The Night Ferry

mine and his hands rubbing my toes, which are freezing.

I haven’t seen Dave since Amsterdam. He used to phone me every day, sometimes twice. When I called him after the funerals he sounded hesitant, almost nervous.

The elephant in the room. It can’t be talked about. It can’t be ignored. My patched-up pelvis is like that. People suddenly want to give me children. Is that ironic? I’m never sure with irony; the term is so misused.

I go back to the door. It takes a long while for anyone to answer. It’s a woman’s voice on the intercom. Apologetic. She was in the shower.

“Dave’s not here.”

“It’s my fault. I should have phoned.”

“He’s on his way home. Do you want to come in and wait?”

“No, that’s OK.”

Who is she? What’s she doing here?

“I’ll tell him you dropped by.”

“OK.”

A pause.

“You need to give me your name.”

“Of course. Sorry. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him.”

I walk back to the road, telling myself I don’t care.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

The house is strangely quiet. The TV in the front room is turned down and lights are on upstairs. I slip along the side path and through the back door. Hari is in the kitchen.

“You have to stop her.”

“Who?”

“Samira. She’s leaving. She’s upstairs packing.”

“Why? What did you do to her?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you leave her alone?”

“For twenty minutes, I swear. That’s all. I had to drop off a mate’s car.”

Samira is in my bedroom. Her clothes are folded on the bed—a few simple skirts, blouses, a frayed jumper… Hassan’s biscuit tin sits on top of the pile.

“Where are you going?”

She seems to hold her breath. “I am leaving. You do not want me here.”

“What makes you say that? Did Hari do something? Did he say something he shouldn’t have said?”

She won’t look at me, but I see the bruise forming on her cheek, a rough circle beneath her right eye.

“Who did this?”

She whispers, “A man came.”

“What man?”

“The man who talked to you at the church.”

“Donavon?”

“No, the other man.”

She means Barnaby. He came here, spoiling for a fight.

“He was hitting the door—making so much noise. He said you lied to me and you lied to him.”

“I have never lied to you.”

“He said you wanted the babies for yourself and he would fight you and he would fight me.”

“Don’t listen to him.”

“He said I wasn’t welcome in this country. I should go back where I came from—among the terrorists.”

“No.”

I reach toward her. She pulls away.

“Did he hit you?”

“I tried to shut the door. He pushed it.” She touches her cheek.

“He had no right to say those things.”

“Is it true? Do you want the babies?”

“Cate wrote a will—a legal document. She nominated me as the guardian if she had children.”

“What does guardian mean? Do the twins belong to you now?”

“No. You gave birth to them. They might have Cate’s eyes and Felix’s nose, but they grew inside your body. And no matter what anyone says they belong to you.”

“What if I don’t want them?”

My mouth opens but I don’t answer. Something has lodged in my throat, a choking lump of desire and doubt. No matter what Cate wanted, they’re not my babies. My motives are pure.

I put my arm around Samira’s shoulders and pull her close to me. Her breath is warm against my neck and her first sob thuds like a spade hitting wet dirt. Something breaks inside her. She has found her tears.

9

The digital numbers of my alarm clock glow in the darkness. It has just gone four. I won’t sleep again. Samira is curled up next to me, breathing softly.

I am a collector of elephants. Some are soft toys; others are figurines made from cut glass, porcelain, jade or crystal. My favorite is six inches high and made from heavy glass, inlaid with mirrors. Normally it sits beneath my reading light, throwing colored stars on the walls. It’s not there now. I wonder what could have happened to it.

Slipping out of bed quietly, I dress in my running gear and step outside into the darkness of Hanbury Street. There is an edge to the breeze. Seasons changing.

Cate used to help me train after school. She rode her bicycle alongside me, speeding up before we reached the hills because she knew I could outrun her on the climbs. When I ran at the national age championships in Cardiff she begged her parents to let her come. She was the only student from Oaklands to see me win. I ran like the wind that day. Fast enough to blur at the edges.

I couldn’t see Cate in the stands but I could pick out my mother who wore a bright crimson sari like a splash of paint against the blue seats and gray spectators.

My father never saw me compete. He didn’t approve.

“Running is not ladylike. It makes a woman sweat,” he told me.

“Mama sweats all the time in the kitchen.”

“It is a different sort of sweat.”

“I didn’t know there were different kinds of sweat.”

“Yes, it is a well-known scientific fact. The sweat of hard work and of food preparation is sweeter than the sweat of vigorous exercise.”

I didn’t laugh. A good daughter respects her father.

Later I heard my parents arguing.

“How is a boy supposed to catch her if she runs so fast?”

“I don’t want boys catching her.”

“Have you seen her room? She has weights. My daughter is lifting barbells.”

“She’s in training.”

“Weights are not feminine. And do you see what she wears? Those brief shorts are like underwear. She’s running in her underwear.”

In darkness I run two circuits of Victoria Park, sticking to the tarmac paths, using the streetlights to navigate.

My mother used to tell me a folktale about a village donkey that was always mocked for being stupid and ugly. One day a guru took pity on the animal. “If you had the roar of a tiger they would not laugh,” he thought. So