Cars

“We really have to think about buying a new car,” T. said thoughtfully, eyeing my burgeoning stomach. It was the spring of 1971, and I was already pregnant with our second child. Two years of marriage, two pregnancies. My bump was still quite neat, but T. was thinking ahead, as always. We were still riding around in the Austin 1100 bought at university and were experiencing all the problems of driving a British car abroad.

The steering wheel in the wrong place, for one thing. The fact that the car seemed too – well, low-slung – for another. It had been designed for smoothly-surfaced British roads and didn’t cope too well with the bumps and potholes of your average Algerian carriageway.  I somehow had the feeling that there was only about about four centimetres’ clearance between my rear end and the road. The car was also fitted with an efficient heater that had served us well in the harsh Sheffield winters, but was too stifling in the relatively balmy Algerian winter temperatures.  There appeared to be no middle ground between “boiling hot” and “off” on the temperature controls.

Then the engine began to overheat on a regular basis. One nightmare journey to Algiers in the first months of our marriage took place in summer and with the needle on the engine temperature gauge hovering around the “Ready to Explode” mark, T. thought the only way to counter this, and to arrive in Algiers in one piece, was to put the heating on full blast and roll the windows down.  When we finally staggered from the car in Algiers, our faces were scarlet from the heat and our hair, full of dust, looked as though we had spent the day in a wind tunnel.

Another time, I had baked a lemon sponge cake, slathered in lemon butter cream, for my mother-in-law, having already discovered that she had a sweet tooth. For once, my attempt at baking something had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. It rose perfectly, its fluffy deliciousness just begging to be bitten into. We put it carefully in a box and then in a corner of the boot of the car, so that it would not be crushed on its journey to Algiers.

On arriving at the family villa, we carried it in triumph into the kitchen under my mother-in-law’s greedy gaze. Her mouth was already beginning to water. Not waiting a moment, she plunged a knife into the thick butter cream and carved off a large slice of cake for herself. Her expression of bliss turned first into surprise, then disgust as she spat out her mouthful. We weren’t to know that the car had sprung a petrol leak and the fumes had permeated the boot, impregnating the beautiful cake with the smell (and taste) of fuel. I will never forget the look of regret on T’s mother’s face as she binned the rest.

After T. had lent the car to his brother and the latter had enjoyed it so much he returned it to us with one of the doors bashed in, all the inside ashtrays broken off, and the oil gauge flickering on red, we regretfully sold it to a British coopérant going back to Britain for practically the same price T. had bought it four years before.

We sold it because T. had his eye on a new R16 TS, still rolling off the assembly line at the Renault plant near Oran. I remember us becoming increasingly impatient because it took a whole MONTH to be delivered, and we could have any colour we wanted as long as it was mustard – and a particularly bilious mustard at that. T’s lip curled in distaste at the thought of driving a car of that colour. He was obviously still in British mode, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He was flatly told that it was that colour – or no car at all.

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Apart from the paint job, though, the Renault 16TS was perfect for Algerian roads. Compared to the Austin, its rear end was raised so high that it had a marked slope from boot to bonnet. The suspension was markedly better, though, than that of the Austin, and I sailed happily through my second pregnancy, carefully cushioned from the uneven Algerian road surfaces.

Unfortunately, this was the car in which T. had his almost fatal road accident just after our son’s birth, and, although its sturdy frame had probably saved his life, I couldn’t look at it without thinking how close my husband had come to death whilst driving it. It was time to find a new car, because, although the TS had been repaired after the accident, I didn’t trust it anymore.

By then, however, the Renault assembly plant had closed down – one of the many unfortunate consequences of the quarrel between Algeria and France over the nationalisation of the Algerian oil industry, and so anyone wanting to buy a car had to look to the secondhand market. No new cars were imported  — except of course, by a chosen few.

So, every Friday, every male between the ages of ten and seventy would go down to the secondhand vehicle market in Oran, on a piece of waste ground near the football stadium — serious buyers hauling a sack full of dinars and window shoppers alike. Every car would have a group of “specialists” clustered around it, nodding their heads sagely and scratching their chins as they debated the pros and cons of that particular model.

T. was lucky in that, as one of Sonatrach’s top managers, he was allowed to buy a used company car. We were soon the proud owners of a white Peugeot 504, sold off by Sonatrach when they imported a new fleet of vehicles. Peugeot had a reputation of being more reliable than Renault — the Volvo of the French car industry — but I am afraid that our vehicle had been mistreated badly by careless Sonatrach drivers and mechanics. I am practically sure that it had also been involved at some time in an accident. A bit of welding, slap on some paint to cover the joins — et voilà!

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After a few years of breakdowns and astronomical repair bills, T. gave in to his longing for a really super-duper car and we bought a second-hand white Citroën DS 21. This was the car used by most French and Algerian ministers and was the quintessence of  French automotive luxury — supercilious sneer, complete with flaring nostrils, (the headlights) on its front grill and all.

Unfortunately, its spare parts were at luxury prices too, as we were to find when an English coopérant, with the same kind of car, borrowed our carjack and forgot to re-fasten the bonnet when returning it. It flew back and smashed the windscreen when T. was driving along at over 100 km an hour. With no spare parts being imported at the time, a new bonnet cost us 5,000 dinars – the equivalent of £500 at the time.

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Then there was the saga of the windscreen. Even more difficult to obtain than the bonnet, we finally had to send a driver to Constantine to get a new one. The journey was a mere five hundred miles (nearly eight hundred kilometres) each way. On returning, he had left it on our front veranda, and Titan, our German Shepherd, discovered, to his delight, that it made a very comfortable bed.

Shooing Titan off the plastic-wrapt windscreen, I raised one corner and it gave an ominous tinkle.The windscreen had been smashed beyond repair under his considerable weight. So distraught was I that I fled into our garden and hid amongst the rosebushes. This may seem to have been an overreaction to you, and it does to me now, but it was such a struggle to find anything in Algeria, that material things took on much more importance than they should have done. Once something was broken or stolen, there was no hope of replacing it.

Once the DS sold, we then bought a brand new Honda Accord, about which I have already spoken, and then finally, when Algerians were allowed to import cars, a Peugeot 505. The latter had a peanut for an engine, forcing us to turn off the air-conditioning every time we wanted to overtake. We sold the Peugeot and imported a Nissan Sunny that we left behind when we went to Qatar. T. tells me it is still trundling around the roads near Arzew – a bit battered but still going strong.

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Stalker

Stalking is an extension of harassment elevated to a level where it is causing disruption or physical threats to the person being harassed.

— Mark Childress


The strident sound of the doorbell cut through the messy tangle of my thoughts.  I  was trying to keep myself busy with mundane tasks, but my mind kept returning to the events of the previous few days. It was like worrying a loose tooth with my tongue  —it just made things worse. A glance out of  the front window showed me a blanket of grey rainclouds pressing down on the house, reducing my world to a thin slice between it and the sodden ground. The row of dripping, leafless geranium bushes in front of the house looked as miserable as I felt.

I splashed down the steps of the house, with our German Shepherd, Titan, pushing against my legs and nearly tripping me up in the process. I couldn’t see who was at the door, as the front wall was over two metres high, built purposely so to discourage passers-by from looking into our garden. If this seems a bit drastic to you, you must understand that Algerian passers-by are not like British ones. The British will politely avert their eyes, even if the curtains of a house are not drawn and the living-room is lit up like the stage of a theatre. Algerians develop a permanent crick in their necks from craning them to try to see what is going on in everyone else’s houses.

Grabbing hold of Titan’s collar, I cautiously opened the solid-metal gate. He had a tendency to jump out at visitors — more in welcome than anything else — but they weren’t to know that.  One of the side-effects of restraining his enthusiasm in this way was that he would then bare his teeth and snarl at anybody on the doorstep, causing them to take an involuntary step, or two, back.

It was I who took a step back when I saw who was standing outside on the pavement. Titan gave a low rumble in his throat. After staring at the woman for a couple of seconds, and just as she opened her mouth to speak, I slammed the gate shut in her face, whirled and ran up the steps to the front door, closing and locking it behind me. I leaned against it, my heart pounding fit to choke me.

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It was November, 1988, and T. had gone to a colleague’s house that afternoon to try to glean some information about what was happening at the refinery. Only a few days before, the entrance to the plant had been barred to him and to some of his heads of department. The security guards at the gate had looked at him sheepishly as they had walked over to his car to explain the situation and mumble an awkward apology. The barrier had been kept firmly down, however, on the orders of the Islamist group that had taken over the refinery.

Since then, we had been in limbo. His CEO had not been very forthcoming, just telling T. to stay at home whilst things settled down. Everything was rumour and counter-rumour. T. was not the only manager to whom access to his workplace had been barred. This had been happening all over Algeria since the October 1988 street riots, in what seemed at the time to be a spontaneous popular uprising against the status quo that had lasted more than twenty-five years.

Like all uprisings, however, it had been taken over by, on the one hand, vandals itching to smash, or burn down, anything which was a symbol of state authority— and on the other, by the Islamist movement. Putting themselves forward  as an alternative to the sclerotic FLN, in power since independence, they had quickly gained in popularity and influence.

One of their tactics had been to set up sleeper cells in various state-owned institutions and when the word was given, have those cells take over the running of the institutions, throwing out the legitimate managers in the process. This is what had happened to my husband.

Usually these cells were made up of ordinary members of the workforce – ordinary, yes, but heavily islamised. This must have seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity for them to take over the reins of power, a distorted version of the famous “autogestion,” i.e. the spontaneous self-management of important institutions by Algerian workers once their European managers had joined the general exodus after independence.

Unfortunately, in this case, power had gone to their heads, as, according to a former colleague, “Sous chaque burnous bat le coeur d’un patron” (Under every burnous,  beats the heart of a boss). Stories filtered through to us of how the “commission,” as they had styled themselves, were interrogating other employees to try and find some proof of misappropriation of company funds, use of state-owned facilities or other evidence of wrong-doing by T.  Unfortunately for them, however  — and fortunately for us — he had always been scrupulous about keeping records of any supplies purchased from the refinery, making  sure that he paid for them by cheque and that a copy was kept on file.

The problem was that they didn’t understand that my husband was a goverment employee just like everyone else. He was not a manager in the traditional sense – that is, a factory owner into whose pockets all the profits were poured. He was subject to the same rules and regulations as everyone else, with a salary not vastly superior to theirs. Every decision he took had to be approved, signed and countersigned by his superiors before being brought into effect.

So when they could find no evidence of wrong-doing, they resorted to other methods. Firstly,  they threatened to march on our house and burn it down to the ground. Then, rumours about a planned attempt on T’s life did the rounds. He was at the receiving end of a stream of anonymous death threats. Luckily for me, I knew nothing about all this, or I would not have been able to sleep at night.

I had known for some time, however, about a female employee at the refinery who had developed an unhealthy obsession with my husband. T. had told me that he had not felt able to continue eating his lunch in the works canteen, as this woman would sit opposite him and stare…and stare.. and stare. Finally, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, he had opted to eat lunch at his desk.

The “commission” felt that it would be a good idea to give this woman, who obviously had severe mental issues, our home address. She would loiter on the pavement in front of our house, hoping to catch a glimpse of us, or rather, of my husband. Her impromptu visit to our house that rainy afternoon had scared me witless, because I had no idea what was going on in her mind. Her obsession with T could have led her to think of me as a rival for his affections. It would be easy enough to get rid of me by stabbing me on my own doorstep. Who knows? Anything was possible in those chaotic times.

I prefer to think, however, that she was sent to stalk us simply for her nuisance value. Her activities were soon brought to an end, however, when we opened the double gates to drive out one day, and saw her standing on the pavement in front of us, effectively  barring our way. I can remember just sitting there in the passenger seat, stunned, not knowing what to do. T froze as well, his hands on the steering wheel.

Titan, however, had no such hesitation. He bounded out through the opening as usual, and galloped towards the woman. The last time I was to see our stalker, she was running, screeching, down the street, with Titan, tongue lolling out, in hot pursuit. A stressful episode in our lives brought to a somewhat comic conclusion.

 

Steam Heat

Who enters the Turkish bath will sweat.

– (Turkish proverb)


The British blame it on the Turks and the French, naturally, on the Arabs. For all I know, other nationalities are having an accusing finger pointed at them as well. I am talking, of course about the origins of the Turkish bath, or, as our Gallic cousins would have it, le bain maure.

In Algeria, it is called either the latter or simply le hammam, the Arabic for “hot water bath.” It is a fusion of the Roman thermes, earlier Greek traditions and Arab and Ottoman influences, and has become an integral part of North African culture. The number of hammams to be found in a neighbourhood was often an indication of its wealth. Every town, every neighbourhood had its hammam at one time, but the habit of going there at least once a week has fallen somewhat out of favour and many public baths have closed their doors.

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One of the reasons for this is that people nowadays prefer to bathe behind closed doors. In addition, the reputation of some less salubrious hammams has gone downhill, with rumours of men dressing up as women in order to take photos of the half-naked bathers, or a lack of maintenance and hygiene leading to the spread of infection.

The primary function of the hammam is the same as that of Victorian or Edwardian public baths — to enable those who do not enjoy the luxury of a bathroom or running water at home to keep themselves clean. In Algeria, there are many rural villages that have no water, much less hot water, on tap, so a weekly trip to the nearest hammam becomes a necessity. For some aficionados, nothing beats a weekly steam clean, even though they have bathrooms at home.

A hammam usually has two or three rooms — firstly, a kind of vestibule with daybeds pushed against the walls, in case someone is overcome by the heat, or simply wants a nap; then a warm-ish chamber and finally the hot room, (bit eskhouna),where the temperature varies between 40 and 60 degrees celsius, with one hundred percent humidity. A  low marble or tiled platform runs around the room, in which small washbasins are set at regular intervals, above which are hot and cold taps.

The hammam is usually open to women during the day, but turned over to men in the evening. I know this because our house, the Villa Robineau, was next door to a hammam and the male clients would line up in the evenings, waiting for the doors to open and whiling away the time sitting on the windowsills of the houses opposite, gazing avidly at our windows in the hope of catching a glimpse of us. I don’t know what they expected to see, but I suppose we were rather like exotic animals in a zoo — a Kabyle refinery manager and his European wife.

But the hammam is primarily a female domaine — a place of endless discussion, an intimate space where confidences are exchanged and where the perfumed billows of steam echo with the splashing of water, sudden bursts of laughter and murmured conversations. ” Ici l’oreille s’ouvre pour entendre glisser dans une caresse délicieuse, le chant du cuivre, de l’argent des coupes et des calices ciselés qui servent à puiser l’eau des vasques.  (Here the ear can perceive, sliding in a delicious caress, the ringing sound of the engraved copper or silver cups and chalices, used to scoop the water from the basins.)

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There are a certain number of utensils necessary for a good hammam session — a small pail, a bowl, a wash mitt made of coarse flannel and a supply of savon noir (black soap), henna and ghassoul. The pail and bowl can often be objects of beauty; wrought in silver or copper, with delicate engravings on the sides. All of the beauty products are made from natural ingredients; savon noir from olive pits, which give it its dark amber colour; henna from the leaves of the henna plant, and ghassoul, a natural clay used for washing the body and conditioning the hair.

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Epilation of excess body hair is achieved using “sugaring” — a little like waxing. All of these traditional beauty treatments are now readily available in expensive beauty salons everywhere in the world — at hugely inflated prices.

Henna application is usually done the night before. The difficulty with this is that henna paste dries rock-hard and I became used to seeing Fatiha sporting what looked like a helmet of reddish-brown clay on hammam days. You could actually knock on it with your knuckles and cracks would appear like those in soil after a long drought.

The best part of going to a hammam, however, is the massage or exfoliation of the skin. Once the steam has gone to work, the pores open and it is now time to start scrubbing. If you are lucky, there is a woman employed to do just that, or a friend can “do” the less accessible parts of the body. Dead skin and dirt just roll off the body, which is then rinsed before applying soap.

Above all, the hammam is a place where women can socialise without any male surveillance or class distinction. The Algerian equivalent of a hen party is usually held there, with the future bride, accompanied by the female members of her family, entering the hammam to the sound of chanting, youyous, and the derbouka drum. Afterwards, cakes and cold drinks will be served to everyone there, family members and strangers alike. Her next trip to the baths will probably be with her new mother-in-law.

The hammam can also act as an impromptu marriage agency, where mothers with sons of marriageable age can thoroughly inspect for physical flaws any prospective candidate for her son’s hand. This prospect actually makes my skin crawl, bringing to mind a nightmare vision of a livestock market, and my outraged Britishness comes to the fore.

I only went to the hammam three times during my years in Algeria and each time I was practically press-ganged into it. The first time was with a neighbour in Oran and we came home, both clad in haïks, because they were easier to slip on — the first and last time I have ever worn one, I might add. The interesting thing was that, wrapped up in my white sheet, I attracted far more glances from men than I did bareheaded and wearing European clothes.

The second time was in Algiers with a group of my sisters-in-law before a wedding. The memories of that outing are rather hazy, but I do remember giggling a lot.  The third time was with Fatiha when we first moved into the Villa Robineau and there was no hot water. Longing for a bath, I finally gave in to Fatiha’s cajoling and went next door with her to our neighbourhood hammam. I remember clinging to the last vestiges of my dignity by refusing to take off my knickers, turning my back on the curious stares of the other women and  crouching, in desperation, over one of the washbasins in order to splash cold water over my burning cheeks, red from a mixture of heat and embarrassment.

Although the hammam is not a Kabyle custom — Kabyle women preferring to meet and gossip around the village well —  T. quite enjoyed his rare visits there. He considered that the “European” habit of a quick shower was the worst of unhygienic practices. “You can’t really be clean unless you rub off the accumulated dirt,” he would say loftily, “Rinsing or soaping it off is not enough.”

I was obviously NOT dirty, as exfoliation didn’t work on me. No amount of vigorous rubbing would dislodge a single flake of dry skin. Quite frankly, I prefer to be “unhygienic” rather than wash myself under the prying eyes of a dozen other women, all wondering if European women were made the same way as them, and not in possession of a third breast, or six fingers on each hand, as rumour would have it. No, don’t worry — I’m joking.

The Lion King

Maman! Maman! It’s Garcia!! Garcia is in the garage!” My son had set off for school a few moments before, but had come rushing back, his face drained of all colour. Garcia? How could that be?

Garcia was one of the abandoned kittens we had taken in the year before. A few months later, we had found him motionless on the front veranda, seemingly close to death. We concluded that he must have been poisoned by a lump of meat covered in rat poison thrown over our wall. The idea had probably been to poison our dog, and thus gain access to the house when we were absent.

So we had given poor Garcia’s limp body to the gardener, with instructions to bury him in a field somewhere. And, yet, almost a year later, here he was — back from the dead. Resurrected. I rushed out to the garage and it was indeed Garcia,  sitting on the roof of the car, seemingly in robust health, miaowing loudly and indignantly as soon as he caught sight of us.

He had become used to life as a free agent, though, and never settled with us again. He would come back to visit us from time to time, deigning to be stroked and spraying the staircase. One day, however, he left and never came back.

We have always had cats in my family. We had been cat owners since the day my mother had gone into our kitchen when I was eighteen months old and found a mouse sitting nonchalantly twitching its whiskers on the draining board. Our first cat, Mickey, had lived until I was fifteen. Going into the kitchen for a drink of water, I found her stretched out dead on the floor. Mickey? Her?  Yes, Mickey was a she-cat. Dad had made a mistake when examining her as a kitten, but later swore she had changed sex just to make him a liar.

We had a couple of cats after that, including one donated by my sixth-form English teacher. He — and it was definitely a tomcat this time — rejoiced in the imposing name of Jonathan. Well, you surely don’t expect an English teacher to call a cat Fluffy or Tiddles, do you?

By this time I had left for university and didn’t give cats a second thought until my third year. T. had to move to Liverpool to study for his Master’s degree and I was left behind in Sheffield, in a small flat, heated only by a two-bar electric heater, to prepare for my Second Part Finals. My heart had quailed at the prospect.

As there were not very many lectures or tutorials during the Third Year, most of my time was spent in revising. So there I was — stuck in the flat — with no television, just a record-player on which I played a pile of mournful French love songs, full of longing and despair. Nothing like a bit of Brel or Aznavour to make you feel worse.

Who, or what, could keep me company during the cold, lonely nights when T wasn’t there? The answer came when we went over to Blackpool to see my parents just before he left. Their cat (I’ve forgotten which one) had produced a litter of adorable kittens. T. looked at me and then back at the kittens as if he’d just discovered the Holy Grail. “Why don’t we take one back to Sheffield to keep you company?” he said.

We had an eventful drive back to Sheffield. The kitten, scared out of its wits, careered around the inside of the car — at one time clinging upside-down, hissing, to the roof upholstery by its claws, its fur standing on end, its tail like a bottle brush  — and crawling all over a friend we had taken along for the ride, even sitting on his head at one point.

During the journey home, I mused aloud about a name for my new pet, trying out a few for size. “Izem,” said T. firmly, trying to concentrate on the road ahead. “Izem?” “It means lion in Kabyle.” “Oh,” I answered feebly, glancing at our friend, also Kabyle, who was nodding vigorously. And so Izem the First was crowned, the first of a dynasty of three.  I only kept him a short while, though, giving him to a neighbour when I moved to Liverpool permanently a few months later.

Just as an aside, I had been taught in my linguistic studies that if a language has a word for an object, animal or utensil, they must have existed in the immediate environment when the language was first evolving. “Izem” is a Kabyle word, not a loan word from Arabic, Spanish or French. So lions must have existed in Kabylie at one time. T. confirmed this later by telling me that his father had once been chased by a lion near their village.

Izem the Second came into our life a few months after our wedding. T. must have realised that I was struggling to adapt to life in Algeria, although we had never discussed it. I think he felt that if he commiserated with me over my difficulties, patting me on the back and murmuring,”There, there,” he would open the floodgates.

So one evening he came home carrying a large cardboard box. On opening the flaps, I found a small kitten curled up inside. Black like his predecessor, Izem the Second soon had the run of the flat, although T balked a little at his litter tray. For him, animals had only one place and that was outside. A bit difficult, though, on the eighth floor of a tower block of flats.

My mother-in-law quite liked cats, but, like her son, thought they should know their place. Outside. Once, looking at me stroking Izem, who was purring on my lap, she said something acerbic to T. in Kabyle. When I gave him an enquiring look, he muttered  sheepishly, “My mother thinks you should be dandling a baby on your knee, not a cat!”

Her wish was granted, and nine months later, Izem the Second went the same way as his predecessor, the day we brought our daughter home from the maternity clinic. I don’t know whether the stories about cats sitting on babies’ faces are just urban legends, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

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Izem the Third was one of the many cats we collected when we moved to the Villa Robineau. The neighbours had found a useful way of getting rid of their unwanted kittens by throwing them over, or shoving them under our double gates. Our German Shepherd dog, Titan, would soon dispatch them the same way as he did rats, that is, throwing them up into the air and breaking their necks. If we managed to get to them first, however, he would then consider them as part of the family, never touching them thereafter, only indulging in a little “play chase” when he got bored.

Izem the Third should really have been named Thasseda or Lioness because, yes, it was another female. We added innumerable other cats to our menagerie, including the three brothers — Grisou, who, suffering from gender identity problems, tried to suckle some other abandoned kittens, Picsou and Garcia, (the Resurrected) named after the sergeant in the Zorro television series because he was vastly greedy, verging on feline obesity.

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The three brothers – Garcia in front

I’m glad that we had a series of pets when the children were small, because their attitude to animals was the complete opposite to that of most Algerians, whose reaction veered from disgust to outright fear, with most Algerian children fleeing in terror or bursting into tears at the mere sight of a dog or cat.

Dracula

Réveille-toi! Réveille-toi!” (Wake up! Wake up!) I shook my husband’s shoulder until he snorted a couple of times and then looked at me through sleepy, half-closed eyes.  “Skiya?” he mumbled – in other words, “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” (What’s the matter?)

When he could finally focus, he saw,  to his surprise, that I was sitting bolt upright in bed, massaging my right hand. I had woken up, realising that my hand was completely numb. I wasn’t worried at all at first, merely thinking that I had been sleeping on it and so, still half-asleep, had rubbed it desultorily a couple of times. It was only when the hand remained stubbornly numb and no amount of rubbing brought the feeling back, did I panic and wake T.

Still flat on his back, eyes closed, he obediently started rubbing my hand as well. All to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I lay flat on my stomach, my hand, rubbed red and raw, dangling over the edge of the bed. Gradually and excruciatingly, the feeling returned. It was like a bad case of pins and needles, only ten times worse.

The next day, I thought no more about it. We were still living in the Clos des Poivriers at the time with our daughter, aged two, and our son, who was about five months old. As baby clothes in Algeria were not really to my taste, I had spent a lot of time over the past few months knitting little jumpers, cardigans and trouser suits for my son. There he was, kitted out in knitted flares and trendy waistcoats, like a miniature Sonny Bono.

I had already done this two years before, when I had knitted my daughter’s entire layette – except for her nappies. The shelves in our wardrobe had been full of little, hand-knitted garments in pastel shades. I had carefully avoided pink or blue wool as we had had no idea if the baby I was expecting was a girl or a boy. No scans in Algeria at that time. It was perhaps lucky, in that some people might have thought twice about bringing a pregnancy to term if they had known it was a girl.

After a few days’ respite, the numbness and tingling in my right hand woke me again. This time I knew what to do, and let my hand dangle over the side of the bed again. The pain was awful –  I bit my lip not to groan at the agonising prickling, both of the numbness and of the sensation seeping back.

I soon found that I could not raise my right hand higher than chest level without it losing all feeling.  One day, sitting cross-legged on the floor,  trying to do up the buttons on the back of my daughter’s dress as she stood patiently in front of me, I burst into tears. My hand felt like a block of wood, and was about as much use. How could I continue to live a normal life as a wife and the mother of two small children, if I couldn’t use my hand properly?

Fatiha rushed into the room on hearing my sobs, and fastened my daughter’s dress for me. Off she skipped, not giving a thought as to why her mother had suddenly been  reduced to a gasping, shuddering wreck.

Soon, just dangling my hand over the edge of the bed didn’t work anymore. I had to get out of bed and stand there for what seemed like an age, letting my hand drop to my side. T. would wake from a deep sleep and peer through the shadows in the bedroom to find me looming over the side of the bed, my arms by my sides and trying not to make any noise. He would blink at me and say tentatively, “Wendy?” A loud sob would be the only response I could make. He later confided in me that if I had not answered, he would have been out of the room like a shot.

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Put yourselves in his shoes.  You wake up from a deep sleep, feeling a PRESENCE in the room. You prise open your eyes to see a dark figure standing by the bed, its arms straight down by its sides. It isn’t doing anything – just standing there. The only noise you can hear is a kind of strange, snuffling sound. Visions of blood-soaked fangs and bony fingers reaching for your neck race through your mind. Dracula had nothing on me.

I finally went to see our local doctor, Dr. D. His surgery was just around the corner and along Bethioua’s main road. He had always been our friend, being approximately our age and having worked for Sonatrach at the ammonia plant for a while.

I can remember him walking down our front path for  the first time, fashionable flares and kipper tie flapping in the breeze. His sideburns and moustache were a wonder to behold. Not my idea of a family doctor, having been brought up under the care of our dour, grey-haired GP in Blackpool – he of the bristly eyebrows that had always fascinated me as a child.

Dr. D., however, was to be of inestimable help to our family. He had accompanied T. to Algiers after my husband’s car accident and even after that, we could always count on him. When my son caught measles from his sister a few months later, he would come round to the house every single evening without being asked – just to check on our baby.

Dr. D. was no specialist, though. After scratching his head a bit and stroking his moustache, he decided to give me a course of cortisone injections. Even at the time, I knew that cortisone had bad side effects, but would have done anything, bar chopping off my hand, to take the pain away. The injections had limited success, reducing the agonising prickling, but doing nothing for the numbness.

I learned to manage my condition – no name had yet been put to my mysterious ailment. I learnt to sleep in certain positions, so my hand would not fall prey to the creeping numbness. I learnt not to use the hand for certain tasks. Sometimes, I would forget and have an agonising flare-up, as, for example, when T. brought home a load of pine planks for shelving, and I helped sand them down using just a bit of sandpaper.

It was only many years later, after our return to Britain, that I finally knew what was wrong. It is called carpal tunnel syndrome.  After a series of tests, I was operated on to release the nerve from its inflamed, constricting sheath. That night, lying in bed, I realised that, for the first time in forty years, my hand was completely free from pins and needles.

My habit of knitting for hours on end has been the root cause of the problem, strangely enough aided by the fact that I had just recently given birth.  I had to give up what used to be one of my favourite hobbies, and sadly,  have not knitted again from that day to this.

It Never Rains, But It Pours

When we first moved into the Villa Robineau in 1978, we spent most of our time at first trying to drag it into the modern era. It had been built in the twenties and had remained firmly stuck in that decade. This, of course, was not at all to my taste, as its old-fashioned elegance was completely at odds with the fashionable indoor decor of the brash seventies. So we tried to jazz it up as best we could.

We were able to make purely cosmetic changes, like papering the walls in eye-popping geometric designs and consigning to the outhouses all of the solid wood wardrobes and bedside tables left behind by the original owners, replacing them by white-laquered cubes that had been cobbled together by a local carpenter in the best tradition of IKEA (or Habitat.)

I must admit, though, that I succumbed to the art deco charms of two of the original pieces of furniture – a curved cupboard in shiny dark wood and a glazed display cabinet with a marble inset where we kept our few bottles of alcohol and our wine glasses. My eye was also caught by a beautiful bow-fronted chest of drawers that later found pride of place in our bedroom.

The one part of the house we couldn’t renovate, however, was the roof. It wasn’t through lack of trying, but the original French settler owners had imported slates from the north of France to cover the roof’s steep pitches and gables. It had been a statement roof, meant to underscore the owners’ status and demonstrate their superiority, financial or otherwise, to the other inhabitants of Bethioua – or Saint-Leu, as it was known at the time.

Unfortunately, when it came to repairing the roof, as slates had never been a traditional building material in Algeria, there were none to be found. Terracotta tiles had always been used there as roofing material, but even these became harder to come by in the seventies and eighties.

Most householders simply demolished their tile or slate roofs, replacing them by the dreaded concrete slab. New houses were built with flat roofs. I hated these, thinking they removed all character from the houses. They looked as through they had been subjected to a particularly close buzz-cut by a crazed army barber. The average Algerian family, however, loved a flat roof, as it provided more storage space, somewhere to dry clothes and temporary sleeping quarters during the sweltering summer nights.

If we had removed the slate roof from the Villa Robineau, it would simply have become a featureless, grim block of a building, pierced by long, lugubrious windows and a strange, curly pergola sticking out into the void. So we clung stubbornly to our Hitchcock-style roof, even though it caused many problems. The wind whistling in from the sea on particularly stormy days caused slates to come crashing to the ground, especially as they had simply been hung on nails that had become increasingly corroded by the sea air.

Finally, the uppermost ridge broke off and next time it rained, water came pouring into the loft through the gaps. Rain in Algeria is not a gentle English drizzle, pattering softly on to a canopy of leaves – it is storm-lashed and furious, suiting the Algerian temperament, drumming on roofs and windows and turning dry river beds and streets into swiftly-flowing streams.

Luckily, the original owners of the house had provided for any eventual roof leak by covering the loft floor with a sheet of soft zinc to protect the ceilings below. T. tried his best to plug any leaks, applying some kind of red epoxy resin to the slates from the inside to bond them together and replacing any missing ones by rectangles of rigid linoleum cut to size. But it was an uphill and thankless task.

Algerian cloudbursts also caused problems elsewhere. The  new blocks of flats built in Arzew during the eighties had been designed with no thought given to the natural water courses that flowed from the hills behind the town down to the sea. So Arzew would flood on a regular basis, muddy water flowing through streets and houses alike.

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One day, when the rain was coming down in buckets, we were informed that the streets in Arzew had once again become impassable. Our children were trapped there in school and instead of waiting for T. to send a search party, I set off on my own rescue mission in my unreliable Fiat 128. Clinging to the steering wheel and holding my breath, I could barely see the road through the grey curtain of rain and finally came to a wheezing, stuttering halt in the town centre, the water reaching the top of my wheels and drowning my engine.

Flagging down the nearest car, which was carefully navigating its way through the floodwaters, I was relieved to find that the driver was one of T’s Sonatrach colleagues, who drove me home. On arriving, I found that my son was already there, having cadged a lift from a lorry driver. Of course, like parents everywhere, I subjected him to an irate ear bashing on the importance of  staying put. Our daughter, usually less level-headed than her brother, had done the sensible thing for once and waited for the school bus.

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Heavy rainfall was even worse when it followed a sandstorm in the Sahara, many thousands of miles to the south.  There would be no wind to speak of, but the sky would turn an ominous orange, casting a strange, unreal light on the landscape, as if heralding the end of the world. If it rained afterwards, we would wake up to a scene of devastation. Everything would be coated in red mud – cars, outdoor furniture, garden plants – everything. The rain would have brought down all the sand high up in the atmosphere and dumped it everywhere.

The new ring roads built in the eighties to circumnavigate the villages on the road to Oran had also been built without any provision for drainage, so when it rained heavily, the streams of water from Lion Mountain would flow across the ring road, turning it into a churning, raging torrent.

On one such day, when the rain was pelting down and lightning was strobing the ominous black thunderclouds, T. was due to take a flight to Algiers. Of course, instead of cancelling the trip like any sensible person, he insisted on maintaining his schedule. His driver was busy with some other important task, so we drove to the airport together, inching forward along the flooded ring road, leaving a white, foamy wake behind us like a motorboat.

My husband safely dropped off at the airport, I faced the journey back on my own. Not wanting to brave the ring road again, I decided to take the old colonial road, lined with trees, which wound its way back to Bethioua by a circuitous route.

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Except for one hair-raising moment when I overtook a tanker lorry and the car started aquaplaning, my journey home was remarkably incident-free. The surface of the old road was barely wet, as the pied noir builders had made sure that there was a drainage ditch on each side of the road, ready to catch any surface water running off.

On my arrival home, the phone rang. It was my husband, freshly landed in Algiers, “just checking.” He had obviously been worried, but had given no outward sign of it – as usual.

Keeping Mum

T. turned to me, putting his arm along the back of the carseat and looked at me steadily, never taking his eyes from my face. “It IS leukaemia,” he said.

On that particular day in 1977, we had just drawn up in front of the house on our return from the beach. I had been talking at length about my fears, but T. had not responded to my ramblings, busy putting the car in neutral, turning off the engine and pulling up the handbrake with a decisive tug. When he had finally answered me, I had stared at him in shock. “How do you know?” was all I could stammer out.

He explained that he had received a telegramme at work the day before from Mum, telling him the bad news about my father. He had immediately replied by the same method, assuring my mother of our love and support. All this without saying a word to me until I had brought up the subject myself. His first instinctive reaction had been to shield me from the bad news, but he had soon realised that he would have to inform me. I suppose he had been waiting for the right moment.

I had just returned from a holiday to Blackpool with the children, aged seven and six at the time, where I had found Dad in hospital with a supposedly minor complaint. He was making sure that he was in tip-top condition, as he and Mum were due to fly out to Algeria a fortnight later. I can remember going into his ward in Victoria Hospital and my daughter, gregarious as usual, clambering on to his bed without any bidding, to give him a hug. My son, intimidated by all the hospital paraphernalia, hung back. No amount of coaxing could bring him out from behind my skirts.

On my return to Algeria, I had confided in T. about my worries, convinced that the anaemia the consultant had mentioned in passing was, in fact, something far worse. I had then dared give voice to my deepest, darkest fear – that it was leukaemia. I wasn’t sure as hospital policy at that time was to keep the facts about a patient’s terminal illness from friends and family. As I spoke, tears were already beginning to form in my eyes. So when T confirmed my fears, it was a shock, but not an unexpected one.

My mother and father had been out to Algeria together twice before. Mum had, of course, been present at our wedding, but she and Dad had visited together a couple of times afterwards. Dad enjoyed his holidays with us, pottering around the house in the Clos, even making traditional Lancashire stools for the children from off-cuts of wood. He had done the same  for my sister and me when we were children, and our childish imagination had transformed the stools into boats, cars, cradles for our dolls and magical Cinderella coaches.

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Dad was wonderful at things like that. He was already middle-aged when my sister and I were born and didn’t have the energy to play tag with us. But he would craft the most wonderful toys – a dolls’ house with working lights and a toy theatre with lights and velvet stage curtains that you could open and close with a satisfying swish by pulling a drawstring at the side.

But now, still reeling from the shock, I hardly had time to gather my thoughts when T. had to leave for the States on a business trip. The morning of his departure, a couple of hours after he had set off for the airport, the telephone rang in my office down at the LNG plant. Picking it up with nerveless fingers, I recognised the voice of T’s secretary, announcing that she had received a telegramme  from Britain. My heart pounding, I asked her to read it out for me. It was the news that I had been dreading.

As I had residency status in Algeria, I required an exit visa to leave the country. One of the many documents needed to obtain it from the local authorities was an attestation signed by T. confirming that I lived under his roof – une attestation d’hébergement. It is very difficult to find the equivalent of this in English – I don’t think such a paper exists, or has ever existed in Britain.

It implied so many things – most of them negative. The fact that, even though my name was on the deeds, the house belonged to my husband – I was living under HIS roof. The fact that he had to vouch for me –  a mere woman, a second-class citizen. The fact that I couldn’t leave Algeria without his permission. It also meant that, as he wasn’t there to sign the paper, I couldn’t leave Algeria to attend my own father’s funeral.

A year after my father’s death, Mum had recovered enough to make the trip out to Algeria on her own. She loved being surrounded by family again, enjoying being the centre of attention, and all of T’s brothers and sisters, his mother and uncle made sure that she was, treating her like a queen. They had become, in fact, not only members of my family, but members of hers as well. On her return to Britain, she would wax lyrical about the scenery, the house, the beach, the sun and her wonderful son-in-law and precocious grandchildren.

Fatiha would bend over backwards to cater to Mum’s every whim, tending her lovingly when she felt a little off-colour, putting her to bed like a child and bringing her hot tisane and cakes. My mother-in-law, during her visits, would greet my mother every morning in English, laboriously learning the unfamiliar words at our prompting. She would be so worried about my mother not being fed properly, she would start preparing lunch at around ten o’clock in the morning.

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Mum would be in fits of giggles when I returned home from work, saying that she had just eaten a plateful of stone-cold omelette and chips, my mother-in-law hovering anxiously in the background. Mum would never fail,  however, to end her comic description by adding fondly, “Ah – bless her!” and sending an affectionate glance in my mother-in-law’s direction, which was always reciprocated in full measure.