A Hen in the Wardrobe Page 2

  “Don’t be like that… I’ve hidden some biscuits in the shed. They’re chocolate ones.”

  “All right,” said Shaima slowly. “But I do not look like a slug.”

  “Sorry,” said Ramzi, shaking his head. “Come on.”

  Shaima dug her hands into her pockets and followed Ramzi into the shed. When they’d eaten three chocolate biscuits each, Shaima’s face began to thaw. She handed Ramzi a piece of paper.

  “It’s the name and address of a sleepwalking specialist,” she said. “I looked him up on the internet. He’s really famous. Second-best in the world. And guess what?”

  “What?” asked Ramzi.

  “He lives just on the other side of town.” Shaima looked very pleased with herself.

  “Cool,” said Ramzi. He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket.

  “So – what shall we do now?” asked Shaima, wiping the crumbs from her cheeks.

  Ramzi closed the shed door behind them and gazed up at the stars. Butterflies danced in his stomach. Ramzi always felt excited when he looked at the stars. He remembered the stories Dad told him – about the early Muslim astronomers who made clever coloured maps of the sky. Al-Battaani, Ibn Rustah, Al-Farghaani. Their names sounded grand and mysterious.

  “Calling Ramzi to Planet Earth,” said Shaima.

  “Huh?” Ramzi turned his head.

  “I said, ‘What shall we do now?’”

  “Oh. Ermmm…” Ramzi thought for a minute. “I know. Let’s look for bugs while we wait.”

  Shaima grinned. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I brought these.” She pulled two magnifying glasses out of her pocket and directed the torchlight on to the soil. Little creatures with twitching antennae fled in all directions.

  “Cool,” said Ramzi.

  Ramzi and Shaima were so busy looking for bugs that they didn’t notice when an upstairs light cast its pale shadow across the lawn. They didn’t notice when the bedroom curtains twitched. They didn’t even notice when a dark figure pressed its face against the window.

  But when the kitchen light lit up the garden, Ramzi switched off his torch and whispered, “Look!”

  There was a shifting shadow lurking on the patio. Shaima and Ramzi waited. Suddenly Dad emerged from the darkness. He sniffed the air and looked around. Then, without warning, he lifted up his head and hurtled barefoot across the dew-drenched lawn!

  Stuck up a Tree

  Dad’s Dream:

  There was only one snow leopard left in the entire world. As he padded across the craggy rocks, head sunk deep on his chest, his silver coat merged with the background. “Snap!” His ears pricked up. It was the trigger of a rifle. A hunter was on his trail! There was only one means of escape. With grace and speed, he bounded across the barren savannah and leapt into the highest branches of a tree.

  Of course, Ramzi and Shaima saw things rather differently. This is what Shaima wrote in her notebook:

  12.05pm: Mr Ramadan comes out of the house wearing blue-and-white stripy pyjamas.

  12.07pm: He dashes across the lawn and clambers up a tree.

  12.08pm: He lies down on the top branch. It wobbles a lot.

  12.15pm: Mr Ramadan wakes up and screams.

  “ARGHHHHHH!” cried Dad into the night. “GET ME DOWN FROM HERE!”

  An angry voice bellowed from a neighbouring window. “SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!” The window slammed shut.

  Dad clung to the upper branch of the tree as it lurched in the breeze.

  “Dad! What are you doing?” called Ramzi.

  Shaima staggered out of her hiding place, her knees stiff from kneeling on the damp soil. “Mr Ramadan, listen very carefully,” she began. “You’ve been sleepwalking. Or perhaps I should say sleep-climbing….”

  “Dad,” interrupted Ramzi, “get down! Now!”

  But Dad didn’t move.

  Now, if Mum had been there, she would have explained that Dad was terrified of heights. Lifts in shopping malls made Dad queasy. Escalators were a trial. And cliff walks, well, they were simply unthinkable. But she was not there. So she couldn’t explain why Dad, instead of climbing down the tree, clung to the branches, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  A grey-haired man wearing a velvet dressing gown suddenly appeared at Ramzi’s side.

  “What a palaver!” he said. “Your father’s normally such a sober fellow. What’s he doing up a tree at this time of night?”

  Ramzi’s face flushed in the darkness. “He’s just bird-watching, actually,” he replied.

  “Ooh – keep your hair on!” the man teased. Then he shrugged his shoulders and peered into Shaima’s hood. “Well, I never!” he said. “If it isn’t Shaima Stalk! I don’t fancy being in your shoes when your mother finds out.”

  Shaima blushed.

  The man walked back into the shadows, muttering to himself as he went.

  Suddenly a woman’s voice yelled, “Shaima! What kind of insanity has possessed you?”

  A large, robed figure appeared through the darkness.

  “Oh no, it’s Mum!” said Shaima.

  Mrs Stalk’s long jilbab swung as she walked towards them, and a pair of sparkly slippers peeked out beneath its dark blue folds.

  “What is happening?” she shouted. “And why are you out of bed?”

  “Sorry, Mum,” pleaded Shaima. “I was just observing a case of somnambulism when Mr Ramadan climbed up a tree.” She looked up into the rustling leaves.

  “What! Mr Ramadan? Such a respectable member of the community! Up a tree? Is he aware that my daughter is out at night, completely without parental permission – in her brother’s anorak?” Mrs Stalk shook her head in despair, the tassels on her hijab glittering in the moonlight.

  “No, Mrs Stalk,” said Ramzi. “Dad didn’t know Shaima was here.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Actually, we think Dad’s been sleepwalking. Shaima just came to watch.”

  Mrs Stalk glared at her daughter. Then she tightened her headscarf and whispered, “Astaghfirullah!” under her breath.

  “Sorry, Mum,” said Shaima sheepishly.

  “Yes, sorry indeed! Anything could have happened to you. But first, let us sort this catastrophe out.” Mrs Stalk stormed into the house.

  Ramzi had never heard Mrs Stalk talk before. Not in English, anyway. But now that she was here – all big and bustling – he somehow knew that Dad would be all right.

  Ten minutes later Mrs Stalk had called the fire brigade, cleaned the kitchen and made Dad an appointment with his doctor. And when the firemen had carried Dad back down to safety, she made everyone take off their boots and come inside for a cup of milky, pink cardamom tea.

  “That’ll put feathers on our chests, Mrs Stalk!” beamed Fireman Harris.

  Mrs Stalk blushed and said she didn’t know much about British birds.

  Ramzi and Shaima giggled, but Dad just huddled up in his blanket and stared at his trembling hands.

  Later that night, when the fire engine had rumbled out of sight and the neighbours had tired of whispering on propped-up pillows, Mrs Stalk sent Ramzi and Dad to bed. Then she texted Mum.

  Finally, having “tidied up all loose ends”, dusted the lounge and done a spot of ironing, she dragged Shaima home by the toggles of her hood.

  On Dr Slight’s Couch

  A boy with curly dark hair and a man with a beard stood under a big black umbrella. The rain splashed round their shoes. They were reading a brass plaque by the side of a shiny green door:

  Water dripped off the edges of their umbrella and trickled down the backs of their raincoats. The wheels of a bright red bus cut through the puddles and splashed water across the pavement.

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Dad. “Perhaps we should go home? Your mother will be back soon. She’ll know what’s best.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s OK to be scared sometimes,” said Ramzi. “I mean – I’m scared of black holes.”

  “Me? Scared? Never!” Dad knocked on the door.
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  They were shown into an empty waiting room. Oil paintings hung on the walls and new books decorated the elegant coffee table. Ramzi picked one up. It was called Ten Steps to Happiness. Before he got past the first step, a lady in a pin-striped blouse came in. “Follow me please, Mr Ramadan,” she said.

  Since being rescued from the top of a tree, grey shadows had appeared under Dad’s eyes. Ramzi grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. “It’s going to be OK, Dad. Honest. Just say Bismillah.”

  Dad whispered “Bismillah” under his breath, squeezed back and tried to smile.

  They were led into a room that was even grander than the first. A tall man in a pale tweed suit stood by the large bay windows.

  “Please, take off your coats and sit down, gentlemen,” he said.

  Ramzi looked at Dad. Dad looked at Ramzi. They took off their dripping coats and hung them on the old-fashioned stand by the door. Then they walked across the room and sank into the cushions of a luxurious burgundy sofa.

  Dr Slight had a feathery yellow moustache that turned up at the corners and his eyes were a pale, sparkling blue. He winked at Ramzi.

  “This is my son, Ramzi,” said Dad nervously. “It was his idea that I came.”

  Ramzi stammered, “Well… it was Shaima Stalk’s actually. She’s like… my friend. I mean, she’s a girl, but she’s kind of cool… Anyway, she found out you’re ranked number 2 by the… ermm… the International Sleep Disorder Foundation.”

  “Ah,” smiled Dr Slight kindly. “Still a poor second to my great friend Professor Doubt, am I? Dear, dear…Well, it’s good to meet you, Ramzi. Now, Mr Ramadan,” he cleared his throat, “before we can stop your sleepwalking episodes, we must first understand their cause.”

  Dr Slight walked over to his desk and waved some papers in the air. “Dr Flood sent me your notes earlier today.” He muttered as he read them. “Frogs in the pantry, trips to the moon, hens in the wardrobe, snow leopards under attack….” He shook his head as he paced back and forth. Then he stopped. “Your wife is away at present, Mr Ramadan?” he asked.

  Dad stroked his beard and nodded.

  “But you’ve walked in your sleep before?”

  Dad nodded again.

  “You must try to talk to me, Mr Ramadan. Remember, I’m here to help.”

  “Go on, Dad,” smiled Ramzi.

  “Well,” Dad began slowly, “I used to sleepwalk when I was young.”

  “Did you, Dad?” asked Ramzi.

  “Yes, son. In fact, I wasn’t much older than you. Every summer, when school finished, I was sent to help on Aunty Merzouka’s farm. I worked as a shepherd. But I wasn’t very good.” Dad smiled. He remembered the time when he’d lost fifty sheep – they’d scattered through the fields like cotton buds and caused havoc in the market-place!

  “And did you know you were sleepwalking at that time?” enquired Dr Slight.

  “Oh yes – the villagers called me ‘the boy with a thousand dreams’.” Dad laughed quietly.

  “That’s totally cool!” said Ramzi.

  Dad beamed.

  “Go on,” said Dr Slight. He took a fountain pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled something down.

  “Well,” sighed Dad, “I thought my sleepwalking was a thing of the past. I thought that ‘the boy with a thousand dreams’ had grown up! But I spoke to my wife on the phone this morning. She says I’ve been sleepwalking ever since we married!”

  “Why didn’t she mention it before?” asked Dr Slight.

  Dad sighed. “Perhaps she’s always woken me up in time?”

  “Before you did anything dangerous, you mean?” Dr Slight glanced at the words fire-engine, emergency and snow leopard on the paper in his hand.

  “Yes,” replied Dad thoughtfully.

  “And your sleepwalking has become more regular of late?”

  “Yes. And much worse since Ruby’s been away. Poor Ramzi has suffered.”

  Ramzi grinned awkwardly.

  “And your work – is that suffering too?” asked Dr Slight.

  “Of course. I’m so tired I can hardly walk. Falling asleep on my computer…putting salt in my coffee… I can’t even wake up for fajr prayers!”

  “I see.” Dr Slight twirled his moustache. “Would you please lie down on the couch, Mr Ramadan?”

  “No, thank you,” said Dad.

  “Dad!” exclaimed Ramzi.

  “Well, are you sure it’s completely necessary?” asked Dad.

  “Yes,” said Dr Slight and Ramzi at the same time.

  Dad sighed and did as he was told. Meanwhile, Dr Slight shut the curtains, popped a record on and dimmed the lights. The tinkling sound of piano music soon filled the room. Dad was lying on the couch but his body was as straight and stiff as a ruler.

  Ramzi squeezed next to him. “It’ll be all right, Dad,” he whispered.

  “Mr Ramadan,” began Dr Slight in a strange, sleepy voice, “I want you to close your eyes and empty your mind. Imagine yourself in a great expanse of nothingness. A desert, perhaps?”

  Dad closed one eye. “Why always a desert?” he muttered under his breath.

  “Just do as he says, Dad,” whispered Ramzi.

  Dad closed the other eye.

  “Now I will say a list of words,” sang Dr Slight.

  “He’d better not say camel,” mumbled Dad.

  “Ssshhhh!” said Ramzi.

  Dr Slight continued in his sing-song tones. “Please answer them with the first word that comes into your head….Black?”

  Dad stroked his beard. “Errrm. Oh. Now, let me think. The first word, you say? Errrm. The darkness of the night, perhaps?” Dad lifted his head from the cushion. “Sorry, I really don’t think I can do this!”

  “That’s because you think too much, Mr Ramadan. Please try again.” The piano reached a crescendo, then sank quietly into the background.

  “Black?” said Dr Slight.

  “Night,” answered Dad.

  “Happy?” said Dr Slight.

  “Espresso,” answered Dad.

  “Home?” said Dr Slight.

  “Couscous,” answered Dad.

  “England?” said Dr Slight.

  “Grey, grey, grey,” answered Dad.

  “Mother?” said Dr Slight.

  There was a pause.

  “Sad!” answered Dad.

  Suddenly Dad leapt up from the couch and knocked Ramzi to the floor. “This is ridiculous!” he snapped.

  “Dad!” cried Ramzi.

  “Don’t worry, Ramzi,” smiled Dr Slight. “The exercise has been successful and is now complete. I just need time to consider the results.” Twiddling his moustache, he walked over to the bay windows and opened the curtains. Rain splashed against the glass. Dr Slight sat down at his desk and stared at his notes intently.

  Dad skulked by the door like a naughty boy.

  “I’ve got it!” exclaimed Dr Slight, clicking his fingers in the air. His pale blue eyes shone bright. “Forgive me for my rudeness, Mr Ramadan, but I had to work things out. Now do please sit down again.”

  Dad shuffled back to the couch.

  “I understand you’re not originally from this country,” began Dr Slight.

  “No,” sighed Dad, “I’m a Berber from the mountains of Algeria.”

  “I see,” said Dr Slight.

  “Not the desert. The mountains, you understand,” repeated Dad.

  “Yes, of course. So sorry. My mistake.” Dr Slight looked thoughtful. “It seems that we suffer from the same problem.”

  Dad blinked. “Really?” he said. “Do your dreams torment you too?”

  “No. My dreams are under control. But I do suffer from nostalgia. I miss the Highlands of Scotland until my poor heart aches! They’re mountains too – not desert.” Dr Slight smiled kindly. “Mr Ramadan…”

  “Call me Mohamed,” said Dad, softening.

  “Mohamed,” continued Dr Slight. “Call me Archibald. May I ask you when you last went home?”

  Dad sighed and
tried to remember. It was so long ago.

  “We haven’t been to Algeria since I was, like, completely tiny,” said Ramzi.

  Dr Slight looked Ramzi up and down. He certainly wasn’t tiny any more.

  “Then I believe your course of action is clear.” Dr Slight wafted his pen in the air and said grandly, “You are suffering from a sense of dislocation. Or, to put it simply, you are acutely homesick….”

  Dad’s face crumpled.

  “There is only one thing that will ease your sleeping mind. You must go home.”

  “What? Now? Algeria? Impossible!” stammered Dad. “What about the expense? And the security problems? What of my work? And Ramzi’s schooling?”

  “I don’t mind missing school, Dad,” beamed Ramzi.

  Dr Slight smiled. “You see – your son is ready to help you. As for your other questions, I’m afraid I can’t answer them. I specialise in disorders of the sleeping mind. Disorders of the waking world are beyond my area of expertise. However, I’ll write a letter to your workplace and to Ramzi’s school explaining the situation.”

  “Cool!” said Ramzi.

  But Dad was deep in thought. It was true! How his heart ached. How he longed for his family. How he longed for home!

  “Barak Allah feek, God bless you, Archibald,” said Dad at last. “I believe you are a man of great understanding.”

  Dr Slight smiled modestly and shook Dad warmly by the hand. Then he shook Ramzi’s hand too.

  Outside, on the rain-soaked pavement, Dad hugged Ramzi. “May Allah reward you, my little warrior,” he said. “Now what’s all this about being scared of black holes?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” grinned Ramzi. “Can we go and get some sweets now?”

  “What would your mother say?” laughed Dad.

  Leaving Cinnamon Grove

  “What? Algeria? Right now, love?” gasped Mum as she wheeled her suitcase into the kitchen. “But I’ve only just got back! Is everything all right?”

  Dad didn’t know where to begin. So he said, “Would you like a peppermint tea?” Then he unloaded Mum’s heavy work files on to the kitchen table. “You must be tired, Ruby.”