Justin asked. He was disturbed by his mother-in-law’s espousal of Muslim faith, and occasionally – as now – his annoyance leaked out.
‘Goodbye,’ she said.
He was anxious. Excusing himself to Scalli, he hurried to one of the front windows, in time to see Maude closing the gate behind her. She set off down the street, moving slowly with the aid of a stick, and turned, as he had anticipated, left down Ivy Lane.
Maude walked at a steady falter, entering the drive of the Fitzgerald house. She waved to Deirdre Fitzgerald, who was gazing from an upper window. Deirdre returned the merest of nods.
‘Grapefruit face!’ said Maude to herself. The Fitzgerald home, named Righteous House, as wrought-iron lettering in the tall gate announced, had been built in 1919, in a style dating some two centuries earlier. It was faced with white marble; its windows with their pouting sills were shaded by blinds pulled half down, giving the façade a look of world-weariness, as Deirdre herself looked weary and as if designed some centuries earlier.
Maude proceeded to the rear of the house, crossing a lawn where no daisy had ever trod. The back of the big house was of brick; evidently the costly stone fronting the house served only as a mask. She came to a summerhouse, sheltered by two silver birch trees. This summerhouse, all of wood, had a small balcony at the front, facing south, towards Righteous House. Mounting the balcony, Maude tapped at the door.
A young woman opened immediately, welcomed Maude in, and then locked the door from the inside. She was of the lightest coffee colour, with beautiful deep-set dark eyes and a neat fleshy nose. Her intense long black hair was coiled over one shoulder, her head covered by a light shawl, the ends of which were tied beneath her chin. She clasped prayerful hands together. ‘Salaam Aleikum.’
Maude had learnt to respond in kind. In the summerhouse was the scent of sandalwood. A joss stick was burning. Om Haldar was the name of this young woman who, with grave courtesy, settled Maude in a cushioned wicker chair. She brought her visitor a plastic bottle of mineral water, which she opened for the old lady, pouring some of the water into a glass.
‘Are you well, Om Haldar?’ Maude asked. She could hardly bear to take her gaze from the girl, so graceful were Om Haldar’s movements, and her every gesture, some of which rattled the bracelets on her arms.
‘I am perfectly well, thanks to Allah.’ With these words Om Haldar flashed a sad smile, showing even white teeth. She was also perfectly remote, despite her closeness. She gave a quick glance through the window to see that no one was approaching across the lawn.
‘This morning, we will speak of the Hadith, the deeds and sayings of the prophet Muhammad. Are you prepared, please, Mrs Maude?’
‘Yes, I brought my notebook.’ She produced the notebook from a capacious side pocket and then looked up expectantly at her instructress. Om Haldar had never questioned Maude about the reason she was turning to Islam rather late in life. Maude’s impulse was obscure even to herself. She knew only that she had been offended by her daughter Janet’s funeral service, by the perfunctory way the parson had read the prayers and, in particular, the manner in which the coffin was almost dropped into its grave.
From that moment, inconsolable, she had sworn to have nothing more to do with the C of E. Yet, lonely woman that she was, she felt the need for a faith. And one day she had happened upon Om Haldar. She had never asked the young woman what she was doing, or why she was living in the Fitzgerald summerhouse. Although she was curious by nature, she liked the mystery; it reinforced the sense of adventure in turning to a new faith. To turn to this young woman was to turn to her faith. She thought – or liked to think – that behind the courtesy of this young woman lurked a terrible story. She revered, even loved, this strange girl with her isolating courtesy. Perhaps she could ask the withdrawn Deirdre Fitzgerald about it one day?
‘Unfortunately, terrorists and obsolete traditions have given the name of violence to we Muslims,’ the girl had said by way of introduction. ‘Although I have my reasons to regret some of the laws of my country and my religion, I wish to stress to you, kind Mrs Maude, that for many centuries we have been peaceable. The West has in the past benefited from our learning. You may have heard of the Taliban, who banned women from education, but that was not the case everywhere.
‘So now,’ she said. And again there was this distance which Maude found intriguing. ‘We speak of the Five Pillars. These are the basic religious duties, gladly entered upon. Firstly there is Shahada, where the formula we use is the declaration of faith expressed in the phrase, “There is no god but God.”’
As she continued, Maude scribbled industriously in her notebook. There is no god but God. Yes, she thought, that must be true – but what did it mean? It meant nothing as yet, but first she had to believe and then meaning would dawn. That meaning could bring some happiness into the void.
When her session was over, Maude struggled to her feet, formally paid her teacher and said goodbye. She always wanted to kiss Om Haldar, but did not know if it would be acceptable. The session was closed, and Om Haldar turned her gentle back on her pupil. The way to the gate and the road wound close to the rear of Righteous House. As Maude was approaching the house she heard a shrill voice within calling to her maid: ‘Vera, Vera, go and see who that is walking about my garden!’ A minute later and a young woman whom Maude knew as Vera looked out of the back door.
‘You all right, ma’am?’
Maude said gently, ‘Please tell your missus it’s Maude. I visit Om Haldar every day at this time – and with her permission.’
‘Mrs Fitzgerald is a touch short-sighted.’
‘Thank you, Vera. I’m sorry if you were upset.’
The maid grinned. ‘I’m not upset. I’m used to it.’
Once she was alone again, Om Haldar’s manner changed. She moved more briskly. She snatched a stout stick of a type known to the Irish as a shillelagh from its hiding place beneath a rug and laid it under the sofa on which she slept, so that she could more easily grab it if she was attacked.
A coloured curtain hung over the rear wall of the bungalow, concealing a wooden door. She checked that the bolt was secure. Going about these protective measures, Om Haldar sang to herself in a low voice.
Grasses glitter with the dews of morning
For the little birds to suck.
Where I come from no birds or dews
Came to greet the dusty pinks
That herald one more starving dawning
Where the wild dog comes and drinks –
The Great alone feed, while for us to pluck
No mangoes, schooling, justice, luck
I drown in all my thoughts, my sorrows.
How can my pa be so unkind
Who once held me on his knee?
How can I ever purge from mind
The death, the dagger? I can see
But pa is blind. From vengeance, death, I flee.
My yesterdays and worse tomorrows
Surely are not writ and signed?
Here amid this land of strangers
Much I see is clean and neat
Much I see is calm and sweet
And yet they have no god to praise
And those I know breed dangers, dangers.
Allah, let me see your face –
I must be ever on my ways
Or I will die for my disgrace –
My little fault, my love, my days –
To some other foreign place …
She took her duster to clean the windows and to watch, singing to herself,