with cloud and the plane entered a phase of turbulence, the young Ailsa really was rather like me, wasn’t she? She must have understood. And, if so, she’d have feared for me in my wild days.
There’d been no question, when the chance of the cruise came up, but that Nia must follow her young mother into Egypt, leaving the older Ailsa in the green shires of the Marches. I’m coming , she’d promised her. Wait for me .
Mona Serafin-Jacobs was still, at eighty-something, giving rare recitals; she was scheduled to play Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto with SOPH, the Symphony Orchestra of Palestinian Harmony. Nia had written to her care of her agent: My daughter Poppy and I expect to be in Ismailia on 6th October . She’d trembled as she typed the invitation and dropped it in the post box at Craven Arms. No going back.She’d brought the journals to show to Poppy and perhaps to Mona, for there were questions only this woman could answer. This thought filled Nia with exquisite disquiet. Already she understood things about Mona that Ailsa had totally missed. Politically, the young Ailsa was a complete simpleton. How could her mother have been so naïve? I was born in Jerusalem , Mona had said. What does that tell you? Ailsa hadn’t a clue what she was getting into. Only a year before the Empire Glory docked, the struggle between East and West had exploded. The Israeli state had risen at the heart of the Arab Muslim world, and that world could not abide it, not then, not now, not ever. Our modern reality was being born in fratricidal carnage, Nia thought, while you sailed blithely into the eye of the storm, Ailsa, innocent as a babe, your picture-book Bible as your guidebook , as witness your answer to Mona’s question, What does that tell you? Not a clue.
Poppy opened her eyes and stretched. ‘Are we there yet?’ she yawned, in parody of her plaintive childhood question. She reached out to touch Nia’s hand, across the aisle, and smiled.
‘Nearly there, cariad ,’ lied Nia. Through the porthole, she could see the papier maché mountains of Italy, silver with snow. They’d be boarding a cruise ship at Aqaba, the Terra Incognita, to sail through the Red Sea and through the Suez Canal to Port Said and thence Alexandria.
*
‘I was born in Jerusalem. What does that tell you?’
That you’re Jewish , Ailsa thought. Obviously. I’ve worked that out already.
The two of them rested cwtched-up , as Joe would havesaid, on the bunk, drinking gin like old friends. Unused to spirits, Ailsa grew squiffy, then dozy. Her head lolled against the pillow and Mona’s shoulder. At her throat Mona had a chain with a silver ornament attached; her fingers constantly played with it.
‘What’s that round your neck?’
‘The key to our house in Qatamon. The side entrance.’
‘It’s pretty. Where is Qatamon, Mona?’
‘A suburb of Jerusalem. I was two and a bit when we were driven out.’
‘Driven out?’
‘In the run-up to the so-called Arab Revolt. Between the Wars, during the British Mandate. I don’t remember any of the violence. But I do remember our house, at least I think I do. Do you think Nia will remember things that are happening now? Will she remember this ship? Perhaps it’s not my own memory but some sort of composite family memory. Anyway I wouldn’t lose it for the world.’
Ailsa learned that Mona’s father had been murdered by mistake for another Serafin. Her mother had fled with Mona and her brother. First to Lebanon, then to Cairo, and from there to relatives in London.
‘I never speak about this. Even to myself.’
‘Don’t if it’s painful.’
‘No, I want to, Ailsa. So you’ll know.’
In her teens Mona had been sent to Brussels to study piano, while her brother, the violinist, had emigrated to America. She’d come back to London eighteen months or so before the war, tail between her legs. It had not been a success. But then life had looked up! In a very big way. A year at
There’d been no question, when the chance of the cruise came up, but that Nia must follow her young mother into Egypt, leaving the older Ailsa in the green shires of the Marches. I’m coming , she’d promised her. Wait for me .
Mona Serafin-Jacobs was still, at eighty-something, giving rare recitals; she was scheduled to play Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto with SOPH, the Symphony Orchestra of Palestinian Harmony. Nia had written to her care of her agent: My daughter Poppy and I expect to be in Ismailia on 6th October . She’d trembled as she typed the invitation and dropped it in the post box at Craven Arms. No going back.She’d brought the journals to show to Poppy and perhaps to Mona, for there were questions only this woman could answer. This thought filled Nia with exquisite disquiet. Already she understood things about Mona that Ailsa had totally missed. Politically, the young Ailsa was a complete simpleton. How could her mother have been so naïve? I was born in Jerusalem , Mona had said. What does that tell you? Ailsa hadn’t a clue what she was getting into. Only a year before the Empire Glory docked, the struggle between East and West had exploded. The Israeli state had risen at the heart of the Arab Muslim world, and that world could not abide it, not then, not now, not ever. Our modern reality was being born in fratricidal carnage, Nia thought, while you sailed blithely into the eye of the storm, Ailsa, innocent as a babe, your picture-book Bible as your guidebook , as witness your answer to Mona’s question, What does that tell you? Not a clue.
Poppy opened her eyes and stretched. ‘Are we there yet?’ she yawned, in parody of her plaintive childhood question. She reached out to touch Nia’s hand, across the aisle, and smiled.
‘Nearly there, cariad ,’ lied Nia. Through the porthole, she could see the papier maché mountains of Italy, silver with snow. They’d be boarding a cruise ship at Aqaba, the Terra Incognita, to sail through the Red Sea and through the Suez Canal to Port Said and thence Alexandria.
*
‘I was born in Jerusalem. What does that tell you?’
That you’re Jewish , Ailsa thought. Obviously. I’ve worked that out already.
The two of them rested cwtched-up , as Joe would havesaid, on the bunk, drinking gin like old friends. Unused to spirits, Ailsa grew squiffy, then dozy. Her head lolled against the pillow and Mona’s shoulder. At her throat Mona had a chain with a silver ornament attached; her fingers constantly played with it.
‘What’s that round your neck?’
‘The key to our house in Qatamon. The side entrance.’
‘It’s pretty. Where is Qatamon, Mona?’
‘A suburb of Jerusalem. I was two and a bit when we were driven out.’
‘Driven out?’
‘In the run-up to the so-called Arab Revolt. Between the Wars, during the British Mandate. I don’t remember any of the violence. But I do remember our house, at least I think I do. Do you think Nia will remember things that are happening now? Will she remember this ship? Perhaps it’s not my own memory but some sort of composite family memory. Anyway I wouldn’t lose it for the world.’
Ailsa learned that Mona’s father had been murdered by mistake for another Serafin. Her mother had fled with Mona and her brother. First to Lebanon, then to Cairo, and from there to relatives in London.
‘I never speak about this. Even to myself.’
‘Don’t if it’s painful.’
‘No, I want to, Ailsa. So you’ll know.’
In her teens Mona had been sent to Brussels to study piano, while her brother, the violinist, had emigrated to America. She’d come back to London eighteen months or so before the war, tail between her legs. It had not been a success. But then life had looked up! In a very big way. A year at
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