Miss Webster and Chérif Read online

  Elizabeth Webster, two weeks back from her eventful sortie to the land far away, to which she had travelled, obedient and puzzled, without knowing why, now stamped round her receding flowers and shrubs, pruning back dead shoots and clearing out the first fallen leaves. She bagged up the rubbish. Not enough yet for a bonfire. I’ll have one at the end of October. She rubbed mud off her gloves and stood leaning on her rake. And what have I gained from going far, far away to a land that I shall never see again? She looked up at the apple tree, demanding an answer. The huge mass of ripening apples leered down at her. She collected all the decent windfalls that were not pierced by the invisible worm that flies in the night in the howling storm. I have come home, she thought. I was not myself. I had become old, frail and twittering. And I was lost, even in familiar surroundings. But now I have come home. She smiled at the Michaelmas daisies and last year’s Christmas tree, which had rooted nicely.

  She purchased a discreet haul of new skirts and cardigans and stashed the walking sticks in the coat cupboard. Miss Elizabeth Webster lifted her chin and tightened her lips. Business as usual. She rummaged deep within the shoebox and retrieved her cherished galoshes. Miss Webster set great store by her log stove and her elderly galoshes. Everyone in the village, who saw her at church or in the shop, told her how well she was looking.

  ‘Amazing what good a little holiday can do.’

  ‘Well, you look quite transformed.’

  ‘That haircut really suits you. Chic!’

  ‘Oh Miss Webster, your nose is all sunburnt. But you do look well.’

  (This contribution supplied by Sophie at Snippets.)

  ‘I say, you weren’t anywhere near those frightful bombings, were you?’

  She no longer ripped their heads off when they made personal comments; instead she heard genuine concern rather than impertinence. She began reading again and renewed her subscription to her foreign language book club: New Books in French and German. She signed up for a course of t’ai chi, ten lessons, at the university sports centre and felt full of energy after the first session, swaying and rising in rhythm with the teacher, a woman sculpted in muscles, who wore a kung fu headband, struck fierce poses, and then held them, her face expressionless. She bought a DVD player that was on special offer at Dixons to watch French films, also available from the predatory book club. This was an ambitious move and the SCART leads unfortunately defeated her. But she put it aside and summoned up the local TV men to make all the necessary adjustments. She was no longer catapulted into rages when inanimate objects put up a malevolent resistance. Tant pis, I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Miss Elizabeth Webster was sitting on the green striped sofa beneath her Anglepoise reading light, at 10.45 p.m., watching Newsnight, in precisely the same position she had occupied at the very moment she came to a dead halt, six months previously, when the doorbell wheezed and sprang into life. She took a long time drawing back the heavy velvet draught excluder from the porch door. The t’ai chi had had an unexpected effect on her knees and she wobbled into her porch, stumbling over her shopping bag and umbrella, which both fell away from the wall and landed on her toes. The shape outside in the gusty night, illuminated by her automatic floodlight, was curly-headed, young and male. She flung open the front door and glared at him.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  The young man had the kind of beauty which silences crowds and persuades elderly pederasts to reach for their flies and their cameras, for their time of joy has come again. His smooth olive features and merry dark eyes met hers with confidence and amusement. He knew exactly who she was.

  ‘Bonsoir, Madame Webster.’

  He spoke perfect French, with the kind of intonation that no one normal ever acquires from their mothers. More alarmingly, he was carrying a large suitcase, a rucksack and a bulging paper carrier bag. Elizabeth instantly smelt a rat.

  ‘Who are you? And what do you want?’

  ‘Je m’appelle Chérif. Je suis le fils de Saïda. And these are for you.’

  He pressed the poisoned gifts upon her. Inside the paper carrier bag was a mass of bulky packages, wrapped up in glittering paper. There was no room in the tiny porch for the smiling Chérif, the suitcase, the rucksack, the bag of presents and Elizabeth Webster. Someone had to go out or come in.

  ‘Well, you’d better step inside for a moment. Entrez, entrez,’ she gestured impatiently. What kind of visitor turns up just at the moment when all decent people are thinking about locking the back door, finding themselves glasses of water and putting the cat out? The unsuitable hour worried her more than anything else. Was he staying at Everglades, the B&B? Should she call a taxi? They stood in the middle of her orderly green room, staring at one another. Chérif looked around him, curious, at ease. He had wide, dark eyes and long lashes. He studied the books, the television, the abstract paintings, the watercolour of a slate mine in North Wales. Each china ornament – including the maiden with goats, hand-painted, made in 1845, very valuable indeed – was examined in turn. This scrupulous silent inspection, which was too innocent to be rude, came to rest above the wood stove, not yet lit, and steadied before another face, which scowled back.

  ‘Who is the man becoming a tree?’ he asked at last.

  ‘It’s a green man. Un homme vert. He’s a roof boss in the cathedral cloisters. They were once found all over Europe, mostly in churches. Some scholars think they are a fertility symbol, but no one really knows what they mean.’

  ‘He is a soldier in camouflage,’ said Chérif, peering at the evil gilded face, who suddenly transformed himself into a harmless comic squaddie.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Elizabeth Webster remembered her manners and Abdou’s strange conversation with the anonymous driver of the desert jeep, whom she would also never see again. ‘Is your mother well? Are all your family safe and well? I hope there have been no more bombs.’

  ‘She is well, thank you. Yes, they are all well. Et Dieu soit béni, God be praised, we have had no more bombs. But many tourists have cancelled their winter bookings because they are afraid.’

  ‘What stuff and nonsense. They are just as likely to be blown up here.’ Elizabeth marched out to the kitchen. ‘Put down your suitcase and rucksack and I’ll make you some tea.’

  ‘Why not open your presents?’

  She grappled with the mass of bright parcels laid out on the kitchen table, and as she tugged at the shining paper she saw why he had asked her to do so. There was a beautiful silver kettle, engraved with tiny abstract swirls, a decorated silver teapot, squat but noble with four stocky feet, and six perfect hand-blown gilded glasses with golden rims and exotic patterns etched in the glass. Everything felt heavy, precious and expensive. The glasses were carefully wrapped in an Arabic newspaper. Her heart clenched when she saw the strange dots and swirls of the unknown tongue. It had been real. She had been there. But the presentation was not over. Chérif began to unravel a large bundle wrapped in blue plastic, extracted from the bulbous rucksack. This, the most alarming gift of all, overflowed from his hands as he pulled it from its wrappings; an endless carpet, which, like Draupadi’s sari, bloomed into voluminous folds. Each section of the carpet was intricate, meticulous, hand-woven; the deft touch of beauty stretched casually across her kitchen in a torrent of crimson and gold.

  ‘She shouldn’t send me such lovely things. I was only a guest in her hotel.’

  The complexity of the gesture and its origins in bribery only gradually dawned on Elizabeth, who was not used to receiving anything, let alone unsolicited gifts. But the unknown young man, gorgeous as a god, stood smiling before her, amused, insistent.

  ‘These are for you,’ he said.

  She stood back and looked at him carefully. He was wearing ordinary Western clothes: a dark blue T-shirt with a red star, no slogan; a loose furry fleece, the zip undone; black jeans and trainers. He stood there in her kitchen, meeting her gaze, patient as the Angel Gabriel on the left side of the triptych in a Renaissance painting, waiting to be
noticed and addressed. He had not removed the padded anorak. It smelt new, unworn.

  ‘Let me take your coat.’

  Saïda’s only son felt solid and safe. The only extraordinary thing about this young man was his eerie beauty and grace.

  ‘Shall we use the new teapot? I will give it a good scrub, just in case.’ Chérif effortlessly assessed her kitchen and sorted out the prodigal gifts. Elizabeth found herself settling his coat into her cupboard. She had a sudden urge to check the pockets and actually did so. But apart from an English train timetable and a taxi receipt, there was nothing there. She went on to the offensive.

  ‘It’s actually quite late. Where are you staying tonight, Chérif?’

  He looked at her, unabashed, brandishing the teapot.

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you could recommend a hostel. Somewhere not too expensive. I have an interview at the university tomorrow. And if it goes well I have a place to study mathematics and chemistry. I’m very good at maths.’ The smile beamed huge, inclusive, the teeth straight and gleaming and apparently all his own. ‘I won a prize. That’s helped with expenses like the flight.’

  Elizabeth suddenly heard herself being inhospitable, suspicious and unkind. This was the moment when she could have turned back, refused to initiate the long chain of events that followed and remained shut up in her dark past. She could have ended everything by saying no. But safety does not come first, and yes, she was disarmed by the boy’s loveliness. And for this young man the flat green fields and oak clumps of provincial England constituted the northern desert, the unknown barren space, a wilderness dangerous to the unwary and the ignorant. Traditions of hospitality exist in every desert, traditions that must be honoured.

  ‘You are very welcome to stay here tonight and we can find somewhere more suitable through the university accommodation office tomorrow.’

  The surprise appeared unfeigned. He had not expected to stay in her house. She smiled, reassured. So did he.

  ‘Merci, Madame Webster. Vous êtes très gentille.’

  He actually bowed, teapot in hand. Chérif had breached the gates and could therefore be blessed by an innate generosity, of which Miss Webster was completely unaware, for hitherto it had never been tapped.

  ‘Would you like to ring your mother and tell her that you have arrived safely? Or is it too late at home?’

  ‘I did that at the airport. I thought I’d send her an e-mail tomorrow. She picks up her e-mails at the hotel.’

  For the first time the boy looked anxious. Elizabeth saw the furtive shudder of exhaustion in his eyes and shoulders. She dug out an opened packet of ginger biscuits.

  ‘Tea. Then bed,’ she declared.

  Everything salvaged from her mother’s house had been dumped in the spare bedroom. When she ventured into what appeared to be a vista of old-lady-land early next morning, clutching a mug of very sweet tea with no milk, Chérif’s dark curls were practically submerged beneath chintz armchairs, lace dripping from the pelmet and a vanity dresser, its surfaces coated in protective glass, replete with coloured crystal perfume bottles and boxes of scented powder puffs sporting views of Swiss lakes. Elderly beauty equipment crowded round the bed, drenched in lavender and dense with embroidered flowering roses. The towels flirted with each other on a varnished wooden rack, presenting a dashing camp mixture of violet and pink. Even the silver-backed clothes brushes, laid out on the sheer glass surfaces according to size and depth of bristle, were covered in dancing maidens. The only thing that still bore witness to Elizabeth’s more neutral taste was the pale yellow wallpaper.

  ‘Good morning, Chérif. Here’s some tea.’

  He considered her for a moment, baffled. Then his eyes settled on the luxurious floral glut of artificial colours and widened in alarm. Elizabeth hastily opened the curtains to reveal the apple tree. She remembered what he must have seen every morning: date palms, white sand, grey rock. Before them unfolded a sunny autumn morning, ripening into a cool windy day. The whole world brimmed with late heavy green, bruised yellow at the edges.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he murmured, staring in wonder at the size of the apple tree. The marvel rattled back against the panes.

  ‘Chérif, do you speak English?’

  He switched languages effortlessly to reassure her, but reproduced the faintest tingle of Internet America.

  ‘It’s better to speak English. Maman told me that you loved French. We had some French teachers at school. But I should practise for my interview.’

  ‘What time do you have to be there?’

  ‘Eleven-thirty.’

  ‘I’ll take you in. You can have a hot shower downstairs.’ Some unsettling instinct warned her to keep him out of her bathroom.

  What on earth does he eat for breakfast? Muslims don’t eat bacon, so the fry-up is out. Toast and fruit and yoghurt. That’s safe ground. Honey. I have real honey in a honeycomb. She decided to be daring with the homemade marmalade. Chérif reappeared in the kitchen, damp and scrubbed.

  ‘I’ve saved all the basin water for recycling,’ he declared.

  They spent half an hour apologising to each other for her acceptance that water was something to be wasted and his inadvertent exposure of this domestic scandal. She reassured him that she always tipped the washing-up bowl over the roses to slaughter the greenfly and the ubiquitous black spot; he begged her to let him do it. She watched him from the kitchen window dowsing each late rose in turn. Not a drop was spilt on the brick path. As he emptied the plastic bowl he swung the thing triumphantly in the air. She saw him smiling at the bedraggled, dripping roses.

  He sauntered into the back porch and said, ‘My mother says it rains and rains in England. The earth is damp, so it must be true. Everything is so green.’

  ‘Well, it rains more than it does in the Sahara. Did you know that we sometimes get the red dust from the desert here? Carried on the winds?’

  ‘The harmattan,’ said Chérif dreamily, ‘the name means the evil thing.’

  He wandered back into the garden and lifted his eyes to the great tree with its hanging globes of red and green. He stood at the edge of her soft lawns, stroking the fuchsia, looking up. She pondered this curious mixture of sophistication and childishness. Sometimes he appeared to possess the knowledge and assurance of an experienced traveller; sometimes he seemed bewitched by wonders. Surely these people knew everything about the West? They watched the films, the news, they scudded about the Net, climbed aboard planes, cadged books off tourists, talked endlessly on their mobile phones. But here stood this young Arab man, gazing at the apples and the extravagant torrents of red, green, purple and gold in her autumn garden, transfixed, as if confronted with a miracle. The light plunged dappled through the apple tree and swirled across his face and chest, now light, now dark; each shadowed plane glimmered, shone, faded. No one had ever stood in her garden before, worshipping her apple tree.

  She switched off the central heating and called him from the back door.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ she said.

  The university was founded forty years before in a frenzy of ideological conviction. It was now much the worse for wear, for it is almost impossible to renovate bald, cracked concrete. The elderly brutalism had been softened in odd corners by Virginia creeper. Chérif stared at each new scene with desert eyes. She realised that the whole thing unrolled before him like a foreign film without subtitles, finally as insubstantial as a mirage. It was all too close, too coloured, too green. She pointed out the building to which he should report. Term had begun and the walkways were swarming with young people. It was warm in the sun. They all tied their jackets and sweaters around their waists and necks. Chérif stared intently at the girls. These massed members of the young fair sex wore metal, jewels or bones skewered through their noses and eyebrows; their ample bosoms, stomachs and bottoms, much of which was on display, oozed over zips and belts, untidily packed into tatty black clothes far too small for them.

  ‘Shall I wait?’ They were sitting in
the car.

  ‘No. It may take a while. I have to do a language test and see the dean of studies at two-thirty. Can I ring you and tell you what has happened?’

  ‘Of course. Let me give you my number.’

  ‘No need. I have it here.’

  She was already neatly recorded in his little red book.

  Elizabeth Webster hoovered and polished like a fifties housewife stricken with cleaning frenzy, one eye upon the phone. He might have to stay the week. If they do find a room for him the rental would start on 1 October. That’s a week away. Or maybe they have entire halls of residence for foreigners. What on earth can I cook? I can’t offer him frozen packets of chips from Waitrose. I should get some fresh vegetables and roast something. They aren’t supposed to drink. But the Desert Rendezvous was always mixed, half locals, half tourists, knocking it back in a smoky haze of rock and jazz. That’s why I never stepped over the threshold. She spied on the luggage in the chintz boudoir. He had packed up all his belongings and remade the bed. So he isn’t intending to stay.

  The phone rang.

  She flung down the hoover and heaved the whole phone off the window sill.

  ‘Chérif? How did it go?’

  ‘Miss Webster? It’s the TV Repairs from Great Blessington. Sky installation systems. You left a message on the answerphone. Was it the aerial needing repairs or a Sky dish and box that you wanted?’

  ‘Oh no, no. I can’t deal with that now. I’m expecting a call. May I ring you back?’

  She sat down firmly on the green sofa looking out at the meadows and the windy autumn light. This time she was ready. Purse. Glasses. Keys. Just as soon as he rings. She rubbed her knees, like an athlete ready for the gun. But when he did ring he was not crowing or triumphant, he was worried.