Close to the Wind (24 page)

‘No, it’s not.’

‘It will get easier with time. Really, it will.’

‘I don’t want to know. I mean, if you get a letter about … Well, I don’t want to know.’

Lucy nodded. ‘That’s OK. If that’s what you want. But don’t give up hope, Malik. Don’t ever give up hope.’

In the spring there were daffodils on the verges at the side of the busy roads, big banks of yellow flowers. The glass buildings in the city turned pale blue in
the mornings and a soft pink in the evenings, just before the sun set.

Malik had a job delivering free newspapers to the houses in the streets around the apartment. He pulled a shopping cart behind him and took the papers out one at a time, folded them and posted them through the letterboxes.

One day it rained while Malik was delivering the newspapers. He had completed only half of the houses when the droplets began to land on his face and he decided to return home. He lifted the canvas lid back over the top of the cart to protect the undelivered newspapers and he pulled it along behind him as the rain came down heavily and spattered the concrete paving stones where he walked.

At the bar across from Lucy’s apartment, the waiters were struggling to pull the awning over the line of tables. Malik waited for the traffic to pause so he could cross the road. On the opposite pavement, a woman in a red dress walked past the window of the gentlemen’s outfitters, her head obscured by a black umbrella. She rang the doorbell to Malik’s block and stepped inside and Malik saw her hand shake the rain from her umbrella and close it before the door clicked shut.

He stepped out from the kerb, found his way between the stationary cars and pulled the cart up onto the opposite pavement. He let himself into the building using his key which he had hung on a piece of string that was tied to the belt of his trousers. He pulled the cart inside, wheeled it across the stone floor and parked it next to the caged lift, then he pressed the
CALL
button and waited. He heard the metal gate open and shut on a floor above him before the elevator began to descend, the cables swinging against the edge of the lift shaft with a dull thud.

Malik ran his fingers through his wet hair. If it continued to rain, Lucy wouldn’t take them far to eat this evening. Probably they’d visit Guilio’s and have pizza at a table by the window. Perhaps they would have a sandwich across the road and Lucy would scowl at the men who stood and smoked at the bar.

He let himself into the flat and hung his coat up on the hook beside the door. As he stepped out of his Wellington boots, Booty brushed up against his ankles, waiting to be fed. He could hear Lucy talking loudly in the living room down the hall and he shouted out, ‘Hello’, went into the kitchen and
took an open can of cat food from the fridge. He forked it out into the three bowls that he lifted from the floor.

‘Come in here,’ called Lucy. ‘Don’t worry about the cats for now. Come in here.’

Malik put the bowls down beside the fridge and the cats hurried to sniff at each one, eager to see if there was any difference between them. He walked down the hall and into the living room.

Lucy stood up from her chair and gestured to the armchair opposite. ‘There’s someone here you will want to see, Malik.’

Malik saw a red dress without flowers and a sweep of blonde hair that was longer than he remembered. The woman stood up. She took a step towards him, holding her arms out nervously, and Malik took the tips of her fingers in his and moved toward her. She was the same as he remembered but different, familiar but changed. The woman put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, hugging him tightly, her chin brushing the top of his head. Malik could smell lavender soap on her neck.

‘You’ve grown,’ Mama said eventually. She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘What have you done to your hair?’ she said, and he said, ‘I don’t know. It’s
probably the rain,’ and she said, ‘No. It’s not that. It’s different.’

Malik stepped back. He saw that she was crying, the kind of crying that makes no noise, the crying that makes your face tremble and run with tears. Malik wanted to see her smile, but his mother kept crying and she stood shaking, one hand held up to her mouth, unable to even speak.

‘I’ll make us all some tea,’ said Lucy.

Malik took Mama’s hands from his arms. ‘I have something for you,’ he told her. ‘Wait here. I’ll only be a moment.’ He ran to his bedroom, unscrewed the bed knob on the bottom left column of his big brass bed and scooped out Papa’s tooth with a single finger. The diamond sparkled in his palm as he closed his hand around it.

From the hallway, he could hear Lucy in the kitchen, putting cups and saucers onto a wooden tray, filling the china jug with cold milk from the fridge.

Malik walked back into the sitting room with his hand closed tight. Mama had sat back in the armchair. She dabbed a white cotton handkerchief to the edges of her eyes and Malik reached out and touched her shoulder.

His mother smiled up at him.

It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, just for him, better than he remembered or could ever have imagined.

And he hadn’t even opened his fingers.

Thank you to my agent Sallyanne Sweeney, who has been variously inspiring, patient and hardworking on my behalf.

Thanks to everyone at David Fickling Books, who have taken such good care of me. In particular, Hannah Featherstone and Bella Pearson, who both worked on the text till it sparkled, helping
Close to the Wind
become the book I always intended it to be.

Thank you to David Dean whose artwork looks so splendid on the jacket, and to Sue Cook for her helpful suggestions.

Whilst writing this book I attended courses at New Writing South, tutored by Susannah Waters and Catherine Smith, who both have a gift for knowing what works and are generous enough to share it with the rest of us. Thank you to everyone on those courses who may have commented on my
work, particularly Philip Harrison, Sam De Alwis, Roz De-Ath, Stuart Condie, Yvonne Hennessey and Judith Bruce.

And lastly to my family, who make it all
worthwhile
– to Tanya, for never once saying this was a bad idea; to my lovely boys, Jonah and Nathaniel; to my mum and dad, my sisters Ann and Katie, and to Jessica Smart.

Thank you all.