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Chocolate Turkish Delight

For the next three evenings we turned Nadima’s kitchen into a Chocolate Turkish Delight factory. I went round on the Monday night to help make the first batch.

I hadn’t seen her mum since the family-tree homework. I wasn’t sure if I should mention it. I could hardly say, ‘I’m sorry about all your family who died in Syria,’ could I? But then on the other hand, I couldn’t just pretend it hadn’t happened either. So when her mum came to the door I sort of stood there awkwardly. ‘Um …’ I said. Not my best opening line, I’ll admit. She must have guessed what was going through my mind because pulled me into a warm hug. And then she sort of squeezed my arms before she let me go.

D’you know what? Sometimes, when you don’t know what to say, it’s best not to say anything at all.

So then Nadima and I went through to the kitchen, made three tins of Turkish Delight and left it all to set overnight.

On the Tuesday evening we cut Monday’s batch into chunks and dipped them in melted chocolate. Then we left them to cool on plates, while we made more. When the chocolate had set we all tasted a piece and … OMG it was AMAZING!!!

Even Nadima’s mum was impressed. ‘You can be cook, like me!’ she said to me.

I laughed. ‘What about Nadima?’ I asked.

Her mum smiled and shook her head. ‘Doctor.’

‘You want to be a doctor?’ I asked Nadima.

She nodded.

I couldn’t imagine anyone else in 7R wanting to be a doctor. Or possibly in the whole of Year 7 – and to be honest, it would be an utterly terrifying thought if they did. And there was no way I’d want to be one – I hate the sight of blood and I only have to get a whiff of upchuck and I start puking everywhere.

‘You? For work?’ she asked.

‘I am going to run my own business and become a millionaire by the time I’m twenty-one,’ I told her. She pulled her I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about face, so I said, ‘I am going to be rich!’

She grinned. ‘Is good plan!’

By Wednesday evening you couldn’t move in Nadima’s kitchen for Turkish Delight. Every surface was covered.

Nadima’s dad came home, did a comedy face-palm and pretended to reel backwards in shock.

‘Is Turkish Delight everywhere!’ he joked. ‘Is like shop! Is like home!’ Then he fled, laughing, into the living room, with Nadima’s mum, leaving Nadima and me dunking chunks of Turkish Delight in melted chocolate.

‘What was your home like?’ I asked Nadima. ‘In Syria, I mean.’

Nadima smiled and gave a small shrug. ‘Was nice.’

‘Do you have a photo of it?’

‘No. No photo.’

My house is on Google Maps. I know because we checked. You can literally set the little man down outside our front garden. I was about to ask Nadima if hers was on Google Maps too. But I was worried that it might have been bombed. And there might be nothing left but a big pile of rubble – like you see on the news. Imagine if your home, and everything you had, was smashed to smithereens. Just a pile of rubble and dust.

It was a terrible thought – and I couldn’t ask her outright, could I? So I said, ‘Did you have a big house?’

She shook her head.

‘Not house. Flat. Everyone have flat. Only rich have house.’

‘You weren’t very rich then?’

‘Not rich!’ She laughed.

‘Were you poor?’

‘No!’ she exclaimed, shocked. ‘Sweet shop very good! Not poor!’

Then her face sort of fell a bit and she went on, ‘But here, here we poor. Here we have … not much.’

I wished there was something I could do to help them. But my allowance wasn’t going to make much of a difference, was it?

‘It must be hard,’ I said.

‘Yes. Is hard. But we are safe.’ She brightened and added, ‘We have new home now.’

‘And you have me!’ I said.

‘Huh!’ She rolled her eyes and shoved a bit of Chocolate Turkish Delight in my mouth.