He went on praising her abilities. ‘Remember the time when we went to Saint Catherine?’ This was the college trip she had organised. Forty students, many of whom had never been away from home. She had been too distracted by her leadership role to appreciate the place, to be truly in awe. The burning bush seen by Prophet Moses, the place where he received the Ten Commandments. She remembered rocks the colour of sand, the way the monastery nestled in the gorge. Now she was standing in a monastery too, one that was converted and secularised, made frivolous and lucrative unlike that living, working monastery up in the rugged hills of Mount Sinai.
After she put the phone away, she felt as if she had time-travelled. A part of her had been with him in a firm and complete way. The years scrunched against each other, a folded fan, slim and easy to hold up, to control. To put away? To put away all these years: David and the children, the work and the friends, a whole life she’d built. Impossible. But for a short time she had been sucked into a connection with the past, electrified by every word said, by every word implied and not spoken. She had felt all the clichés – alive and rejuvenated. Even now her body hummed, the body that had never left the loch.
Moni held his hand. The little boy was balancing on the wooden climbing frame. ‘Look at you! You are my height now,’ she said. They were in the adventure playground and the rubber matting, covered in loose play bark, was soft underneath her feet. There was no fence encircling the playground and behind it was a pitch where a group of teenage boys were playing football. The empty, open-air tennis court could be seen further back, closer to the loch. The boy smiled but never spoke. He was not deaf. She was sure of that. His expressive eyes responded to her words, his mouth rounding in surprise, his forehead creasing into frowns. Then there were all the delightful faces he made to accompany her monologues. She figured it must be only a matter of time before he spoke. More than anything else, she wanted to know his name. She wanted to talk about him to the others. She wanted to assign to him an identity that was special. Frustrating too was the fact that she never came into contact with his parents. They certainly allowed him plenty of freedom and were unconcerned about his safety. If Adam had been like this boy, able to walk and run and climb, she would have been possessive of him. She would have made sure that she knew his whereabouts all the time. She would not have been careless. Never mind. Here was this little boy; it was such pleasure to be in his company. For him, she willingly left the cottage. She followed him wherever he wanted to go.
When he let go of her hand and strode with new confidence across the wooden walkway, she sat on one of the big tyre swings and watched him make his way down the slide. The anxiety that she might be too heavy for the seat made her stand up again. She strolled around, enjoying the proximity of the other parents, flattered by the gift they were giving her – the unspoken assumption that she was the boy’s mother. She wished that she knew his name so that she could say it out loud for all to hear. He was a good boy, respectful of the other children, giving them their space. The playground was all made of wood and the steps of the ladder, leading up to the walkway, looked like logs.
‘Let’s go look at the rabbits,’ she suggested. In the lawns between the monastery and the loch, the rabbits were mounds of brown fur, nibbling diligently. Occasionally, one of them would dart across the grass and the boy would follow. She did not allow him to follow the rabbit that scampered into the monks’ graveyard. There, the land was completely flat, the grass marked only by short white crosses, with clubs on the tips and a circle on which was written the name of the deceased. No, he mustn’t go in there; it was disrespectful. The rabbits ate the grass of the graveyard because they didn’t know any better. Let’s count them instead.
He loved the snack machine that was in one of the cloisters of the monastery, overlooking the garden. She gave him coins and with great concentration, his body tense with excitement, he inserted each coin in the slot. A coin slipped through his fingers, fell on the tiles and rolled away. ‘Catch it,’ Moni cried out, ‘quick before it gets away, before it escapes.’ The drama in her voice as he scrambled to pick up the coin, an exaggerated sigh of relief when he did, a clap of her hands. He stood tall then, pushing the last coin into the slot. Then he made his choice. The anticipation of the packet of crisps sliding down, then dropping to where he could pick it up, his small hand inserted through the rectangular compartment, not without a little hesitation, but still made brave by the treat to come. And then, at last, the snack.
She taught him to share, showed him how to be generous. He must offer her some of his crisps, he must give her a bite of his chocolate. Then she would want a snack of her own too. Back to the machine. Oh, do I have enough coins? I hope I do. Have a look. Help me count. Alhamdulillah, I have enough. Here, you get it for me. He would insert the coins and select the juice, her choice of flavour, the satisfying thud of the bottle down to the compartment. She must share it with him too. Would he prefer one sip each in turn or the last quarter of the
