Bindi Babes (5 page)

“Did you get the big lecture, Amber?” Jazz asked. We were on our way home later that day.

I nodded. “From every single teacher I've seen today. Mr. Arora, Miss Patel, Mrs. Kirke, Miss Gordon …”

“Me too,” Geena said.

“And me,” Jazz added.

“Are you in Ms. Woods's assembly?” I asked.

Both Geena and Jazz nodded, as I knew they would.

“Is it true Ms. Woods is hiring an orchestra?” Jazz asked.

“I heard it was a gospel choir,” Geena offered. “And someone said the whole hall is going to be turned into a scale replica of St. Paul's Cathedral.”

“It wouldn't surprise me,” I replied.

We turned the corner into our street. Geena was in front, and she suddenly did that thing of stopping dead, so that Jazz and I rammed right into the back of her.

“Oof!” Jazz complained, holding her nose. “What did you do that for?”

“Is Dad home again today?” I asked, peering round Geena's back. “Because if he is, there's a few things I want to say to him.”

“No, Dad's car's not there.” Geena pointed down our street. “Look. Look at the windows.”

Even from the corner, a couple of hundred meters away, we could see that our living room windows were flung wide open. We could see the blue curtains fluttering in the breeze.

“What's going on?” Jazz asked, bewildered. “Who's opened the windows?”

“Burglars?” Geena's eyes were huge and worried.

“Burglars who like fresh air, by the look of it,” I said.

I was trying to lighten everyone up, but Geena turned on me.

“Shut up, Amber. This is serious.”

“All right,” I snapped. “Got any bright ideas?”

“We could stop at Mrs. Macey's, and ask her if she saw anyone go in,” Jazz suggested.

“She won't open the door,” I replied. “You know what she's like.”

“Let's walk past and have a look,” Geena said urgently.

We marched down the road and past our front gate, trying to look casual. As we went by, we sneaked a look through the open windows.

“The TV, video and DVD player are still there,” Geena said in a low voice. “So is the CD player.”

We all marched back again, stood by the gate and peered in.

“Maybe the burglar's started in the bedrooms,” I said in a low voice. “There's lots of … stuff up there.” I was thinking of Mum's gold jewelry, packed away with her silk and satin saris in suitcases and boxes that hadn't been opened for a year.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Geena said. “I'm going to take a proper look. You two wait here,” she went on, coming over all big-sisterly. “It might be dangerous.”

Jazz and I waited until Geena had tiptoed up the path. Then, of course, we followed her. We looked over her shoulder into the living room.

We couldn't see anyone, but someone had been there. All the things we would have done when we got home from school had already happened. The room had been tidied and the carpet had been hoovered and the surfaces had been polished.

We were mesmerized. The evening newspaper came flying over our heads and landed with a thud in the porch, but even that didn't make us turn round.

“I've got it,” I said. “It's a burglar who breaks in, cleans your house and leaves.”

“Shhh.” Geena clutched our arms. “Listen. There's someone in the kitchen.”

Someone was moving around at the back of the house. Without saying a word, the three of us crept over to the side gate. Geena unlatched it, and we all took a deep breath before going in.

The back door was propped open. A woman in a pink salwar kameez, her long black hair pinned up in an untidy topknot, was standing at the oven. She was stirring a big pot with a wooden spoon. Onions were sizzling in a pan, and the scent of spices floated in the warm air. Masala, ginger, turmeric and coriander.

Time spun backward. I remembered running home from primary school, one hand in Jazz's and one hand in Geena's, our long plaits flying. Mum would be in the kitchen, making curry. The scent of the spices was the same, and the sound of the onions cooking. They took me back to a time when everything was known and safe.

The picture splintered. Shattered. The sounds and the smells were the same, but it wasn't Mum. This woman was a stranger, although I knew who she was. Dad had ducked out of telling us that Auntie was already on her way. In fact, he'd waited till the last possible minute to tell us at all.

I felt sick.
She
had no right to be standing there, in my mum's place. And I knew that Geena and Jazz felt the same. If we'd been younger, we would probably have taken each other's hands. Instead we moved closer together and stood shoulder to shoulder.

Auntie turned round. She didn't look anything like Dad. Dad is tall and thin and has long, spidery arms and legs. She was short and curvy. But to my surprise, I did remember her face. It was round and smiley, with two dimples. She had big eyes, which were very dark and shiny. They immediately filled with tears.

“Geena, Ambajit.” Auntie tried to hug us all at once. “Jasvinder.”

We stood there, stiff as boards with embarrassment and anger, while she sniffed and fished in her sleeve for a hankie.

“I was so sorry about your mum,” she said.

We stayed silent. I wouldn't have said anything then, not for a million pounds. But I was thinking,
Why? You weren't even friends.

“I arrived this morning. Your dad picked me up and then went back to work.” She was answering all the questions we were supposed to be asking, but weren't. “How are you all? You look well.”

How much longer could she keep talking without any of us replying?

“Are you hungry? Shall we eat?” Auntie was at last beginning to run down. “The curry's nearly ready. We can have a good chat. I want to hear all about your school, and how you're getting on. We've got so much to catch up on.”

“We've got homework to do,” I said, politely but coldly.

Auntie's smile faded. She looked me up and down slowly and thoughtfully; then her gaze moved to Geena and Jazz. She would have had to be deaf, dumb and blind not to sense the hostility coming off us in waves. She didn't say anything, but I could read the sudden knowing expression on her face.
So that's the way it's going to be, is it?

Ye s
, I replied silently.
So get used to it
.

“J
azz, is that you?”

“Is what me?” Jazz was curled up on her side of the bed, reading a magazine.

“That smell.” I flapped the duvet irritably.

“No, it isn't me,” Jazz snapped.

“Well, it's around here somewhere.” I glared at her. “Is that my copy of
Bliss
?”

Jazz didn't look up. “No.”

“Let me see it then.” I lunged toward her.

“Get off!” Jazz squealed, whacking me round the head with the magazine. “I hate sharing with you.”

“Well, I hate sharing with you, too!” I yelled, shoving her hard. We hadn't shared a bed since we were tiny, and I'd forgotten how much Jazz fidgeted and
grunted and kicked. Last night had been like sleeping with a bag of monkeys. Guess who'd got
my
room.

“Aargh!” Jazz rolled over, and fell half out of the bed. I pounced on her.

“Give me the magazine!”

“No.”
Jazz stuffed it down the front of her pajamas, which made me really mad. So I grabbed a big handful of her hair and pulled. She screamed, quite loudly.

“Give. Me. That. Magazine,” I said through my teeth, bouncing up and down on top of her. “Or I'm going to pull all your hair out, bit by bit, and you'll be bald all over like Mr. Grimwade—”

I stopped there. Auntie was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I jumped to my feet and slid my hand behind my back. It still had some of Jazz's hair attached to it.

“Jasvinder?” Auntie looked at Jazz.

“Nothing,” Jazz said sulkily, rubbing her scalp.

I stared back at Auntie and smiled very slightly. There was nothing she could do. We'd closed ranks.

“All right.” Auntie shrugged and turned away. “Make sure you give Jazz her hair back, Amber,” she added as she went out.

“She thinks she's so great,” I muttered.

“Here's your stupid magazine.” Jazz pulled it out of her pajama top, and threw it at me.

“It's cool.” I tossed it back to her. “It's last month's anyway.”

Auntie had already started interfering. Last night, Dad had come home in time for dinner, looking very embarrassed. No surprise there. We'd been thrown right into this thing before we'd had a chance to come up with a decent plan of action. I hadn't even had a chance to talk to the others properly without Auntie hanging around, spying on us and asking if we'd done our homework.

Anyway, the best way had to be to start as we meant to go on. To show Auntie we didn't need her. Show her that she couldn't boss us around. Show her that Dad was on our side, not hers.

“Dad, when can I get my new trainers?” I'd asked as we sat eating dinner.

“New trainers?” Auntie chimed in, before Dad had a chance to open his mouth. She bent sideways and looked at my feet under the table. “What are those things you've got on then? Wellington boots?”

“Ha ha,” I said, freezingly polite. “These are my
old
trainers.”

Auntie stared me challengingly in the eye. “They look new to me.”

“They're not new at all,” I said a shade too quickly. I'd had them for about three months. “Anyway, I'm bored with them.” I didn't look at Auntie, but at Dad.

“That sounds like a waste of money,” Auntie said pleasantly but firmly. She looked at Dad, too. “I hope you're going to say no.”

I did a double take. I must have looked like some actress in a bad sitcom. What did it have to do with
her
?

Dad looked embarrassed and apologetic. “Your auntie's right, Amber,” he muttered. “You don't need new trainers at the moment.”

Geena and Jazz looked as stunned as I was. Dad hardly ever said no to anything. Not since Mum.

“More curry, anyone?” Auntie asked briskly.

The three of us made faces at each other and seethed in silence for a bit. I could tell that Geena had decided to keep quiet about getting her bedroom redecorated, for the moment. But then Jazz returned to the attack.

“Dad, can I have my ears pierced this weekend?”

“What do you mean?” Auntie peered at Jazz's ears. It was seriously beginning to wind me up, how we asked Dad questions and she answered. “Your ears are already pierced.”

“I want two more holes,” Jazz explained.

“Why?” Auntie wanted to know. “You've only got one pair of ears.”

Jazz stuck her nose in the air. “I'm asking
Dad
,” she said.

“And your dad's saying no.” Auntie turned round to look inquiringly at Dad. “Isn't he?”

“No,” Dad said helplessly. “I mean, yes. Yes, I'm saying no.”

“That's not fair,” Jazz gasped.

Auntie shook her head. “Life isn't fair, Jasvinder,” she said. “Have another chapati.”

You can see what we were up against. After dinner, Geena, Jazz and I sat ourselves down in front of the TV, maintaining a frosty silence. Meanwhile, Dad and
Auntie talked. They didn't say anything about what had happened over the last few years. Instead they talked about when they were kids growing up in the family village in the Punjab.

“Remember that bad-tempered bullock we were both really scared of?” Auntie said, laughing. “I used to hate feeding it every day.”

Dad nodded. “Remember when it escaped from the pen and got out into the sugarcane fields? It took us ages to catch it.”

They talked about playing cricket in the fields, riding on the back of their dad's motorbike, going to the nearest town to watch Bollywood films at the cinema, chewing sugarcane, milking the cows, sitting on the flat roof of the house listening to the peacocks calling to each other. I tried not to listen, but I couldn't help it. It was a long time since Dad had looked like he was enjoying himself.

And yet all the time they were talking, I could see that Dad felt just a little uncomfortable. Auntie's arrival had changed everything for
him
, too. Which ignited a faint spark of hope inside me. Maybe Dad didn't
really
want Auntie there either… .

Jazz and I climbed back into bed, and snuggled down under the duvet. We often got up early and went into town on Saturday mornings, but today we'd decided to stay in bed. We thought it might annoy Auntie, which was what we were aiming for. There was a Bollywood film on BBC2 we wanted to watch that went on for nearly three hours. Bollywood films
are long. That meant we could avoid Auntie all morning.

“Oh, you're awake.” Geena came in, still wearing her CK nightshirt. “Who was that I heard screaming a few minutes ago?”

“Auntie,” I said. “We tied her up and locked her in the airing cupboard.”

“Best place for her.” Geena climbed under the duvet at the bottom of the bed, and squeezed herself between our feet. “Can you
believe
what she did last night?”

“Shhh.” Jazz cocked her head to one side. “I can hear something.”

Dad and Auntie were outside on the landing, talking. Arguing.