She Wore Red Trainers (10 page)

‘As you know, you've all signed up for an advanced drawing class so I'd just like to confirm that all of you have taken art lessons before, at school or at college…'

I was mesmerised by her hands. They flew through the air, sweeping and fluttering, as she spoke of the artistic influences we would be drawing on. And I couldn't help thinking that her hands were signer's hands. That type of movement, that type of expression, just wasn't common among people who had the luxury of hearing and speech.

I made up my mind to ask her about her art therapy work
and whether she knew sign language once the class was over.

Just before the class broke up, she clapped her hands together to get our attention.

‘Before I forget,' she said, ‘Croydon Council is hosting an art competition and inviting artists between the ages of 12 and 18 to submit their work.'

‘What's the theme?' my blonde neighbour wanted to know.

‘The theme,' Collette said drily, ‘is “Play”. To be honest, it's not a very inspiring theme – probably the MP's idea – but I suppose it's what you make of it, isn't it. I'm sure that the fact that it is sponsored by a major sportswear brand had something to do with it, too.' She cracked an ironic smile.

As for me, I was not impressed. So what if the sponsor was a giant shoe company? How did they expect us to create cutting edge pieces of art with such a lame theme? I mentally scratched the competition off my To Do list and started gathering my things. I had better things to do with my pastels than some GCSE-style assignment.

Until I slipped up and let my mind wander to the sketch book that was lying on my bed. And the picture of those basketball-playing hands.

Play, huh?

Well, why not?

***

I took the bus home, all the while thinking of what I was going to do to the sketch on my bed. I could hardly wait to get home and get started and, as the bus rolled down the main
road, I got up, eager to get off. I was also thinking of the brief conversation I had had with Collette about working with deaf children. As I'd suspected, she did know some sign language and she promised to tell me more about her work after the next session. My insides bubbled with excitement as I crossed the road.

That was when I saw a police car slow down and, its indicators flashing, turn into our driveway.

Surprised and curious, I stopped and stared as the police officer got out and walked over to the intercom. My eyes immediately went to the back seat and I saw the young black boy huddled against the window.

He looked about 14 years old and his eyes were red and raw. There was something familiar about him but I just couldn't put my finger on it.

Before I could figure out who he reminded me of, the car had swept past me in through the gates and up the driveway. I shook my head. Boys were getting up to all sorts these days.

19

Umar tried to stand tall, a sullen look on his face, as if he didn't care. But I knew it was just a front. One of his eyes was partly closed and a bruise was forming on his left cheek. Dad went to help him as he limped in beside the police officer, holding his arm, but Umar pushed him away with whatever strength he had. Dad had to make do with standing by him as the policeman lectured him.

‘Found him in a scrap with some boys on the High Street… seemed to be a postcode thing. You lot from around here?'

Dad shook his head and cleared his throat. ‘Hertfordshire,' he rasped.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. ‘Long way from home, aren't you?'

Dad shifted, uncomfortable with the policeman's prying. ‘Yes, officer, we are. Now, please could you tell me what happened? And what you will be doing with the boys who assaulted my son?'

The officer cocked his head and looked over at Umar. ‘Well, sir, not much we can do with these boys, unfortunately. Eyewitnesses seldom come forward anyway. Best to teach your boy how to handle himself and avoid them.'

‘I
can
handle myself,' growled Umar.

‘Hmm,' said Dad, ‘that's why you've got yourself a black eye, is it?'

Umar scowled and turned away.

‘You'll have to keep a better eye on him, sir,' the other officer was saying. ‘There is a lot of gang activity in this area – and getting into a fight with one of them could be fatal. Your boy needs to keep his head down and stay out of trouble.'

‘Of course, officer,' Dad said, struggling to keep his voice calm.

The policeman said goodbye and closed the door behind him. Dad turned to Umar. ‘What happened to you, son? Where were you?'

‘It wasn't my fault, Dad!'

‘Yes, I know, but tell me what happened!'

‘These boys…' Umar started breathing fast and I realised, with a jolt, that he was on the verge of bursting into tears. ‘These boys came up to me on the High Street – I was going to get something to eat – and they asked me where I was from, where my endz were… then they started taking the mick out of my accent, told me I shouldn't be there, that this was their territory… I told them to leave me alone, but then they started pushing me around.' He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I just tried to defend myself, Dad, like you taught me to. But then the police came and the boys all ran away … It wasn't my fault, Dad, honest…' He blinked and sniffled, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. I knew better than to go to him when he was like that. He would have pushed me away, for sure.

I longed for Mum then. She would have gone up to him and held him and he would have let her, crying on her shoulder, letting her stroke his hair and soothe him until all the tears and the pain were gone.

How I missed her.

Dad was clearly uncomfortable. He didn't know what to say or do. In the end, he put his hand on Umar's sleeve and patted him.

‘It's OK, son, I know it wasn't your fault. You've just got to be more careful. These streets can be dangerous…'

Umar looked up at Dad. ‘When are we going back home, Dad? I hate this place! We don't belong here, we belong at home, in Hertfordshire. Before we came, you said there was a chance we could go back before the end of the summer, but you haven't mentioned anything since. Why is it taking so long to get everything sorted out so that we can go home?'

At that, Dad sighed and wiped his face with his hand and said, in a tired, tired voice, ‘Boys, we need to talk.'

I felt a chill run through me, as if my blood had turned to ice.

We called Jamal from upstairs and he joined us in the living room. And it occurred to me that we hadn't sat down for a family discussion since before Mum died.

‘
Bismillah
,' he muttered, before saying, ‘boys, I have something to tell you. I didn't tell you before because I had hoped that I would be able to sort things out, to avoid… to avoid this.'

Jamal's eyes were wide and fearful. I put my arm around him. At least I knew that he wouldn't push me away. ‘What is it, Dad? What's happened?'

‘It's the house, boys. The house and the business. They're gone.'

‘Gone?
Gone
? What do you mean “gone”?' I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

‘That's exactly what I mean, Ali. The house and the
business… I've had to put them up for sale. I'm sorry.'

Sorry?

I had no words to describe the sense of anger, of betrayal, of
grief
.

No words.

But Umar had enough words for both of us, for all of us. He started shouting, crying, saying it wasn't fair, that Dad had promised we would be going back, that the move to London was just temporary. Dad tried to calm him down, to explain that he had tried everything, that he was applying for jobs all over, outside London, that this was fate, that we had to accept it, but Umar wasn't having it. He sprang up out of his chair and rushed to the door, slamming it on his way out. I heard his footsteps, heavy, on the stairs and then another slamming door.

I looked away from the door, avoiding Dad's gaze.

I didn't know what to think, what to say. I wanted to man up, to rise to the challenge, like I had when Dad first told me about moving to South London for the summer, but this time I couldn't find the strength.

Now it seemed that all we had ever known was well and truly gone forever. The house, Dad's business, and the family we once were. It was at times like this that I felt the need to pray, to wash with water and put my head to floor – and
pray
.

Allah had willed this chain of events, after all. My job was to trust that there was good in it somewhere and that He would bring us through it, just like He had brought us through everything else.

***

I went and looked in on Umar after I'd prayed. He was lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, with his headphones on. Seeking refuge in his music, as I had done so many times.

I sat on the side of his bed. His eyes slid towards me then he looked away again.

‘I've got a new Qur'an CD,' I said, gently. ‘Totally relaxes me. Let me know if you want to borrow it, yeah?'

Umar gave me a look.

I held my hands up in surrender. ‘No pressure, man!'

He didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘When you were my age, Ali, did anyone try to tell you to stop listening to music and listen to Qur'an instead? Did anyone tell you to stop playing in that band of yours and join a Muslim youth group? Did anyone tell you to take out your earring and put on a
kufi
? Did they?'

‘Hey, Mum went crazy when I got my ear pierced!' I was trying to lighten the oppressive atmosphere in the room, but Umar just looked at me, unblinking.

‘Did they, Ali?'

‘No, Umar,' I sighed. ‘No, they didn't.'

‘I thought not,' he said sourly, and turned to look out of the window.

I swallowed hard. I had always known that Umar nursed this resentment, this feeling that he got the short end of the stick. ‘It's different, bro,' I said, my voice soft. ‘We know better now. I was wrong, Umar. Don't envy me…'

‘But I do, Ali, that's what you don't understand. It's like you got everything: the great school, the girls, the fun times… And Mum. You got Mum, too.'

My breath caught in my throat and I felt tears well up in my eyes instantly. Umar had hardly mentioned Mum since she
died. At times, I wondered whether he would ever mention her again. ‘No, Umar,' I said, shaking my head. ‘That's where you're wrong. You were the apple of her eye. You were the one…'

But Umar's eyes were red now and he clenched his fists. ‘Then why'd she have to go and get sick, huh? Why'd she have to leave me?' Next thing I knew, he was crying like a baby, rubbing at his eyes with balled fists, just like he used to when he was little.

‘Hey, Umar,' I said softly, ‘it was Allah's will that Mum got sick.
Inna lillahi
, remember? We belong to Allah and we will all return to Him. We can't be angry with Mum about that… and we can't be angry with Allah, either.'

‘Well,
I am
,' he said firmly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘And nothing you can say is going to change that.' He shrugged my hand off and pushed me away from him.

My heart was heavy as I left the room. Why couldn't I get through to Umar?

I didn't know how to help him heal, not without Islam. Because, without my faith in Allah, none of it made any sense to me.

***

My gran, Nana Jordan, rang to speak to us later that night.

‘I miss you, Nana,' I said, suddenly wishing I was a little boy again, sitting at her kitchen table, stuffing myself with her delicious beef stew with fried dumplings. Then there would be apple crumble for afters, with ice cream, cream – or both. Tears stung my eyes at the memory; apple crumble had been Mum's
favourite dessert. She'd promised to teach me her secret recipe but, when she was well, I had always had something else on and, when she became sick, there simply was no time. There were so many other things that needed to be done…

‘I miss you, too, darling,' Nana was saying. ‘Just how long am I going to have to wait before I am blessed with a visit from my grandsons, eh? Doesn't that religion of yours say anything about the rights of grandparents?'

I chuckled. Nana was always trying to shame us into things by quoting Islam – even though she was a staunch Christian. ‘Yes, it does, Nan. It's called “upholding the ties of kinship”.'

‘Yes, that sounds right,' she clucked. ‘So let's see some upholding around here, shall we? How about I meet you boys in London next weekend? We can go out, see the sights, have lunch… sound good?'

‘That sounds great, Nana. Just great.'

‘And so where is my baby, Umar. Can I speak to him?'

I took a deep breath. ‘To tell you the truth, Nan, he's not doing so well. This area is quite rough and… he's been getting into a bit of trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble, Ali?' Nana asked, her voice rising, tense.

‘Some of the kids around here… nothing major… but worrying.' Then I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘To be honest, Nan, I wish we could get him out of here. Out of all of us, he is the one I'm most worried about. Do you think you could…?'

‘Ali, look. There is nothing I would like more than to have Umar up here with me, to get him ready for the new school year. I've tried, you know that. I even suggested to your
father that he send him to stay with me for a few weeks but he wouldn't have it. Said he didn't want to divide the family, that he had everything under control.'

‘Well, he doesn't,' I said grimly. ‘I don't think Dad realises the extent of our problems out here.' I heard the door close behind me and I swung round to see Dad crossing the corridor to go into the kitchen. ‘Listen, Nana, let's talk next week when you come, OK?'