Black Sparrow

FRIDAY 4PM – FARIDA RAFIQ-2

I remember the day that Jameel relented. Uzma was biding her time, making her father a drink, asking him about his day and rolling her eyes at him as she handed over the leaflet about the course. I sat in my chair watching, pretending to darn a pair of socks and occasionally popping a sweet gulab jamoon into my mouth, as she excitedly explained the details of what she would learn in the French city. I was surprised when, only three days later, Jameel wrote out two cheques, one for the art teacher and one for the lady whose house Uzma would lodge in for the duration of her stay. I said nothing, although I feared terribly for my daughter, but everything was settled, and she danced with delight.

The phone in the hallway is ringing, sending a loud echo up the staircase, so I slowly slide the pan of sizzling meat off the heat and walk down the hall to see who could be calling at this time of day.

“There you are,” the voice on the other end states curtly. “You took a long time to answer.”

“I'm preparing dinner,” I say. “Mutton biryani.”

My husband gives a short cough, clearing his throat and then continues, “I won't be home until eight. You'll have to hold dinner.”

I note that this is more of an order than a request and suck in my breath, but at least I now have a few hours' grace. “Yes, of course. Is anyone joining us tonight?”

“No, not tonight,” Jameel tells me, “but you'll need to ensure that the spare bedroom is prepared as we're having guests tomorrow. I'll explain later.”

I want to ask who, as it's rare that anyone stays overnight, unless it's relatives visiting from overseas or another part of England, but the other end of the line has already been disconnected and I return the phone to its cradle.

I look at my reflection in the mirror on the wall, the second time today that I've taken notice of myself, and prod at my thickening waistline. I look alright for my age, I think, although Jameel wouldn't agree. Maybe I've spent too many afternoons eating sweet treats with Shazia when I should have been out walking or doing housework to burn off some calories instead, as my tunic is beginning to look tight.

Returning to the kitchen, I turn off the stove and reach for the kettle. I can afford to sit down with a cup of peppermint tea now, just for a while. A sharp twinge shoots up my spine as I lower myself into my leather armchair. That's all I need, the beginnings of sciatica! I flick through the TV channels, pausing at a shopping channel where a slim white woman is running briskly on an electric treadmill, her high ponytail swinging to and fro as she pounds the rubber. I glance up at the only family portrait that we have and see a younger, slimmer self, smiling back at me.

Uzma had been just six years old, and Khalid three, when Jameel had announced that we were taking a trip to the local photographic studio. He'd even encouraged me to buy a new sari for the occasion. Afterwards, he took us for ice-cream at a local Italian café, the first and only time that Jameel had taken us there.

I remember accidentally dripping chocolate sauce onto my sari and that was the very first time that I noticed the way Jameel looked at me. It was a condescending look, as if I, too, were a child who had misbehaved, causing him embarrassment as he quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his clumsy and irresponsible wife. It wasn't long after that that the days out had stopped, Jameel blaming his workload and me blaming myself.

I still have that beautiful turquoise outfit embroidered with gold, but now it lies wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer under our divan. Maybe one day, when I've lost enough weight, I will be able to wear it again. Although, as long as Jameel is alive, I doubt whether we'll go to a function together unless it's a community or family wedding. I think Jameel would rather not have me in his life now, although I know he dotes on our children.

When I became betrothed to Jameel at eighteen, coming over to Britain as part of a traditional arranged marriage set up by my parents and their second cousins, I realise that I was very naïve. My mother had taught me well, so I knew how to cook decent meals and clean the house, but I wasn't prepared for the life that was waiting here for me, thousands of miles from my home. Jameel is six years older than me and he had already passed his law examinations before our wedding. I have to admit I was quite overwhelmed by the tall, dark man who wore Western suits and drove a big saloon car.

When my father told me that Jameel Rafiq was planning to buy a house for us to live in, I was so happy. It was everything I could possibly wish for. My parents were so proud – and they still are, although I seldom get to visit them now – and I was just glad that my older, more beautiful cousin was already married so that she couldn't be the one to move to London and live in luxury. In hindsight, I was a fool.

I pick up the remote control and press it to find another channel. Something about serial killers pops up on the screen and I leave it on for a few minutes. The man speaking talks too fast and has a heavy American accent but, from the feed at the bottom of the screen, I can read that a woman has been accused of killing a group of old people in the nursing home where she works. There's a picture of the home and a photo shot of the woman, who looks quite normal in my opinion. I learn that she's been giving them extra medicines mixed in with their meals, but I've never heard of the names of the drugs that she used. They must have been quite tasteless for people not to notice.

After a few more minutes, I switch off the set and get up, realising that I've been sitting down for nearly half an hour and my tea has gone cold. I wonder if the old lady who was on the bus is sitting down watching her favourite programme right now; what must it be like to have nobody else depending upon you to wash, cook and clean? She certainly wouldn't ever have to wait for the bathroom to be free every morning. I realise that I'm actually jealous of a grey-haired pensioner, although I still wouldn't have a cat.

Back in the kitchen, I sift flour onto the marble work-surface. Jameel is always scolding me for making such a mess in the kitchen but this is the traditional way to prepare the paratha, the way my mother taught me. It tastes better mixed in this way; using a bowl forces the air out.

My thoughts turn back to the woman on the television as I pour warm water into a little well in the centre of the flour. For a split second, I wonder if there's anything in our medicine cabinet that could be used to poison my husband; perhaps, by slipping it into the bread, the taste would be masked. I catch my breath. What a wicked thought! God will see my terrible deed and take me to task on judgement day. I bow my head and repeat the words from our Holy Quran: “If they pay no heed, God knows the evil-doers.”

The house is incredibly quiet for a Friday afternoon. By now, Khalid is usually here, hungry as all teenage boys tend to be, and then Uzma should arrive soon after her brother, running upstairs before I can see the lipstick and eye make-up that she wears to college each day. She thinks that I disapprove, but I don't, really. It's Jameel that she should worry about. If he caught her coming home in her tight t-shirts and covered in make-up, he would take her out of college without another thought. I think that my daughter is pretty enough without having to use make-up, but I'm willing to let her have a bit of freedom before she settles down.

Personally, I don't think it will be long before Jameel starts thinking about a match for Uzma. In fact, perhaps we should think ourselves lucky that she hasn't shown any interest in boys yet. I wonder where my children are. They're both late.

I go out into the hall and pick up the phone, punching in my son's mobile number which I know off by heart. It rings six times.

“Hey, Mom,” my seventeen-year-old yells over a noisy background. “What's up?”

“What time will you be home?” I shout into the receiver. “Your father will be late, dinner is at eight.”

“It's okay, I'll get something out.”

I immediately worry that my son will be eating greasy chips and fried chicken.

“Where are you now? I can hardly hear you, Khalid.”

“At the arcade,” he tells me, raising his voice so that I can hear. “Listen, I'm going to stay over at Ali's house tonight, we're going to watch some films.”

Ali's parents are good people. I don't mind, so long as I know where my son is. “Have you checked with them? Khalid? Khalid?”

The noise level has risen to such a pitch that I can no longer make out what my boy is telling me and we cut off the call at the same moment. I'm exasperated that I can't make myself heard and I expect Khalid has better things to do than to listen to his mother.

Immediately afterwards, I try Uzma's phone. It rings and rings, but she doesn't pick up. I'm not too worried about her yet, as she often goes to a coffee house after college on a Friday, although lately she's been coming straight home and going to her room.

Jameel thinks that our daughter spends far too much time on her computer and wants her to limit herself to an hour every day. According to Shazia, every young girl is the same, so I try to divert Jameel to another topic whenever he brings the subject up. I don't lie for Uzma. After all, how can I when I'm not sure what she's looking at on the internet? But I trust my daughter to make the right choices. She's a good Muslim girl and knows right from wrong. I expect she's looking at fashion or chatting with her friends on that f*******: thing that everyone seems to be talking about. All these social network sites just confuse me. I can just about find the right button to switch the computer on!

With the house still empty, I go back to my cooking, deep in thought about Jameel's comment. He said guests are coming tomorrow and I'm intrigued to know who and how long they're staying. It's been a while since anyone has stayed in our back room and I must try to remember to air the sheets first thing in the morning. Perhaps one of my husband's cousins is coming down from Coventry. We haven't seen either of them for over a year now. They are solicitors, too.

I go into the laundry room, pick up a pile of folded clothes and carry them upstairs to put away. On top are Khalid's black t-shirts, so I push open his bedroom door and put them on top of the untidy duvet, still balled up from this morning as he left it. I tell my children that they are old enough to clean their own bedrooms now, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other. This boy will be the death of me. There are two empty glasses on his bedside table, both thick with orange juice at the bottom, which look like they've been here for days. Crisp packets and old magazines fill the waste paper basket.

I close Khalid's door and take Uzma's pale blue shalwar kameez to her cupboard. She wore this with a patterned cream scarf last weekend to attend the Mosque and the colour really suits her. The wardrobe is half empty. I blink twice, wondering if my eyes are deceiving me. No, I'm not seeing things. Uzma's traditional Pakistani outfits are all here, hanging neatly side by side, but all of her Western clothes, jeans, shirts, jumpers, dresses, are missing.

I sit down on my daughter's bed and take a deep breath, staring at the closet, wondering what this means. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, and I get on my hands and knees to look underneath the bed. Uzma's black suitcase has gone. I cry hot tears of anger and grief, I don't know what I should do.

I'm back in the hall, phone fixed to my ear but there's still no reply from Uzma's phone. It goes to voicemail and this time I leave a message, although afterwards I wonder if it sounds garbled: “Uzma, where are you? This is Ammi, Mum, please pick up your phone, I'm worried about you.”

I don't know what else to say and let the receiver slip back into its cradle, only to snatch it up again seconds later. I need to phone my husband and I look in the little blue phone book for his number.

No response, only the familiar beeping of the message machine. Of course, Jameel has gone to play badminton, or so he says. I rarely call him, and it feels quite unnatural to be doing so now, almost as though I'm intruding upon a part of my husband's life that I know nothing about. I wonder whether he will ring back when he sees the missed call on the screen. Probably not. Perhaps he will think his stupid, forgetful wife is going to ask him to pick up something from the shops. No doubt the phone is in his sports bag anyway, buzzing away while he runs around the court, red-faced and sweating.

My gut instinct tells me to sit down and wait. I have no idea what to do and wouldn't have the first clue where to start looking for my daughter. Wherever she has gone, it was planned. I can see that much. Why didn't I see any signs? I'm her mother. My hands are shaking, I should drink a cup of water.

In the kitchen again. I feel the intense darkness from the early evening creeping across the window like the wing of a giant bird as I run the cold-water tap. No matter which way I look, all I can see is my own reflection, our back garden shrouded by the night. The water slips down my throat and makes me gag, it's too cold. It's getting chilly out there, too and I wonder if Uzma is wearing her winter coat. I trot quickly to the closet under the stairs where we hang our outerwear and see that her padded jacket is still here. Uzma will be cold, wherever she is. I remember her telling me that it was an unfashionable thing when I bought it from the market some weeks ago, and she's only been out in it a couple of times.

Tears roll down my face. I reach for a tissue from my pocket and wipe at them, soaking the flimsy material after just a few dabs. I'm frightened that my daughter has run away from home but I'm also afraid of Jameel's reaction. He will blame me for not noticing the signs. I am her mother, after all.

Back in the lounge. I stare out through the huge bay window. Across the street, I can see the shape of the old man sitting next to a tall lamp reading, his body hunched over as though he's studying something intensely, rounded shoulders and a hooked nose. I wonder if he saw my daughter come home this afternoon and take her suitcase of clothes, but I can't ask, we've never spoken. Perhaps she ordered a taxi to take her wherever it is she has gone to. Jameel will have to go over there later.

I want to ring Shazia, but I know that this will cause her to start calling our other friends. I'm not ready for that yet. I'm ashamed of myself. Why couldn't my own daughter just speak to me? What has happened? Perhaps there is a very simple explanation and I'm getting upset over nothing, but my mother's intuition tells me that something is very wrong. Uzma, where are you?