Seventeen

e did things we would never have done in Khartoum. Three weeks after Mama's funeral, Uncle Saleh and I had lunch in the Spaghetti House off Bond Street. If we had been in Khartoum, mourners would still be visiting, the television switched off as a mark of respect. Uncle Saleh sipped his tomato soup; I pushed my fork through smooth, buttery avocado. I had put on weight since we came from Khartoum; most of my clothes didn't fit me anymore.

Uncle Saleh smiled at me across the table. I was his responsibility now. It made me feel sorry for him.

`Have you changed your mind about coming with me to Canada?'

I shook my head.

'So what are you going to do?'

After the focus of Mama's illness, after not even wanting to leave her for an hour, it felt strange to he free. I was wobbly, as if I was not used to being out in public. I said, `Maybe I should go to Khartoum for a few weeks.'

He put his spoon down. `It's still not a good idea for you to go hack. And besides, when everyone asks you about Omar, what will you say?'

He won the argument that way. It was something Mama would have wanted - not to tell anyone hack home about Omar. I finished my avocado, sucked the remaining dressing off my spoon. `How can you just leave Sudan and go to Canada?'

`It's called immigrating. I've had it up to here with incompetence and instability.' He was bitter. What happened to my father had made him insecure and my mother's death had triggered anxieties about his own health.

`What about Samir?' My question wasn't loaded but Uncle Saleh looked defensive.

`He said that when he graduates from Cardiff, he'll follow me. Personally, I think he should transfer to a Canadian university. It would be sensible to have a Canadian degree if he's going to work there.'

We both knew why Samir wanted to stay in Cardiff. It was because of his English girlfriend. Whatever hopes Mama and Uncle Saleh had of Samir and I getting married had come to nothing. I would have liked to get married, not specifically to Samir (though if he had asked me I would have accepted) but I wanted to have children, a household to run. `You didn't finish your education,' Mama used to complain, but deep down she was happy that I was with her every day, keeping her company through all the doctor visits and treatments, the time spent waiting for test results. Uncle Saleh said I was `nursing her' but really the nurses did everything, especially at the end. Most of the time I just sat and watched TV. The room in the Humana Wellington Hospital had a nice bathroom and a menu for every meal - it was like staying in a good hotel.

The waiter took away our empty plates. `I keep thinking,' Uncle Saleh said, `that if you and Omar were younger, still at school, it might have been easier . . .' He paused. I tried to understand what he meant, screwed my eyes in concentration. `Yes, you're almost adults now but ..

We're twenty-four.' I took a sip of my Coke.

'It's a vulnerable stage, a crossroads in terms of careers and so on.'

Why don't you think if we were older, in our thirties, settled, then it would have been easier?'

`Yes, I think that too.' He looked somewhat slumped. 'It's pointless really thinking these things.'

The waiter brought cannelloni for me, a dish of garlic chicken for Uncle Saleh. We perked up at the sight of the food. Stearn rose from the dishes and the white sauce on my cannelloni was bubbling.

`I think you need to know that staying in London is the expensive option.' Uncle Saleh picked up his knife and fork.

What do you mean?' I spoke with my mouth full, swallowed.

'Well, life here isn't cheap - not what you're used to anyway. And what your father and mother left you isn't enough.'

How come?'

Rotten luck, that's how come. And this new government freezing your father's assets.'

'I see.' My stomach pushed against the waistband of my skirt. I reached back and undid the button, took a deep breath and felt the zipper slide open. I needed to buy new clothes or go on a diet. But even if I did lose weight, the clothes I had were already out of fashion. 'I can get a job,' I said, smiling.

As what? You're not qualified, Najwa. Do you want to study and get a qualification?'

`No.'

It might he a good idea. You'd meet people, make friends.'

Something in his tone made me feel that I was a useless lump. Tears blurred the cannelloni on my plate. I wiped them away with the napkin. He didn't notice. `You have a friend, don't you, studying in Scotland?'

`Randa.' I blinked and my voice was normal. `She's studying medicine in Edinburgh.'

`Why don't you go study with her?'

`Oh Uncle Saleh, I don't even have A levels. Don't you remember? I went to Atlantic College and came back after two weeks.'

`I remember. You refused to milk a cow.' He laughed.

I smiled, remembering Randa, Samir and Omar - how ashamed they were of me. `Who do you think you are? You're such a snob! It's part of the course - we have to do community work.' But I had never milked Sudanese cows, why should I milk British ones?

`Have you ever milked a cow?' I asked Uncle Saleh.

`No, I can't say I have. We're spoilt in Khartoum; everything's done for us. The closest I ever got to animals was when I went fishing.' He laughed.

I laughed with him. `And the zoo.'

`But you should have persevered with your studies, Najwa, cows or no cows.'

`I probably wouldn't have made the IB anyway.' Omar hadn't. He was the only Sudanese who failed his exams; he never got over that. Randa, Samir and the others went on to university and he couldn't.

`Your mother was too soft with you.' Uncle Saleh pointed his fork at me.

`Yes, I suppose she was.' Mama came by train to fetch me. She pretended she was cross but she was relieved that I was with her, near her when the doctor said that the result of her tests was positive.

The right thing is for you to come with me to Canada,' said Uncle Saleh.

I can't. I need to be near Omar. Besides, I know people here. Uncle Nabeel said he would give me some training in his travel agency.' Uncle Nabeel's wife, Aunty Eva, had been a close friend of my mother, someone who, unlike many others, didn't withdraw from us after what happened.

Uncle Saleh smiled with approval. `That's a good start. You'll be all right if you live off the interest in your bank account. Don't touch the capital.'

I nodded.

You must always get in touch with me if you need anything, if you have any problems . . .' His voice became gruff; he disliked these paternal speeches. 'I'll come to London once in a while and you must visit us in Toronto.' He had his own children to worry about; he would not insist that I join them. Already his patience was strained from looking after Mama and from Omar's trial.

I ate the last spoonful of cannelloni. Uncle Saleh finished his chicken, pushed aside the mushrooms and said, `I have a bit of had news for you.'

'What is it?' It would be about Omar or our not so much as we thought it would be' sources of money.

He lowered his voice. `We lost the appeal. He's going to have to serve the whole sentence.'

I didn't say anything. Everything about Omar - the mention of what he had done, the memory of his voice - made me feel numb. The word 'drugs' said by anyone, anywhere, made me cringe, even when I read it, even when I read a word like 'drugstore'.

`It'll be fifteen years,' he continued.

Fifteen years sounded like for ever. He would be old then, forty. How could he let them do this to him? A part of my brain still thought, it's all a mistake, a nightmare. It wasn't Omar; it couldn't have been Omar.

`He will be eligible for parole in maybe half that time but to tell you the truth, Najwa,' Uncle Saleh was saying, `I feel safer about you being in London on your own, rather than with him around.'

I winced. To hear it from Uncle Saleh was uncomfortable. Omar was not Omar anymore. Omar wouldn't shake Mama's shoulders. He wouldn't shout, `Where's my money? It's MY money.'

Uncle Saleh paid the hill and left me to finish my profiteroles. He had an appointment with his bank manager in Piccadilly Circus. The immigration to Canada was costing him plenty. I felt silly sitting all by myself, self-conscious. It wouldn't be done in Khartoum for a woman to be alone in a restaurant. `I'm in London,' I told myself, `I can do what I like, no one can see me.' Fascinating. I could order a glass of wine. Who would stop me or even look surprised? There was a curiosity in me but not enough to spin me into action.

I walked out of the restaurant. There was the fuzzy feeling again, as if I was still not used to being outdoors. For a second I was confused, missed my step - shouldn't I be hurrying back to the hospital? The sound of the traffic was loud, the smell from the French bakery deliberately delicious. People walked fast, knowing where they were going. If I wasn't too lazy, I would have crossed the street and gone into Selfridges, tried some of the new summer fashions.

I decided to save money by taking the underground instead of a taxi. At Bond Street station, I looked at the magazines in the newsagent. I could buy one of those rude magazines, the ones always kept on the top shelf. No one would stop me or look surprised. I would carry it home and I wouldn't even need to hide it. I could plonk it on my bedside table and no on would see it. I hesitated, then I bought a copy of Slimming from the newsagent and a packet of Fox's Glacier Mints. The change I got was heavy and I dropped some of it on the ground. It was a struggle to bend down and pick up the coins. In Khartoum I would never wear such a short skirt in public. I might wear it at the club or when visiting friends by car, but not for walking in the street. My stomach was too full. I burped garlic.