Bindi Babes (7 page)

E
verything continued to go spectacularly wrong. By Monday morning the three of us were ready to take our case to the European Court of Human Rights.

“She got me up at eight o'clock on Sunday morning to tidy my bedroom,” Geena exploded as we stalked out of the house. “Eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. It's disgusting.”

“So's your bedroom,” Jazz sniggered, and got a clip round the ear for her trouble.

“You can wipe that grin off your face, Amber,” Jazz snorted, rubbing her ear. “I heard Auntie telling Dad that no way are you getting new trainers when you've got six pairs already.”

“How does she know I've got six pairs?” I demanded. “She must've been snooping around.”

“
And
she knows that you've got that Nike pair that cost eighty quid that you've never worn,” Jazz finished off triumphantly.

“They make my feet look big,” I retorted. “And what's with the bedtimes? Bedtimes are for wimps. I can never get to sleep before midnight.”

“She came in last night at eleven to check that we were asleep,” said Jazz.

“Did she?” I frowned. “I didn't notice.”

“You were asleep,” Jazz said with a smirk. “I was only awake because you were snoring.”

“She's never going to leave us alone,” Geena said in dismay. “She's going to be watching us every minute. It'll be like being stalked by the sari division of the SAS.”

We all glanced nervously over our shoulders. Auntie wasn't there, but Kim was, lumbering determinedly down the road toward us with her heavy bag.

“Hi,” she panted. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Well, our aunt arrived unexpectedly, and proceeded to make our lives a misery,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Oh.” Kim looked puzzled. “I thought she wasn't coming for a while.”

“So did we,” Geena said.

“What have you done to your head, Kim?” Jazz asked.

Kim put her hand up to the bruise on her temple. It was half hidden by her floppy blond hair. “Oh, nothing.” She shrugged. “I walked into a door.”

“Kim, you're so clumsy,” I said, amused. “Did it hurt?”

“A bit,” she muttered sheepishly.

“Well, your weekend still couldn't have been as bad as ours,” I went on. “Auntie stuck her big fat nose into
everything.”

“So what are we going to do about it?” demanded Geena.

“I don't know yet,” I said. “But she's not getting away with it.”

School was a chance to forget about Auntie for a while, but you couldn't call it relaxing. All the teachers were infected with inspector fever. The symptoms were a worried look, a frantic manner and a tendency to freak out at regular intervals. We'd only been in our form room for ten minutes, and by the time the assembly bell rang, Mr. Arora had already handed out four detentions. George Botley got three of them.

Assembly was Mr. Grimwade reading out the booklet of school rules in a deadly, monotonous voice. This was accompanied by many, varied threats about what would happen to us if we didn't behave while the
inspectors were here. Then it was off to classes, where all the teachers immediately set us work to do, while they sat and wrote notes all through the lesson. Geena said it was because they had to have files of lesson plans to show the inspectors, and a lot of them had fallen behind. There was a rumor going round that Mr. Lucas, who taught history, hadn't written down any lesson plans for the last six months, and was having to make them all up. Chelsea said someone had told her that Miss Patel was going to pretend hers had been stolen.

There was a meeting at lunchtime about the over-the-top assembly, which was to impress the inspectors. Jazz, Geena and I went across the road to the new school hall, which was an amazing construction of glass, steel and concrete with a huge stage at one end of it.

Ms. Woods, the drama teacher who was organizing the assembly, was rushing round the hall with a tragic face. She fell on us as if we were her long-lost daughters.

“At last,” she declared, sweeping her big, black hair off her face. “Someone I can actually rely on.”

We smiled calm and trustworthy smiles.

“What would you like us to do, Ms. Woods?” Geena asked in a businesslike manner.

“Anything and everything,” Ms. Woods replied. “There's plenty of scenery to be painted, and I need someone to operate the CD player and the overhead projector, as well as change the scenery. And, of course, you'll be taking part in the assembly itself.”

Of course.

“The trouble is, the feng shui in here is all wrong.” Ms. Woods looked round the hall in a demented way. “It ought to be
completely
rebuilt from scratch.”

We stood there in polite silence. Ms. Woods would just have to accept that it was unlikely that the brand-new school hall could be knocked down and rebuilt before the inspectors arrived.

“Right, this is the plan.” Ms. Woods fought her way through mounds of paper in her bag and pulled out a list. “The six major religions of the world will each be represented by words, music and a specially painted backdrop. So the Buddhist section will have a large golden Buddha, the Christian section will have a church and so on. And,” she went on, dropping the list on the floor and scrambling to retrieve it, “I thought it would be fantastic if each religion were represented by pupils who actually practice it at home.”

“Where's she going to find a Buddhist at Copper-gate?” Geena whispered in my ear.

“Now, as you three girls are …” Ms. Woods squinted at us as if our religion were branded on our foreheads.

“Sikhs,” I said helpfully.

“Yes. Exactly.” Ms. Woods looked relieved. “I thought we'd have a large scenic backdrop of the Golden Temple. The three of you will stand in front of it, and read out some information about Sikhism.”

“Fine,” Geena agreed. “And we can look after the tape recorder and the overhead projector, too, if you want.”

“Oh, would you?” Ms. Woods looked pathetically relieved. “I know I can trust
you.”

“No problem,” the three of us said together.

“By the way,” Ms. Woods went on with manic desperation, “you don't happen to know any Buddhists, do you?”

Ever since I could remember, we'd visited relatives on a Sunday, or they'd come to visit us. Last week Auntie had only just arrived so we'd stayed at home, but today we had a lot of calls to make because everyone wanted to see her.

“Although God knows why,” Geena said. She eyed herself critically in Jazz's mirror. We were all wearing the latest suits from the sari shop, which were long, swirly skirts with a tight, short top and a floaty scarf. Mine was silver, Jazz's was pink and Geena's was lilac. Visiting the family was definitely an Indian clothes day. We could have given some of our elderly relatives a heart attack if we'd turned up in miniskirts.

“This is our chance,” I said, sticking a silver bindi on my forehead. “We can get our own back.”

“Ooh, how?” Jazz demanded, looking excited.

“I don't know,” I said. “But we'll think of something.”

Auntie and Dad were waiting for us in the car. Auntie looked all right, I suppose. She was wearing a purple sari with silver embroidery, and she had her hair up. I don't know why it annoyed me that she looked pretty, but it did.

“Where are we going first, Dad?” Jazz asked, as he whizzed us onto the dual carriageway.

“Uncle Davinder's,” Dad replied.

We groaned. Uncle Davinder, or Uncle Dave as he liked us to call him, was Dad's cousin or something. No one had ever explained to us exactly who all our relations were because it was far too complicated. It was just possible that we weren't actually related at all. Anyway, Uncle Dave, who was a laugh, was married to Auntie Rita, who was a pain. They had four children—three boys, who were all right, and a girl called Poonam, who was known as Baby. That also annoyed me, because she was fifteen years old. She was a pain too.

“Is Rita the same as ever?” Auntie asked. We were pulling up outside their six-bedroom detached house with landscaped gardens.

Dad sighed. “Oh, yes.”

“Oh dear.” Auntie's face fell as she got out of the car.

“Rita,
darling
, how are you?” she gushed, as the front door opened. “My God, it's been
years
.”

Uncle Dave and Auntie Rita rushed out and there was a lot of hugging. Uncle Dave is tall and thin and
likes slobbing around in kurta pajamas, but today Auntie Rita had forced him into a smart suit. He pinched my cheek hard, as usual, even though I tried to hide behind Geena.

“Hello, Amber, how are you?” he said, beaming.

“All right, but I might need a doctor,” I said, massaging my throbbing cheek.

Uncle Dave roared with laughter, and attacked Jazz from the side, when she was least expecting it.

“It's wonderful to see you.” Auntie Rita was overdressed, as usual. She wore a pink and purple sari, and gold everywhere, and her hair was hoisted into position and armored with about three cans of hair-spray. “Before we go inside, you must have a look at our new Mercedes.” She tucked her arm into Auntie's, and waved at the gleaming silver car sitting in the driveway. “It's got everything. Air-conditioning, a computer, a fridge. Even a mini-TV.”

We all admired the car. Then we trooped into the house, where Auntie Rita pointed out the new curtains from Harrods and all the furniture they'd bought over the last six months.

Baby was sitting with Biji, her gran, in the enormous living room. I forgot to say that Biji lives with Uncle Dave and Auntie Rita. I don't need to tell you anything about Biji. You'll see what she's like in about two seconds.

“You've put on weight,” Biji remarked, giving Auntie a hug.

“Thank you,” Auntie said dryly.

“The boys have gone out, but you remember Baby.” Auntie Rita pointed at Poonam proudly. “She's so grown-up now, but still such a good girl.”

“Hello, Auntie,” Baby said sweetly. She looked as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, with her long plaits and her red suit. She didn't know that Geena and I had seen her in the High Street last week, flirting with some boy outside Woolworths, wearing a skirt up to her bottom. I bet Auntie Rita didn't know about
that
.

“You look tired.” Biji stared accusingly at Dad. “Haggard. Baggy-eyed. Not surprising really, considering.”

“I'm fine,” Dad said defensively.

Everyone looked embarrassed, except Biji, of course.

Uncle Dave cleared his throat, and clapped Dad on the shoulder. “Let's go next door, and leave the women to it,” he suggested. He did this every time we visited. He and Dad would go into the study and drink whisky, and then they'd have a chili-eating contest. Dad always lost, and had to spend the next three hours drinking loads of water.

“Now who's for tea?” Auntie Rita said brightly, bustling off to the kitchen.

Jazz groaned. “Oh no, do we
have
to?” she said under her breath.

Auntie Rita makes the most revolting tea. She does it the Indian way, which means boiling up the tea
leaves with cardamom seeds and adding loads of sugar. It tastes disgusting.

Auntie glared at us. “You'll drink what you're given,” she snapped in a low voice.

I stared thoughtfully at Auntie. She was definitely uptight and nervous. Auntie Rita has that effect on people. It was something that could be used to our advantage.

“Is that the same suit you wore to Lalita's wedding, Amber?” Baby asked me sweetly, looking me over as if I was something the cat had brought up. “It still looks nice, even though it's so
old
.”

I smiled. “Didn't Geena and I see you outside Woolworths last week?”

Baby turned as red as her salwar kameez and shut up.

“Here we are.” Auntie Rita staggered in, carrying an enormous silver teapot and posh china cups and saucers on a tray.

The tea was as horrible as it always was. It was so strong, it looked as if it had solidified.

“This tea isn't strong enough,” Biji moaned. She pulled her white sari over her head grumpily. “I'm an old woman. Can't I have my tea the way I like it?”

Auntie Rita gritted her teeth and handed me my cup. I stared down at the treacle-brown liquid, wondering which technique I should go for this time. There were two. I could either take really small sips, and hope the taste didn't come through too much, or
I could really go for it, and take big gulps. From the disgusted look on Jazz's face, she was going for the quick-gulps-and-get-it-over-with technique. Geena was sipping steadily, and shuddering every so often.