Hideous kinky - By Esther Freud Page 0,8

didn’t answer.

‘Will they start very soon?’ I persisted.

‘Yes, of course.’ Bea began to wind herself up in the linen curtain that hung across the window.

‘But if she married Luigi Mancini that would be an adventure.’

‘No,’ her muffled voice came back.

‘It would be for me,’ I said, trying to unwind her. ‘It would be for her if she liked cornflakes.

‘Or white bread.

‘Or mashed potato.

‘Or milk shakes.’

‘Or spaghetti hoops,’ Bea joined in. ‘We could order crates of them and eat them off our fingers like rings.’

‘Strawberries,’ I said.

‘Liquorice allsorts.’

‘99S’

‘They’d melt, silly. Wind yourself up in the other curtain and be hidden and we’ll see if they come and find us.’

So we stood there, whispering to each other from our separate coils of curtain while we waited in vain for the search to begin.

We walked into the garden to take a final look at the peacocks. ‘If there is ever a peacock that doesn’t get on with the others and needs a home…’ Bea ventured nervously, ‘or if one of the pea-hens has too many chicks, I’d look after it for you. We’ve got a garden too, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ Luigi Mancini said. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll most certainly remember.’

The car was waiting to take us back to the Mellah. Mum was already sitting inside and, as we approached, the driver started up the engine. Luigi Mancini whispered something to him and strode off without a word of goodbye. The car turned in the drive and Mum looked round at us with a frown.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘Nothing… only…’ But before any more trouble was caused the door opened and a fat black hen was thrust on to Bea’s lap.

‘Sorry she’s not a peacock,’ Luigi Mancini smiled, but she’ll be very happy with you in your garden. And he kissed his fingers at us as the car pulled away, and called, ‘Do come again.’

Bea held her arms tight around the black hen so she couldn’t move or flap her wings. ‘I’ll name her Snowy,’ she said. ‘Like in Tintin.’ I leant over and stroked the top of Snowy’s head with one finger. Her round orange eyes darted about like fireflies.

CHAPTER FIVE

If Mum refused to marry Luigi Mancini it was not long before another suitable candidate presented himself.

It was a blue cloudless afternoon and we sat at the front of the crowd in the Djemaa El Fna and watched the Gnaoua dancing. They wore embroidered caps fringed with cowrie shells which tinkled like bells when they moved. They played their tall drums and danced in the square on most afternoons.

‘Where do they come from?’ I asked Mum.

‘They are a Senegalese tribe from West Africa. The King of Morocco has always employed them as his own personal drummers.’

‘Because they’re so beautiful?’ I asked, admiring the elegant wrists and ankles of the dancers as their cymbals rang out in time to the men’s drumming hands.

‘Maybe.’

Khadija, a plump and solemn-faced beggar girl, wriggled through the crowd and squatted next to me.

‘Hello Khadija,’ my mother said, noticing her, and Khadija smiled a big gap-toothed grin. She touched my arm and pointed through the crowd across the square to where a group of people were beginning to gather. ‘Hadaoui,’ she said and began to move towards them, looking over her shoulder to see that I was following.

An old man in faded purple and red robes unfolded a large carpet on which he placed variously shaped brass pots. He filled each one with plastic flowers. He talked to the people who stopped to watch, spreading ripples of laughter through the gathering crowd. Once the carpet was unravelled and every last ornament was in place it became clear not all his comments were directed towards the crowd, but some to a tall, much younger man, who threw his words back at him quietly and with a half-smile that made the people sway with laughter.

The old man sat in the centre of his carpet and blew into a pipe that twisted around inside a bowl of water and bubbled and smoked with each breath.

‘What’s he doing?’ I looked at Khadija and pointed.

‘Kif,’ she said, hugging her knees and keeping her eyes fixed on the entertainment.

Bea appeared and sat on the other side of Khadija. ‘Where’s Mum?’

I looked round to see her standing near the young man who was lifting white doves out of a box and placing them on the carpet. The doves ruffled their wings and strutted about, pleased to be in the open.

‘Do you think they’re going