Bird Summons Page 2

  Salma said, wanting to be clear, wanting to justify herself, ‘Maybe not a better life. But completely different.’

  ‘So what?’ said Iman.

  Salma was disappointed. There was an intellectual satisfaction in pursuing that ‘what if ’ parallel scenario. Why was Iman so pedantic and literal? But she regarded her younger friend as a useful sounding board. She said, ‘I’ve started to imagine that other life clearly, like I’m watching a film. A film about myself.’ The other Salma would have been Dr Salma for a start. Not a massage therapist. When Salma had first come to Britain, she found that her medical degree was not sufficient. After failing her qualifying exams twice, she had sat herself down firmly and taken stock of the situation. Not enough money, baby on the way and David, himself the first in his family to go to university, was not exerting undue pressure on her to practise as a doctor. It was time to pursue other alternatives. Changing sheets and bedpans would have been too much of a blow to her ego. She said no to nursing. The qualifications and training to become a massage therapist were affordable and accessible. She surged ahead. She didn’t look back. Until last month when, in their very first exchanges, Amir addressed her as Dr Salma and she had to say, ‘I’m not a doctor.’ And because he wasn’t as polite as David, he contradicted her and said, ‘Nonsense. You are. We graduated in the same year and you got better grades in the exams than I did.’

  ‘Told you Moni would take ages,’ Iman drawled. ‘Bet you, she’ll now say she doesn’t want to go on this trip at all. It won’t be easy for her to leave Adam.’

  Salma hadn’t thought of this. Surely Moni couldn’t back out now, not after all the preparations. Not after having got this far. She hurried into the nursing home.

  Iman stepped out of the car. She walked a few steps and stood under a tree. The tree hid her from the road. She took off her coat and felt the breeze through her clothes. She felt submission wafting towards her from the nursing home, as if it were tangible and elemental. The submission to imperfection, to illness, to fate. It didn’t make her sad. Instead she understood it as if it were an old language she had practised, as if it were as basic and solid as the ground beneath her feet. She closed her eyes and heard the distant traffic, a few soft sounds coming from inside the home, then the caw of seagulls. The sunlight played on her closed eyelids, she smelt the leaves of the tree and the fresh air. Existence without feelings or desires – nothing to complain or brag about. She smelt the grass and heard a bird sing hoo poo hoo poo again and again. She opened her eyes and saw it on a branch of the tree. Gold necklace around its neck, a delicate crown. There was something reassuring about it, a weight and a balance. Iman reached up her hand as if she wanted it to settle on her wrist. Instead it fluttered and hopped further away up the branch. ‘Come back,’ she said in Arabic, her voice sounding foreign in her ears. But would the bird understand English better? What language was the speech of birds?

  Moni was sniffling into a tissue when she and Salma walked out of the nursing home. Iman took up her place in the front passenger seat and pretended not to notice. She didn’t want to embarrass Moni. It was a shame, but what was the right thing to say in such a situation? It was obvious that Salma had pulled off a miracle in persuading Moni to leave Adam. Iman admired Salma’s perseverance, her confidence in doing the right thing. This was why she felt safe with Salma. Someone who knew all the answers, who filled in the gaps for older cousins and young aunties left behind. Last year, when Iman married Ibrahim, Salma had helped her with all the preparations, hosting the henna party at her house and even sugaring Iman’s legs for her.

  Salma led Moni into the back seat behind Iman. She buckled up the belt for her. Moni started saying the travel prayer even before Salma got into the driver’s seat, ‘. . . we are returning . . .’ Spread out in the back, she could see Salma skirting the bonnet of the car, the definitive bounce in her step, the way she sat up straight and punched in the destination on the GPS.

  Iman answered a text from her husband. All her husbands, one after the other, were possessive. Even Salma was a possessive friend. Iman, surrounded by this tight grip of adulation and comfort, didn’t long to escape; like a pet, she neither bristled nor rebelled. She did, though, see herself growing up, becoming more independent. She was not sure how this independence would come about. It would not take the shape of aloneness, she was sure. Always, Iman was surrounded by others. She was sought after because she was decorative and enhancing. If she felt hemmed in, it was because she was popular and in high demand. Everything has a cost. Whenever she turned, there would be someone to guide her, adopt and sponsor her. In return, they owned her one way or the other. She tolerated all this for the time being. She took it for granted. It was bearable and not altogether unpleasant. Deep down she knew that when the right time came to exit, she could slip out and no one would be able to hold her back.

  Moni prayed that she would return safely to her son. She prayed that he would be all right while she was away. Through her tears, she saw the familiar orange sign of Sainsbury’s. It had been a long time since she was in a supermarket. She ordered everything online and had it delivered. Weeks passed in which all she did was take Adam back and forth to the doctor, to the district nurse and to Salma, his massage therapist. It got harder, not easier. And she needed every cell in her brain and every ounce of energy to look after him.

  Salma drove fast, out of the city. She had chosen to take the longer route because it afforded the better road. The speed made her aggressive. ‘The loch is a great place, Moni. Beautiful scenery. There are forest trails where we can go for walks. We can go on a boat. You’ll love it. And then, inshallah, we will accomplish our goal and read Fatiha at Lady Evelyn’s grave. There’ll be a selfie of us stuck online showing everyone that, yes, we’ve done it!’

  Through her sobs, Moni managed to say, ‘Thanks, Salma.’ When Salma had found her telling the baffled nurses that she wanted to stay, she had, to Moni’s relief, taken control of the situation. Gentle and firm, she had eased Adam out of her arms and reassured her yet again that he would be in the best of care. Adam had not understood that she was leaving him, and she was grateful for that. She now wondered if he cared that he was the only black child. If he even noticed. Sometimes at home, looking into his eyes, she searched for things other than the dull pain, other than the acceptance. The staff had been kind and patient with her. Every medical establishment Moni had encountered through the NHS was full of sympathy and understanding. While all Murtada could say was: We must behave normally. Life goes on. He said this when she was still refusing to have sex three whole months after the birth. When she did not want to go back home on holiday. Eventually they did go to Sudan for Murtada’s brother’s wedding, but people were so unkind about Adam, so blatantly curious, at turns blaming her (it had to be someone’s fault) and pitying her, that she was miserable. She began to keep Adam not only indoors but in her room, away from the prying visitors, who seemed to be attracted to him as a grotesque curiosity.

  Before his birth, Moni had been active, positive and smiling, with her high-powered bank job and independence. Murtada had courted her for years before she succumbed. At first, she had not judged him good enough for her and assumed she could do better. It was his own matter-of-fact awareness of this which caught her attention, his blunt, ‘I know your family is better off than mine, I know that you are socially higher, but I will not take a penny from you because that’s not why I want you,’ which roused her admiration. He was a chartered accountant specialising in corporate finance and they had met when he was securing a loan through her bank. She was impressed and humbled by his dedication to his career and perseverance; his efforts at improving himself touched her, his ambitions for gaining international experience captured her imagination. She wanted a large family and his instinct to provide – ‘I will pamper you even more than your family pampered you. I will do anything for you’ – won her over. She loved how he described his very first
impression of her on the day they met – bust straining against the tailored jacket she was wearing, her hijab tied slick, the ruthless way she questioned his proposal. This truly was how she had been. Then Adam’s birth bulldozed her. After that failed visit back home, she stood up to Murtada. ‘I will not take Adam there again. I will not take him to those backward fools.’ Murtada had replied, ‘These fools are our flesh and blood.’ But she didn’t care. She became one of those women to whom things were clear-cut. Everything back there was bad, and everything here was good.

  The more they slept apart – she with Adam and Murtada on his own – the more they disliked each other. Murtada was not comfortable with Adam and she could not forgive him for this. Just the sight of Adam depressed Murtada. He would gaze at him with bewilderment and dismay. Murtada wanted a cure, he wanted state-of-the-art surgery and strong medication. It took him time to accept that nothing could be done. When he did accept this fact, after an inner tussle and genuine agony, he wrote Adam off. He shelved him. We must go on and live our lives as fully as possible, he said to Moni. We must have other children. We must be happy. We cannot let his condition rule us. All this fell on deaf ears. Moni was busy. Busier than she had ever been in her life, and more important. You’re a good mum, the nurses said. You’re doing a brilliant job. A job that was hard but encompassing and all-absorbing, rousing all her sincerity and resilience. Looking after Adam, Moni became stronger. Father of a disabled son, Murtada became weaker. He was in Saudi Arabia now, in a new job, still on probation. He wanted Moni and Adam to join him but wasn’t yet in a position to bring them over. This distance apart suited Moni.

  ‘So many trucks,’ Iman was saying. She was watching the road as if she herself were driving. She could neither drive nor afford to take lessons and admired Salma’s flair in overtaking the slower vehicles. ‘Even if I ever get my licence, I won’t drive on these big roads. I’ll stick to the city.’

  ‘When you get your licence,’ Salma corrected her. ‘Say inshallah.’

  ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘It’s you, Moni, who really needs to drive.’ Salma glanced up at the mirror. ‘It will help you with Adam. Make taking up lessons your resolution after we get back from this holiday. Honestly, it will change your life.’

  Moni smiled but didn’t reply. Salma was right of course, but she had no energy for self-improvement. Nor could she be bothered to explain to Salma that she used to drive before she moved to Scotland. All she needed were a few refresher lessons and to study the British Highway Code, then take the test. Perhaps. The old Moni wouldn’t have hesitated. Before his birth and after his birth. That was her life, split right in the middle. Adam was her first baby and she didn’t know what to expect. When he was born he looked odd and couldn’t feed, but she wasn’t sure what was wrong. She had no one to compare him with. Then it was one hammer blow after the other, extra days in the hospital, the doctors not sure what was wrong. Denial, clutching at straws, the minute-by-minute challenge to cope. A long time, or so it felt, before the correct diagnosis, the reality check, the sinking in of the truth that Adam was not a healthy, normal baby.

  She rallied and did her best, ears alert when the doctor spoke. The urgency of it all. The steepest learning curve. Oh yes, getting an MBA had been much easier, standing up to male colleagues at work a doddle in comparison. All her resources, all her intelligence, were needed to be a mother to Adam and not let that role floor her. And in the meantime, she let herself go. Weight gain and no time to cut her toenails, to moisturise her elbows or buy deodorant when it ran out. Sleep became a treat. A nap the only gift she wanted. The news on the television screens burnt past her throughout each hectic day and meant nothing. The world could go to hell for all she cared. No one on the whole of planet Earth could possibly be suffering more than her.

  Sitting in the back seat of Salma’s car, soothed by the rain and the rhythmic swipe of the wipers, tired from crying and the stress of leaving Adam for the first time, Moni allowed herself to fall asleep.

  Iman looked out of the window. Green fields swept past her, hay rolled up in stacks, cows with their heads sloped down as if they were praying. She could hear the wind outside the closed window, beneath the sound of the traffic. Again, I am disappointed, she thought. Last night she had dared to hope and at first not even packed any sanitary towels. Then when she got up for the dawn prayer, there was the tangible failure. I am still young, she told herself. Everyone says so. Still plenty of time. Young women my age aren’t even thinking of settling down, let alone having children.

  Iman had been first married off at the age of fifteen. She had walked home from school and just as she rested her bag on the floor, standing in her school uniform, was told that there was a suitor waiting to see her in the living room. ‘Hurry and change,’ her mother had said in a voice that meant there would be no negotiation. ‘I took a dress out for you.’ In the bedroom that she shared with her four younger sisters, Iman found the dress laid out on the bed, one that she didn’t particularly like, and there was no time to bathe. It was a hasty marriage, for no good reason, except that a year later her new husband died at the hands of government forces in the very first uprising against Assad. People said, ‘It was as if he knew he didn’t have a long time to live, that’s why he was so keen to get married.’ Iman cried theatrically, then grumbled at the restrictions of the mourning period, then, once it was over, started to enjoy her ‘young widow’ status. Among her still unmarried friends, she became not only the most beautiful but the one with the sad tale and the experience. She could hold court if she wanted to, or drape her long black hair over a cushion during a sleepover and, while the others twittered away, hold back her secret knowledge. For her second marriage, she inspected and rejected one suitor after the other, annoying her family and providing material for plenty of gossip. Out of the many, she cherry-picked the most ambitious. He was the one who brought her to Britain.

  Salma, Moni and Iman heading out. Salma was the oldest but not the tallest. Moni was the tallest and the fattest. Iman had the best hair, Moni the best teeth, Salma was the most stylish. Moni had a postgraduate degree but no job. Salma’s rate for a full-body sports massage had doubled since she first started out. There was little that Iman was qualified for. Salma still spoke English with an accent, Iman’s English was poor, and Moni spoke English well but most of the time she couldn’t be bothered to speak at all. Iman could recite the Qur’an better than the other two could, Salma knew more of it by heart, it was only after giving birth that Moni had become religious. Moni could bake anything, Salma stuck to her national dishes and Iman made the best pickled aubergines. When Salma spoke people listened, when Iman spoke it brought attention to her looks, when Moni spoke she sounded highly strung. Salma, Moni and Iman together but not together, fellow travellers, summoned by Fate. Salma wanted to visit Lady Evelyn’s grave, Iman wanted to be with Salma, Moni was worried about the amount of walking involved.

  Chapter Two

  After driving for an hour, Salma couldn’t resist the need to check her phone. She stopped at a motorway service point after Forfar. Iman got out to use the toilet, but this did not wake up Moni. Salma reached into her handbag. She found that her phone had slipped between the pages of Lady ­Evelyn’s book, Pilgrimage to Mecca. The book had an introduction about Lady Evelyn’s life with plenty of photographs. As Salma pulled out her phone, she caught a quick look at the hunting lodge beneath the dark slope of a mountain on the Glencarron estate. How exciting that they were heading there now! And it would not be in black and white like in the photo. It would be spread out in late-summer colours.

  The feel of the phone in her hand was a welcome relief from the waiting. Again she admired it and smiled. Checking messages had become a reflex. Her excuse was the children. They might need something. She was good at organising things from a distance. She had even set up a group page so that the six of them could circulate their whereabouts and news. At first, David had t
hought it unnecessary. But it did turn out to be useful when Daughter No. 2 missed her bus coming back home from school and Son No. 1 broke his arm at judo. Diligently, Salma checked the family group and sent an update of her whereabouts with a ‘miss you already’. There were no phone messages for her and only a few inconsequential emails.

  On social media, there was no message from Amir either, and he hadn’t updated his status. Instead of feeling disappointed, she felt calm. It was the need to check that was becoming more and more urgent rather than the communication itself. In his last message, sent yesterday when it was late at night for him and teatime for her, he had asked her to phone him. It thrilled her of course, this request to move the relationship up a gear. They would talk properly, hear each other’s voices, maybe even use the camera and see each other. It was flattering and intriguing, but his request also flustered her. Receiving it, she skirted past David setting the table and went to check on the bubbling pasta. Phone in hand, feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable.

  So she had lowered the volume of the television set, examined her youngest child’s hand to see if it needed washing – annoying him because it interrupted his homework – and told David the truth. Not the whole truth, but no lies either. A segment of the truth, that a former university friend had contacted her. She had said his name out loud – Amir ­Elhassan – a blast from the past with links to other old friends. Photos she couldn’t even remember having been taken popping up on screen. She started to rattle on a bit as she stirred the pasta. Updates about people that David had not heard her talk about since their time in Egypt. The one-time firebrand head of the students’ union now working for an insurance company and driving a Mercedes; the handsome swimming champion bald and overweight; so-and-so at her daughter’s graduation. David only half listened and she was glad of that, as if his indifference was lifting a weight off her conscience. He looked up to swear at the television, where a politician was saying that anyone not born in the country should be deported.