The Wild Wind Read online

  Mrs Cooper bent down and hugged me, ‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’

  I mumbled, ‘Sorry to have worried you, Mrs Cooper.’

  She hugged me tighter, ‘Don’t be silly, we know it’s been difficult for you. But we’ll talk with your mom. You’re so welcome in our home, Sissy.’ I was conscious that I was wearing hand-me-downs and, sure enough, Mrs Cooper cooed over me further: ‘They suit you a treat!’ while Ally rolled her eyes, muttering, ‘I don’t know why my mom’s so enthusiastic all the time.’

  Mr Cooper ruffled my hair as he joined us, leaving Mrs Cooper to accompany my mother to the kitchen, and then stood with his hands in his pockets as the girls and I took turns to push Danny on the swing. At one point, Ally, nearly as tall as her mother now, leant back against her father, and he took his hands out of his pockets, smoothed her hair down with both palms, in a gesture that was at once loving, paternal and familiar, making my stomach contract. ‘Who made the swing?’ he asked, and on hearing about Jonah, he turned to Ally saying, ‘Your granddad made you one when you were little, remember?’ Another innocent comment that stabbed through my fragile sensibilities. I was relieved that my brother remained loyal, chuntering discontentedly when one of the Cooper girls pushed him, but chortling when I took over, and my heart turned over in gratitude to him. Mary-Anne clamoured to be lifted up to reach the highest guavas from our tree, and with Mr Cooper’s consent, she scaled up her father with practised steps, putting a foot first on his knee, then his hip, then his elbow which was extended in readiness, before swinging onto his shoulders.

  Mr Lawrence appeared in his car; he was visiting Miss Munroe. Mr Cooper walked over to talk to him, Mary Anne sitting at a great height on her father’s shoulders, her legs dangling on either side of his neck, her hands in her father’s hair, and his gently clasping her ankles as the men faced each other, both tall, both speaking in that easy, relaxed way they had. I turned away, my throat felt scratchy and while it all felt convivial, while we all gathered for tea and the leftover chocolate cake from my birthday which garnered many compliments – as if we were having an ad hoc celebration for the event of my running away in the dark – I noticed the extra effort everyone was making, adults and children alike, to ensure that our gathering did not feel contrived.

  They left afterwards, the Coopers, in their blue car, to get back home before the curfew began, and as they left, Mr Lawrence appeared again with an invitation: he wanted to take us on an outing the following day, Saturday, to cheer us up. As soon as he said the words he tried to backtrack, pointing out that my mother rarely left the campus and needed a break, an announcement which in turn caused him to back-pedal, just as my mother laughed and accepted.

  And then later that night, in the quiet after our unusually sociable afternoon, my mother asked gently if there was anything I would like to talk about, regarding the previous night. No, Mama. She did not persist; surely the afternoon’s visit and the Coopers’ obvious affection for me had allayed any fears she might have had that I was in some way maltreated in their home. She assumed that I was homesick. I did not mention Ezekiel.

  The outing the following day with Mr Lawrence was to Munda Wanga, the animal sanctuary and botanical gardens on the other side of Lusaka, an outing for which my mother wore her stirrup pants and my father’s shirt, and I reprised the Cooper girls’ shorts and T-shirt combo, both of us gaining a compliment from Mr Lawrence, who then added for my mother’s benefit, ‘But you always look very elegant, Laila.’ I watched as my mother laughed, flattered, her cheeks flushed. Every man here wants to help her. Miss Munroe, it appeared, was spending the weekend at her friend’s house and would not be joining us. My mother offered to pack a picnic, but Mr Lawrence revealed he intended to buy us lunch at the café near the recreation area which promised a swimming pool and water slide. It was a generous offer from Mr Lawrence, who was soon apprised of the enormity of taking out a mother and two young children minutes after leaving the campus when Danny upchucked the contents of his stomach over my mother’s chest and the front seat of his car. Back we returned to the house where I cleaned up Danny in the bathtub, Mr Lawrence cleaned up his car with liberal amounts of soapy water, and my mother changed out of my father’s shirt into one of the thin cotton sleeveless kurtas, light green in colour, she sometimes slept in. It cannot have been in any way deliberate, but my mother succeeded in emerging from the house looking even more appealing than before, her arms bare and the kurta accentuating rather than hiding her slender frame. She had brushed her hair and changed her earrings to match her new top: dangly green beads. I saw Mr Lawrence open his mouth and then shut it; perhaps he felt a third compliment would be excessive. A blanket was thrown over the still-damp front seat, the doors were shut and we were on the road again.

  Usually I was an avid adult-watcher and proficient eavesdropper; now I felt more inclined to sift through my own thoughts. The conversation with Jonah, Mrs Cooper’s words. I turned over and over all the interactions I had had with Ezekiel. Each was wholly innocent, but as if a story was being retold, I searched now for evidence of monstrous, inhuman behaviour: this game chilled me. When we arrived at the botanical gardens, I hung back as we walked past the bushes and trees and over the lawns. Mr Lawrence had Danny on his arm and my mother appeared relaxed and comfortable with him, even though she had rarely met him. As I dragged my feet behind them, I saw that they made an attractive tableau: Mr Lawrence’s fair hair contrasting with my mother’s black ponytail; Danny content, his thumb in his mouth. I had packed my swimming costume, and my mother changed Danny into his trunks. I heard Mr Lawrence say, ‘Sissy tells me you’re a good swimmer, Laila. Are you sure you won’t join us?’ But I hoped she would not and felt a disproportionate relief when she declined. I could not have borne it if she had revealed her golden body, only for Mr Lawrence to put his hands on her waist, lift her onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and throw her into the pool, to wild applause from onlookers.

  I swam up and down, and Mr Lawrence gamely took Danny in with his armbands, and it was pleasant and enjoyable. But even as I appreciated the different environs, and the sight of so many people we never usually saw, even as I could see my mother genuinely looking relaxed, reclining on the blanket with a magazine, her head supported by her bag, even as I could see that this outing was exactly what we had all needed, I resented Mr Lawrence for presuming correctly.

  My brother became querulous, and the pool became crowded and splashy. We showered by the poolside, dressed, devoured chips and fried chicken at the café, walked away from the crowds into a quiet spot in the gardens, and found a shady area where Danny could have his nap. He found his sleeping position and plugged in his thumb, gaining an admiring ‘why, look at that’ from Mr Lawrence. I left the adults, with some paper and my pencils. I found a tree with a convenient low branch which I climbed onto, grazing my bare legs, but along which I spread, like a tiger I thought, my sketchpad and pencils carefully laid out beside me.

  But I found I was now reluctant to pick them up. From my vantage point I could see them: Mr Lawrence lying on his side, propped up on his elbow; my mother hugging her knees as she had done on my birthday picnic. Their lips moved in constant conversation. He often threw his head back to laugh; was my mother indeed so witty? A smile never left her lips, the teasing smile that she used with Rahul. She seemed to play with her hair a lot. At one point, he brushed something from her shoulder and I noticed she did not shrink from his touch. She looked content; she did not look like she missed my father. And this thought made me remember the assurance from Jonah: don’t worry, he will come back soon. I felt disgruntled even as I thought, why not let her be happy? I was no longer sure I missed my father any more. But from my position on the branch, I seethed. I felt I was witnessing a courtship. I turned myself around, so I was not facing them, and watched a pair of birds in the tree opposite me, then a family with three small sons. The mother and the father made a slow journey across my view, exhibiting an incredible curiosity
, examining each plant with care and reading each information card, each son listening to his father, rapt with attention. They eventually left my vision, and I dropped to the ground. As I made my way back to the picnic mat the breeze brought the conversation over to me.

  ‘. . . old enough to be your mother.’

  Mr Lawrence’s response: ‘Now, I believe that would be biologically impossible . . .’

  ‘Well, older sister then.’

  ‘I can honestly say,’ and he exaggerated his sincerity, ‘hand on heart, that I have never thought of you as a sister, Laila.’

  She laughed and he grinned at her. I deposited myself on the edge of the picnic mat but not before I saw them exchange a glance, co-conspirators, and Mr Lawrence sat up and cleared his throat. I opened a bag of crisps without asking permission and met my mother’s eyes defiantly. She looked away. Danny turned himself over and lay on his back, his legs falling back like a frog’s, his arms bent at the elbows and his fists by his ears. My crisps crunched in the silence.

  ‘I thought,’ Mr Lawrence said, ‘when Danny wakes up we could visit the pavilion on the other side. I think there’s some exhibition or something arty going on . . .’

  ‘We shouldn’t take up your whole day.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We only have to keep in mind the curfew . . .’

  Thank God for the curfew, I thought, the invisible chaperone. They were both looking at me. I realised Mr Lawrence had asked me a question, and my mother appeared irked at my distraction.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I wondered if I could see what you were sketching over there.’

  ‘I didn’t sketch anything.’

  ‘Really? I thought you’d taken your stuff with you.’ He was smiling into my eyes, with affection or amusement. Whatever, it grated.

  ‘I was watching a husband and a wife and their sons,’ I said, and my voice sounded unpleasant even to my ears. ‘On a family outing. As a family.’

  My mother’s cheeks had coloured and she opened her mouth to say something, but Mr Lawrence spoke first: ‘Well, that’s nice, Sissy,’ then glancing at my mother. ‘Perhaps, Laila, we should just head back . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve got some work to catch up on.’

  ‘You’ve been so kind to take us out.’

  There was much to pack away and much with which to busy ourselves, so I could hide my face and pretend I did not feel wilful and unlovable. I glanced often at Mr Lawrence, hoping I could meet his eyes and smile, try to make amends, but he seemed intent on avoiding my gaze, and then I felt sullen and misunderstood. I stared out of the window on the drive back.

  Thank you, Mr Lawrence, I said as I climbed out of his car, and now he smiled at me, no problem, Sissy, and so I could smile back gratefully, my heart lightening, until my mother said, with easy familiarity, thanks again, Charlie, and I felt it tighten again with annoyance. He drove away, and it was just the three of us again, and we went about our business as usual. Danny was tired from the outing, sucking his thumb with eyes half-closed already, and my mother declared she would give him an early bath and put him to bed. I heard my mother singing to him as she bathed him, a short Malayalam ditty that ended in a tickle, and I heard him crowing with delight. But I refused to be charmed by their performance. She had not sung that song in my hearing for many weeks, and I was sure she had chosen this evening for a revival expressly to demonstrate the maternal adeptness she possessed.

  Later, as my brother lay in his cot, making a crescendo of gurgling noises, a sure sign that he would fall asleep, and deeply, until the morning, my mother and I skirted around each other, making polite exchanges. Would you like to have your bath first, Mama? No, thank you for asking, mol. You go first, I’ll finish clearing up.

  And then we found ourselves behind the cardboard cut-outs and pinned curtains, only one dim lamp on, in the gloom of the evening curfew. I was curled up on the sofa with my book; my mother was sitting in a chair, her sewing basket on her lap, with one of my school skirts that needed letting out and Danny’s pyjamas which needed a new button. I read about the daughters, their father gone to war and unreachable, how they maintained their industriousness, their faith, their sewing and their prayers, and the book should have rung true and real and should have consoled me. But I felt peeved and was irritated by my mother, sitting there placidly, in an aura of silence, and not asking me anything: what made you run away that night, did Ezekiel ever touch you, why can’t you let me enjoy myself? Not weaving any tales either: Papa wrote the other day and said he will write specially to you next. He will be home soon, don’t worry, just as Jonah says. I laid my book down and went into the kitchen, opened one of the cupboards to retrieve a glass and closed it with a bang. I heard her enter the room behind me as I slopped some milk into my glass, carelessly, and then gulped it down, messily, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in the way I knew she hated.

  She spoke: ‘Are you all right, mol?’

  I shrugged. ‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’ And then I glared at her.

  She held my eyes for a short time before looking away. ‘I think you were a little rude to Mr Lawrence, Sissy.’

  ‘I thought you called him Charlie.’

  She looked bewildered by my tone. ‘I might call him that but you know him as Mr Lawrence so—’

  ‘Well, why don’t I call him Charlie as well?’ I retorted. ‘Or Mr Charlie? Or Uncle Charlie? Or Charliechayan?’

  My taunt was unexpectedly alliterative and suddenly tremendously funny, and I felt a bubble of laughter in my throat, which I dampened down until I saw my mother’s lips quiver. And then we both collapsed into giggles. It felt good to laugh, and to laugh with my mother, and I found I enjoyed it so much the ripples of mirth came rolling and rolling until my ribs were aching and I was hanging off the kitchen counter, gasping. My mother wiped her eyes, and we regained some composure.

  ‘Mol—’

  ‘He likes you, Mama,’ I said, and my words quietened and sobered us both.

  ‘Sissy—’

  ‘And Jonah says you’re beautiful.’

  Now my mother blushed, and she opened her mouth and her eyes grew wide. Did he say that? Really? Jonah? I could see she wanted to ask, but she waited a few moments before saying, her voice soft, ‘You will find, Sissy, that men often say these things, but they don’t always mean them.’

  ‘I think he meant it,’ I said quietly. I didn’t tell her what he had added: and you will be a beautiful woman too, Sissy.

  ‘And if he did?’ Now she looked impassioned. ‘What does it matter? What does it change?’ She shook her head. ‘And Mr Lawrence,’ her eyes flashed at me, daring me to interrupt, ‘who is he to us? Just a friend. None of this matters at all, none of this means anything at all.’ She held my eyes for a long while and then said, ‘Because it’s me who has to look after you and Danny.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she nodded. ‘True in some ways, Sissy, but not in others. You are still my responsibility and that’s what I am here for.’

  I felt suddenly tired, and suddenly no longer angry with her. She slipped next to me, put her arm around me, squeezed my shoulders.

  ‘It’s been strange, I know. But I’m proud of how you are being so helpful.’

  ‘I don’t want to be helpful all the time, Mama.’

  ‘I know, mol.’

  ‘Sometimes I just want to understand what’s happening to us.’

  ‘Nothing is happening to us, mol!’ My words seemed to alarm her, and she became animated. ‘You’ll see. When Papa comes back, we’ll feel better. We just miss him, that’s all.’

  But she did not convince me, and when I glanced at her, I suspected she had not convinced herself. I should have said then: he wrote a few days ago, why didn’t you tell me? But for some reason, possibly because by now I was aching with fatigue and perhaps because I wanted to spare my mother the need for further platitu
des or even untruths, I said nothing and allowed her to indulge me – she would let me use her special face cream, she would boil some more milk and add some chocolate for a bedtime drink, I didn’t need to brush my hair, it looked fine as it was – and allowed her to imagine that I had recovered: all forgiven, forgotten.

  I woke in the night with a terrible dread, one which I now realised I had felt when I had left the Coopers’ house that night to walk back to Roma on my own. I had not simply been concerned for my mother. The comments about Ezekiel had served to highlight how vulnerable and unprotected Danny and I would be with not only my father gone, but my mother too. I stared at the ceiling, unable to tell if I was indeed awake or if I was in some protracted dream state; all I could feel, with the soundtrack of my pounding heart in my chest, was a terrible fear that my mother had left. She had got up quietly in the night, dressed, given Danny a last look, not opened my door for fear of wakening me, and left. Out the door, down the road, into the night.

  I forced myself to sit up, rubbed my hands against my thighs, pinched my forearms and did not wake up. I tiptoed out of my bedroom and pushed open her bedroom door. For a moment my heart stopped, because I could not see her in the bed and I realised that I had known all along that she was biding her time. But in that same instant I noticed a mound on the wrong side of the bed, my father’s side, which was more in the shadows and hence difficult to see. She was lying on her side and her face was just visible in a streak of moonlight. It was a warm night and she was sleeping in her cream-coloured sleeveless nightdress, her elbows bent, and her palms clasped together under her chin, sleeping on his pillow. She looked like a girl; not a woman, a mother, and in her sleep all her anxieties and responsibilities were suspended. She was dreaming of the river, the lake, I was sure, dreaming of ducking in and out of the water, with her brothers, maybe with me, her hair streaming behind her like a black wave, the water cool against her naked skin.