She wandered into the refectory and recognised it as the room Salma had spoken about. It had been empty when Salma first saw it but now there were several people. Three teenagers were playing billiards. A mother sat on a tartan upholstered armchair while her children played with a puzzle on the floor. The room had the effect of stillness on Moni, of arrival. She suddenly did not want to leave or keep searching for the boy. Here was peace and plenty, a connection to all that was good and right. Here was something of a replacement. She chose a high armchair in the furthest corner of the room, near the window. She sat and suddenly felt exhausted, her throat sore as if she had been frantically running around the whole of the estate, shouting out his name. But she hadn’t done that. She had simply walked around without saying a word. Her calves felt heavy as if they were swollen. According to Salma, she ate too much salt and needed more exercise. What would it be like to care again about her body? To find the time and the willpower. Pull her stomach in as she pushed Adam’s wheelchair, eat more fruit and vegetables. It sounded simple enough. Sometimes, she received emails about courses especially for carers, yoga or art classes, coffee mornings or even first-aid workshops.
Her phone, dormant in the cottage because of the poor signal, suddenly came to life. Every day, from the grounds, she phoned Adam’s care home to check up on him, but she had not switched on her data. Now the wireless signal picked up messages from her mother and from Murtada. Missed calls too. The same reproach, the same disregard for her here and now. A new angle of attack from Murtada. You are oblivious to my own needs and deprivations. If you’re able to leave your son with strangers, then why didn’t you come to me instead of going off on holiday with your friends? I’ve been patient but you have no compassion. A direct command from her father demanding an immediate and urgent call. She called home without hesitation, alarmed because the message had been sent a day ago. Her parents’ faces glowed from the screen. Her mother in national dress, her father with a grizzly chin as if he had skipped shaving. The ceiling fan swirled above them and here she was, sitting in her coat. Murtada had reported her intransigence. She would not forgive him for this. Her mother led the recriminations – a wife’s duty is to be with her husband. You cannot continue to live in Britain on your own. It’s high time you gave him another child. They did not add that the next child must be free of fault, but it was implied. How odd that although her family and Murtada’s all said that Adam’s disability was Allah’s will which must be accepted graciously, they all tended to imply that it was somehow her fault. She had fallen short. She needed to step up and make amends. She argued, as she had argued with Murtada. Adam, Adam, Adam, she kept saying because it was as if the whole world wished him out of the way, out of sight and out of hearing, a minor factor to be taken, only reluctantly, into the equation. Why couldn’t they understand how fulfilled she was when the doctor examined Adam and said to her, ‘Well done’? When the nurses treated her with tender respect. She would not find this care in any other country. Her father closed his eyes. He had heard all this before. Her mother cut her off. ‘Listen here, you’ve been indulged enough,’ she said. ‘Murtada is not going to wait for you for ever. A man has his limits and he’s been patient enough. How would you feel if he now goes ahead and takes another wife?’
This was meant to be the ultimate threat, the winning card. If you don’t carry the bundle of your crippled son, drape yourself in a black abaya and hop on a plane to Saudi, your husband will take another wife. You will be replaced; your spot will be taken. Easily, because from the vantage point of his expat status, he would not struggle to find a successor to Moni. They are aplenty, and he could pick and choose from virgins to university professors, from those with salaries to those with influential brothers. How would you feel, Moni?
She was too stunned to reply. Where was this heading, divorce? She could almost hear the collective condemnation from parents and friends. They would almost certainly take Murtada’s side. They would say that she had failed in her duty as a wife, she had put her child first and that was not proper, not natural. Will Adam ever thank you for this sacrifice? Will he ever give you anything in return? But instead of pondering these questions, reasonable in their own way, worthy of consideration, she revolted against the sarcasm between the words, the insinuation that Adam was incapable of gratitude, unable to give, not worthy of her sacrifice.
It is not sacrifice, it is me. Me and him belonging together. His discomfort mine, his inability my duty. She should find Salma and tell her that her marriage to Murtada was coming to an end. She would tell her that in her search for the boy she found the refectory and it was
