In the days that followed I shadowed my mother, silently mouthing her name. I prayed for her to stop seething and sulking, and for the Mama of my imagination to materialise and attend to the story of Timba’s birth. But Mama, the real one, had other plans. ‘Do it properly now, Rachael,’ she would say whenever I drew near, shaking her head at the state of our floor and pushing a broom into my hands. Or, stilling my arm as I peeled apples, ‘Away from you Rachael, not towards!’ She soaked and beat flax to prepare it for spindling, gathered up the sleeping mats to spread on the roof terrace so they might freshen in the sun, scrubbed the hearth with tallow and sour wine. She ordered Shona to collect herbs to season the meals, sewed new robes and repaired others for my careless fast-growing brothers. Still, there always seemed to be more to do, and never time to listen. My sister watched me being scolded and dispatched until, finally, she could bear it no longer. It was now the day before Passover, and the three of us were busy around the eating mat. Shona and I were shelling almonds while Mama sewed the cushion on which Papa would recline for the festive meal. The air smelled of turned earth and poppies. Through the uncovered window, the shrill voices of boys too young for school could be heard. They were in the square, organising themselves into teams for a tug of war. ‘Mama,’ my sister said softly. ‘Rachael has something to tell you.’ Mama was squinting at her stiches. She sighed, picked up her knife and began ripping them out.
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