The Storyteller of Casablanca (52)

After he’d sipped the rest of his brandy a little more slowly, Papa looked at my project thoughtfully, turning the pages. ‘Where did you find out all these other things?’ he asked. ‘The purple islands and the sea snails and everything?’

‘I don’t only take novels out from the library, you know, Papa. You can read all sorts of interesting things in books.’ Then I gave him a very stern look. It was time to lay my cards on the table. ‘So,’ I said in a businesslike tone. ‘On the basis of what I’ve found, I have deduced that if I were contemplating an invasion of this coastline, I would choose Safi as the best place for a landing.’

He gave me a startled glance again, but then a smile crept slowly across his face. The brandy must have been taking effect, I think. ‘And why is that, ma puce?’ he asked.

‘Well, El Jadida is closest to the north, which is where the fighting is, but it’s too much of a stronghold to invade easily with that big fortress. The harbour there is fairly small too, and the boats I counted were all little ones, which tells me the channel into the port is probably not very deep, so we can rule it out. Oualidia is completely out of the question because it’s much too small and of course the harbour is all silted up. I wouldn’t want to disturb the flamingos there, either.’

I paused to take another spoonful of my ice cream and then turned the page. ‘Here at Mogador the harbour is quite small too, although there are a few larger boats so the channel’s probably a reasonable depth. But at Safi there’s a good-sized port for all those sardine boats and some of them were huge. That means the channel must be deep enough to accommodate larger vessels so, if I was invading, I’d be able to get troops and equipment in fast. As I’m sure the Portuguese found back in 1488,’ I added with an innocent smile, pointing to the date that I’d jotted down in my book.

Papa nodded, digesting what I’d said.

‘I wouldn’t bother looking any further south either,’ I added. ‘On the map the next port is Agadir, which looks quite large but it’s too far from the north. Any invaders wouldn’t be too keen on a long journey by land where they could be attacked and pinned down by an enemy.’

Papa nodded some more, thinking about that too. Then he smiled at me again and said, ‘I think we should go back to the hotel and put your schoolbook away in a very safe place now. I’m quite sure Miss Ellis will be extremely satisfied with your work.’

‘I hope so,’ I replied. ‘And Mr Reid as well.’

Here are some words from the thesaurus to describe the expression on Papa’s face when I said that about Mr Reid and he realised I knew pretty much everything that he was up to: startled, amazed, astonished, astounded, flabbergasted, dumbfounded.

I particularly like those last two and intend using them in conversation whenever possible.





Zoe – 2010

My Tree of Life quilt blocks are coming on well. I’ve spent hours stitching the stacks of starched triangles together, transforming the scraps of fabric into the larger squares that will form the central design of my quilt. Every now and then I take a break from sewing to stretch my back and shoulders and ease the stiffness out of my fingers from gripping the needle, and I lay out the completed blocks on Grace’s bed. I’m on the tenth one now. Just three more to go and my little forest of trees will be complete, ready to place in their matrix of sashing strips. But I’m going to need to consult Kate again about the next steps, so I give her a call.

‘Come over,’ she says. ‘It’ll be easier for me to show you. I’ve got some spare backing fabric, too, that you might like, and we can discuss what you’ll need in the way of setting triangles and a border.’

Like me, Kate has appropriated the attic rooms of her house to use as her studio. She sets down the tray and busies herself pouring coffee while I admire an example of her work, which has been hung on the gable wall. It’s simply stunning. The colours of the quilt are as vibrant as jewels and they seem to glow with a light of their own. The pattern is more complex than the one I’m attempting. Each block looks like a four-petalled flower, with feathery, finely pointed petals. It’s dramatic but delicate at the same time.

Kate comes over to stand beside me, handing me a fragrantly steaming mug.

‘What’s this pattern called?’ I ask her. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘It’s a Bear Paw quilt. See, the quarters of each block are stylised, six-pointed paw prints.’

When she points it out, I can see how the design has been built up. The prints radiate from a central square – which I now know to call a setting stone – with a cross of sashing strips framing them. The geometry is quite simple when you look at it in that way, but the overall effect is complex. The way Kate has chosen the colours and juxtaposed her blocks creates harmony and a sense of progression through the quilt, drawing the eye along a path that weaves from left to right and back again, from the top to the bottom of the wall hanging, rather like reading a book.

‘I particularly like this pattern,’ she says, ‘because it’s supposed to be one of the designs that were used by the Underground Railroad.’

I look quizzically at her, then return my gaze to the quilt. ‘Wasn’t that the secret network that helped American slaves to escape their owners?’

She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘That’s right. There’s a story often told in quilting circles about how the designs were used to help communicate the routes to follow and the times when it was safe to go.’