“It doesn’t matter how.”
“It doesn’t matter how! Stupid, Marcella. Stupid. All this fuss for a passport, and where are you going to go? France? I haven’t heard much about France recently. Maybe you think you are going with The English Boy —except he didn’t even bother to tell you he was leaving.
“I don’t think any such thing. I’m going to Oman. With Ali. My fiance.”
It worked perfectly. She dropped the knife, stood upright, looked at me. The kitchen was suddenly quiet. “You are not serious, of course.”
“He’s here. He’s invited me.”
“He’s Moslem.”
“So?”
“My god! Blood will out.”
“What?”
“Your mother..
“My mother what?”
“Nothing. Ask your mother. Ask Isabella.”
“Ask her what?”
“Mmmm.” Mrs F had closed her mouth tighdy and was shaking her head. She picked up some plates and left me behind in the kitchen. I heard her say, “Lars, will Peter play something for us now? I taught him ‘The Holly and The Ivy.’ ”
I looked around for my mother but found Geoffrey instead. He was sitting on his own while the others had gone forward to surround the piano and little Peter. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving tomorrow?” I hit him on the chest. “Were you just going to go and say nothing? Like nothing happened.”
“Of course not. No. I couldn’t help it. I only knew they were sending me back yesterday. And I’ve been staying with Lars since I left the hospital. "You haven’t got a telephone. There’s no one I could send a note with.”
He had a point. “Sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Something’s upset me. You look terrible. You’ve gone white.”
“I’m still a bit weak. Of course I wanted to see you, Marcella. It wasn’t that. You can come and visit me in England now you’ve got your passport.”
I laughed. “I’ve heard that before.”
“No, really.”
“With my husband? I’m getting married.”
“Oh ... the one in Oman?”
“Ali. He’s here.”
“Oh. So... you’re happy?”
“Yes. No. I never wanted to go to Oman. I wanted to go to Europe.”
“You can come with me, then.” His voice was faint. “Don’t be stupid, Geoffrey.”
He was sliding down in his chair. “It’s the heat,” he murmured as I halted his decline. “I need to lie down.” Geoffrey leaned on me while I led him down the four flights of Mrs F’s stairs and up the four flights of ours. By the time he flopped onto our sofa my shoulders ached with the weight of him. This was the room we did not use, containing the furniture we did not use: the dining table, the two easy chairs with drinks tables next to them, the sofa. The walls and floor were painted a deep red, the curtains and upholstery were richly patterned. Mummy’s painful, garish pictures of saints decorated the walls. In the dim of dusk Geoffrey was the only light thing in the room: khaki trousers, olive shirt, white face—all pale and unpatterned. After I had arranged him on the sofa and he had closed his eyes, I stood staring at him, unable to get over how out of place he seemed.
“Peaceful,” I heard him murmur.
Faint sounds from the party reached us. I noticed that the piano had taken up a wild boogie-woogie. Uncle John with too much to drink. I let myself smile at the thought of him. The music came to a crashing, premature end. Auntie Stella, I thought, and imagined Mrs F tearing my feckless uncle from the piano stool. After an interval, I heard, “Silent night, holy night ...” drifting down the street to us.
I should have been going to see Ali. Instead I found myself sitting in a chair, watching Geoffrey, sharing in his tiredness. I remembered that I had been angry and went back from that to Mrs F’s words: “Blood will out.” Something I had to talk to my mother about. Something I maybe needed to talk about before seeing Ali. I was frightened.
I heard her humming a vague confusion of carols as she climbed the stairs. “Mummy,” I called out. “I’m in here.”
She came in and looked at Geoffrey asleep on the couch. “The English Boy,” she said.
“He should stay tonight. He’s sick. He has to fly to Dar tomorrow, then on to England.”
“Christmas Day,” she said.
“Yes. Come and sit down.”
She was obedient. She found it easier and was used to it.
“Mummy, Mrs F said something strange to me tonight. She said I should ask you.”
“Me?”
“Your blood?” Her eyes fled inwards like small animals diving into their holes.
“Yes. Daddy was Goan, wasn’t he?”
“Daddy? Goan? Oh yes, very old Goan.”
“And he was my father. I’m not from somewhere else.” “He was your father.” She shook her head. “Marcella, my love, you’re my daughter.”
I took in this gratuitous piece of information, then saw that her attention had drifted away to Geoffrey. “There hasn’t been a man in this room for years,” she said.
“Mummy! What did Mrs F mean?”
Her attention returned from her reverie too quickly for thought and she said, “Your mother. Your mother was Arab.”
“You’re Arab? What do you mean?”
“Your other mother. Your father’s mistress. She was killed. They were killed. They were killed in the riots because she was an Arab.” Her voice was impatient, as if it was annoying of me to ask her to repeat something so obvious.
“You’re not my real mother?”
“I’m your mother. You never stayed with your birth mother. Your father decided to bring you up here as soon as you were born.”
“My nose”…My hand went to it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s all a very long time ago. Too long ago. You must know all this. Someone must have told you by now. It’s very long ago. You’re my daughter.” But her voice was tentative as if it now sounded strange to her.
“Who was she ... Daddy’s girlfriend?”
“I don’t remember. I don’t think I ever knew. Don’t ask me, Marcella. It’s all confused. It was a secret.”
We fell into silence. I had a thousand questions. While I watched, Mummy’s eyes dissolved into vagueness and I wondered where her mind was travelling.
