A House Without Walls by Elizabeth Laird

Author:Elizabeth Laird
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Now that I knew for sure that Uncle Hassan was in Amman, the next step was to find out exactly where he – and Saba – lived, and that meant another phone call. A fresh problem to solve. I couldn’t ask Baba or Uncle Yasser or Aunt Zainab to lend me their phone without saying why I wanted it.

My best chance was to call from Perfumes of Paradise, but someone was always coming in and out of the reception area. I’d worked out exactly what I needed to say and practised it again and again. I’d be ready when the chance came.

Malik was out working nearly every day. He’d done such a good job for Uncle Yasser that word had spread. It was illegal for Syrian refugees to work in Jordan, so bosses could pay as little as they liked, but Malik compensated by being brilliant at getting stuff for free.

He came back one day with another solar lamp.

‘For your room,’ he said, beaming. ‘The guy I was working for today said it was broken, but it was easy to fix. You just have to press the switch extra hard.’

The next day I came back from Perfumes of Paradise and was shocked to find that he’d had taken down the canvas partition to my cubicle.

‘Hey! What are you doing?’ I burst out angrily.

‘What? You don’t mind, do you?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I’m putting in a proper wall. Wooden. You can put hooks on it to hang things from.’

‘Oh!’

‘I was going to make a bed frame for you too, to lift your mattress off the ground so it doesn’t get so damp. But if you’d rather I didn’t . . .’

I couldn’t get over the feeling of being invaded.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but . . .’

‘But what?’

I pulled myself together.

‘But nothing. Thank you. Anything to get rid of that smelly old canvas.’

‘I’m not getting rid of it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make a little kitchen beside the tent. I’ll put in a bench for the cooker, shelves for the plates and pans . . .’

Why was I still feeling annoyed? A kitchen would be great.

He’s trying to take over, I told myself. I thought I was the one in charge.

There was another thing too. If the tent became more like a house, it would mean that we might stay in it forever. I might be trapped here, never living in a house with solid walls again, never going back to school, a refugee for the rest of my life.

He’d turned round to work on the wall.

‘There,’ he said, standing back to admire his work. ‘I’ll make your bed frame tomorrow.’

Thanks for the warning, anyway, I thought.

I had to admit, though, that my room was much better. With my lamp I could see what I was doing, and even read in bed, if I could find anything to read.

After supper, I took the dishes outside to wash. The evening was chilly, and squatting over the bucket of cold water was horrible.

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