The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (34 page)

I briefly think of pointing out that Chelsea is a bit
challenging
as well. Especially when my birth certificate and passport say Chelsii.
Waiine, Chelsii, what was she thinking of?

I decide, however, not to provoke her this early on. ‘And he doesn’t mind? Being called Adam?’

Mum shrugs. ‘Why would he? Now come on in. A cup of tea?’

‘Oh yes please,’ I say, following her into the kitchen. ‘I’m gasping.’

As she fills the kettle, I glance around the room trying to spot any signs of Saddam/Adam’s presence, but other than a rather nice Adidas sweatshirt that I wouldn’t mind myself, there are none.

‘So how have you been?’ I ask.

‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Well, great really. You just get into the habit of saying fine, don’t you? Yes, I spent the day gardening yesterday, sorting those rose-beds out.’

‘That’s good,’ I say, ‘. . . keeping busy. Did Saddam help you?’

‘Adam? No. Gardening’s really not his thing.’

‘Right. He could still give you a hand though, couldn’t he?’

‘Well I don’t see why
you
would say that,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d be on his side.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well
you
certainly never gave me a hand in the garden.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t. But I help with other things.’

‘Well so does Adam.’

‘Fair enough.’

I hear the crunch of wheels on the drive, and then a car door opening and closing, but frustratingly the kitchen is at the rear of the house so I can’t see him arrive. I would have liked to catch a glimpse of him before having to meet him face to face.

As I hear him put his key in the lock (so he has keys!) my heart starts to pound.

‘That’ll be Adam now,’ Mum says checking her watch as if she might have different men coming at different times of the day.

And then he’s there, standing in the doorway, jingling his keys. Our eyes meet for half a second, and then he averts his gaze and stares at the floor.

He’s wearing jeans, a plain white shirt and Adidas trainers.

My first reaction – which I suppress – is to laugh. It’s not that there’s anything ridiculous about Saddam per se, it’s just that if you were to fill a warehouse with photos of every single person on planet Earth, and ask someone to pick out a photo of my mother’s partner, Saddam’s photo would be, almost certainly, anyone’s,
everyone’s
last choice.

He is young (obviously). The white shirt somehow doesn’t help this. It makes me think of school uniform. But he’s also taller and darker than I imagined, almost black in fact, with frizzy, short, jet black hair. He has the largest, darkest eyes that I have ever seen, big cheekbones, and full, almost girlish lips. OK, OK, I admit it. He’s
very
good looking. Almost too good looking – almost model-pretty.

‘Hello!’ I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, on reflection probably overdoing it a bit. I sound a bit like a Club Med guide.

He looks up at me and breaks into a big toothy smile – born more, I’m guessing, from embarrassment than pleasure. ‘Hello,’ he replies.

And then I decide that he reminds me of someone else, and realise that he looks like a younger, plumper version of President Obama. Obama with lip implants perhaps. I wonder if he’s aware of the irony of being called Saddam and looking like Obama.

‘How did the lesson go?’ Mum asks, thankfully breaking the tension.

‘It went good,’ he says.

‘Well,’ my mother corrects him. ‘It went
well.
’

‘Well,’ he says, unconvinced. He shuffles from one foot to another and takes a half step towards me. ‘Should we . . . embrace?’ he says.

‘Kiss,’ Mum corrects him. ‘Adam wants to kiss everyone. They’re very French in Morocco.’

He lowers his gaze again and then steps back to the doorway.

‘
Tu parles Français
?’ I ask him.

‘
Oui
,’ he replies, briefly flicking his eyes at me.

‘Not that it’s much use here,’ Mum says. ‘And you’re not to talk to each other in French, you hear? I’m not having you two forming some secret club.’

‘
Non, Maman
,’ I say, provoking another grin from Saddam.

‘You make coffee?’ he asks my mother.

‘Yes. Do you want a cup?’

‘Yes, and a sandwich. Cheese.’

I brace myself for Mum to explode and remind him of his manners, but she doesn’t. She simply says, ‘I’ll bring it through.’

‘So how did . . .’ I say, turning back to the door. But he has already left the room.

‘He’ll have gone to watch TV,’ Mum says. ‘It’s good for his English. He likes the American stuff best. He says it’s easier to understand.’

‘Well that’ll be where, “it went good,” comes from,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Staying and talking would probably do his English more good,’ I point out.

She wrinkles her nose as she fills the cups. ‘Yes, well, I expect he’s a bit shy,’ she says.

Once she has made my tea and his coffee and sandwich, I expect that we will head through to the lounge to join him, but in fact Mum delivers his snack-pack and returns to the kitchen.

‘Shouldn’t we . . .?’ I say, nodding my head towards the lounge. People eating or drinking in separate rooms was always a no-no in my day.

‘No, he’s better just watching TV,’ Mum says. ‘So. What do you think?’

Following our three second exchange, it’s entirely impossible to give an honest or educated reply, so I just say, ‘Yes. He seems nice.’

That question – what do I think – remains impossible to answer as the day passes, for the simple reason that Saddam’s presence in the house seems more like that of a timid lodger, or perhaps the ghost of a timid lodger than anything to do with my mother.

I catch glimpses of him from the corner of my eye, padding silently from one room to another. I hear the toilet flush and the TV go on and off, as if, perhaps, operated by an invisible, silent poltergeist. As I tour the garden with Mum, I glance up and catch a vague, somehow
transparent
glimpse of him upstairs, looking at us from behind the shiny windows of her bedroom – he instantly slips out of sight.

For the evening meal, Saddam momentarily occupies the same room as Mum and me. I’m reassured to be reminded that he is made of skin and bones. I was starting to feel a little spooked by his invisible presence.

Mum, for many years champion of the
British-Meat-And- Two-Veg
school of cooking, knocks up a surprisingly good lamb couscous, and once it’s served and ready to roll, Saddam, summoned, joins us at the table.

He smiles at me, then lowers his gaze to the plate and starts to eat rapidly.

‘So, Saddam . . .’ I say. ‘Sorry, should I call you Saddam or Adam?’ I ask.

‘Adam,’ Mum replies.

Saddam flicks his eyes at me and smiles briefly. ‘Adam is OK,’ he says.

‘So you’re flying home tomorrow?’ I say.

‘Yes, he gets picked up by a shuttle tomorrow morning,’ Mum answers. ‘I hate driving these days.’

‘So what do you do in Agadir?’ I ask. ‘It is Agadir, isn’t it?’

‘Well he’s a guide, dear,’ Mum says. ‘You know that.’

I turn to my mother and smile tightly. ‘I thought Adam might like to tell me about it
himself
,’ I say, pointedly turning back to face him.

‘Yes. A guide,’ he says.

‘So do you get to use your English when you’re working as a guide?’

He nods and points at his mouth to indicate that it’s full of food, and I wait for him to finish without glancing at my mother. But once he has finished, he just forks another lump of lamb into his mouth.

I glance back at Mum, a little consternated and she wrinkles her nose and mouths the word, ‘Shy,’ at me.

‘You have brothers or sisters?’ I ask, trying again.

‘He has . . .’

‘Mum!’ I say, shooting her a glare which effectively silences her.

He raises four fingers in reply and continues to chew.

I wait until he swallows and ask, ‘Brothers or sisters?’

‘Three sisters. One brother,’ he says with a vague French accent, before loading up with another forkful of couscous.

It would be easy to interpret these monosyllabic responses as rude or begrudging, but his body language, his facial expressions, his aura, his toothy grin, his wide eyes dropping to the plate at every available opportunity are anything but rude. In fact he emanates nothing but timidity and sweetness. He’s a sweet, unsophisticated Moroccan boy who finds this whole situation rather uncomfortable, and – against all expectation – slightly more embarrassing than even I do.

At this point, I start to worry – not about Saddam fleecing Mum – but about
her
dominating and exploiting
him
.

I end up shovelling my food in a similar fashion to Saddam, just to get it over with. Immediately I have finished my plate, he stands, wipes his mouth, delicately folds the napkin, and says in a rigidly polite voice that is so quiet that I can barely hear him, ‘Well, it was very good to meet you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You too.’

‘And now I must sleep. Bus at six,’ he says. ‘Up at five.’

I nod. ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Sleep well.’

Nervously he shuffles towards me again, and this time I stand and reach out to hug him. But he just pecks me on both cheeks, swivels on the spot, robot like, and slides from the room. The overall impression is that of a polite child forced to give Mummy’s guest a goodnight kiss.

I glance at Mum and she smiles and raises an eyebrow. ‘It just makes you want to eat him up really, doesn’t it!’

I force a smile and nod and sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, right.’ I clap my hands. ‘So! Dishes.’

‘I’ll wash, you wipe,’ she says, standing.

We wash and wipe in well-rehearsed fashion for a while and then, despite the fact that it’s a bit risky, I try to start a proper conversation about Saddam. ‘I still don’t really understand . . .’

‘Why I don’t get a dishwasher?’ she says. ‘I know.’

I had been about to say, ‘
what your relationship with Saddam is all about.’

‘Well, no,’ I say. ‘It’s easier. They say it’s cheaper now than all that hot water anyway.’

‘Yes, I know, dear,’ she says. ‘You always say it. But I like it. Washing-up and ironing. Now if someone could come up with a machine to do the hoovering or clean the windows, that would be a different matter.’

By ten, Mum has retired to bed as well, and though I am quite shattered myself, I can’t quite face retiring to my old room, just two doors away from her and Saddam.

And so I sit in the lounge and watch, but don’t actually listen to the TV, and wish again that Waiine was here to talk to.

‘
He’s a doormat
,’ I would say. ‘
He’s just a kid. She’s stomping all over him.
’

And Waiine would reply, ‘
Other than a doormat, who could possibly put up with our mother?’

Over the sound of
Have I Got News For You
I can hear a faint banging noise. It’s not loud, but it’s jolly regular and goes on for a very, very, very long time. I turn the TV up and pour myself a whisky and try not to think about where it’s coming from.

Genetics

It always feels weird waking up in my old bed – there are always a few seconds when I’m not sure where I am, or more importantly
when
I am.

I glance at my alarm clock, its flip-over numerals tell me that it’s 8:59, sometime after 1979 when I was given it for Christmas.

As I watch, it flips over to 9:00 a.m. with a satisfying
thrrup
sound, and I remember lying awake, waiting for 11:59 to change to 00:00 that first Christmas.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling and wonder what, if anything, I want to say to my mother. And then, immediately fazed by the impossibility of resolving that one, I slip back into my memory banks and remember the sounds of my childhood – Waiine tearing around, Dad calling me down for breakfast of a Sunday morning in time for Mass. Both, of course, now gone.

Eventually I slip back to sleep and have a pleasant, if, on reflection somewhat unnerving, mini-dream about slotting together a Scalextric car track. In the dream there are three of us playing sweetly together: myself, Waiine and Saddam.

I find Mum in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea and the
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Oh, hello, Sleepy-Head,’ she says predictably. ‘Tea’s in the pot.’

‘I always sleep so well here,’ I say, moving to the counter and pouring myself a cup. ‘I should take that bed back to London.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she says.

‘So did he get off OK?’

‘Yes. The shuttle was ten minutes late – so there was a moment of stress, wondering if it would come, but it all turned out OK. He sent me a “
text
” to say he was boarding.’

‘Good,’ I say, taking a seat opposite her. ‘Do you miss him when he goes?’

She screws up her face and raises an eyebrow in disdain. ‘Well of course I do,’ she says. ‘It’s no fun rattling around here on my own.’

‘No.’

‘The financial crisis seems to be going from bad to worse,’ she says, nodding at the paper. ‘They make it sound like the end of civilisation as we know it.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can’t help but think they’re exaggerating a bit, though. I suppose it sells more newspapers that way.’

‘Well, I hope they make all these bankers pay for the mess they’ve made,’ she says.

I pull a circumspect grimace. ‘I think you can be pretty certain that they won’t.’

‘Well, no. No, I’m sure you’re right.’

‘They’ll probably find some way to come out richer than before.’

‘Yes,’ Mum says. ‘So.’

‘So?’

‘So. Go on. I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me why I have it all wrong.’

‘What? The financial crisis?’

‘Saddam,’ she says, then correcting herself, ‘Adam.’

I sigh.

‘I knew it,’ she says. ‘You had a face like a slapped arse all through dinner.’

I drop my mouth in outrage. ‘I did not!’

‘That’s the one,’ she says.

‘Mum!’

‘I’m joking! So come on. What did you think?’