I quickly glance across the room to where Tom is laughing loudly at something Théo has said. His glass is almost empty and he holds it out with alacrity for a refill when a bottle of whisky is handed round. Looks like I’ll be driving us home again tonight, since he’ll be in no fit state by the end of the evening. I bite my lip, praying that dinner will be served soon.
Kate notices my anxiety and gives my arm a little pat as she includes me in the conversation, asking how I’ve been since we last met for lunch. ‘It’s a bit of a shock to the system after England, isn’t it? Do you feel like you’re starting to find your feet? I reckon it took me about a year before I began feeling a bit less out of my depth in Casa.’
Grateful for her kindness, I tell her I’ve been doing a bit of volunteering at the centre for refugees and she turns towards me, giving me her full attention. ‘That’s not a place I’ve heard of,’ she says. ‘How did you get involved with it?’
I tell her about meeting Monsieur and Madame Habib and how they have made me more aware of the humanitarian crisis that’s happening all around us. ‘I don’t do much, though – just a bit of reading to the kids. It’s the other volunteers who really do the work of trying to support the women there.’
May begins to listen in to our conversation too. ‘That’s an interesting project,’ she says. ‘Kate, do you remember Anneke was telling us she’d heard about it at our last meeting?’ She turns away from Suzette slightly and asks me, ‘Do you know how they fund the centre?’
‘Private donations mostly, I think,’ I reply. ‘They’ve been trying to get a government grant, but their applications keep getting turned down. There’s so much pressure for that kind of thing, I suppose. I know they’re grateful for anything they receive.’ The picture books I bought to supplement the tattered collection were accepted as if they were priceless treasures, and one of the women had hurried away to find a new box to keep them in.
Suzette taps her long red fingernails impatiently against the side of her glass. ‘Initiatives like that are well meaning, I’m sure, but really do you think we should be encouraging these people? Surely they’d be better off back in their own countries instead of putting a burden on others when they can’t support themselves.’
Very carefully, so that I won’t spill my drink because my hands are suddenly shaking with anger, I place my glass on a coaster on the side table next to me and then turn to face her. Rein it in, I tell myself silently, and when I speak I try to keep my voice level.
‘It’s impossible for them to stay in their own countries. They’ve lost what family they once had there – often having witnessed them being brutalised and murdered. Can you imagine how terrified you’d have to be to risk a journey of thousands of miles, on the run with nothing and no one to help you and knowing the dangers?’
She raises one over-plucked eyebrow, clearly annoyed that the new girl has had the temerity to voice an opinion that runs contrary to hers. ‘What happens in those countries isn’t our business though, is it, Zoe? We can’t be responsible for the messes other people get themselves into. They’re illegal aliens in Morocco. They know they’re breaking the law by coming here.’
There’s something condescending in the way she deliberately uses my name, putting me in my place. I realise my hands are now clenched into tight fists, the half-healed creases of my fingers cracking open again with the tension.
‘I think we all know the problems the refugee crisis brings with it, Suzette,’ I reply. Two can play the name-game, after all. ‘But when we’re faced with the immediate consequences, day in, day out, surely we who have so much can afford to give something to those who have lost everything. Even if it’s simply a few books and a little kindness, it can help take their minds off the terrible things they’ve seen and experienced for a while. Maybe even help to give them back a little faith in humanity.’
Her smile is as tight as my clenched fists and for a moment I picture the mask of her face cracking open too with her own anger. ‘It just seems such a futile gesture when you put it like that, doesn’t it? A drop in the ocean. Perhaps our efforts could be put to better use elsewhere.’
‘Surely even a drop in the ocean is better than none at all, though?’ Monsieur Habib’s words come back to me. ‘It might not be a solution to the underlying problem, but we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try to do what we can, would we?’