Fourteen

t is rare to have Shahinaz in my living room. I prefer to go to her house, to he surrounded by her four children, her mother-in-law, the photos of cousins and uncles on the shelves. I prefer the voices of her children calling each other by their nicknames to my own dry flat. Mama bought this flat before she died. She sold the large one in Lancaster Gate and bought this smaller one, on the top floor of a house in Maida Vale. She hardly had time to live here. Some of her things are still in boxes and suitcases, not yet unpacked from the move. I would have liked to keep the television but the licence is a luxury.

`You're lucky,' Shahinaz says, `you don't have a television - it only brings horrible news.' Her children would not have agreed but only baby Ahmed is with her today. He is wide awake and holding a red rattle.

`Habibi ya Ahmed - you've grown!' I kneel on the floor to kiss him and kiss him again. He is too young to mind. I lift him off his chair and put him on my lap. He smells lovely.

Shahinaz takes off her headscarf and sits back in the armchair, running her fingers through her hair. It is a treat to see her hair, long and black like Pocahontas in the Disney film that Mai likes to watch. Shahinaz wants to cut it but her husband says no. I am on his side.

`I told him I had to go out,' she says. `I had to get out of the house. The kids have been driving me mad.'

`Were they on holiday today?' Ahmed drops his rattle on the ground. I pick it up and give it back to him.

`Teacher training. And it was raining so they couldn't go out to play. So as soon as Sohayl came in from work I said to him, please, let's leave the children with your mother and go eat out. Then we can go to that talk at the mosque. He said yes, that's a good idea but let's take Ahmed, he might he too much for my mother. And I said fine, we'd take Ahmed and leave the others. Then he goes off to her room to say goodbye.'

I can't help but smile at the way she talks, how pretty she looks and how unaware. I kiss Ahmed's head; hide my smile in his hair.

`I started to get dressed,' she continues, `then he came hack from her room and said we're not going out. I asked why. He said his mother doesn't want us to. Just like that.'

`What's her reason?'

`I don't know. She hates anyone eating out - she thinks restaurant food is a waste of money or she doesn't feel up to looking after the children today or just to spite me!'

`Shahinaz, you don't mean that!'

`I'm so annoyed.'

`Your mother-in-law is a sweetie.'

`She is, yes. It's just ... difficult sometimes.'

It is difficult with their house being small and the seven of them sharing one bathroom (though thankfully there is another toilet with a washbasin). They are the kindest people I have ever met in the mosque, kind enough not to ask me questions or expect confessions in return for their favours. Why Shahinaz chose me as a friend, and how Sohayl approved her choice, is one of those strokes of good fortune I don't question. We have little in common. If I tell her that, I think she will say, very matter-of-fact, 'Rut we both want to become better Muslims.'

Now I say about her mother-in-law, 'Look, we've talked about this before. If she lived somewhere else, Sohavl would spend hours away from you visiting her.'

`While I'm stuck home with the kids!'

'Exactly. It's so much more convenient for von all to live together. This way you and the children get to see him more. And think of all the reward from Allah you're getting.'

`You're right. Poor Sohayl, I shouted at him and he said, "Why don't you go to Najwa%" I know it is the Islamic thing for a man to obey his mother and I should support him in this - but sometimes it just gets too much.' Her voice becomes soft. She is more herself now.

'Look,' I say, even though I feel that the day has already been long enough, we can go to that lecture at the mosque if you want to. What's it about

'An American has translated a really old book written by a famous scholar.' She sounds keen.

it might be boring, don't you think?' I stand Ahmed on my lap; he pushes with his feet, bounces.

'Oh no, the speaker's come all the way from the States; he must he good. I)id you eat:'

'I did at work. Lamva gave me the rest of a quiche she'd bought over the weekend from Harrods. I asked her if it was halal and she glared at me.' I glare at Shahinaz in imitation.

She laughs. 'Well, it was a hit cheeky of you to ask her that!'

'I know.' I laugh, remembering Lamya's face. 'Then she said to me Tamer ate from it as if that's supposed to mean it's all right.'

`Oh, Sohayl thinks so highly of him. He said to me, "I hope our boys grow up to be as committed to the Islamic movement as Tamer."'

`Did you hear this, baby Ahmed?' I tickle him and he smiles back at me, dribbles saliva down my shirt. `Why does Sohayl think that?' I ask Shahinaz. `What does Tamer do?' I want to know another side of him.

`Not much really. They play football together and every week Tamer brings a big container of juice for the whole team.'

I laugh. `You call this commitment to the Islamic movement?'

`Well, Sohayl says he's polite and respectful to people older than him - he hasn't got that "attitude" that so many of these young brothers at the mosque have.'

`That's true. I just thought, when you said that Sohayl thinks well of him, that he's active.'

`Well, he's had a cushy upbringing, hasn't he, so I guess he's not really used to active work.'

I can tell her about the way he leaves his bed unmade, the pyjamas he steps out of and leaves as a heap on the ground. But these are secrets.