A House Called Askival by Merryn Glover Page B

bazaar a voice rose, like a song of lament. Iqbal laid a handful of cutlery on the counter and James’ eyes jerked open, roving from him to Ruth.
    â€˜Time for prayer,’ James said.
    She stared at him. That was the call from the mosque. Time for Muslim prayer. He waved his hand at her.
    â€˜You’ve had a long journey, Ruthie. You get some rest.’ She hesitated, but he seemed impatient.
    â€˜Ok,’ she murmured and with a slurping draught, downed the last ofher chai and stood up, pulling the shawl around her.
    â€˜Thank you, Iqbal. I’ve really missed good Indian khana .’ Another word! Hindi returning, of its own volition, as if some of the curry had slipped down to the old dog and revived it. Just two words so far – no more than whimpers, really – but Hindi, nevertheless. Tiny acts of salvage, of reclamation.
    â€˜A happy day!’ Iqbal smiled, untying his apron. ‘Our Ruthie has come home. We have killed the fatted calf.’
    â€˜This isn’t—!’
    â€˜Home is where the family is!’ he interrupted, gesturing to James.
    â€˜Of course,’ she murmured and turned to the stairs. ‘Night Dad.’ She leaned over the edge of the sofa and kissed him lightly on the top of the head. His arms flew up like a startled bird and grabbed her, but she pulled back. Then she wished she hadn’t seen his face: so briefly lit and then dark.
    â€˜Night Ruth.’ His arms dropped and she felt an ache in her breastbone.
    As she climbed the stairs she saw Iqbal unfolding a prayer mat and a white skull cap. She froze. He was Muslim? She looked at James, who was opening a scuffed, taped-together Bible, thick with papers.
    In Iqbal’s room she stood behind the door and listened. The low murmur of James’ voice gave way to Iqbal singing, but this time a strange and haunting tune that stirred feelings she could not name. After a few minutes the song died, but the feelings remained, lifted and wheeling like a flock of birds.
    She shook her head and turned to examine his pictures. Bollywood actresses shimmied beside Alpine meadows; gleaming cars parked themselves around a framed Arabic text; on a hospital fund-raising calendar, a man held up his leprosy-mutilated stumps, and everywhere, teddy bear and kitten greeting cards nuzzled amongst a vast array of snapshots. Many of the photos were of westerners, often standing with Iqbal, and mainly missionaries, judging by appearances. Several of them were women, grey-haired and determined. ‘Women outnumber men on the mission field thirteen to one,’ Grandma Leota used to say. ‘The men are just scared.’ Ruth was never sure if their fears centred on the missionfield or the women.
    In one picture, Iqbal was sitting on a stage beside a sitar and tabla with a group of people, all relaxed and laughing. They looked like musicians and dancers and one man was laughing so hard his eyes were hidden. Ruth was sure she knew the face but couldn’t place him.
    Then she saw a picture of Hannah & Derek and her stomach clenched. There they were, in the back garden of their Tennessee home, arms bursting with their seven children, mostly red-heads like Derek, all clean-scrubbed and looking so happy and healthy and home-schooled that Ruth wanted to spit. And was at once ashamed. It was not their fault and, in truth, she loved them. And yet hated that smug Blessed-by-the-Lord! look stamped all over the picture, and the fact that not one of them was hers.
    But when had Iqbal met them? She realised again how little she knew. How little she’d wanted to know. Or at least, that had been the message she’d given off, all these years, like a skunk’s fierce smell.
    She searched for a picture of herself, but when she couldn’t find one, felt a pang of hurt and then scorn. Why would Iqbal have her picture? She’d never even acknowledged his existence. Hannah probably sent birthday cards and knitted