The Island of Missing Trees(4)

More sighs and groans followed.

‘Oh, don’t forget to check if there are any heirlooms around – an antique ring, a wedding dress, a set of vintage china, a handmade quilt, a box of letters or family recipes, any memorabilia that has been passed down.’

Ada dropped her gaze. She had never met her relatives on either side. She knew they lived in Cyprus somewhere but that was about the extent of her knowledge. What kind of people were they? How did they spend their days? Would they recognize her if they passed by on the street or bumped into each other at the supermarket? The only close relation she had heard of was a certain aunt, Meryem, who sent cheerful postcards of sunny beaches and wildflower pastures that jarred with her complete lack of presence in their lives.

If her relatives remained a mystery, Cyprus was a bigger one. She had seen pictures on the internet, but she had not once travelled to the place after which she was named.

In her mother’s language, her name meant ‘island’. When she was younger she had assumed it referred to Great Britain, the only island she had ever known, only later coming to the realization that it was, in fact, another isle, far away, and the reason was that she was conceived over there. The discovery had left her with a sense of confusion, if not discomfort. Firstly, because it reminded her that her parents had had sex, something she never wanted to think about; secondly, because it attached her, in an inevitable way, to a place that hitherto had existed only in her imagination. Since then she had added her own name to the collection of non-English words she carried in her pockets, words which, though curious and colourful, still felt distant and unfamiliar enough to remain impenetrable, like perfect pebbles you picked up on a beach and brought home but then didn’t know what to do with. She had quite a few of them by now. Some idioms too. And songs, merry tunes. But that was about it. Her parents had not taught her their native languages, preferring to communicate solely in English at home. Ada could speak neither her father’s Greek nor her mother’s Turkish.

Growing up, each time she had enquired about why they had not yet been to Cyprus to meet their relatives, or why their relatives had not come over to England to visit them, both her father and her mother had given her a whole host of excuses. The time just wasn’t right; there was too much work to be done or too many expenses to take care of … Slowly, a suspicion had taken root inside her: maybe her parents’ marriage had not been approved by the families. In that case, she surmised, nor was she, the product of this marriage, really approved. Yet for as long as she was able to, Ada had retained the hopeful belief that if any of her extended family were to spend time with her and her parents, they would forgive them for whatever it was that they had not been forgiven for.

Since her mother’s death, however, Ada had stopped asking questions about her next of kin. If they were the kind of people who would not attend the funeral of one of their own, they were hardly likely to have any love for the child of the deceased – a girl they had never laid eyes on.

‘While you conduct your interview, do not judge the older generation,’ said Mrs Walcott. ‘Listen carefully, try to see things through their eyes. And make sure to record the entire conversation.’

Jason, sitting in the front row, interjected. ‘So if we interview a Nazi criminal, shall we be nice to them?’

Mrs Walcott sighed. ‘Well, that’s a bit of an extreme example. No, I don’t expect you to be nice to that sort of person.’

Jason grinned, as if he had scored a point.

‘Miss!’ Emma-Rose chimed in. ‘We’ve got an antique violin at home, would that count as an heirloom?’

‘Sure, if it’s something that’s belonged to your family for generations.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve had it for so long.’ Emma-Rose beamed. ‘My mother says it was made in Vienna in the nineteenth century. Or was it the eighteenth? Anyway, it’s very valuable, but we’re not selling it.’

Zafaar put his hand up. ‘We’ve got a hope chest that belonged to my granny. She brought it with her from Punjab. Would that do?’

Ada felt her heart give a little thud, not even hearing the teacher’s response or the rest of the conversation. Her whole frame went rigid as she tried not to look at Zafaar, lest her face give away her feelings.

The month before, the two of them had unexpectedly been paired up for a science project – assembling a device to measure how many calories different types of food contained. After days of trying to coordinate a meeting and failing, she had given up and done most of the research herself, finding articles, buying the kit, building the calorimeter. They had both received an A at the end. A tiny smile forming at the corner of his mouth, Zafaar had thanked her with an awkwardness that could have been a guilty conscience, but which might equally have been indifference. It was the last time they had spoken.

Ada had never kissed a boy. All the girls in her year had something to tell – real or imaginary – when they gathered in the changing rooms before and after PE, but not her. This absolute silence of hers had not gone unnoticed, provoking much ribbing and ridicule. Once, she had found a porn magazine inside her school bag, slipped in by unknown hands, she was certain, to freak her out. All day long she had agonized that a teacher might spot it and inform her father. Not that she was scared of her father the way she knew some other students were of theirs. It wasn’t fear that she felt. Not even guilt, after having decided to keep the magazine. That wasn’t the reason why she had not told him about the incident – or about other incidents. She had stopped sharing things with her father ever since she sensed, on some primal level, that she needed to protect him from more pain.