The Storyteller of Casablanca (30)
‘Talk to me, Zoe,’ he said, and I heard the sharp edge of anger in his voice. ‘We can’t go on like this. You always seem to be avoiding me.’
‘I could say the same to you,’ I retorted. Instead of anger, my own voice held nothing but cold detachment. ‘You’re the one who’s out all day, leaving before I’m even awake and not coming home until after dark. Another long day at the office, was it? Or another evening at a bar? Did you go out drinking with someone or were you on your own?’
He dragged his fingers through his hair, exasperated. ‘Don’t do this, Zoe, please. I feel as if I can’t reach you any more. We need to talk.’
I noticed he’d avoided answering my question and a flash of anger flushed my cheeks. I hated being put into the position of having to ask in the first place, feeling suspicious and needy. I could hear how bitter my words sounded. I wasn’t going to ask again. His avoidance was answer enough. I was certain he’d been out with someone.
I put his supper on to a plate and pushed it across the counter towards him. ‘Not really possible to talk if you’re never here, is it, Tom?’ I said, as evenly as possible.
He looked at me tiredly. ‘You know what I mean. We need to try counselling again. I know it was a disaster last time, but neither of us was ready for it then. If I can find someone we can talk to, would you give it another go?’
I stared at him blankly. ‘I thought we were giving it another go by moving here. I thought it was going to be different, like you promised. But it’s the same old pattern, isn’t it? You caught up in your work, when you’re not in some bar or other looking for more amenable company. Me stuck here at home. What’s the point of going over it all again? It’s not going to change what’s happened.’
He shook his head, helplessly, and when he raised his eyes to meet mine they were full of the emotion that he tries so hard never to show, red-rimmed with the tiredness and the hurt. That unexpectedly guileless glimpse of his pain felt like a physical blow and I had to look away, flinching involuntarily.
‘Please, Zoe. We have to try again. For the sake of the people we once were. I don’t know where the woman I married has gone, but I do know I want to find her again.’
His plate of congealing food sat between us, as cold and unappealing as the conversation. Automatically, my hand came up to my mouth and my teeth tore at the skin alongside my thumbnail. I only registered the action when I tasted blood and felt the new pain I’d inflicted on the raw skin. It’s about the only thing I’m capable of feeling these days. And it stops me from speaking the truth, from saying things I’ll only regret afterwards. The woman he married is dead and gone, I wanted to tell him. She’s been replaced by a hollowed-out shell of a wife, only able to find solace in the company of her baby daughter. She sits in the attic room and sews one triangle of fabric to the next in the hope that it’ll keep her torn and bleeding fingers busy long enough for the pain to stop.
‘Eat your supper,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s late. I’m going to bed.’ My words instantly doused the heat of our exchange, the storm subsiding as quickly as it had blown up. As I climbed the stairs, I felt the frosty silence fall once more behind me.
One of the doves suddenly flaps its wings, the sound causing a flurry of soft admonishments from its roof-mates. I glance across at Grace, but she’s sleeping soundly and the birds settle again without waking her.
Once I’ve finished sewing the seam, I reach for the little music box that sits on the windowsill. I open its lid, tracing the filigree, which the years have covered with a coating of soft green verdigris. The notes float on the evening air, chasing away the silence and the sadness, and I hope they fill Grace’s dreams with a tune from long ago.
Josie’s Journal – Thursday 3rd April, 1941
I’m not going to write much tonight because we’re heading off on our trip tomorrow and that means getting up early. If you ask me, there’s been an awful lot of preparation for a so-called relaxed family holiday. Papa has arranged the car and the extra gasoline we’ll need and Maman has been trying to think of everything else we might want for any eventuality that may occur. She’s been worrying about whether we will need mosquito nets, whether we’ll have enough warm clothes for the cold nights and whether we might run out of water or starve to death. I think the time we spent in the refugee camp has had a lasting effect on her. But Papa has assured her that we will actually be staying in very nice hotels.
He spread the map out on the table and showed me exactly where we’re going. First we’ll visit Meknes to see Bab Mansour, which is a huge and ancient arched gate covered with beautiful mosaic tiles. Then we’ll go to Fez, where we’re going to stay the night in a traditional riad that is now a guest house, recommended by two English friends of Miss Ellis’s who have been staying there too. That will be very interesting to see and should reassure Maman that we really are staying in comfortable places if they are suitable for English ladies. After that, we’ll head into the mountains, driving up through a long valley that leads to Taza, a city at the head of the pass. Beyond that is the desert. Papa showed me some pictures in a guidebook. Taza is very ancient and began as a fortress because it was used to defend one of the very few passes through the mountains. The town is surrounded by ramparts to protect it from marauders. When I saw the photos of those high walls, I hoped that they would help protect us, just in case the camouflage provided by me and Annette being along for the trip needs a bit of reinforcement.