‘I must call you something. You must have a name. My son’s name is Adam.’ They were on the croquet lawn, the water and mountains within sight. She showed him a photo of Adam on her phone. In the photo he was wearing a striped blue T-shirt and only a bit of the wheelchair was showing. She rarely showed Adam’s photo to anyone. This one she had sent to her parents. The grandchild they weren’t proud of.
Today was turning out to be the warmest day of the holiday. She lay on the grass and watched the boy drink the last of the juice. His lips changed colour. She checked her phone’s signal and called the nursing home to see how Adam was getting on. The nurse said he was with the other children in the garden enjoying the fine weather. Moni watched as the boy stuck his tongue into the bottle and tilted his head back. A few drops of purple juice fell down his chin.
‘This will stain your T-shirt,’ she said, gently taking the bottle from him. ‘Be careful. Get a tissue from my bag and clean your face.’
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of grass and a bit of grit on his cheeks, then rummaged in her handbag, becoming distracted by her house keys and a leaflet about immunisation before he pulled the tissue out. ‘That’s right,’ she said to encourage him. ‘Wipe your face so that you can go home later nice and clean. Your clothes are always clean. Such a nice T-shirt you’re wearing today. Smart.’ He smiled as he looked down at the train design on his T-shirt and handed her the dirty tissue. A bee buzzed in front of her nose. She swatted it away and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the boy looked more substantial, as if he had moved to sit closer to her. She would miss him when the time came to leave the loch. The thought brought a prick of tears to her eyes. Silly to form such an attachment, exaggerated and sentimental.
‘I don’t even know your name. Next time I will bring a paper and pencil and maybe you could write me your name. Or –’ she sat up, propelled by a sudden idea ‘– why wait for paper, write your name on my phone.’
She opened the Notes section. A new page. ‘Here, type out your name for me. I am sure you know all your letters.’
When he handed her back the phone, she said, ‘No, that’s not your name.’ Her voice was sharp. The boy’s expression, open and full of goodwill, changed to disappointment, a slight frown in the attempt to understand why he’d been rebuked.
Moni started to explain, ‘Adam is my son. Not you. It’s not your name. You’ve heard me speak about him. That’s all. But I wanted to know your name. I wanted you to write it down.’ She made an effort to speak gently. She didn’t want him to think that she was telling him off. ‘I’ll give you another chance. Here. Now write your own name, not my son’s name.’ She handed him her phone.
When he again wrote ‘Adam’, she felt the anger rise in her, the protectiveness. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this.’ She took the phone away from him and lay back on the grass again. She closed her eyes and kept them closed until she heard him standing up. ‘Where are you going?’ She scrambled up on to her knees, but he was already walking away. ‘There is no need for you to be upset,’ she called out as he broke into a trot.
Later, at the kitchen table, she told Iman what had happened. They had drawn closer since coming here. Moni cooked, and Iman appreciated her efforts. Salma on the other hand acted as if Moni was deliberately sabotaging her diet attempts. She avoided the kitchen and all the rituals of cooking that interested the other two.
Iman said, ‘Maybe his name is Adam. It could be. It’s a name anyone could have whatever their nationality or religion.’
Moni was still sceptical. ‘Perhaps.’
‘There is no other explanation,’ said Iman. She was dressed up in an outfit that was so ordinary and respectable that it didn’t even look like an outfit. Moni had gotten used to her in one outrageous costume or another but now found her different somehow, reliable and smudged round the edges. What was she dressed up as now? Receptionist? Bank teller?
‘You’re right. I should have at least taken him for his word, pretended to believe him.’ Now she may never see him again. She stood up and turned to the sink. Iman did not wash a single mug or dish. Salma and Moni did all the housework. Occasionally, Salma went up to Iman’s room to make the bed, empty the bin and bring down dirty bowls and cutlery.
‘Actually,’ said Iman. ‘Why don’t you look for his parents? At the very least you would meet them and then find out what his real name is.’
The idea had already crossed Moni’s mind. That day he had given her the umbrella, she had assumed he lived close by. However, on inspection she had found no cottages or lodges there. The cottages were scattered further in the grounds of the monastery. Approaching them, she would feel like an intruder. She could ask Mullin. He was often around doing one thing or the other. But she was convinced that Mullin didn’t like her.
‘Iman,’ she said, her fingers in the warm water. ‘Would you do a favour for me? Would you ask Mullin about the boy’s family?’
It was always a mistake to ask Iman to do anything. ‘Why me?’ She tossed her hair back. ‘Do it yourself. Or ask Salma.’
Salma was busy either with her phone or her fitness. She had found a gym in the monastery.
‘Please, Iman.’
‘No. Do it yourself.’
Moni was irked by Iman’s response. She lifted the bowl she was
