A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar (25 page)

‘Go and do something, Frieda, we need quiet.’

Frieda at fourteen again: she is moving the HP sauce bottle in front of her father as he lights a cigarette. He sucks on it, then sends the smoke out away from her, towards the other people.

‘It’s lovely out there, isn’t it?’ Frieda says, for something to say. Sarcasm’s not nice. When he smiles he looks like he is in the process of injuring himself.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t sorted anything better out for your birthday.’

‘That’s OK.’ Sometimes, he still looks invincible. Other times, he seems folded up on himself or as if he’s been turned inside out.

‘Frieda . . .’

Oh oh. She blanks him out, turns teenage on him again, like it’s a script she’s following. She doesn’t want to hear any of it, these confessions. She closes her ears to his, ‘I made it happen’ and all this looking to her for validation. Especially as, since Christmas of this year, he has taken to coming into Frieda’s room in the night, drunk, swaying everywhere, knocking over her books, leaning on and breaking her papier-mâché globe of the world and on one occasion (that she doesn’t think he can remember) opening his trousers at the end of the bed and pissing: a long stream of his urine reaching as far as her writing desk, hitting the metallic bin on the floor. She doesn’t want to hear again, ‘Frieda, forgive me for making your mother leave,’ like she is a judge who can release him or redeem him.

Every seven years we get new cells. There is a poem about it but she can’t remember who by. This means that every seven years we are a new person and seven-year-old Frieda has gone. One night, when that long-gone seven-year-old Frieda was down, deep under the covers, the long unfurling sound of her father’s voice came up through the floorboards, and lifted her from a dream in which she had been cornered into a section of the garden and told to stay there for ever. His voice was angry. There was Bill the American Arthurian specialist. They were all involved.

Frieda’s mother shouted, ‘Why do you care so much, I thought you were all for free love, anyway?’

Her father shouted back, ‘It would have been decent to let me know.’

The voices began to mix with the sound of the moving trees outside in the wind so that it all became one noise, like a sound-kaleidoscope. Frieda rolled up against the wall and fell asleep as if she and the wall together made one person. The next day, all the arguing noises seemed to have disappeared.

There are certain things Frieda can remember about her mother if she chooses to. Here she is walking over the rock-pool stones towards her, the sun shining into her black hair, making it brown-red, shouting, ‘Hello little bookworm’. Or in the kitchen singing, ‘Today I am making a tangy meringuey soupey de la roupey. Want some?’ Or walking behind her on the beach, fitting her own small foot into hers in the sand: one flat foot, followed by one flat foot. Keep the balance, a perfect line. Frieda pressing her feet down harder. I am here. I am here. Toes, arches, heels, pushing down into the cold sand, but always an immediate closing over, no trace. Sandwiches. It was alfalfa and tofu sandwiches for lunch. Al.fal.fa. strog.a.nov. All the way back to her mother’s sandwiches, alfalfa and honey, nutmeg and cottage cheese. Holding a hand.

The creak of the door and it is Tayeb, behind her. For a moment, Frieda does not know who he is: he’s an Arab man and he is looking at her, eyes large and brown and concentrating on her, then a frown on his face. Where is she? She is entirely disconnected now, the balloon string has finally been cut, and up she goes.

‘Ah, I did not realise this was here,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Frieda answered. ‘It looks as though she really looked after it.’

He nodded, agreeing, and leaned over to smell the yellow roses.

Watch and Cyclometer:
In coasting, sit well in the saddle, letting that take the whole weight, and do not push too hard with the feet on the coasters.

23.
A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar – Notes

July 24th

Something has happened to Elizabeth. She is in the kang room and Millicent won’t let me in, claiming she is infectious. Lolo described it like this:

‘She was all crazeee, Memsahib, she was in the garden and she did this . . .’ He put his hands to his head and began to spin around like a madman.

‘What do you mean, Lolo? What was she doing?’ He did it again, hands gripping his own head, spinning like a dervish and I understood that she has had one of her fits. I pushed him and ran up to Millicent at prayer in the study room.

‘Millicent,’ I said, daring to interrupt her prayer. Her head turned quickly with the shock of the interruption but when she looked at me it was with calm eyes.

‘Evangeline, your sister is infected, you must not go in.’

‘It is not an infection, Millicent. There are certain things we need to do. We must get a doctor from Urumtsi, and most importantly, she must have her medicine. What have you done with the package?’

Millicent sighed, ‘She is infectious and must be quarantined. Eva, leave it to me, you will be most helpful by continuing to run the household.’

‘But Millicent, she is my sister. I must see her.’

‘No –’

‘I insist. If she is really ill, I must inform our mother.’

‘No.’

Millicent rose slowly, with creaking knees, so that she was facing me. I made a move to walk past her, towards the kang room, but as I did she took my wrist with her thin, surprisingly strong hand. Her grip was very tight. Then, a peculiar thing. She slackened her hold, slightly, and ran her thumb slowly along the purple trace of one of my veins and it was as though she had drugged me. I was still, and stood pathetic, looking at her. Then I heard Lizzie call. I pulled my wrist away from her and was about to run into the kang room when Millicent pushed her face close up against mine. Her eye-glasses were so dirty that it must have been almost impossible for her to actually see through them. I tried to lean back, away from her until I felt wetness: her saliva on my face.

‘Millicent. You –’ Her mouth was tight, her white-edged lips had thinned so much that they almost disappeared.

‘Elizabeth is consumed with a fever, Satan himself has her. You are not to touch her.’ She walked away.

The door is locked. I did not realise there were even keys to each room, but it seems there are. I have seen Millicent take water in, but no food. I could push through the paper windows, but they are too small for me to crawl in and I cannot pass anything through because Millicent hovers about the room constantly. I asked Lolo but he has not been asked to prepare anything for her.

July 25th

I cycled across Kashgar to the postal exchange centre in the Chinese section of town and without Millicent knowing I have sent Mr Steyning a telegram asking for help.

July 28th

I lay Ai-Lien on the floor in the divan room and began to tend to her, looking round for Lolo to bring us drinks.

‘You won’t find him.’ Millicent was standing behind us, her eye-glasses still filthy. Her Chinese smock had several small tears in it which she had not yet repaired.

‘Where is he?’ It occurred to me that the errand boys were missing too.

‘They’ve all gone.’ Millicent looked down at me, her eyes small, as if reduced to red sores behind her eye-glasses.

‘I had a message from Father Don Carlo,’ she said. ‘He is arbitrating on our behalf. The Magistrates’ Court is demanding money now. They say otherwise the sentence at the trial will be death.’

‘Death?’

‘Yes, mine. Possibly yours, too.’ The afternoon light was strange, it held her skin to ransom, bringing out the years in her and walking them to the surface.

‘Can we telegram for some money?’

‘The Mission have declined to offer, but Mr Steyning was going to help. I have heard nothing from him.’

I did not tell her of my recent telegram to him, paid for with the last remains of my own money.

‘I instructed Father Don to offer them the baby. A gift back to them to do what they will with. I will defend myself in the court.’ She looked at Ai-Lien, who was lying, naked, legs cycling in the air. Catching Ai-Lien’s foot and squeezing it, I concentrated on keeping my face as unreadable as possible.

‘Come with me.’ Her eyes rolled, pushing out against the edges of themselves and she walked towards the entrance to the courtyard. I gathered Ai-Lien up and followed her, letting Ai-Lien hold on with the surprisingly tight grip that babies have, an instinct to stop them from being left behind.

The floor of the courtyard flickered with shadows from the fig tree and roses and the bright afternoon sun fought for space to burn. Next to the fountain I was surprised to see that Millicent had placed Ai-Lien’s crib on the floor and that she had tied red ribbons on it.

‘They want her,’ she said, nodding towards the crib. This was clearly some prearranged demonstration.

‘Who?’

‘The natives, out there. We need to offer her back.’

‘They don’t care about Ai-Lien,’ I said. ‘It’s the pamphlets you have been distributing that are causing the trouble, nothing to do with the baby.’

It was clear from her face – its awkwardness – and the awful vein on her neck, that she was more than a little off-balance, and not from the wine this time.

I must be careful. Lizzie and I are vulnerable; as is the baby. It is as if the thinnest areas of our skin is exposed, our wrists and the backs of our necks and our temples, all for her to cut.

‘There was an effigy of me,’ she said. ‘I saw it, hanging in the main street.’

‘How did you know it was you?’

‘The hair, it was grey. Made out of goat hair I suspect. It was hanging from a piece of string on the tamarisk tree just outside the gate. I was meant to find it.’

‘Ridiculous, Millicent. You’re imagining it, why would they do that?’

Millicent stared up at the sky and blew out her smoke which did not disperse. I pulled Ai-Lien close, tucking her against me and, saying nothing, picked up the crib with its red ribbon decoration and brought it back into the kang room.

She still won’t let me near Lizzie. I must remain calm and wait for a return telegram from Mr Steyning. I do not know what to do. I will not put Ai-Lien down.

24.
London, Present Day

Norwood

She sat on a kitchen chair with the light splashed out at her feet, her face in shadow. Tayeb was surprised at the intensity with which he had a desire to feed her, and not fish and chips. Laid out on the kitchen table were small piles of paper, the Bible he had found, two books, the photograph and a thick black notebook that she was reading. He hesitated at the door. He had tried to be useful by putting all of the magazines and old newspapers in one big pile in the living room, pulling out items that looked interesting or putting into a black bin liner those that were obviously rubbish.

She was reading that notebook with total concentration. He could see the bone of her skull beneath her skin and the corner of her jaw. She had black marks under her eyes. As far as he was concerned, she was too thin. He came into the kitchen but she didn’t look up. Without saying anything, he began to investigate the cooking possibilities. In the cupboards there were spice jars, peppercorns, caraway, cardamom, turmeric, even saffron. Cooking would calm him, help with the flash of itches across his back and his arms. Whilst cooking, he could think and work out a plan.

‘Shall I cook?’ he said, twisting at his moustache.

She looked up at him from her notebook, ‘You want to?’

He nodded. It was eleven in the morning. He wasn’t hungry, but he wanted to make something luxurious to taste, something with depth. Tayeb ran his finger along the spices. Yes. There was enough here to make something good. He would feed her the most delicious thing he could think of, ‘akwa, if he could remember how to do it.

‘Is there a butcher round here?’ His voice emerged with too much force for the quiet air in this strange flat, but she did not seem particularly affected by it. She was difficult to read and he began to wonder whether she wanted him to leave, whether she might be frustrated by his presence, but probably, she was thinking about the drunken man from last night. Her boyfriend, he supposed. But then she seemed, in fact, mostly concerned with the notebook.