disappeared.
‘What’s your baby called?’ I asked as she wiped her eyes with toilet paper from a roll.
‘Mob,’ she said.
‘Can I hold it?’
‘Her.’ She passed the baby over.
As soon as Mob was on my lap she woke up and began to scream.
‘Have I met you before?’ I asked.
Linda nodded.
‘Did you have a baby when I last saw you?’ I had to shout over Mob’s yells.
‘No.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Six months.’
‘Why’s she called Mob?’
Linda sighed. ‘Because her father was an Anarchist.’
‘What’s an Anarchist?’
Mum and Bea had arrived. Linda stood up and blew her nose. ‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
And Mum said, ‘Didn’t you get mine?’
Then they both began to laugh and hugged each other and we all helped to carry Linda’s luggage back to the Hotel Moulay Idriss.
‘I bought you a dress with the money you sent.’ Linda riffled through her suitcase. ‘From Biba.’
We watched as Mum tried it on. It was a soft cotton dress in golden browns and oranges, like a park trampled with autumn leaves. It had bell-shaped sleeves that buttoned at the wrist.
‘I love it,’ Mum said, spinning around in a dance.
I heaved a private sigh of relief. Surely this meant now she would stop wearing her Muslim haik that turned her into someone’s secret wife, with or without a veil.
‘You look beautiful.’ Linda was still heaping clothes on to the floor.
‘Yes, beautiful, beautiful,’ I agreed, eager to encourage.
Bea didn’t say anything. Her face was set and worried.
‘And I bought these for you.’ Linda held out a pair of faded black trousers. ‘From the Portobello Road.’
I gasped with excitement as I tried them on. They even had a zip.
‘Do I look like a boy?’
‘Not really.’ Mum was rolling up the legs in thick wedges round my ankles.
‘I thought she’d have grown…’ Linda said.
‘Not even with my hat?’ I looked around for it. In my excitement I had forgotten the horror of my orange hair.
Bea had a striped T-shirt that was long enough to be a dress. It had a hole under one arm.
‘Are you Linda who was going to bring the baby powder?’ I asked.
Bea jumped up. ‘So you did know she was coming. You did know.’ She turned on Mum.
‘I didn’t know exactly when…’
Bea’s face was dark. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Linda looked as if she were going to cry again.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Mum held Bea at arm’s length. ‘Everything will be fine. Linda and Mob can stay here. There’s plenty of room.’
‘There’s plenty of room.’ Bea mimicked, almost under her breath but loud enough to strangle the air in the room. Mob gurgled in Linda’s arms and was sick. Linda mopped it up with toilet roll.
‘In the toilets in Morocco they only have a water tap and sometimes they just have stones,’ I told her.
Bea walked out on to the landing and hung her head over the railings. It was beginning to grow dark and the grey shadows outside, for a moment, exactly matched the half-light in the room. Mum lit a lamp and Bea disappeared into sudden darkness.
She kicked at the door-frame as she came back in. ‘I have to start school,’ she said.
Relief clouded my mother’s face. ‘Of course. Well you can.’
‘How can I?’ Bea was unimpressed. ‘I need a white skirt – which I don’t have. I need a white shirt – which I don’t have. I need a satchel.’ She stood in the middle of the room, victorious. ‘You see. I can’t.’
‘Tomorrow first thing we’ll go to the bank and see if our money has arrived and if it has we’ll buy you a uniform before we do anything else.’
‘And if it hasn’t?’
‘We’ll just have to wait a few days.’
‘And if it still hasn’t?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ Mum promised.
‘Will you think of something for me as well?’ I asked.
‘You don’t want to go to school.’ Her voice was decisive where it concerned me. ‘School is for big girls like Bea and Ayesha
‘What’s your baby called?’ I asked as she wiped her eyes with toilet paper from a roll.
‘Mob,’ she said.
‘Can I hold it?’
‘Her.’ She passed the baby over.
As soon as Mob was on my lap she woke up and began to scream.
‘Have I met you before?’ I asked.
Linda nodded.
‘Did you have a baby when I last saw you?’ I had to shout over Mob’s yells.
‘No.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Six months.’
‘Why’s she called Mob?’
Linda sighed. ‘Because her father was an Anarchist.’
‘What’s an Anarchist?’
Mum and Bea had arrived. Linda stood up and blew her nose. ‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
And Mum said, ‘Didn’t you get mine?’
Then they both began to laugh and hugged each other and we all helped to carry Linda’s luggage back to the Hotel Moulay Idriss.
‘I bought you a dress with the money you sent.’ Linda riffled through her suitcase. ‘From Biba.’
We watched as Mum tried it on. It was a soft cotton dress in golden browns and oranges, like a park trampled with autumn leaves. It had bell-shaped sleeves that buttoned at the wrist.
‘I love it,’ Mum said, spinning around in a dance.
I heaved a private sigh of relief. Surely this meant now she would stop wearing her Muslim haik that turned her into someone’s secret wife, with or without a veil.
‘You look beautiful.’ Linda was still heaping clothes on to the floor.
‘Yes, beautiful, beautiful,’ I agreed, eager to encourage.
Bea didn’t say anything. Her face was set and worried.
‘And I bought these for you.’ Linda held out a pair of faded black trousers. ‘From the Portobello Road.’
I gasped with excitement as I tried them on. They even had a zip.
‘Do I look like a boy?’
‘Not really.’ Mum was rolling up the legs in thick wedges round my ankles.
‘I thought she’d have grown…’ Linda said.
‘Not even with my hat?’ I looked around for it. In my excitement I had forgotten the horror of my orange hair.
Bea had a striped T-shirt that was long enough to be a dress. It had a hole under one arm.
‘Are you Linda who was going to bring the baby powder?’ I asked.
Bea jumped up. ‘So you did know she was coming. You did know.’ She turned on Mum.
‘I didn’t know exactly when…’
Bea’s face was dark. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Linda looked as if she were going to cry again.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Mum held Bea at arm’s length. ‘Everything will be fine. Linda and Mob can stay here. There’s plenty of room.’
‘There’s plenty of room.’ Bea mimicked, almost under her breath but loud enough to strangle the air in the room. Mob gurgled in Linda’s arms and was sick. Linda mopped it up with toilet roll.
‘In the toilets in Morocco they only have a water tap and sometimes they just have stones,’ I told her.
Bea walked out on to the landing and hung her head over the railings. It was beginning to grow dark and the grey shadows outside, for a moment, exactly matched the half-light in the room. Mum lit a lamp and Bea disappeared into sudden darkness.
She kicked at the door-frame as she came back in. ‘I have to start school,’ she said.
Relief clouded my mother’s face. ‘Of course. Well you can.’
‘How can I?’ Bea was unimpressed. ‘I need a white skirt – which I don’t have. I need a white shirt – which I don’t have. I need a satchel.’ She stood in the middle of the room, victorious. ‘You see. I can’t.’
‘Tomorrow first thing we’ll go to the bank and see if our money has arrived and if it has we’ll buy you a uniform before we do anything else.’
‘And if it hasn’t?’
‘We’ll just have to wait a few days.’
‘And if it still hasn’t?’
‘We’ll think of something,’ Mum promised.
‘Will you think of something for me as well?’ I asked.
‘You don’t want to go to school.’ Her voice was decisive where it concerned me. ‘School is for big girls like Bea and Ayesha
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