The Storyteller of Casablanca (14)

‘Don’t be so stupid,’ I admonish the side of myself that baulks at every bit of social contact. ‘It’s just a friendly lunch.’ May’s been so kind arranging this gathering. Plus I need help getting started with making the quilt because I haven’t a clue where to begin, so I have to do this.

The others are already sitting around the table and May gives me a hug, then makes the introductions. Anneke and Mila, from Rotterdam, have spent the morning having a tennis lesson and a swim. Claudine – from the south of France – looks as if she’s just come from the beauty parlour, judging by her immaculate hair and nails, and Kate – the crafting queen bee – has been at a committee meeting that May’s hosted at her house. I especially warm to Kate, who is about my age, I think, a few years younger than the others. We’re a disparate group, bound together by our foreignness, somehow needing the reassurance of this club with its resemblance to the European countries we’ve left behind to give us a sense of belonging.

The women are friendly but, as the newcomer, there are the inevitable questions for me to field. Under cover of the white linen tablecloth, I tug nervously at a hangnail on my thumb. We soon begin to discover a few shreds of common ground, though: Kate went to university in Bristol so she knows the city well, and Claudine’s husband works in Tom’s office at the port. Once the waiter brings our starters, I begin to relax a little.

Kate seems particularly kind. May has told her that I’m interested in learning more about quilting, and she fishes a book from her shoulder bag to lend me.

‘This is a good place to start,’ she says, turning to a page that lists the equipment quilters use.

‘I had no idea I’d be needing all this,’ I confess. ‘I thought it would just be a question of cutting up pieces of material and sewing them together.’

Kate laughs. ‘A few of us make that mistake to start with and learn the hard way. But quilting has its roots in the beauty and precision of geometry. A little bit of planning goes a long way. Don’t worry, though,’ she continues. ‘You won’t need everything on the list to begin with. I’ll come with you to the mall – there’s a shop there that’s good for crafting supplies. I’ll help you choose the basics you’ll need to get started. There are some fabric stalls in the Habous, too, that I can show you sometime. Do you have anything particular in mind?’

‘I’ve already got the material I want to use to make the main blocks,’ I reply.

‘Great,’ she says. ‘Then we can get you started. Later, once you’ve sewn the blocks, we can visit the fabric stall to get whatever else you need for setting them, and for the sashing and binding.’

I look at her, blankly. She must be able to tell I haven’t got a clue what those terms mean because she pats the cover of the book she’s lending me. ‘Have a read of this before we meet up to go shopping – things will become clearer.’

By the time we’ve finished our coffees, May has arranged that we’ll meet for lunch again at the same time next week, and Claudine says she’ll organise a dinner party sometime as they all want to meet Tom too.

I stash Kate’s book in my bag. ‘See you next week at the mall then.’

She nods. ‘And in the meantime, you could wash and starch the material you’re planning to use. That will help you when it comes to cutting your pieces. Have a look at the block designs too and see which one you’d like to try. Just remember that simple is good, especially when you’re starting out.’

Over supper that evening with Tom, I chat away about my crafting project and my new social life. And even though, to my ears, the tone of my voice sounds a little too artificially bright, I can see the relief in Tom’s eyes. He watches me carefully, searching for any signs that the closeness we used to have might stand a chance of being rekindled. Then I ask him about his day and it’s his turn to summon up some semblance of enthusiasm as he describes the meetings he’s sat through and the challenges of keeping track of the company’s fleet of container ships as they navigate the turbulent waters of the world’s oceans. His tone seems as falsely upbeat as mine.

We get up from the table and Tom heads off to watch TV, stretched out on the sofa with the rest of the bottle of wine, surfing channels that offer international news and reruns of old American soap operas dubbed into French. I climb the stairs to the attic and pick up the quilting book that Kate lent me.

I think we both know our marriage feels as empty as ever. But at least tonight we’ve tried.





Josie’s Journal – Friday 31st January, 1941

Very annoyingly, Papa and Maman have been discussing my education and they’ve decided I need an English tutor to come in two afternoons a week to help me prepare for school in America. They’re not making me go to school here, thank heavens, although at one stage Annette told me they were considering whether or not to enrol me at the Lycée Jeanne d’Arc, which is a Catholic school near to the American consulate. Papa had met a lady who teaches there and he’d asked her all about it. In the end they’ve decided against the school, though, because hopefully we’re not going to be here that much longer if our visas come through. So instead the lady Papa met is going to come to our house on Monday and Wednesday afternoons when she’s finished teaching at the school. I’m quite cross that they think I need to practise my English more, but I can’t tell them I’m writing my journal in English because then they’ll want to see it to check my spelling and grammar and I’ll get told off for putting down the truth about things.