Anita and Me (25 page)

So that was his name. I felt satisfied that ‘Mr Topsy’ – my guess – had not been too far off.

‘Where did yow learn to speak Indian then?’ asked one of the women, but Mr Topsy/Turvey was concentrating hard on Nanima.

‘
Thusi hither rande-ho,ji? Punjab the vich?
’ Nanima nodded her head vigorously and then, they actually had a conversation! I caught snatches of it, he mentioned Ludhiana, she talked about Bessian, he asked if there was still such and such a market in Delhi, she said she’d bought carrots there just last year…We were all stunned into silence, even Sunil stopped eating his shawl and regarded them both with disbelieving
saucer eyes. I felt hot with fury. How dare he steal my Nanima from me! How dare this fat man with the ridiculous crimplene strides know more Punjabi than me! I went into a deep sulk and made a pretence of rocking Sunil’s pram so I could move further away, hoping that Nanima would finish soon. She was giggling away like a schoolgirl, she’s even flirting with the old sod, I thought angrily, and then she eventually gave him another long namaste and nodded her farewells.

Mr Topsy/Turvey watched her with devoted eyes. ‘I served in India. Ten years. Magical country. Magical people. The best.’

‘Shouldn’t have bloody been there anyway, should you?’ I muttered under my breath. ‘Who asked you to lock up my grandad and steal his chickens?’

I was by now walking fast, making Nanima puff and trot a little to keep up, but I could still hear him shouting behind us, ‘We should never have been there. Criminal it was! Ugly. You look after your nan! You hear me, Topsy!’

I stumbled momentarily, cursing as the heavy pram wheel ran over my foot. Had Mr Topsy/Turvey been reading my mind? I looked back quickly and although the women were now dispersing, deep in conversation, he was still watching us with a fond, faraway look in his brimming eyes. ‘
Achha Admi Si, Ohne Punjabi aandi hai
,’ Nanima said breathlessly.

I slowed down a little to let her catch up. ‘Don’t encourage him, Nanima. He’ll be coming round wanting to swap curry recipes next.’

She shrugged her shoulders. I assumed that she had not understood, but as we reached the plate glass door of Mr Ormerod’s shop, she said, ‘Nice man.’

‘Hey Nanima!’ I bumped her with my hip, the way I did it with Anita, our own method of saying “Alright!” ‘That was brilliant! Give Nanima a clap, Sunil!’

Sunil obliged by crashing his palms together and then throwing up all over his yellow romper suit. As I fumbled for the tissues hidden beneath his cot blanket, I squinted through
Mr Ormerod’s door and froze. I recognised the old man with whom he was laughing and chatting, he was one of the church mafia and I was sure he was also one of the phantom hecklers who hid behind Mr Ormerod to spit his poison. I could not go in that shop. I thrust the shopping list mama had written out for me into Nanima’s hands and propelled her towards the door.

‘
Thusi under jao
, Nanima,’ I told her, ‘Here,
paisa
, money. It’s okay …’ Nanima looked from the list to me and then at the money, and shrugged again before opening the shop door. I manoeuvred the pram so I could watch the shop interior through the crack in the window display, a convenient space between the Player’s Cigarette sailor and the huge Marmite jar. I checked on Nanima, she was simply staring at the laden shelves before her, as if choosing something special. Mr Ormerod was wearing a fixed, patient smile, the meanfaced man was looking at Nanima with barely disguised amusement, taking in her woollen shawls, her loose fitting
salwar kameez
which to the English eye I knew, looked like pyjamas, and the men’s bedsocks, crammed into her worn leather thong sandals. The Mean Man shot Mr Ormerod a mocking glance and Mr Ormerod bit his lip and looked away. I felt terribly guilty suddenly, protective. I wanted to go inside and drag Nanima out of there. But it was too late.

Nanima was still checking out the produce, so Mr Ormerod reached over the counter and gently took the list and the ten-shilling note from her hand. He read it briefly and then turned back to the shelves and disappeared from sight for a while. Nanima was pointing to something on a high shelf, and then smiled and nodded, and all the while, the Mean Man never took his eyes off her face. I could not work out what he was thinking; there was fascination there certainly, distaste, and something much more awful and unwelcome – pity.

Mr Ormerod’s face came back into view and he talked so slowly and carefully that I could lip-read what he was saying.
‘Do You Want A Bag, Love?’ and waved a sheet of brown paper at her. I ducked out of sight and busied myself with Sunil, who was now lying on his back, sucking his toes noisily. He was hungry. I had been left in charge of my family and failed miserably; my baby brother was starving before my eyes and my aged granny was a helpless mute in front of two people I had not the courage to face myself. Then the shop bell tinkled and Nanima was beside me, clutching her booty. I took the bag from her and quickly checked off the contents against the list. It was all there, and then Nanima handed me the change. I counted it, then recounted it and checked the list and bag again. There was no mistake. I knew the price of every item written down there by heart, as I always used the leftover coppers to buy sweets. Sixpence short! Six whole pence! Mr Ormerod had tried to cheat my Nanima!

This is a test, I told myself over the hammering of my heart, these people have hurt you and now you can get them back, these lying pigs who took advantage of an old lady who could not speak English. I had never confronted an elder before on anything, but this time I had good reasons. I felt I had been waiting so long for this moment. ‘Wait here, Nanima…
Thehro aider
!’ I whispered to her, took a deep breath and entered the shop.

Mr Ormerod looked up, confusion and, I thought, guilt creasing his features. ‘Hello Meena, love! Was that your nan who just came in?’

‘Yes, it was actually, Mr Ormerod,’ I said calmly, although my voice sounded high and forced to my ears.

‘I thought it was. I’d heard you had visitors. How’s she been with this weather? Must be cold for her, ey?’

‘Funny, you’re the tenth person to say that today, smartarse!’ I thought, but actually what I said was, ‘Yes, a bit.’

There was a brief silence when we all looked at each other, waiting for someone to fill the gap with some polite social
chit-chat. The Mean Man was now picking his teeth with the edge of a threepenny bit. Probably my money as well, I thought, and the idea of ferret-face cleaning his gob with my Nanima’s change made me suddenly burst out with, ‘You made a mistake! You cheated my Nanima!’

The Mean Man stopped flossing, he raised his eyebrows at Mr Ormerod who looked at me kindly, which made me feel even angrier. ‘I don’t think …’

‘You thought just because she don’t speak English you could cheat her! Well she’s really clever actually, she knows lots of English, I bet you don’t speak any Punjabi do you?’

I was breathing hard now, I could feel tears pricking my eyes which I blinked back furiously.

Mr Ormerod came out from behind the counter, ‘Well I thought I’d totted up alright, but tell me anyway, what’s missing then?’

‘Sixpence,’ I stuttered. ‘You kept sixpence back for yourselves! I expect you’ll be giving it to buy that new church roof, won’t you?’

Mr Ormerod’s face fell. I had him now. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Well now…I understand why you’re a bit upset, love…Awful business that, we was all really sorry …’

‘I don’t want your sorry,’ I said flatly. ‘I want my sixpence back.’

Mr Ormerod coughed again and patted his pockets. ‘Well now, that sixpence must have been for the chocolate bar your nan bought, Meena.’

‘Chocolate bar?’ I said stupidly, forcing myself not to look round at the Mean Man who I was sure would be smiling now.

‘Look, hee-yaar …’ Mr Ormerod said breezily, as he dived into a box under the counter. ‘Have this on me. No charge, ey?’

He was holding out a Curly Wurly, he knew they were my favourites. I shook my head and backed away, fumbling for the door handle. ‘No thanks,’ I said, and fell out of the shop.

Nanima looked up as I approached; she swallowed something quickly so she could flash me a grin. Sunil was cooing noisily, his hands and face were smeared with chocolate, the last chunk enclosed tightly in his fist. He held it up to me proudly for inspection. ‘Nanima!’ I turned on her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?
Thusi kew
 …’ I was too tired to think of the translation, I wanted to lie down right now on the pavement and curl up into a very small ball. Instead, I yanked the pram towards me, making Sunil sway and clutch the sides nervously, and heaved myself up the road, not caring if Nanima caught up or not.

I was pushing hard, concentrating on the bumps and cracks in the pavement, when my ears pricked up at a familiar voice. Uncle Alan was in the middle of one of his jocular moral chats, ‘…understand why, but just think if you could use all that energy to do some good. Find out who the real enemies are, the rich, the privileged, not the other people trying to make a living like you, not people like …’

As I rounded the corner, he stopped, and I looked up from my pram handles. Uncle Alan was standing next to Sam Lowbridge, who was sitting on the low wall surrounding the patch of wild ground where we hunted for blackberries in the autumn. The rest of his gang slouched in the long grass, propped up on elbows and swigging from plastic bottles of cider. I had an impression of a cluster of shaven heads, downy and vulnerable as dandelion clocks, peeking out at me from the hollyhocks and yarrow stalks. A slight breeze seemed to catch their faces, as they swung as one to face me.

I pinned myself to Uncle Alan’s calm, dimpled face. I clung to it mentally like a drowning swimmer onto a buoy. I would not look at Sam Lowbridge. I would never look at him again.

‘Well here’s Meena! And little Sunil too! What a super chappie he’s turning into, ey?’

I pitied Uncle Alan then, if you’re waiting for a hallelujah chorus from that lot, I thought, you really do need help.

‘He’s teething,’ I said uselessly, wanting to keep up this pretence that this was a cosy meet and greet chat, the kind that went on hundreds of times a day in this village. I felt a sudden pang of regret, that this small custom would be denied me from now on, that I would never be able to walk the streets without wondering if I was going to bump into Sam and his cronies, and suffer the impotent fury that was knotting my stomach muscles into cramps. In that one moment at the fete, when Sam had opened his mouth and let the cider and his single brain cell do the talking, he had taken away my innocence. There was nothing in the world I could do to him that would have the same impact, that would affect him so deeply and for so long.

Sunil yawned languorously, a cat’s yawn full of indolence and self satisfaction. I was glad his eyelids were drooping and rocked the pram gently to encourage him to sleep. I did not want him awake for this.

‘Sam and me were having a very interesting talk about blame and responsibility. About how easy it is to get angry with others for what’s going wrong in your own life. Have you got any thoughts on this, Meena?’

Uncle Alan’s eagerness was beginning to grate. I shifted my gaze slightly so I could see the metal toecaps of Sam’s boots; he was bouncing his heels against the wall, I knew if I just raised my eyes a little, I would see that lopsided beam and the black pupils floating like planets in the blue sky of his eyes. I felt sharp and bright as a knife. I cut carefully. ‘If I was Sam’s mum, I’d feel bloody responsible. But it ain’t her fault her son’s a prat.’

Sam’s heels stopped kicking suddenly. There was an exaggerated ‘Whooo!’ from the gang members who shifted onto their haunches to get a better view.

‘Now then Meena,’ broke in Uncle Alan. ‘That’s not the way we settle disputes, is it?’

‘Who’s we?’ Sam’s voice almost made me jerk my head up towards him but I resisted the impulse, although I could
already feel a slow throbbing headache playing bongos on my temples. ‘Are yow angry with me, Meena?’ He asked me like he was asking me to dance. He was soft, yielding, teasing. I stared steadily at Sunil who was now fast asleep and tucked the cot blanket round his bare legs. ‘Meena? Ain’t we friends any more then?’ Someone in the gang shouted out something, I could not make out what it was, but Sam rounded on them with a sharp ‘Shuttit, Baz!’

What was the matter with him? Didn’t he understand what he had done? Just when I thought I would faint with the heat and pain in my head and effort of looking anywhere except where I wanted to look, I felt Nanima’s hand on my arm. She felt my cheek and prised the pram handle out of my fingers. I noticed that my knuckles were white.

‘This your Nan, Meena?’ said Uncle Alan with relief, and shook Nanima’s free hand vigorously. ‘Lovely to meet you. Welcome to England!’

He sounded like he was speaking underwater. I thought I heard hissing, like the geese in the pub courtyard, but louder, more stinging. The sibilance made the bongos beat faster, the pavement looked transparent and rose slightly towards me. I had to look up then, but not at Sam, I looked straight at the gang members who were on the verge of having a huge laugh at Nanima’s expense. Their lips were pursed, ready to hoot or chant or gob or giggle and I was not having it.

All the pain in my head crystallised into two beams of pure energy which shot out of my eyes and which I turned on Sam’s gang, expecting to see them shrivel like slugs under salt, like metal under Superman’s laser x-ray gaze. I was ten feet tall, I had a hundred arms, like the goddess on top of the fridge in Auntie Shaila’s house, I was swathed in red and gold silk like a new bride. I felt myself floating above them all, just like Nanima had risen up to the ceiling that first night with Sunil in her arms.

The gang fell silent. I let Nanima lead me away. I did not look back. As we reached our front door, I heard snatches of a
chant that they were singing at my back, ‘De de dah de, de de dah de, de dah dah dah de …’ I dimly recognised it as the theme tune to
Laurel and Hardy
before I sank into the farty settee and gave in to darkness.