White Bodies by Jane Robins

Author:Jane Robins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

21

I’m folding my orange scarf around my head, trying to make it look authentically Islamic. It takes a few attempts, and I only get it right after watching a hijab how-to video on YouTube. I put on aviator sunglasses, and look at myself from all angles. Scarlet’s a genius – it really works – I’ve become a different person, and I’m attracted to the idea of playing a role, walking down the street in disguise. I dress in a loose-fitting blue shirt, and jeans with trainers. And, as I leave the flat, I pick up the bee bag to take with me.

I feel self-conscious as I wait for the bus, even though nobody is giving me a second glance. And I’m worried that Wilf might come by – although the bus stop is several roads away from Willesden Estates and it’s possible that, if I keep my head down, he wouldn’t recognise me anyway. I’m nervous, too, about Muslim girls spotting that I’m a fake. Maybe I did something wrong when I folded the scarf, or there’s some detail about my clothes that jars with them. On the bus a woman wearing the hijab sits next to me and I half expect that we’ll exchange a look, a moment of recognition, but there’s nothing and I sit perfectly still, my arm lightly touching hers, reading my book.

I walk the last part of the journey, and when I reach the heath, a path takes me through a wooded area, dappled with pools of shade, dry leaves and twigs crackling underfoot; and I pass people walking their dogs, couples arm-in-arm, mothers with young children; it almost feels as though I’m one of them – an innocent person taking an afternoon stroll. Then I emerge into the open and see Kenwood House, a white mansion on a hill, spread wide with an orangery to the west and a long, low library to the east. I’ve been here many times, coming with my book to sit and read, and as I walk up the hill, across the wide lawn, I look at the familiar benches in front of the house, hoping to see Scarlet’s red headscarf.

I don’t spot her until I’m pretty close. At the last bench before the café, her head bent down, reading – not looking out for me at all. She makes a tight shape, clenched in, focussed on her book, and I can’t see her face. And yet, I know instinctively that it’s her – and I think I would have known even if she wasn’t wearing the scarf. I had always thought of Scarlet as intense, somehow electrically charged, and that’s how she seems now. I draw near and she looks up, sternly saying my name. No hint of a question, just a matter of fact; no recognition that there’s an element of absurdity in our encounter.

‘Did you come down from Manchester today?’ I’m trying to start a normal conversation. ‘Was it easy to get away from Luke?’

‘Yes, I came down this morning.

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