The Friendly Ones Page 27

  ‘It must be a delta,’ he said kindly to his new wife. ‘The river gets wider as it gets near to the sea. It spreads out and it floods.’

  ‘Are we at the sea?’ she said.

  ‘No, not very near,’ Mahfouz said. He smiled. ‘The delta can be huge – it can go on for many many miles. I don’t know how near to the sea we are.’

  But the drama of this nation was smaller than the nation he was thinking of, because now the train gave a grand wide swerve to the right, and there was the sea. A seabird’s call, so harsh and near it could be heard within the carriage, announced it, and the cheerful hoot of the train’s horn. The horizon, far off across the smooth, green-blue sea under a deep blue sky, was a flat, decisive line. Out there, a cargo ship rested; was it moving out, very slowly, into the world, or returning from it, or poised in its element, like a tethered balloon in air? The world began out there, and there was no end to it. They were so small here, carving a route between the sea and the green-spattered cliffs of rock. There was a narrow beach, and families, some with bright buckets and spades, like pictures in the old books, were camped out on the sand.

  ‘It’s even nicer where we are going,’ Mahfouz said to his new wife. ‘And we are at the sea. I made a mistake.’ He knew that was what she had restrained herself from asking. Her eyes turned down to the table, with suppressed pleasure.

  On the other side of the aisle was an older couple – English, white people. They looked as if they had made this journey many times before. They sat very upright in their seats; he was reading a newspaper, and she was reading a paperback book. They were both thin, and grey, and their white hair shot upwards in similar ways. They were married, but they had grown alike. They were the kind of English people whom Mahfouz tried not to fear, the faces of authority. They had got onto the train at Exeter, he thought. The husband had taken a look at Mahfouz and his wife, then checked his seat reservations very carefully. The old woman had not looked at them – had made a clear effort not to look at them. There was no reason for Mahfouz not to be friendly to them.

  ‘A beautiful sight,’ Mahfouz said heavily, leaning slightly over the aisle and smiling.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ the man said, lowering his paper and giving a brief sharp smile, baring his long yellow teeth. The old woman made no move of acknowledgement, but gave the impression of fixing her gaze on the page, fixing her grip on her novel tighter.

  ‘The country is beautiful down here,’ Mahfouz said. ‘And the sea, it’s so lovely.’

  ‘I’m pleased you like it so much,’ the old man said, with a great air of finality, and raised his paper again. Mahfouz had tried, and he had found the response you sometimes found in English people. He turned and smiled at his new wife, who touched his hand gently with her hands in their black silk gloves. Her eyes brightened as if nothing at all had happened, as if she were quite impervious to being shrugged off. Or as if she entirely expected it and had stopped caring. The old man and his silent, frightening wife had been offered the hand of friendship and had been dismissive. It was easy not to want to engage with anything unfamiliar, and if they lived in Exeter it was quite probable that they very rarely, if ever, saw a young woman in public wearing a full veil over her face. Mahfouz hoped that the hotel in St Ives would be kind to them, him and his new wife.

  2.

  Her brother Nawaz had taken an interest, and had organized all the details of their honeymoon. It was really from him that Mahfouz had understood that it would be quite all right for them to go on honeymoon, that their circumstances were a little unusual, and that nobody would mind if they did something unusual. Their family was quite different in their looks. Most of them were stocky, dark, even plump – her elder brothers were comfortable and lazy fellows who liked their food too much. But towards the end of their family, when it came to his new wife, the fourth child and first daughter, and her younger brother, it was as if the parents had created an improvement. Nawaz and his sister were pale, very smooth-skinned and taller than anyone else in the family; they liked their food delicious, exquisite, and in tiny pieces, taken between delicate fingertips. They had always been special to each other as children, the youngest, their father told him; it would be hard for Nawaz when his sister left home.

  Mahfouz had known the family for some years; they went to the same mosque. He had not heard any tales about the girl; it had been brought up once discussions had started that Mahfouz, newly widowed, might like to consider marrying her. The father, uncle and brothers had agreed to meet with him after Sadia had died, and the conversation, even with its awkward admission, had gone well. In the sitting room of his pleasant, airy, modern house, they had even found things to laugh about. A friendly neighbour, who had volunteered to help Aaliyah, Mahfouz’s daughter, brought refreshments. Aaliyah had been very nervous. This would have been her first important gathering since her mother’s funeral. Mahfouz’s son Ayub had talked well about his job, a good, good job, at the council where he helped to rehome people in need. Her family understood more about him than he had expected. There were no questions about his family, about why they were not there to support him at this time. There were awkward things to admit, after all, about Mahfouz, and about Sadia’s family. It was not just that he was proposing to marry a girl for the second time. Everything had been understood, explained, and forgiven, and the neighbour, who had been one of Sadia’s best friends in England, came through with another plate of food. Mahfouz’s lawyer, an old friend, handed over the neat and comprehensive folder of Mahfouz’s affairs; he was honest, open and affluent. Everything was smiles; only in the corner a pale, thin boy with a patchy beard and big bony hands on his knees inspected everything in the room, and did not speak. ‘The youngest,’ the father had said. They were putting their coats on in the hallway, saying goodbye. ‘He will suffer – his sister getting married. No one to talk to! She would not agree without his consent.’ Mahfouz had wondered, before today, whether the youngest boy would do for his daughter Aaliyah. The boy was putting his coat on with impatience, almost with rage. He did not look at his new brother-in-law. Mahfouz saw, without quite understanding why, that this boy Nawaz would not do for his frightened, fumbling daughter, so often in tears at nothing, whose mother had died last year.

  The consent for Mahfouz to marry the girl must have followed, because in two weeks Nawaz was starting discussions with his brother-in-law-to-be about the details of the wedding, and what would happen afterwards. Mahfouz was amused. He had been married before. It was a good idea to marry again. His children had agreed, and they thought that Mahfouz’s new wife was a good choice. (They had been at the same school, Aaliyah two years below, Ayub three years above. The only thing that Aaliyah remembered was that she had started to wear a veil. She could not remember her before that.) Nawaz was alongside him, quite suddenly, one Friday as Mahfouz walked towards the car to drive home, and the friends who had been by him had melted away, Aaliyah and Ayub now ten paces behind. Was it arranged in some way?

  By the time they reached the car, it had been established between them that Nawaz’s sister was an excellent seamstress, that she very much liked to sew, and that Mahfouz’s wedding gift to his new wife would be a sewing machine of her own. ‘And a room to keep it in,’ Nawaz said, but that was no problem. The demand had been made boldly; Mahfouz’s generosity was in excess of the demand. Before the wedding, Mahfouz had planned to redecorate the whole house, and do something about the small box room that currently held nothing but old furniture and records of the shop’s transactions more than five years old. That would do very well. ‘There is so much to arrange,’ Nawaz said, wringing his hands theatrically by the door of the car. ‘I want so much for everything to be perfect for sister. But how can you know what sister would like? If I could explain …’

  And Nawaz was inside the car, in the front seat, buckling himself up and explaining about the honeymoon. In the back seat, Aaliyah and Ayub sat stolidly. They did not have the same relationship of intimacy as Nawaz had with his
sister; Mahfouz could almost feel his daughter willing her brother not to take any steps to explain what she would like when she married. He wondered whether it had seemed possible to her, too, that Nawaz might be paired off with her, and whether she now understood that the question had been ruled out of court. Nawaz was impossible.

  ‘There must be a honeymoon,’ Nawaz said firmly.

  ‘There will be a honeymoon,’ Mahfouz said grandly. There had not been a honeymoon with first-wife, with Sadia. But now there was licence permitting a honeymoon, and he would take his new wife on one. The boy would look after the shop. There were plenty of experienced people there to make sure that nothing went wrong.

  ‘I can suggest the perfect place,’ Nawaz said. They were reversing out of the parking space, Mahfouz raising his hand in farewell to an old friend and his family. ‘The end of England.’

  ‘The end of England?’

  ‘If you go as far as you can, you reach the very end of the country, and you look out. Ocean. It is very beautiful, brother.’

  ‘Land’s End,’ Ayub put in.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mahfouz said. ‘Land’s End to John o’Groats, I know.’

  ‘A beautiful place,’ Nawaz said. ‘I know of a fine, fine hotel in the nearest town, which is St Ives, where you could stay in great comfort. And there are restaurants in the town that are some of the best in the world.’

  By the time they had reached Mahfouz’s house, the matter was settled, and Mahfouz had agreed with Nawaz that it would be best all round if the worry and stress were removed, if they went to Land’s End, or St Ives, by train and did not drive. The Ford Sierra could be left in Nottingham, and Ayub could drive it about as much as he liked. From then on, Nawaz was always there, putting forward suggestions on behalf of his sister, showing details of the arrangements, photographs of the hotel, sharing the polite letter back from the management, handing over the train tickets in a folder in a little ceremony. After the first few meetings, the sister was there too. They were trusting him; and a lot of what Nawaz said appeared to be stated for the benefit of that listening figure. Until the very moment that Nawaz had launched at him at the station and pushed a fistful of confetti down his neck, Mahfouz still believed that he might very well announce at the last minute that he, too, was coming on the honeymoon. It was a surprise to say goodbye to the boy.

  3.

  ‘My brother is so good to us!’ his new wife said, once they were in the taxi at the other end.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Mahfouz said. Around the car the green unfolded, a gash of mud in a field, a black shoulder of trees above the road, a glimpse through a gate of a mound of bright flowers up the wall of a cottage – these things had the force of things seen on honeymoon, things never to be forgotten. Inside the car the driver was English, old, silent; he had not even acknowledged that he knew where the hotel Mahfouz had named was. From behind, his hair was greasily banded across a raw red scalp; his clothes, a yellowing cardigan, and the interior of his car, scattered with ancient biscuit powder and food wrappings, stank of many cigarettes. But the countryside was beautiful, and the windows were open.

  ‘My small-brother Nawaz,’ his wife said. ‘He remembered that there was a very good, a luxury hotel here at Land’s End. It was so good of him to bear that in mind. I have never been to the countryside to stay in a hotel. I have never seen the sea.’

  ‘Have you not looked out of a plane window, when you fly home?’ Mahfouz said. He liked her careful, discreet way of talking, of placing each word in a row. He thought he would come to like his wife.

  ‘Oh, but we are so close to the sea here,’ his wife said. ‘Small-brother said that it was beautiful, I would never forget it. It is so kind of you to take me on a honeymoon. Is this the town we are staying in?’

  The houses, irregular and surrounded by gardens, fields and untended land, had thickened into streets, and with a ride over the crest of a hill, the broad sea was there in front of them. He had not often seen the sea himself; twice Sadia had persuaded him to take the children to Skegness, which was the nearest seaside resort. That was not like this. They were descending into a busy town, the traffic slow and solid, and walking around were people with their children in shorts, T-shirts, bathing suits. It was a beautiful day. Everyone was eating something as they walked: ice-creams, face-sized glistening lollipops, candyfloss, even a kebab. They were eating with steady devotion. He hoped there would be places they could eat in this town.

  The taxi stopped. In a moment it was surrounded by bodies pressing onwards. The driver, without turning, said, ‘That’ll be eight pounds.’

  ‘Is this where the hotel is?’ Mahfouz said.

  ‘Can’t get no nearer the hotel,’ the driver said. ‘It’s down there, isn’t it? Down there straight. Walk on a hundred yards you’ll see it. Eight pounds.’

  There was nothing for it. Mahfouz thought of asking the driver if he would wait here with his wife while he went ahead, but that was worse than the alternative. He got out and, with a flourish of stately graciousness, walked round to the other side of the car to help his wife out. The taxi driver sat in his seat. Mahfouz had to walk to the boot of the car and open it himself. All the time he was making sure that he did not look around him at the people walking down- or uphill in their shorts, their swimsuits, their bikinis. They were certainly staring at him and his new wife. He let his wife take his arm, and, his suitcase in his right hand, her smaller and newer suitcase in her left hand, they walked down the hill without speaking, without looking. This is your country, he said to himself. This is my wife’s country. This is where we live and where we will go on living. The sea, the houses, the shops, the English sky: this is part of our country, and we will walk through it.

  When he saw the hotel he could admit that he had not been sure of his brother Nawaz’s intentions. Perhaps he had expected something malicious, an ugly or rundown establishment, a place where a wife would not be taken. But the hotel looked very pleasant; whitewashed, with a tub of red flowers to either side of the green front door, and the name of the hotel, Penmarric, painted in blue on a white signboard. He pushed at the front door, then rang the bell. The door was so immediately opened that the girl must have been standing just by it; she was as young as Mahfouz’s daughter, in an apron and a flowered dress that, he guessed, was not her usual style of clothes. Her face was round, very pink and white, and she made a frightened O with her mouth when she saw Mahfouz and his wife. She clung to the side of the door.

  ‘We’re full up, I’m afraid,’ she said, but Mahfouz explained that he and his wife had a reservation, and produced the letter he had received from them. Hesitantly the door was opened, and they came in. All the time Mahfouz was filling out the form at the reception, faces kept appearing from the back of the house, from what must be the office, the kitchen, the lounge at the front. Finally it was done; they could be taken to their room.

  ‘Beautiful,’ his wife said, when the door was shut, the girl handed a small tip. ‘This is a beautiful hotel. Thank you.’

  It was nice – he looked about him at the room, which had a large double bed with an embroidered bedspread, a white and gold dressing-table, and a bay window looking out onto a quiet side street. He felt it was all a great mistake. They were there for two weeks – how were they to get through two weeks of being stared at, of having nothing easy to say to each other?

  ‘And a little kettle,’ she said fondly. ‘I shall make some tea, and there are some cakes here, still, that we did not finish on the train.’

  ‘I think now –’ Mahfouz said, but a knock came at the door. His wife removed herself into the bathroom.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the lady said. She was plump, her face heavily made-up with powder and a bright red lipstick; she smelt of a sweet, floral scent; she smiled, her head on one side. ‘I’m Mrs Harrison – the owner of the Penmarric. I just wanted to say …’

  Her head tilted further, as if trying to see past Mahfouz. But new-wife was in the bathroom. There was
nothing for her to see.

  ‘Is there anything we can do for you and your wife?’ Mrs Harrison said. ‘Anything special we should know about?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Mahfouz said. ‘I think we will be very comfortable.’

  ‘Good, I’m so pleased,’ Mrs Harrison said. She loitered; she allowed her embarrassment to display itself. ‘What would you like for breakfast? Not a cooked breakfast? Or just an egg? We could do you some beans and a mushroom? And toast and cereal?’

  ‘That would be good,’ Mahfouz said. He thanked the landlady, without saying that she had reassured them about unclean meats at the breakfast table; he said goodbye to her; he shut the door. His new wife came out of the bathroom. She had removed her veil. With judicious kindness, he looked at her face; he allowed his face to fill with warmth; he did not frighten her. He remembered what his daughter and son had told him, that she had only started wearing a veil two or three years ago, when she was seventeen. He thanked her in a formal way; she made the tea. There were little biscuits there, and she brought out some nuts and two savoury pastries and the cakes she had made, lemon and coconut and chocolate. She had brought pretty English iced cakes. Together they had tea, and ate, and he told her what they were going to do during their honeymoon.

  Once she said, ‘My brother told me that I should ask you to be kind to me.’

  Mahfouz felt his heart fill. Despite everything that had happened to her, she was so young. ‘I will always be kind to you,’ he said. She had asked something specific, about the way he would behave in the course of their first night. But what he had said, he had meant about the course of their whole life.