The quilting project at the refugee centre is almost finished too. This Friday, we’ll kneel around the yards of fabric and begin this same task, hand-quilting the blocks. The women talk and laugh as they work, happy to have the companionship and a welcome distraction from the harsh realities of life beyond the centre’s walls. Sometimes one of the women will begin to hum as she sews and, one by one, the others will join in, layering on harmonies of their own until the hot air reverberates with the waves of sound. The tunes are sometimes mournful, sometimes joyous, but always a welcome alternative to the despairing silence I encountered on my first visit to the centre.
As I sit and sew in the courtyard, I think about Tom. Seeing him and Kate together in the park like that was a huge shock. But it was also a wake-up call. I suppose, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not surprised he’s sought out the company of other women. I haven’t been much of a wife to him: neither the friend he deserves, nor the lover he desires. I ought to be feeling anger at his betrayal, but I don’t any more. I just feel defeated. We came to Casa to make a fresh start, to pick up the pieces of our broken relationship and try for a new beginning in a place where the reminders of what we once had wouldn’t be waiting to ambush us around every corner. But I’ve come to realise I just can’t do it. It feels like an ending now. The final, faint traces of the dreams we once shared have gone, evaporating in the blaze of the Moroccan sun.
I’ve finally had to admit to myself that my marriage is over. Seeing Tom with Kate wasn’t even all that astonishing, once I got over the initial shock. I’d been expecting it from him, after all, watching and waiting for it to happen. I just thought it would be with someone like Suzette from the dinner party at Claudine’s, or a woman I didn’t know from his work perhaps. Not with someone I’d come to think of as a good friend.
We both deserve better, Tom and I, than this marriage that we’re trapped in. It’s time we admit to ourselves and to each other that it’s finished. Time to let each other go.
Perhaps, one day, I’ll be able to dream anew. Perhaps Tom has already found another dream to follow. Maybe he’s discovered his next sunrise, with Kate. But for the moment I have to accept that he and I have tried and failed. I’ve made up my mind. Once my quilt is finished and the project at the refugee centre has been completed, I’ll leave.
Just as I’m nearing the end of Josie’s journal and the pages remaining unread have dwindled to a thin sheaf, like the last fragile leaves clinging to the trees as winter approaches, I have to face the fact that an ending of my own story is approaching. As I work on my quilt, outlining each of the blocks I’ve stitched together with such care, I remind myself that the Tree of Life represents the hope of new beginnings, even as the leaves relinquish their hold and flutter to the ground in the autumn wind.
For the moment, I’ll keep my eyes cast down to the sewing in my lap. But as I push the needle through the layers of material and make one tiny, precise stitch after another, I am all too aware that one day soon I shall have to lift my head and – at last – face the reality of the truth that’s been waiting there, just beyond the limits of my peripheral vision, all along.
Josie’s Journal – Monday 31st August, 1942
We have received our updated American visas back today. Maman had to go and queue at the American consulate but Mr Reid stepped in to help, which was only right. After all, it was because of him that Papa got involved with the resistance network and so I imagine he must have that on his conscience. I don’t blame him. It’s not his fault – it’s the fault of the war, the fault of the unkindness in this world, the fault of cruelty and injustice, the fault of my papa’s good heart, which meant he couldn’t just sit by and watch while people were persecuted and humiliated for their faith. Especially knowing that his own wife shared that faith, even if she had lapsed. Mr Reid has also promised to help us get our exit permits for Morocco as soon as we’ve managed to get our new transit visas for Portugal. Apparently he knows people at the Préfecture de Police. I just hope they’re not the same people who helped round up the Jews in the mellah, nor the unhelpful man who Maman spoke to when she was trying so desperately to find out where Papa had gone after the Gestapo took him away.
Anyway, Annette has promised to go with Maman to queue at the Portuguese consulate while I’m having my lessons with Miss Ellis. She only comes to teach me twice a week now. We can’t afford to pay her at all any more, but she very kindly offered to keep tutoring me for free and Maman was so grateful that I couldn’t protest, even though I really find it quite hard to concentrate on studying things like maths and history these days.