origins are in the past. I’m alone in the house with a man I know nothing about. My body
has a memory of its own. It reacts before I’ve time to register that I’m afraid. I break out in a fine sweat.
The best thing to do when confronted with someone you fear, Ummu once told me, is to stand your ground, look them in the eye. Disarm them with your confidence.
Make friends with the dog, but
don’t drop the stick
, she said. And so I don’t move, but keep my wits about me.
I follow him to the kitchen, where he fills a mug with water and drinks it down. Fills it again. He takes a plastic bottle of pills, shakes two or three into his hand, swallows them. I wonder if
perhaps he is ill. Is this why he was on the sofa all day yesterday, half-asleep?
‘Can I get you something?’ I ask. ‘Some breakfast? An egg? A little coffee?’
‘You can make me tea when I get up,’ he says.
‘You’re going back to bed now?’
He shrugs and walks out again, his head low. He does remind me of a dog! The kind with raised shoulderblades that hangs their heads, the sort you don’t trust at home for they’re
sometimes rabid. I listen. Hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, the click of his bedroom door.
The house falls silent.
I try not to make a sound as I go up to Dora’s bathroom. It’s a beautiful room, though it’s been neglected. There are wooden floors, in need of a polish, the curling carpet,
and a huge bath with feet shaped like a large cat’s. Along the shelves are cubes of soap, glass bottles of oils and lotions. I turn the enormous brass taps, just to see the water flow. There
are two taps, one hot and one cold. I let the water run for some time, discover the hot, enjoy the soothing feel of it upon my skin. Then I lean for a minute on the basin, in a pool of pale yellow
sunlight, and gaze out of the window. Next door a woman moves down her garden with a basket of washing. I watch her peg it on a circular washing line, like a small tree. When she’s finished,
the tree starts to turn circles, the washing swirling around in a kind of dance in the wind. It reminds me of the trees I’ve seen in the desert, where people tie coloured fabric as fertility
offerings, and I feel a pang, and wonder when I’ll next stand on home soil.
Later I’ll make this room beautiful. Clean the bath and sink, polish the taps. One day when I have more time I’ll take a bath. Use a few of Dora’s luxury products. For now I
just have a wash, dry myself on a thick towel, rub a little cream into my hands from one of the tubes on the shelf. Feeling fresher, I go down to Charles.
He’s wearing good clothes – a crisp shirt, wool jacket and trousers. Leather shoes that look as if a shoe-shine boy has just had his hands on them. I think of Ummu in her funny
assortment of clothes that she’s worn for years and wonder who keeps his so pristine when Dora clearly hasn’t the time. I lean over him, catching the scent of his soap, a lemony smell,
and a waft of something sweeter, the talc he keeps in his little bathroom.
‘I need to get to Billingsgate,’ he says. ‘Have you ordered my taxi?’
‘Dora asked me to take you to the market,’ I say. ‘To buy your oranges. Have you been to the toilet?’
The minute I’ve asked, I wish I hadn’t. He has pride. He has dignity. I’ve offended him. I take his arm. Lead him out of his front door and up the steep steps to the back
garden.
‘I don’t understand why you live down there when there’s the big house that’s so much easier to get in and out of,’ I say, and he looks at me. He doesn’t ask
me to translate.
Charles walks so slowly it takes us over ten minutes to cross the garden with its fallen fruits and go along the path round to the front. He waits while I go into Dora’s hallway, tug the
wheelchair from under the stairs, pull it down the steps and help him in.
The woman I saw hanging out the washing next door is sweeping her front steps. ‘Morning,
has a memory of its own. It reacts before I’ve time to register that I’m afraid. I break out in a fine sweat.
The best thing to do when confronted with someone you fear, Ummu once told me, is to stand your ground, look them in the eye. Disarm them with your confidence.
Make friends with the dog, but
don’t drop the stick
, she said. And so I don’t move, but keep my wits about me.
I follow him to the kitchen, where he fills a mug with water and drinks it down. Fills it again. He takes a plastic bottle of pills, shakes two or three into his hand, swallows them. I wonder if
perhaps he is ill. Is this why he was on the sofa all day yesterday, half-asleep?
‘Can I get you something?’ I ask. ‘Some breakfast? An egg? A little coffee?’
‘You can make me tea when I get up,’ he says.
‘You’re going back to bed now?’
He shrugs and walks out again, his head low. He does remind me of a dog! The kind with raised shoulderblades that hangs their heads, the sort you don’t trust at home for they’re
sometimes rabid. I listen. Hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, the click of his bedroom door.
The house falls silent.
I try not to make a sound as I go up to Dora’s bathroom. It’s a beautiful room, though it’s been neglected. There are wooden floors, in need of a polish, the curling carpet,
and a huge bath with feet shaped like a large cat’s. Along the shelves are cubes of soap, glass bottles of oils and lotions. I turn the enormous brass taps, just to see the water flow. There
are two taps, one hot and one cold. I let the water run for some time, discover the hot, enjoy the soothing feel of it upon my skin. Then I lean for a minute on the basin, in a pool of pale yellow
sunlight, and gaze out of the window. Next door a woman moves down her garden with a basket of washing. I watch her peg it on a circular washing line, like a small tree. When she’s finished,
the tree starts to turn circles, the washing swirling around in a kind of dance in the wind. It reminds me of the trees I’ve seen in the desert, where people tie coloured fabric as fertility
offerings, and I feel a pang, and wonder when I’ll next stand on home soil.
Later I’ll make this room beautiful. Clean the bath and sink, polish the taps. One day when I have more time I’ll take a bath. Use a few of Dora’s luxury products. For now I
just have a wash, dry myself on a thick towel, rub a little cream into my hands from one of the tubes on the shelf. Feeling fresher, I go down to Charles.
He’s wearing good clothes – a crisp shirt, wool jacket and trousers. Leather shoes that look as if a shoe-shine boy has just had his hands on them. I think of Ummu in her funny
assortment of clothes that she’s worn for years and wonder who keeps his so pristine when Dora clearly hasn’t the time. I lean over him, catching the scent of his soap, a lemony smell,
and a waft of something sweeter, the talc he keeps in his little bathroom.
‘I need to get to Billingsgate,’ he says. ‘Have you ordered my taxi?’
‘Dora asked me to take you to the market,’ I say. ‘To buy your oranges. Have you been to the toilet?’
The minute I’ve asked, I wish I hadn’t. He has pride. He has dignity. I’ve offended him. I take his arm. Lead him out of his front door and up the steep steps to the back
garden.
‘I don’t understand why you live down there when there’s the big house that’s so much easier to get in and out of,’ I say, and he looks at me. He doesn’t ask
me to translate.
Charles walks so slowly it takes us over ten minutes to cross the garden with its fallen fruits and go along the path round to the front. He waits while I go into Dora’s hallway, tug the
wheelchair from under the stairs, pull it down the steps and help him in.
The woman I saw hanging out the washing next door is sweeping her front steps. ‘Morning,
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