‘Alhamdulillah, praise God! It is as if for a wedding ceremony,’ said Abu Moussa as they drove up the narrow lane that led to Tetah’s house and saw the whole front wall was decorated with a cascade of flashing coloured lights. Besides this, tied to the metal security gates that led into the house were a bunch of balloons with ‘Mabrouk’ printed on them.

Zafir groaned. Everyone else laughed.

‘I’ve got to get a photo,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘And you have to be in it, Zaf.’

After Abu Moussa backed out of the lane, Uncle Ghazi took photos of them all. They laughed when Mum took a photo of Uncle Ghazi taking a photo of them.

‘Mabrouk, fata, congratulations, young man.’ The door opposite Tetah’s had opened and Ustaaz Farook appeared. The professor was bald and wore glasses and a tarboosh, small round hat. His wife had died years ago and his children now lived in Canada and America. Because he used to work at the university he often rented his spare room to a student. The latest one was Ammar, who was studying mechanical engineering.

‘Your grandmother has been looking forward to this day.’

‘Shukran, thank you,’ said Zafir.

‘Are you coming over for lunch?’ asked Pops.

‘Yes, your mother has kindly invited me. She said one o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’ He raised his tarboosh to Mum and disappeared behind the door.

‘I’ve been wanting to visit your mother’s house ever since Nadia told me she lived in an old courtyard house,’ Uncle Ghazi said to Pops. ‘So many of these original houses are being pulled down in Damascus these days.’

‘God forbid that will happen here,’ said Pops. ‘My mother has had it renovated so the first floor has a modern bathroom, but when I was growing up we used the latrine in the basement. All the same, this house will always be my home. My father was born here as I was.’

‘The stone steps inside have got hollowed-out grooves,’ said Zafir. ‘Pops says every time we go up and down we’re standing in the footprints of everyone who ever lived here.’

‘That is neat,’ said Uncle Ghazi. ‘Can you get up onto the roof? It would be great for photos.’

‘The maid’s room is up on the roof terrace and if you climb onto the roof of that you can get excellent views. Ah, salaam aleiykum, peace be upon you.’ Pops waved to Mr Mohammed, another neighbour who was coming back from the masjid. He worked in the Ministry for Parks and kept pigeons in a loft on his roof.

‘Aleiykum salaam,’ replied Mr Mohammed. ‘And mabrouk, Zafir. You are getting tall. It doesn’t seem so long ago when you were only a baby.’

Zafir nodded. He was just glad Mrs Mohammed wasn’t there. She loved to tell everyone the story about when Zafir was two years old and he’d gotten into Tetah’s make-up bag and painted himself with lipstick. She always laughed like it only happened yesterday.

Pops rang the bell and called out, ‘Rosa! We’re here.’

They heard the light footsteps of Rosa, Tetah’s maid who was from the Philippines.

‘Hello and ahlan wa sahlan, welcome,’ she said, smiling as always. ‘Madaam Haddad is in the kitchen cooking Zafir’s favourite food – kibbeh and rice – with swar es sett for dessert.’

Zafir didn’t like to say his favourite foods were actually hamburgers and fries and soft serve ice-cream. That sort of fast food was banned in Syria. Luckily, a close second best was Tetah’s burger-like mounds of fried minced lamb followed by a pastry cup full of syrup and smashed pistachios.

‘It smells good,’ said Pops. Usually on a Friday Tetah only ate fish, like all Orthodox Christians, so Zafir knew that she had cooked a special treat just for him.

He raced inside, through the cool passageway to the large, light-filled sitting room. Deep-set windows and French doors led out to a basalt-and-marble paved courtyard that faced south, capturing the warmth of the sun. There was a fountain in the middle that birds liked to splash in. An archway led to the original kitchen with its stone floor. Tetah had never modernised it, apart from adding a gas stove.

‘Habibi, my dear one! You’re here at last. Kull ‘am wa anta bi khayr, may you be blessed for years to come.’ Tetah turned from the stove where she’d been stirring a pot and opened her arms. Her dark hair was piled up in a mass of curls that Zafir knew were stuck in place with half a can of hairspray. She hugged him, spoon in one hand. Hugging Tetah was like hugging a feather pillow: as soft bits were squeezed in, other bits bulged out. She kissed him on each cheek and he knew there’d be smears of red lipstick left behind. As he attempted to rub his cheeks clean, Tetah turned to Pops and kissed him too.

‘Did you all have a safe journey?’ she asked.

‘A twenty-minute taxi ride is hardly a journey,’ said Pops.

‘But it is across the river,’ said Tetah. ‘Why you should choose to live so far from the city, I do not understand. How often must I tell you, Paul – I could so easily move to the old bedroom on this floor and you and your family could have the whole apartment above. Your father and I lived here with his parents.’ She spoke to Pops but glared at Mum, who had looked away.

Zafir wished Mum and Tetah got along better but he knew it was hopeless. Tetah blamed Mum for Pops not being a Christian anymore and she refused to call him by his Muslim name, Boulos. Religion was so important to Tetah that she would probably never change but Pops didn’t mind answering to both his Christian and Muslim names. Boulos and Paul were the same name after all.

‘We’ve been through this before, Mama,’ said Pops. ‘The hospital has a lease on the apartment at Al Waer and the rental is part of my salary package.’ What he didn’t say was that Mum and Tetah would never get along under the same roof and Pops would end up being in the middle of the continual arguments.

Luckily Uncle Ghazi stepped in, holding out the pot of geraniums.

‘Madaam Haddad, these are for you,’ he said.

‘Mama, you remember Nadia’s brother, Ghazi?’ Pops asked.

‘Of course, I’ve met him on many occasions when I came to visit you all in Dubai.’ Tetah looked Uncle Ghazi up and down and Zafir could tell by her expression that she didn’t approve of the ponytail or his clothing. ‘You were much younger then and had less hair.’ All the same she let Ghazi kiss her on both cheeks.

‘What a beautiful deep red,’ Tetah said, admiring the flowers. ‘Do they come from a hothouse in Damascus?’

‘Yes,’ said Uncle Ghazi. He stepped back and Mum and Tetah finally greeted each other with small pecks on the cheeks.

‘Now come,’ said Tetah. ‘I have a gift for Zafir. Rosa, bring us all tea in the sitting room.’

‘Yes, Madaam,’ said Rosa. She’d just finished setting the table at the end of the sitting room.

When they were all seated on the hard blue-and-gold striped lounge suites and Rosa had brought them tea, Tetah handed Zafir a small rectangular box. It was wrapped in gift paper that had dinosaurs on it and ‘Happy Birthday’ written in English. Seeing the paper, Zafir was worried. Did she remember he was thirteen years old and not eight anymore? The parcel contained a stainless steel case. He snapped it open and inside was a watch with a gold band and a large face with Arabic numerals, three small dials and a date window.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Tetah.

‘It’s brilliant,’ said Zafir. He pulled the watch out of its case, strapped it to his wrist and started fiddling with the dials. He was so concentrated on his watch that he didn’t take any notice of the conversation until he heard Tetah say, ‘They’re from Sydney in Australia.’

‘Who is?’ Zafir asked, looking up.

‘Reverend Father Papadopoulos and his wife Presbytera Sophia,’ said Tetah. ‘Weren’t you listening? He’s our new parish priest, here on an exchange for a year with Father Toumas. And Presbytera Sophia is happy to be close to her family in Greece.’

Zafir looked back to his watch, but Tetah went on.

‘The Papadopouloses have one daughter and two sons a similar age to you and I thought it would be nice for you to meet them. Presbytera Sophia suggested afternoon tea on the fifteenth of February, the holiday for Mawlid al-Nabi, the Prophet’s birthday.’

Zafir glanced at Mum. Did he really have to? He willed her to say no.

‘That would be good for Zafir,’ said Mum.

Zafir groaned. When Mum and Tetah agreed on something he knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of it – unless he miraculously came down with a fatal illness. But the Prophet’s birthday was still more than two weeks away. Anything could happen. And now, before Uncle Ghazi left, he needed some skateboard lessons.