She Wore Red Trainers, page 6
Rania cried out, ‘Hold on a minute! Didn’t your parents say that you have to finish your degree first?’
Yasmin sighed. ‘Yes, but my mum’s older sister, Khala Shazia, has a daughter who has a Masters and is still single. She’s scared to death that I might end up like her so she’s convinced Mum and Dad to start looking now, just in case, even if it means a long engagement…’
‘But I thought you had decided to tell them that you want to go to culinary school, not uni…’ Samia’s voice trailed off. We all knew how much courage it would take for Yasmin to tell her superambitious parents that she wanted to bake cakes for a living.
Yasmin looked down at the table and fiddled with her straw. ‘Yeah, well, let’s just say it hasn’t come up yet. They’ve all been distracted by this great big marriage debate. But I’ll tell them soon, inshallah…’
I watched Yasmin’s emotions flit over her face as the others asked her more questions about her aunts’ husband hunting plans.
I felt sorry for her then and made a big show of sighing impatiently. ‘What’s all this talk about marriage anyway? It’s so sad: once Muslim girls reach a certain age, it’s like that’s all we can talk about, like now that we’ve finished school, that’s the next logical step.’
‘Well, isn’t it?’ Samia again with her wide-eyed revert look.
‘No, Samia, it isn’t,’ I said firmly. ‘I, for one, have things I want to do, places I want to see, dreams to fulfil…’
‘You can do that once you’re married, can’t you?’
‘I’d rather do it on my own, thank you very much,’ I sniffed. ‘Husbands just get in the way. And then you’ve got the spawn to contend with…’
‘Oh, Amirah, stop!’ Rania pushed me away and I almost fell off my chair, again. ‘You talk so much rubbish. We all know that you love those rugrats more than anything. I hardly ever see them around without you! Just admit that you’re an old softie, really, and all you need is the love of a good man to get you barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen…’
‘Shut it, Rania,’ I said, duffing her on the head with my bag, my face burning. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Samia got in on the act. ‘Well, if I was a gambling woman – which I’m not, of course – I would put my money on Amirah to be the first to get married and have a kid.’
I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. ‘And what on earth would give you that idea? If I told you once, I told you a thousand times: I am not getting married. End of!’
Rania threw Samia and Yasmin a knowing glance and smirked, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much…’
I grinned then, feeling foolish. I was making too big a deal out of it. It wasn’t as if I knew the future; only Allah knew that. But I felt pretty confident that Samia’s prediction would come to nothing. Anyway, who in their right mind would want to marry me with all my issues?
‘Well, while you three weird sisters carry on with your Mystic Meg act, I’m going to order dessert. Let me know when you get back down to planet Earth.’
And that was the end of all that talk. There are certain times when one’s full attention is required: ordering dessert is one of them.
13
‘So, son, have you heard anything more from the university?’
Dad sat back from our new dining table after a delicious dinner of roast chicken and macaroni cheese. One of our new neighbours, Khadijah Jones from number 5, had sent it. She had packed a week’s worth of dinners in sturdy plastic containers, wrapped in cling film, and dropped them off first thing in the morning.
‘Jazakallah khayran, sister,’ I had said, overwhelmed. I hadn’t expected hospitality like that, not in the city.
‘You’re new to the community, aren’t you?’ she had chirped. ‘And you’ve lost your mum, I hear? So this is the least I can do. Don’t hesitate to knock for me if you need anything, understand?’ And she strode off down the close towards the gate, her purple hijab fluttering behind her.
With curtains up in the windows and containers of home-cooked food in the fridge, the house was starting to feel more and more like a real home.
But now, Dad wanted to have one of our ‘talks’ and Khadijah Jones’ macaroni pie was starting to churn in my stomach. I had been dreading this conversation for weeks and, now that Umar and Jamal had left the table, it didn’t look like I was going to be able to avoid it. Is there ever a good time to tell your superambitious self-made father that you just aren’t sure about all the superambitious plans you made last year? That you regret applying to study Law? That you just don’t know what you want to do with your life anymore? No, there isn’t.
I knew that plenty of the guys I went to school with would be taking a gap year after our A levels. It was almost an obligatory rite of passage. But those guys had parents who could afford to indulge them and would be totally cool about paying thousands of pounds for their kids to go backpacking in India or something.
That is not my dad.
Dad is the kind of father who will look through the uni prospectus before you do and put a star next to the courses he is prepared to pay for. According to him, my options were Law, Engineering, Computer Science, Economics and anything in the medical department.
I made a big show of collecting the plates and taking them to the kitchen. As I passed him on my way to the kitchen, Dad put his hand out and touched my arm. I looked down at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. It wasn’t easy.
‘Son,’ he said, ‘I’ve been on this earth a long time and I know when someone is trying to avoid an issue. So I suggest you put those plates in the kitchen and come and sit yourself down and tell me what is really on your mind.’
I swallowed and nodded. ‘Sure, Dad. Just give me a minute.’
While in the kitchen, I mentally prepared what I was going to say, Dad, I would like to take a gap year to consider my options in light of our new circumstances. No mention of not being sure about studying Law. No mention about not being sure about what I want to do with my life. No mention of the fact that I felt the boys needed me at home because Dad was just too wrapped up in his own problems to really be there for them.
When I was sitting in front of him in the living room, facing his armchair, my delivery was smooth and even. But he didn’t buy it. He peered at me over his glasses, a suspicious expression on his face.
‘What do you mean “in light of our new circumstances”?’
I squirmed in my seat. Please, Dad, don’t make me do this.
‘Are you talking about the move, son?’
That was an easy exit so I nodded vigorously.
‘Well, I don’t see why that should make you change your plans. We already looked at the possibility of you living in halls of residence anyway…’
I bit my lip. ‘That’s not it, Dad…’ I faltered. ‘It’s just that… with Mum being gone…and Umar… J…’
Dad looked at me sharply. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
I became exasperated then. Why was he pretending that he didn’t know what I was talking about? ‘Dad!’ I raised my voice, just slightly, just enough to let him know that I didn’t want to play this game of Let’s Pretend Mum’s Still Here. Not anymore. ‘Dad, Mum’s dead. And I just don’t think I could cope with studying Law right now. Plus it wouldn’t feel right to go off to uni and leave you all…’
‘Ali, you don’t have to worry about us, we’re fine!’
‘Dad, please! Don’t talk as if Mum’s death hasn’t affected us. Umar is angry, J is confused and I… I…’ I tried to keep my voice level. ‘I’m still hurting, Dad. I’m still grieving. Can’t you understand that?’
But Dad’s face remained a mask. ‘Son, life goes on – we belong to Allah and we will return to Him, all of us. Your mother – may Allah have mercy on her – would have wanted you to continue with your studies and that is what you will do. You’re so close now; I won’t have you giving up.’
‘But, Dad…’
No buts, Ali! I have said my piece. If you can’t make sensible decisions, you will have to allow others to make them for you; it’s as simple as that.’
‘So that’s it then, is it?’ I flared again. ‘You aren’t even going to take my opinion into account?’
‘Son, one day you will thank me for this. Remember, I am your father: no one wants more for you than I do.’
‘Not even me?’
‘That’s right, son, not even you.’
***
I had to get out of that house. I pushed my feet into my running shoes and grabbed my iPod. I needed to run, to feel the wind in my face, to flood my ears with Mishari Rashid, to let the rhythm of running calm my jangled nerves.
When I got to the gate at the bottom of our road, I turned left, towards Brockwell Park, where I played basketball with the brothers. As I ran, I tried to empty my head. I didn’t want to think about my conversation with Dad. I didn’t want to think about the prospect of going off to uni to bury myself in legal textbooks, of leaving Umar and Jamal. I didn’t want to think about how my whole attitude to everything had changed. What would Mum have thought? I guess that is a mercy for the dead: they don’t have to watch the living falling apart as they grieve.
By the time I reached the top of the hill, it was starting to get dark. I prayed three raka’at under an enormous oak tree then began to jog back home.
Reaching our street, I keyed in the code to open the gate and began to walk up the hill. It wasn’t bad at all, this place. Seville Close was clean, the gardens well kept and all the houses were in good condition: respectable.
As I looked back down the road before heading for our front door, I could just make out the figure of a girl walking up to the last house on the close. She was wearing a hijab and black abaya and, just before she turned into a driveway, I caught a glimpse of her face. My heart did a little flip. That was Zayd’s sister, I was sure of it.
Then the realisation dawned on me: Zayd and his sister were my new neighbours.
14
It was him, I knew it. I would have recognised him anywhere. What was he doing on our street? Then, I remembered the moving van I had seen parked by number 7 and everything fell into place.
Mr Light Eyes was my neighbour.
Instinctively, I looked over at the sketch I had propped up on my desk, still piled high with A level textbooks, the sketch of his hands that I had drawn off by heart, literally.
Too close, I thought. Too close for comfort.
But, to my frustration, that thought didn’t stop me dreaming about him that night.
***
I don’t know how many times I fell asleep as the double-decker bus crawled along the High Road, choked with Monday morning traffic.
Four of us – Abdullah, Taymeeyah, Malik and I – were on our way to the Islamic centre in Streatham. The community had finally got itself together and put on a summer programme for the kids and I wasn’t wasting any time: those kids were going to be the first to sign up for summer school.
Don’t get me wrong now. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the rugrats’ company; it’s just that I wanted them to get out more. It wasn’t healthy, staying indoors all day, only playing with each other, fighting over the computer. I’d always wanted them to get out more – especially Abdullah. Abdullah, my sweet, loving, tender-hearted brother who was born deaf, needed this more than any of them. He needed to be around other kids his own age. And they needed to be around him, to get to know him, to learn that the fact someone can’t hear you doesn’t mean that they can’t understand you, that they can’t be your friend. Abdullah needed to get out there and so did the other two. It was breaking my heart to see them preferring computer games and TV to reading books and playing outside. Even their Qur’an and Islamic Studies had taken a back seat to those games, something Mum was always ranting on about. I told her to just take away the computer, let them go cold turkey, but she just looked at me like I’d gone crazy.
‘Then what will we do with them?’ she wanted to know. ‘They’re driving me crazy as it is.’
So I knew exactly what kind of summer holiday they could look forward to, especially with Mum in her iddah and on anti-depressants again. I overheard her talking on the phone to one of the sisters, Umm Laila, saying something about him not coming back, about needing to move on. But the waiting period after a divorce is three months and a lot can happen in that time. I walked away then. No way was I getting pulled into any of that drama.
All of which had made me even more determined to get my brothers and sisters into that summer school. I didn’t want them soaking up all the bad vibes in the house.
‘You guys excited?’ I said brightly as we walked towards the Islamic centre. Abdullah was walking in front of us and I held Malik and Taymeeyah’s hands.
‘Stop sucking your thumb, Tay,’ I said, nudging her with my elbow. She grinned up at me, flashing her big gap.
‘But it tastes so good!’ she giggled, batting her eyelashes at me.
‘Yeah, that’s because you flavoured it with bogey,’ growled Malik.
‘No, I didn’t!’ retorted Taymeeyah, whirling to face him. ‘I pick my nose with this finger, not my thumb!’
‘Arghh, Taymeeyah, TMI!’ I laughed. ‘No picking noses and no bogey business, all right?’
Abdullah had turned around and was looking at me, all the confidence gone from his face. ‘Ams, do we have to go summer school?’ he signed with his chubby little hands. ‘Can’t we just stay home with you and Mum or go park or something?’
‘No,’ I signed back, putting on my no-nonsense face. ‘This summer’s going to be different. You guys are going to do new things, meet new people.’ Then I made my face bright and signed, ‘Don’t worry, yeah, trust me, it’ll be fun!’
Abdullah looked up at me, doubt all over his face. Poor kid, he was finding it hard to trust anyone. That was problematic. I needed Abdullah onside. Without him, the whole thing could end in disaster. Like the time me and Rania took the kids to an Eid party in West London. Don’t get me started on the tears, the yelling, the meltdown and then, the grand climax: the hide and seek that lasted three hours because Abdullah wanted everyone to just leave him alone. I stopped walking and knelt down in front of him.
‘Hey, listen,’ I said out loud, taking his face in my hands so that he would look at me and read my lips. ‘I know you’re nervous – that’s cool. I would be, too. But I’ve got this, OK? You’re going to be fine, I promise. Just relax, yeah? It’ll be fine.’
Slowly, slowly, I saw him relax and his face lost that pinched, worried look. He believed me. Now I had to make sure that these people took good care of my babies.
I wasn’t worried about the girls’ side; Rania was volunteering to run the arts classes and she had roped me in to accompany them on the trips. It was the boys’ side that I was worried about. Abdullah was ten, when they started having separate sessions for boys and girls, so I was hoping that, for once, the brothers had got their act together to cater for the boys.
When we got to the centre, it was clear that we were the first ones there. There was a big pile of boxes by the door and we could hear the sound of scraping chair legs coming from inside. A girl’s face peered out of one of the windows, and then it was covered by a bright poster advertising the summer school.
Not bad, I thought, as we all stood there, reading the poster. Malik put his arms up to me and I picked him up so that he could read it too.
Well, they were certainly aiming high – Qur’an challenges, quizzes, football, art, you name it, they were hoping to offer it.
A young Asian brother with a wispy beard and a tracksuit top over his thobe came out of the front door and gave a little jump when he saw us.
‘Oh, As-salamu ‘alaykum, sister,’ he said, his eyes sliding away from my face to the kids. ‘Are you guys here for the summer programme?’
‘Yeah, that’s right…’ What else would we be doing there? ‘You guys are early,’ he blushed furiously. ‘Would you mind giving us 15 more minutes to set up?’
I looked around at the car park. There was nowhere to sit and I didn’t want the kids to start getting restless. I turned to him and saw that he was having the same thoughts as I was: there was no way we were waiting outside.
‘What am I talking about? Sorry, sister, please, come in. The sisters are setting up in that room over there.’ He ushered us in. ‘Just give me two minutes, yeah? I’ll get one of the brothers to bring the registration forms over.’
The room that the sisters were in looked bright and welcoming. We greeted each other with salams and smiles and then they got back to writing a big ‘Welcome’ sign on the blackboard.
When Taymeeyah and Malik wandered over to them to see what they were doing, they laughed, said how cute they both were and invited them to colour with them.
I began to relax.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. I heard a brother with a rather posh accent say ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, sister, I’ve got the forms.’ And then, the door opened and there he was, as real as anything, in front of me.
It was Mr Light Eyes.
15
It was her. It was really her. I couldn’t believe it. She looked even more amazing than the last time I had seen her, My mind was a blur of confused questions. What was she doing here? Did she remember me? I needed to keep it together get a hold of myself. Be polite, not too friendly. Try not to drop the forms I was meant to be giving her. God, she’s pretty, I thought. Astaghfirullah.
16
I saw his eyes flash for a second as he did a double take. He recognised me, there was no doubt about it. He remembered me. I smiled inwardly. Definitely something naughty about that feeling you get when you become aware of how much power you have as a woman. Of course, it can be a very destructive power, which is why we hijab up, lower the gaze and all that. But I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was just me, covered as always, behaving myself as usual. And yet… I’d had an effect on him.
