Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [42]
‘I took the potatoes off. I think they’re cooked,’ said Zaki to break the silence.
‘Oh, yes. I expect they are. Sorry, I forgot about them.’
‘I’m a bit hungry,’ Zaki ventured.
‘Yes,’ his father said, looking around the kitchen in a vague sort of way as if hoping a meal might have materialised while he was out. ‘Yes, I . . . I got distracted. There’s a problem with one of the gullies on the roof.’ He tapped the plans with a finger. ‘What about mashed potato and some beans?’
‘Fine,’ said Zaki and, when his father continued to stare at the plans, he added ‘Do you want me to mash the potatoes?’
‘Um – yes, if you could. I’ll do you some beans.’
Zaki mashed the potatoes while his father opened a tin of beans and tipped them into a saucepan.
‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Zaki without looking up from his mashing.
‘He’s gone to practise with his band,’ his father replied after only the slightest pause.
Zaki pictured the guitar lying on Michael’s bed. Whatever the truth was, his father was hiding it. Of course, his father didn’t know that he had overheard the argument.
When the potatoes looked thoroughly mashed, Zaki got himself a plate from the cupboard.
‘Are you going to have some?’ he asked his father, reaching for a second plate.
‘No, I’ll have something later.’ His father folded the plans to make space for Zaki on the kitchen table. He spooned beans on to Zaki’s plate. The sauce ran around the mound of mashed potato, creating an island in a steaming sea. Zaki took a fork from the drawer and then sat at the table. His father hesitated before gathering up the plans and turning to leave the room.
‘Can we phone Mum?’ Zaki asked quickly before his father could get through the door.
For a moment his father didn’t answer. In that moment, Zaki was afraid. Afraid his father would find a reason to say no; afraid he would be denied the sound of his mother’s voice. He needed to hear her.
His father half turned, the smile that didn’t reach his eyes, again on his face. ‘Yes, if you like,’ he said, the tone of voice hinting that there was something unreasonable in the request. ‘I spoke to her earlier today. She knows about your shoulder.’
‘I’d still like to talk to her.’
‘Yeah – OK.’ His father returned to the table and wrote the number with its long, international dialling code on a scrap of paper. ‘You can call her when you finish your tea.’
Left alone, Zaki quickly shovelled beans and potato into his mouth. The beans were too hot, but the potato was stone cold. Mixed together they became an edible temperature.
As soon as his plate was empty, Zaki took the scrap of paper to the phone and carefully keyed in the numbers. He listened to the tone. Was it engaged or was it ringing? ‘Bee . . . Bee . . . Bee . . .’ Why did Swiss phones have to ring differently?
‘Guten Tag. Bitte sehr?’ said the woman who answered the phone.
‘Mum?’ Zaki asked a little cautiously, afraid he might have misdialled.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ His mother’s voice switched into the cheery sounds he was so used to. ‘I heard about your poor shoulder. Does it hurt a lot?’
‘It’s not too bad,’ Zaki replied with careful emphasis, so that his mother would know that he was suffering terribly but was being brave.
‘How did you do it? Dad said you fell on a rock. Is that right?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well, you will be careful now, won’t you? Don’t go falling out of a tree or something. You don’t want to make it worse.’
There was a pause.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Zaki asked, not quite knowing why.
‘Of course I am! I’m fine. I’ve been busy, but I’m fine.’ Then his mother chatted on about places she’d been and things she’d seen. Zaki listened, wanting her to keep talking and talking so that he could go on listening to the reassuring sound of her voice; he didn’t really listen to the words, he just wanted to know that she was there.