed verandah seems to get a bit brighter in the weak lamplight as the sunlight outside fades. I fetch my book and pull my chair closer to the lamp. There is just enough light to read.

  ‘Don’t strain your eyes,’ says Mama.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say, and soon I’m back on the Gribley farm with Sam.

  Selma and Sami are screaming. I get up quickly and follow Mama and Dad who are already outside. I stand in the doorway, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. The sun has gone down and there’s only a faint silvery glow left on the edge of the sky. I can just make out the dark shapes of Selma and Sami standing together on a rock, still screaming. Dad and Mama have reached them and are picking them up.

  ‘Go inside and keep the door shut,’ says the caretaker as he rushes past me with another paraffin lamp held high, and goes to meet Mama and Dad to light their way back to the house.

  It is then that I see the hundreds of long-legged spiders, each much bigger than my hand, scurrying away from the lamplight as though it is fire from a flamethrower.

  ‘I rescued Goldie from the monsters,’ I hear Sami tell Mama.

  ‘You’re a very brave boy,’ she says.

  Molasses

  Next morning, the whole family is in the borrowed car. Selma and Sami have the window seats and Amir is on my lap in the middle. We are driving down a wide dirt road between seemingly endless fields of tall and green sugar cane. The only other things I can see are a strip of almost white sky above the gently waving fronds, and, through the back window, the dust billowing behind us. As we turn at a crossroads we can smell burning but we can’t see any fire or smoke. A few minutes later, as we cross another intersecting road, we see that the field on our left is smouldering. The sugar canes stand slightly blackened and bare of any leaves.

  ‘Why are they burning the sugar?’ I ask.

  ‘It makes it easier for the men to cut, and probably gets rid of any snakes. This is very hard work and the men have to be strong.’

  Up ahead a lorry is parked to one side and a row of men is shovelling dirt from the edge of the road and throwing it into the cane field. We slow down. Dad stops the car, leans out of the car window and gives the traditional greeting. ‘As-salaamu alaikum.’

  ‘Wa alaikum as-salaam,’ the men all reply.

  ‘Is it okay to carry on along this road?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Yes, you’ll be fine. There won’t be any more burning until tomorrow,’ says the man who seems to be in charge.

  ‘So what is happening here?’ asks Dad.

  ‘We are just checking that the fire is completely out in this section. As soon as it’s safe the workers will be brought out here to start the cutting.’

  ‘Anywhere I can buy a few pieces of cane for the children?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Not unless you are going into the town twenty kilometres away,’ replies the foreman. Then he waves at one of the men and says something. The man goes to the lorry and comes back with a long wide knife with a bit of a curve at the end. He slashes at one of the canes and quickly chops it into foot-long sections, then carries the bundle to the car and hands two pieces to each of us children sitting in the back, including Amir. The cane is covered in soot, so we gently drop the pieces on the floor by our feet, but Amir will only let me take away one of his pieces and firmly holds onto the ot
her. We’ll have to wait until we can wash them.

  ‘How much?’ says Dad, putting his hand in his pocket.

  ‘No charge,’ says the foreman.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Dad and discreetly slips a note into the man’s hand as he shakes it. We wave at the men as Dad drives on down the road.

  On the way back to the guesthouse, Dad makes a detour. We pull up to one side of a large building with a very busy forecourt that is full of men and vehicles. The smell of burnt sugar is very strong.

  ‘Why are we stopping here?’ asks Sami. ‘I thought we were going back to the spider house. I want to play with Goldie and let him have a walk before the spiders come out.’

  ‘There’s someone I need to see. I won’t be long,’ says Dad, as he opens his car door.

  We all sit quietly in the car as we watch noisy lorries piled high with cut sugar cane toot different musical notes on their horns as they arrive, accompanied by their own clouds of black engine exhaust and fumes. Other lorries are being unloaded by scrawny-looking workers, whose sweaty arms and faces glisten as though they have been dipped in oil. I notice a man in a white shirt and dark trousers who seems to be in charge. He is shouting instructions that no one seems to be taking any notice of, and every half minute he coughs chestily, then expertly directs his spit so that it arcs to one side before hitting the ground. Dust swirls and hangs in the air where a man is sweeping the debris of dry sooty leaves that have fallen from a departed lorry. As we take in the bustle, we are also being looked at. Curious glances are occasionally directed towards our parked car.

  ‘I need a wee-wee,’ says Amir.

  Mama gets out of the car and Selma opens her door and lifts Amir out. As I watch Mama carrying him a short distance away to one side of a stack of empty old oil drums, I am aware that something has changed. The noise from the forecourt has lessened and more people have stopped what they are doing to stare at Mama. A white woman, an afrangia, a foreigner, in a blue short-sleeve dress is a rare sight this far from the capital. And one who apparently has brown-skinned local-looking children is even more of a novelty to be wondered at. Mama’s shiny, wavy dark hair is a stark contrast to her smooth white skin and green eyes. Everyone’s agog.