Once Upon a Thousand Hills

By Wendy Skorupski

"For me this book is 'thinking woman's chick-lit' in the best way, a truly contemporary romance and a terrific read on many different levels. Definitely one to pack in the summer holiday suitcase." – Amazon reader review

Naomi Lieberman has flown the nest of her hometown in Liverpool to seek the bright lights of London. Despite having aspirations and a degree in forensic science, Naomi finds herself working as a sales assistant at a sex shop in Soho. This is just one of many shameful secrets she has to hide from her Orthodox Jewish family and childhood sweetheart, Ephraim. Facing up to the disappointing realities of her life Naomi is desperate to find meaning and purpose. On a whim she signs up as a volunteer at a local refugee centre where her path soon crosses with that of John Paul Chambers.

John Paul is head of English at a private college and the manager of the refugee centre. He is arrogant, aloof, and still trying to free himself from the emotional curse of the genocide in Rwanda that orphaned him twenty years earlier. When John Paul interviews the centre's latest flighty volunteer, neither he nor Naomi has the slightest idea that their lives are about to change forever.

Wendy Skorupski's debut novel is an unlikely and uplifting love story exploring the depths of human experience and the life-changing moment when two paths cross.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Skorupski
• Release date: Jan 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393640936

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Kigali, Rwanda, April 1994

The boy couldn’t breathe . At first he thought it was a feverish dream. One of those dreams where you want to run but your legs have become lead, or you want to gasp for air but your lungs have turned liquid. And then he understood why he couldn’t breathe. Something was pressed against his mouth, preventing the passage of air. He tried to move the obstruction, but to do so he had to free his hands from other obstructions. Warm, slippery-soft obstructions that smelt peculiar. Salty.

It was an arm that was pressed against his mouth. His mother’s arm. And next to it, lots of other tangled bodies and parts of bodies and torn clothes and hair and sweat ... and blood. So much blood, he wanted to retch.

It all came back to him. Better not to come back, but memory is a cruel automaton. So it came back to him, without mercy, just like them. And with the return of memory, an urgent desire to escape his bloodied, tangled hell, and breathe oxygen rather than blood.

He freed himself from his mother’s arm and several other still-warm limbs from school friends and relatives and neighbours who had been running and screaming and wailing in a helter-skelter of frenzied panic not so long ago. But now all was silence. All was death.

Except him. He wasn’t dreaming, and he wasn’t dead. He had to get out. He had to hold his breath, close his eyes, heave himself out of the pile of bodies and run for his life before they came back. Because they would come back. He knew that. They came back to check if there were any survivors and dispose of them.

He screwed up his eyes, raised his legs, and gave an almighty push forwards, freeing himself from the mound of death.

He was the only survivor. He could see that now, as he crouched on the floor beside the pile of corpses. His mother’s body was at the top, next to where he himself had lain. The gingham dress that his father had bought for her last birthday was pushed up to her waist, revealing shreds of bloodied underwear. There would no longer be any innocence.

He looked away, and then saw his father’s body. And his sister’s, and his two brothers.

He stood alone on the floor, next to the corpses, amid the grand, hallowed space of the school hall where they had thought themselves safe. Here they were, all dead, and here he was, the only survivor. He felt nothing. Just the blood on his face and head. He had been cut. That’s when he must have lost consciousness, and they thought him dead.

And then he heard them. Again. The distant voices, gaining in volume; the laughter, the shouting, the bursts into patriotic Hutu songs, and the whistle.

It was the whistle that did it. The whistle meant for them get to work, and for him, death by machete. Unless he acted fast. No time for fear, despair, panic ... he had to act now, play the most skilful role of his life, far better than any childhood make-believe game he had ever taken part in. He had to climb back onto the pile of bodies, wrap his mother’s arm round his face once again, close his eyes, play dead.

His eyes darted from the door to the corpses as he heard the killers storm the school building, their leader still blowing his whistle.

Kigali, Rwanda, April 2014

TWEETS

naomi lieberman @NaomiLieberman ... 2s

@PaulKagame I urgently need to contact John Paul Chambers. I know he’s somewhere in Rwanda. Please, Your Excellency, help me find him!

NAOMI

Chapter One

Soho, London, one year earlier

It all began in a sex shop.

At six o’clock in the evening of Friday, 22nd February, I was just about to leave Sugar Lace and head back to Finchley to join the Blumenbergs for Shabbat dinner. And then Mr Hossein walked into the shop.

He strode across the dimly lit room and slapped one of our Ready-Made Massage Kits onto the counter. It’s a brilliant deal, this kit; a boxed set that includes lubes, gels, a mini-vibrator thrown in for fun, and a special candle that turns into scented oil as it melts, so that it can be poured straight onto one’s skin ready for the massage – and all for the unbeatable price of £19.99. He certainly wouldn’t find a better deal anywhere else in Soho!

How can I help you, sir? I asked cheerily, but he averted his eyes. He often does that, as though wrestling with the shameful prospect of making optical contact with a sex shop worker.

He stood still for a good five, maybe six seconds. The wall clock above the serving counter ticked away. For want of something to do while waiting for him to enlighten me, I started flicking through the pages of The Liverpool Jewish Chronicle that lay on the counter in front of me. Mum keeps sending me the damn thing, month after month. I haven’t got the heart to tell her that I’m simply not into all that Judaistic stuff anymore. Not since I swapped the home hearth of Liverpool for the bedazzling lights of London six and a half years ago. But there you are. There’s a soft heart for you. Always gets you in a pickle, prodding you to do dutiful things you don’t want to do, and not do naughty things you do want to do. But I do them anyway. The naughty things, I mean.

At last my reticent customer scratched his ear and announced, I have a problem.

Oh? I looked up at him, with a smile, as always. Perhaps I can help?

I sincerely hope so.

Well, that’s what I’m here for, sir. No matter what they say, keep smiling! That’s Fred’s motto.

Good. I should add that Mr Hossein is one of our regular customers. He comes in roughly once a month and stocks up on a large number of latex items which I assume can’t all be for his own use, so my guess is that he transports them to various corners of the earth where they are not readily available.

As he still did not deign to elaborate on his problem, I flicked some more through the Jewish rag. And then widened my eyes in alarm.

The sweet, heart-shaped face of Dinah Bloch gazed up at me from the glossy middle page.

I stared at her. I mean at the picture. What was she doing in a magazine? As in Dinah of the gooey brown eyes that made her look like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. (A phrase I’ve inherited from Mum.) I hadn’t thought about Dinah Bloch in years and years, and here she was, radiating that same, do-goody aura of unconditional obedience. The teachers at King David’s were always falling for her obsequious charm. They never fell for my charm, possibly on account of it never being obsequious. I just came out with whatever entered my head. And still do.

The rasp of Mr Hossein’s cough snapped me back to attention.

Drawing his oily-black brows together, he looked at me as though I were a naughty schoolgirl who ought to be chastised. (We offer a large selection of implements at Sugar Lace for such activities.)

I bought ten sets of these Massage Kits last month, he began, and I have received a number of complaints. There is a problem with the ... mini-vibrator. At this point he lowered his angle of vision, thereby continuing his discourse with the counter that separated his world from mine. The batteries do not last long enough.

Well then maybe your users take too long! I wanted to shout at him, but merely said, Oh, I see. And then, unable to stop myself, I glanced back down at the article.

Dinah Bloch, former pupil of King David School, has kept herself busy since graduating in Theology from Manchester University. Unable to find a suitable job after receiving her MA two years ago, she decided to fill her time doing ‘things that make a difference’.

So, unless this can be fixed, I should like a full refund.

Of course, sir.

When you graduate from university, you just assume that the next step in your life’s journey will be securing a job, Dinah explained from the elegant living room of her newly built apartment overlooking Liverpool Docks. No one prepares you for how hard it’ll be.

It just isn’t good enough. When you buy something from a shop, you don’t expect to have to deal with such irritating malfunctions.

I nodded at him. Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.

Soft-spoken Dinah went on to elaborate how she decided to try her hand at volunteer work rather than sitting at home trawling the job vacancies and getting more frustrated by the day. It was the best thing I ever did, she added with a modest smile. Not just for the disadvantaged people I was helping, but also for myself. I’ve never looked back since.

"Excuse me, madam, but are you listening to anything I’m saying?"

I jumped back to my senses and slapped the offending pages closed. Oh – yes, of course. Sorry. You said you have a problem.

I said unless the problem can be fixed, I’d like an immediate refund.

Right. Well, I shall have to speak to the manager about that. I’m afraid I can’t make such decisions by myself.

Before he had the chance to respond, his mobile phone juddered from some invisible location upon his person. Frowning, he dug the sleek black contraption out of his pocket and mumbled, Excuse me.

While he proceeded to jabber away in cryptic vowels and syllables, I re-opened the magazine and skimmed forward to the last couple of paragraphs of the article.

Miss Bloch spent the next eighteen months working as a volunteer in nursing homes, orphanages and crisis centres across the North West of England. Her untiring efforts led to her winning the distinguished title of Volunteer of the Year. She was subsequently headhunted by the ‘Adelstein Centre for Challenge to Youth’, and now acts in an ambassadorial role which involves travelling across the country, giving speeches to people of all ages who feel the need to help others. To reiterate the remarkable young woman’s own words, she ‘has never looked back since.’

For several moments I stood in rigor mortis, stiff as a prick. (I thought that one up during a particularly boring English lesson with Mr Goldstein, way back in the halcyon days of school.)

Dinah Bloch ... how could it be? How could she have deserved such success? I mean, come on, working as an ambassador? And here am I, working for Fred at the kind of place Dinah and her cronies would never dream of setting foot. It wasn’t fair! I did better than her in my exams – a fact which apparently still shocks the King David school community to this day. And yet there she is, working in ... in whatever poncey place it is, having her two-page spread in the Liverpool Jewish Chronicle, winning Volunteer of the Year, when all she did was boring things like go to school pageants instead of discos, and swot instead of dance, and hand in essays instead of smuggle rude limericks under the desks ...

Dinah Bloody Bloch.

As a matter of interest, the name Dinah means ‘judgement’ in old Hebrew. As in: Thou shalt be judged! The name Naomi, on the other hand, means ‘goodness on all levels’. So surely I should have been the one to reach such altruistic heights, not her?

With an explosive valediction, Mr Hossein stuffed his mobile back into his pocket and returned his intense gaze upon me. So. When can you speak to him?

Sorry?

The manager. When can you speak to him?

Oh. Now, hopefully. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of Fred’s office, tucked into the murky nether-regions of the shop. Was he still there? Or had he nipped out via the back door to buy me a snack for my journey home, even though I keep telling him there’s barely room to breathe in the tube at six o’clock on a Friday evening, let alone eat?

One moment, please. I turned round and headed for the thick velvet curtain that hid the door to Fred’s hideaway.

Please be quick. I assume this request will not be too mentally exhausting for you?

I stopped. And turned back round. No longer smiling. How dare he stand there belittling me! Did he honestly think it was my childhood dream to endure eight hours a day within four walls that are crammed to belching point with vibrators, lubricants, rabbits, handcuffs, Tuxedo Bunny outfits, Bedside Nurses and lascivious lingerie?

Sir, I said tightly. It might surprise you to know that I have a Master’s degree from University College London. The reason I happen to be in my current line of employment is because I spent half a year looking for a job in my field, to no avail. Not all sex shop assistants are brainless Barbie dolls, you know.

He stared at me in horror.

And suddenly, Gran’s dear old face loomed in my mind’s eye. It was a face that had been etched by overlapping years of brutality, survival, release, a new world and, at last, love, when she met Grandad in the local Jewish community just after the Second World War. She had been a refugee, arriving in Merseyside at the age of fifteen without a word of English. I never asked her what that was like, being a stranger in a strange land. I’d always been more interested in the gory details of how she’d survived wartime Poland, rather than her arrival in England.

And now ... thinking of all that Gran had gone through back then, and the bigoted attitude of this customer, and Dinah Bloch’s mega-sensational achievements – I mean, I’ve also helped people in need – there were times in my sixth form days when I’d give all my pocket money to that poor old homeless man who used to sit on the pavement outside Tesco’s, but I didn’t get any Caring for the Homeless award, did I, because no one even knew about it – yet now, thinking of how unfair life can be, I just sort of ... I don’t know. I just crumpled deep inside.

And that was it.

That was the moment it occurred to me that my life was meaningless. That all my years of training as a forensic anthropologist – all my ambitions to work on a UN mission in some war-torn part of the world, helping to piece together and identify the bones of victims dug out of mass graves – had come to this: dealing with a dissatisfied customer in a Soho sex shop, and being overtaken by a former school rival in Liverpool. What about all that promise, right from birth? All those genes, all those clusters of chromosomes, those coils of DNA, all that pre-programmed intelligence and talent, when at the end of the day it amounted to nothing?

Without another word, I turned my back on my speechless customer and headed for Fred’s office.

My life had turned into a meaningless bowl of gruel, and unless I did something about it pretty quick, there wouldn’t be much point in continuing.

So I resolved to do something about it pretty quick.

Chapter Two

Volunteer work is not as easy as it might seem.

I spent the next four Sundays – not Saturdays, on account of it being Shabbat – offering my services to various seats of philanthropy. But none of the jobs worked out. Not a single one. Neither the Oxfam dishwasher, nor the companion to old folks, nor the sorter-out of donated clothes. Either my hands broke out in a rash after merciless hours at the sink, or the old folks widened their eyes at my colourful anecdotes and promptly complained to the nurse on call, or the donated clothes stank because the generous givers of them hadn’t bothered to wash them first, or ... or my superiors commented on my inappropriate dress sense. That one riled me the most. After each failed attempt, I returned home and either punched the walls or cried.

And then, one fortuitous Shabbat evening in mid-March, my luck at last changed.

It was ten past six, and I’d just finished my shift at Sugar Lace. I was making my way through the thick Friday evening crowds of Soho into the even thicker throngs of the rush hour at Leicester Square tube station. As I manoeuvred my full-bosomed frame through the mass of human protoplasm that shoved itself into the engorged tube like a great hulking amoeba, I resolved for the zillionth time in my life to look for a sign.

I’m a great believer in signs – an irritating malady that I inherited from my mum. As far back as I can remember she would cry out, ‘It’s a sign!’ to which me and Dad would roll our eyes. But now I find myself doing the very same thing with the Blumenberg children whenever I’m asked to babysit. Oh, look – it’s a sign you should go to bed! or It’s a sign you should stop sucking your thumb! I keep waiting for a sign to tell Ephraim and our respective families why marriage isn’t a good idea, but so far I haven’t found one. Mum and Dad are constantly reminding me that my highly eligible boyfriend won’t wait forever for me to say ‘yes’ to the chuppah offer. But he’s a touch on the serious side. I like having a bit of a laugh myself, which is why I studied forensic anthropology. Joke.

While jammed against the shoulder of a fellow commuter, my eyes wandered to an advert that was plastered to the grubby wall, several inches removed from the human jumble of flesh, hair, clothes and sweat.

REFUGEE CRISIS WORSENS! VOLUNTEERS NEEDED AT CROXLEY REFUGEE CENTRE! CALL 020 8276 9831

And then it struck me. That was it! My sign! I hadn’t even been looking for any volunteer work on this particular day, and there it was, staring me right in the face – helping refugees. The fact that my own Gran had been a refugee in England after the Second World War was all the proof I needed that this auspicious advert was totally a sign, no two ways about it.

Digging into my shoulder bag, I pushed aside the Salt & Vinegar crisps that Fred had bought me and retrieved my mobile out of the chaos. I tapped the telephone number into my contacts list, bumping into the shoulders of neighbouring commuters as the tube picked up speed. I had a plan!

I would get back home to Finchley and as soon as Shabbat dinner was out of the way, I’d escape upstairs to the seclusion of my rented attic den, call the number, and offer my services to whoever was in charge. My life was going to have meaning at last! The spiralling years of meandering, searching, becoming an expert at subterfuge, were going to be replaced with real purpose. Not just advising which brand of silicone rabbit is better value for money, or constantly delaying my next visit to the Liverpool family hearth. And then feeling guilty throughout Yom Kippur.

And maybe, if I was really, really lucky, while helping people in need I’d even find love in the process? No, I don’t mean romantic love, which any mathematician will tell you does not add up. (Romance + sex does not equal love.) I mean any kind of love. Like for a cute little refugee child with huge soulful eyes who would bond with me at first sight? That would do me just fine. After all, isn’t love the most meaningful thing in life?

Just as I was beginning to get carried with away my non-sexual fantasies, my mobile beeped. Ephraim’s name flashed on the screen. Not good. Ephraim never phoned on a Friday. Which meant there was a problem. Weren’t there problems enough already in this overloaded world of ours?

Holding my breath, I raised the beeping contraption to my ear, accidentally elbowing the guy on my right.

Hiya, Ephraim, what can I do you for?

I could hear muffled voices of dissent in the background. Ephraim’s parents, no doubt. And then his own anxious tenor.

Naomi, do you realise it’s ten years next month since we first started going out together?

Yes, Ephraim, I know how to count. You helped me with GCSE maths, remember?

I’m not joking.

Neither am I.

Naomi –

Are your parents there?

No, they’ve just left the room. They’re not happy.

Why, what’ve I done now?

Do you remember Dinah Bloch? Without waiting for me to respond, which is just as well, considering the sudden palpitating of my heart, he ploughed straight on, You know, the girl who always got top marks in her –

Yes, I remember her.

Well, apparently she’s got engaged to someone from the Jewish community in Manchester who she met through her charity work, and –

Look, Ephraim, would you mind getting to the point? I’m in a sardine-packed tube and can barely hold the phone to my ear, let alone talk. I can’t see what can possibly be so important that it couldn’t have waited till after Shabbat. The guy to my right sniggered.

No, maybe you can’t. But I can. And Mum and Dad can. He coughed, and when he spoke next, his voice had assumed the tone of hurt schoolboy. "Naomi – you keep telling me you still love me, but you always seem to find a reason why we can’t get married. First it was your A levels – okay, maybe we were a bit too young then – but when you finished university the timing definitely was right, and that was all of two years ago!"

So what’re you getting at?

Not me. It’s Mum and Dad. They’re giving us an ultimatum.

Ultimatum? Oh no, please no – they hadn’t discovered the true nature of Sugar Lace, had they? ‘They’ being the Hebrew clan up there in the mists of Merseyside.

I clutched tighter at my mobile. W-what type of ultimatum exactly?

They think that ten years is quite long enough.

Long enough for what?

"Oh, come on, you know what I’m talking about. Dad even joked that we should throw a party to celebrate ten years of dating. Mum just snapped at him, and then looked at me in that way of hers and said, It’s high time, Ephraim. It’s high time."

He waited a good ten seconds for me to respond, which I reckon is at least better than ten years. When I didn’t, he continued with a sudden surge of renewed confidence, So the long and short of it is this. Either we get married by the summer, or we call the whole thing off. Sorry, but there you are. Rabbi Simeon’s advice, apparently.

Oh, God. What could I say to that? Not just to Rabbi Simeon, or to Ephraim, my long-term boyfriend who I’ve known since my Bat Mitzvah, but to myself.

The summer? But the summer’s only –

Three months away. I know.

So why the sudden rush?

"Rush? He laughed. I didn’t. I’d say ten years is more than enough time, wouldn’t you?"

Had we but world enough and time ... Who wrote that? Was it the Prophet Ezekiel? Despite my seeming composure, I was reeling inside. How could I tell Ephraim that I wasn’t ready for a nice wedding under the chuppah, or moving back to Liverpool and producing six wailing babies in swift succession, thereby joining the matriarchal coterie of Liebermans and Ackermans?

And yet ...to lose him altogether?

What did I want?

Taking a deep breath, I said, Ephraim, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you back tonight.

But Naomi, it’s Shabbat –

Okay, so I’ll call you on Sunday. Or Monday. Sorry.

I hung up before he had the chance to object.

BY THE TIME I PUSHED open the door to 27 Raymonds Lane in Finchley, it was just gone seven-thirty. 27 Raymonds Lane is one of these shabby but regal Victorian town houses with stone steps leading up to the porch, a small front patio, and a long, chaotic back garden that lies in yellowing neglect most of the year, looking like some sort of sub-Saharan savannah. I know the house well, having rented the small room in the attic for the past three years of my life.

The hallway was in darkness as I stepped inside and stumbled over a pair of children’s wellies. Normally the brass chandelier that droops from the hair-lined ceiling casts an amber glow over the mayhem one is greeted by upon entry into the homestead – a squeaky duck, a trampled KitKat, a discarded London Jewish Chronicle, sometimes even an entire washing basket that hasn’t yet been emptied. But it was Friday evening; Shabbat had begun, and so the hall remained unlit. It was one of the rules. All was dark apart from a dim glow of candle-light that trembled out of the partially opened door to the dining room.

As I shed myself of anorak and trainers (no, sex shop assistants are not expected to wear bunny outfits – jeans and T-shirts do just fine), I could see that all five members of the Blumenberg family were already seated round the long, shimmering Shabbat table.

Here’s the Blumenberg cast. Papa Elijah: man of the house, large build, long beard, massive eyebrows, a veritable clone of Topol from Fiddler on the Roof, with a baritone voice to match. Mama Rebekah: dark curly hair, glasses, delicate figure worthy of envy, perpetually distracted smile, forgiver of all her children’s sins. Miriam: nine years old, obedient on the whole but prone to the occasional bout of stubbornness. Isaac: seven, proud of his sideburn-ringlets, incorrigible energy that never flags except when asleep. And five-year-old Moishe: dark locks, toothy smile, ensconced in some sort of Over the Rainbow Neverland that I want to go to. Oh yes, and then there’s me: Naomi Lieberman, Jewish lodger whose presence at Shabbat dinner has somehow become compulsory over the years.

"Naomi, is that you?"

Yes it is, Rebekah – sorry I’m late!

Hurry up, sweetheart – Elijah’s about to start the blessing!

I just need to nip upstairs and change – won’t be a tick!

Two minutes later, suitably changed into knee-length skirt and frumpish blouse buttoned up to the neck, I found myself seated next to Isaac on my left, little Moishe on my right, Rebekah and Miriam directly opposite, and Papa Elijah commanding a solitary position at the head of the candle-and-food-bedecked table. I lowered my eyes as he raised his kiddush cup and launched into a baritone rendering of the Hebrew blessing:

"Barukh Ata Adonoi Eloheinu Melekh HaOlam, Borei P’ri HaGafen." The fact that Elijah happens to be a cantor at the local synagogue adds a certain operatic quality to Shabbat evenings.

As soon as all blessings were out of the way, Rebekah stood up to serve each of us a generous ladle of her cholent beef stew.

So, Naomi, she said, smiling at me above the rim of her glasses in her usual distracted manner. "Will you be visiting your family for the Pesach festival next weekend?"

Oh ... I don’t know. Maybe.

You know how your mother would love that, now don’t you?

Yes, well maybe – if I can find the time.

Ah, that would be lovely. I’m sure you and Ephraim will have plenty talk about. Her eyes twinkled.

I am a hundred and one per cent convinced that Mum pays the Blumenbergs good money to say things like that. Things that prod and prick at my conscience, coercing me into fulfilling family duties such as travelling all of the two-hour train journey to Liverpool every time there’s a Jewish festival. Like next weekend. Prod prod, prick prick, although I should be careful with my choice of words. Last year we had a sex toy called Pretty Prick at Sugar Lace, but it didn’t fare too well, so Fred eventually took it off the shelves and I took it home.

Rebekah deepened her smile. Mr and Mrs Ackerman would also really appreciate you being there for Pesach. You do know that, sweetheart, don’t you?

I nodded, swallowing a large mouthful of cholent and dunking a slab of challah bread into the succulent sauce. Rebekah is an excellent cook, which does not help me with my New Year’s resolution to tone down some of those excessive curves I was blessed with, whether or not Ephraim claims to cherish them.

When’s Ephraim next coming? Miriam asked as though by telepathy.

"Oh, I don’t know, he’s very busy at Ackerman & Ackerman’s, as usual. The sound of the family’s accountancy firm always makes me want to giggle. But maybe soon he’ll –"

"Miriam’s in love with Ephraim, Miriam’s in love with Ephraim!"

"No I am not! Mum, Isaac’s being mean again!"

Oh, Isaac sweetheart, you know your poor sister doesn’t like being teased.

So, Naomi. Cantor Elijah put down his fork and aimed his black, brow-hooded stare directly at me. His brows are so thick, sometimes you can hardly see his eyes beneath them. When will the postman finally be bringing us that wedding invitation, hmm?

Every member of the Blumenberg family chuckled at this portentous display of humour – even including little Moishe, who up till now had been separating his carrots, chick peas and sweet potatoes into clearly demarcated ethnic zones in his cholent bowl.

I laughed along with everyone else before sneaking a glance at my Omega watch – an eighteenth birthday present from Ephraim’s parents.

Twenty to nine. Never mind the wedding ultimatum – that could wait till tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day! Which of the prophets said that?

Anyway, never mind quotes. Right now the refugee centre was more pressing. Would it still be open at nine o’clock on a Friday night?

HALF AN HOUR LATER, propped up against the downy pillows of my bed, I tapped the telephone number into my mobile and waited.

At last someone picked up. Hello?

Oh, hello, I began in my cheeriest voice, I was wondering if I could speak to someone about volunteering for refugees?

There was a fuzzy pause, after which a woman with a lilting Northern accent said: Where did you get this number, love?

On the tube – I made a note of it from an advert I spotted.

Ah, yes. That would be the old one – should’ve been taken down by now. If you have a pen on you, I can give you another number. At least I think it’s the right number ...

Oh, great. Hang on a tick! Dropping my mobile onto the bedside table, I slithered off my Noah’s Ark duvet and hurried over to the desk below the skylight window, where all writing, reading and researching paraphernalia from my previous academic life have lurked untouched these past couple of years. I dug out a pen and scrap of paper from the rubble, scrambled back to my bed, and reclaimed my mobile. Right. Fire away.

The nice lady dictated the number to me. But it’s a bit late now, love, she added as an afterthought. Chances are you won’t get an answer at this time, ‘specially on a Friday night. Might be best to try again tomorrow.

Oh, I’ll give it a shot now, all the same. Thanks very much for your help.

I typed in the number she’d given me. It kept ringing and ringing. Just as I was about to hang up, a deep voice crackled into the receiver. "Yes?"

I took a gulp of air. The owner of this voice was male and didn’t sound half so friendly as the first voice. But being me, I persevered breezily: Oh, hello. My name’s Naomi Lieberman and I was wondering if –

How did you get this number?

Did they all have an obsession with telephone number extraction? Well – I was on the tube coming back from work this evening when I spotted this advert for ... I can’t remember the exact name, but it was for some refugee centre, so I made a note of the telephone number, but when I phoned it up just now this nice lady answered and said –

Yes, yes, all right, I don’t need a history of the world. This isn’t the number you should have been given; it’s my private number and it’s supposed to be used only in emergencies. I take it you’re not an emergency?

Well, not exac –

No, I didn’t think so. Please phone back tomorrow.

On this number?

Didn’t I just explain to you that this is my private number and only used for emergencies?

How in the world did someone with this level of rudeness ever get to be employed at a refugee centre? There was no excuse for such an aggressive attitude, even if I had disrupted his Friday evening out with friends or whatever the fuck he was doing. I only ever use four-letter words when I’m exceedingly angry. Like now.

I really don’t think there’s any need for you to speak to me like that. I was only trying to help.

This was met with an unnerving silence. I fidgeted on my bed. And waited.

And finally a reply. Here’s the number you need to contact. No apology, no modified tone, just a sharply dictated string of numbers which I madly tried to keep up with while scribbling them onto the scrap of paper resting on my knee. I certainly wouldn’t dare ask him to repeat them!

And then: Please don’t use this private number again, unless you really are in an emergency – which, presuming you’re not a refugee, is unlikely to be the case. You can call again tomorrow at 12.00. Bye now.

And with that he hung up.

Chapter Three

Here are some rules for Shabbat.

No watching TV.

No using phones.

No wearing scruffy clothes.

No cooking, washing, or ironing.

No using any electrical items (therefore oven must be kept on special ‘Shabbat setting’ to keep pre-cooked food warm).

No lighting matches (therefore Shabbat candles must be lit before Shabbat begins).

No tearing of anything (therefore tissues must be used instead of loo roll).

No ...

And so on and so on and so forth. I forget exactly how many no’s there are. At any rate, I make a habit of breaking every single one of them, my special genius being that I manage to keep this a secret from my landlords, as well as Mum and Dad. He who knows not and knows not he knows not ... Isn’t there a saying that goes along those lines? Anyway, they know not.

It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning, my favourite time of the week. Shabbat still had a good few hours to run (till sunset to be precise, making a total of twenty-four hours, which I reckon is way too long), so the next handful of hours were mine for the taking.

Every Saturday morning the entire Blumenberg family troops along to the synagogue, where Elijah pours forth his famous baritone psalm renderings, most of which he rehearses in the shower every morning of his life. Miriam calls this noisy time of morning Elijah FM. The synagogue service takes up at least an hour and a half, then afterwards there’s always a jolly Kiddush lunch for everyone, served up by whoever’s turn it is to prepare it, so that takes up the next hour and a half, and by the time they all get back home it’s at least one o’clock. That means every Saturday I get to steal a whole three hours to myself – the only time of the week I can ever call completely my own. And it’s bloody brilliant!

On this sunny Shabbat morn I was feeling particularly rebellious. I still hadn’t phoned Ephraim yet, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. I had an appointment to keep with my mobile. The number of the refugee centre beckoned, and I was up for the challenge. Of course there was the small matter of that irritating man I’d spoken to last night, but all my common sense (which isn’t much, according to Dad) told me that he was merely a fluke. Chances were I’d speak to a normal human being next time round. Which happened to be today. At twelve o’clock sharp.

That gave me two hours in which to break just about every Shabbat rule by the simple means of cooking myself a large, tasty fry-up breakfast while the Blumenbergs were out of harm’s way. Out of sight, out of mind, isn’t that how it goes? I would metamorphose into a wicked she-devil by: switching on the grill (not allowed), heating up the frying pan (not allowed), lighting up the gas hobs (not allowed), getting out my secret supply of streaky bacon (DEFINITELY not allowed), as well as eggs, baked beans, tomatoes and bread, which are allowed as long as you don’t light the gas hobs to cook them. Hmm. I had already transferred this hidden stash of food from the mini fridge in my attic room all the way down two flights of stairs to the Blumenbergs’ kitchen and was ready to begin.

Yes, I defiantly thought to myself as I went about coating the eggs in hot bacon fat, Saturday mornings were the best time of the week!

And then my mobile rang.

HELLO? I ALMOST SNAPPED.

There should be a law against phoning at inconvenient times. The bacon was just about done, and the eggs would go hard if they were left in the pan a single minute longer.

Oh hi, Sheila, I was hoping you could do me a big favour. I’ve got a hell of a –

I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number. I’m not Sheila.

What?

I said I’m not Sheila.

Oh. Big pause. Then: Sorry, must have pressed the wrong call-back.

Hang on a minute – don’t I know you? God knows why I said that, given the critical timing of my fry-up, but there was something about the guy’s voice, something pleasing yet obnoxious, something familiar ...

And then it clicked, dunce that I am. It was him! The prat I’d spoken to last night. Mr Arrogant Git.

If you’re not Sheila, then I don’t think so, he replied