A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar by Suzanne Joinson Read Free Book Online

her kitchen, swaying a little, it was as if she were only slightly connected to the floor. So much of this year had been spent in trans-border international zones, a blur of boarding passes, CNN, free drinks. The hotels had all become indistinguishable, televisions showing American films dubbed with Egyptian Arabic, and water features in identical lobbies where she was eternally checking in, or out, or eating hummus for breakfast, or smoking shishas or being looked at by black-suited American oil-company workers. Or sitting alone, for too long, in a lukewarm jacuzzi, trying to remember why she was there.
    Why, indeed? Usually on an assignment. Reporting on the Bibliotheca Alexandrina (magnificent library, a shame it has no books) or interviewing the young women along the corniche (To veil or not to veil? We are so tired of this question). Writing a report for a government-funded scheme brilliantly entitled, ‘Belief in Conversation and Exchange Between East and West’. Frieda’s rudimentary Arabic and a willingness to jump on a plane at any time, any day, has taken her to these places.
    Nathaniel had launched into a complex anecdote involving his neighbours, bicycle thieves and local councillors. She murmured as if listening and looked at the junk mail. The offer of loans, pizzas, and cleaning services (let Agnieska clean for you, only £9 per hour!) felt reassuringly local. Frieda held up the official-looking letter and examined the envelope. It was postmarked yesterday, SE1 stamp.
     
    Dear Ms Blakeman,
    We offer our condolences regarding the recent death of Mrs Irene Guy. According to our records you are the next-of-kin of Mrs Guy. One of our key workers tried to contact you by telephone regarding the funeral for Mrs Guy, which took place on the 31st August but we were unsuccessful, we are sincerely sorry.
    We request that you contact the Deaths, Marriages, Births department as soon as possible to organise a time to visit her accommodation at 12A Chestnut Road to remove her belongings.
    Demand for Council properties is extremely high, therefore we can only give you one week in which to complete a full clearance. As of 21st September we will be authorised to enter and remove all remaining property. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to make arrangements.
    Yours sincerely.
    R. Griffin
    Deaths Manager
     
    ‘You don’t understand’, Nathaniel was saying, ‘what it is like for me.’ He walked towards the door rubbing his forehead with vicious thumbs. It was something he did when really he wanted a drink.
    Irene Guy? She didn’t know the name, she was sure. She looked up at him, this man she had been implicated with for many years now and he was looking back at her with an odd expression. It took her a moment to work out that it was the expression of a father who acknowledges for the first time that his child is not beautiful, or clever, or funny.
    ‘I know,’ she said to the closing door, ‘you’ve got to go.’
    She touched the lily stamen and let the bright orange pollen stain her finger. Presumably that was some kind of incident, though God knows what about. Nathaniel could create an argument with an empty portion of wordless, soundless air. She could always follow him. To be fair, it was true that almost all of the time she didn’t know what she wanted. I must be less . . . absent . Instead, she looked again at the letter in her hand. Irene Guy? Outside, a train screeched past, giving the foundations of the building a thorough shake. On the other side of the tracks was a similar residential block to Frieda’s, housing association, red-bricked, Victorian Gothic with its chimneys and peaks. It was dull enough outside for her reflection to be layered on the window. She looked at herself. In that awful hotel room she had cut her fringe snip snip snip with nail scissors – a bad idea, her fringe was left wonky – and it occurred to her now that she looked like her mother, as much as she remembered