The Kellys of Kelvingrove (9 page)

Mahmood said, ‘I forbid you to see her again.’

Mirza managed a laugh. ‘Father, we’re in the same class at school.’

‘At school, you will concentrate on your lessons, then you will come straight home alone. Or with your sister, Zaida, only. If you do not do that, your mother will wait at the school gate and then escort you home.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Mirza groaned.

‘Do not blaspheme, you wicked boy. If necessary, I will speak to the girl’s mother.’

‘Oh no, Father. No, please don’t do that.’

Mahmood experienced a welcome surge of relief at the sight of Mirza’s distress. He had found what was needed to bring Mirza back to his senses.

‘Very well. We’ll wait and see how you behave, Mirza. If you obey the wishes of your father, all will be well. If you do not obey …’ His shoulders raised in a shrug and he spread out his hands.

Mirza now sat tight-lipped, pale-faced and silent.

‘So,’ Mahmood said firmly, ‘no more visitors from number five.’

It was a pity, Mahmood thought afterwards, that they would not be able to be good neighbours with number five after all. They could not be on happy visiting terms with them, as he’d originally hoped.

Remembering the adoring look on Mirza’s face as he gazed up at Sandra, he realised that it would be far too risky.

He believed in live and let live. He had always respected the Gorbals neighbours for being good Christians. And they had respected him for being a good Muslim. They went to their Christian church. (If they went to any church at all. Many didn’t bother and so he wasn’t sure what they believed.) He and his family always attended the mosque with unfailing regularity. The marriage of his dear deceased daughter and Bashir had been arranged. His daughter had never seen Bashir before the ceremony but everything had worked out well and they had been happy.

He fondly remembered that wedding day. All the men gathered in the sitting room of the Gorbals flat. All the women sat on the floor of the kitchen. His daughter was suitably veiled. The vows were taken separately, as was the custom, and then the men trooped off to the restaurant where a meal had been booked. After they returned, the women went to have their meal. At first, his daughter had gone to live with Bashir’s family. Then, sadly, his daughter and Bashir’s mother and father were killed and their house destroyed in a gas explosion.

As a result, it was agreed that he, Mahmood Shafaatulla, would provide a larger home so that the whole family could be together in a good area, and they moved to Waterside Way. Bashir had taken over the running of the Shafaatulla grocery business and was doing extremely well. He had lived in Glasgow all his life, of course, although not in the Gorbals. He had lived with his well-off parents in a very good area at the other side of Glasgow, but Waterside Way was just as good, Mahmood thought proudly. A very respectable place.

He still felt annoyed at Mirza. The boy should have known better. He wondered if, despite Mirza’s obvious opposition to the idea, he should talk to Sandra’s mother, just to let her know that he had reprimanded Mirza and reminded him that any liaison between a Muslim like him and a Christian girl like Sandra was unacceptable and impossible. Before he had a chance to make up his mind, there was some sort of trouble outside.

He ran to the front door, opened it a crack – just enough to enable him to peek anxiously from it. Poor Mrs McIvor, who had, he understood, an elderly person’s illness of the mind, was shouting and violently struggling with her daughter and also with Mae Kelly outside number one.

Apparently, Mrs McIvor had become determined that the house at number one was where she lived and that her daughter had locked her out. Her daughter was a very good woman who looked after her mother, kept her at home and did not abandon her to some institution, as so many British people did with their elderly parents.

He greatly admired and respected Doris McIvor.

He saw Jack Kelly, the police husband of Mae Kelly, arrive and struggle from his car. Mahmood knew all the names, partly by overhearing conversations as he was doing now, and partly from Bashir who had had friendly conversations with the Kellys and the McIvors. Bashir knew all the gossip.

Poor Jack Kelly had been injured at the Ibrox football disaster and it was obvious that he suffered great pain. Now he limped hastily towards the still violently struggling Mrs McIvor. He put an arm around her to lead her gently but firmly towards house number two. Then he went away to park his car, leaving his wife and Doris McIvor to take the old lady into the house.

Mahmood withdrew but even after he’d closed his door on his small, thin body, he could hear Mrs McIvor shouting,

‘I’ll get the police on you.’

He sighed. Poor Doris. What a good, patient daughter she was. He prayed to Allah that she would be rewarded in heaven. As soon as Bashir arrived home, he told him all about what he’d witnessed and heard.

His wife Rasheeda had been busy in the kitchen and had not seen or heard anything.

‘Och, I know.’ Bashir shook his head. ‘I’m really sorry for that girl. The other day I saw her chasing after her mother down at the river’s edge. She was terrified that her mother would fall into the water. I rescued the old woman on that occasion. Apparently she gets out the front door the moment Doris’s back is turned. Then she’s off like a shot. Doris told me it once took her so long to find her, she had to ask the police for help.’

‘Well, that was the police helping her again today. The police officer, Jack Kelly, at number one. The poor man could hardly walk. I cannot understand why he is still able to keep his job.’

‘They’ve given him a desk job, a regular day shift. So that he can still earn some money, I suppose, and also not be bored sitting at home all the time.’

‘Everyone has their problems,’ Mahmood said and he told Bashir about his worry with Mirza. ‘I was thinking I might yet talk to Mrs Arlington-Jones. She might want to know that Mirza has been suitably reprimanded.’

‘No, no, Pop,’ Bashir said. ‘You’d only make things worse. I’d have nothing to do with that woman. I said a polite good morning to her one day and she just about knocked me over, pushing past me without a word.’

‘I cannot believe,’ Mahmood said, ‘how different some people are here. People were so friendly before.’

Bashir’s brown face creased into a dimpled grin.

‘This isn’t the Gorbals, Pop. It’s time you recognised that.’

‘Do not forget the Scottish tea,’ Mahmood reminded the women. The two men from number four were coming to visit. They were teachers, one of them in Mirza’s school and the other in a private, boys only school, and so they were important people indeed.

A plate of cakes and a plate of biscuits were also important. It was the Glasgow custom. In the Gorbals, much cake and many biscuits were eaten. He had discovered too that minced beef and mashed potatoes and fish and chips were popular. (Oh, how often he’d longed for royal chicken and almond sauce. His wife Rasheeda had her dream too. She often spoke longingly of mango ice cream and milk balls made in syrup.)

The two men arrived and introduced themselves as Clive and Paul. Clive was the one who taught in the private school. Paul taught in the secondary school that Mirza attended. They seemed to enjoy the tea provided by the women.

After the women disappeared back into the kitchen, Mahmood said, ‘I am worried about my son, Mirza. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, of course,’ both men answered.

‘And Sandra-Arlington Jones?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Mahmood shook his head sadly.

‘It cannot be. It is wicked. We have always been good Muslims. It would greatly help, I have been thinking, if Mirza was in a different school. At present, you see, he is with that girl every day in the same school – your school.’ One bony finger pointed at Paul. ‘But if he was at your school,’ the finger switched to Clive’s direction, ‘how much better everything would be. Your school is private and boys only, no girls allowed. That is what matters – no girls allowed.’

‘In the first place,’ Paul said coldly, ‘the schools don’t belong to us. We only work there.’

‘And in the second place,’ Clive interrupted, ‘the school I teach in is a private Christian school. The headmaster could not allow Mirza’s entrance.’

Mahmood said, ‘If you recommended his application, he would. It will only be for a couple of years, then he will be at university and I will find him a good and suitable wife. Meantime he must get into your school and away from any contact with Sandra Arlington-Jones.’

‘As Paul said, Mr Shafaatulla, we only work at the school.’

‘You are a teacher, Mr Clive. You will have influence. Recommend Mirza and that will make all the difference to the headmaster. I beg of you, Mr Clive. I only want the best for my son. I want to protect him.’

‘It will not be the best for Mirza to disrupt his education by changing schools.’

Both Clive and Paul rose. Paul said, ‘Mirza is a good boy and Sandra is a nice girl. I wish them both every happiness.’

Mahmood followed them to the door with much wringing of hands and agitation.

‘So do I. So do I. But not together. That can never be. My wife Rasheeda and I will find Mirza a good wife. But first of all, he must have a good education.’

Paul said, ‘He is getting a good education where he is. I can assure you of that, Mr Shafaatulla. And he is a very intelligent boy. His ambition is to be an architect and if he continues his education where he is and then gets an appropriate place at university, I’m confident he will succeed.’

‘Yes,’ Clive agreed. ‘You would definitely ruin the boy’s chances if you disrupted his life by trying to change his school just now.’

‘But surely …’ Mahmood began to protest but was stopped by Paul.

‘Forget it!’

‘Far from recommending your application,’ Clive said, ‘I’d object most strongly to it.’

At the door, Mahmood shook his head. ‘I do not understand. I am most surprised and I am very disappointed in you. Very disappointed indeed.’

‘And we in you.’

Outside the door, Paul said, ‘Could you beat that?’

Clive shook his head. ‘I know my school has an excellent academic reputation but it’s obviously not for that reason that he wants Mirza to go there.’

‘I know, and if he did manage to get Mirza in, can you imagine how the poor lad would stick out like a sore thumb, looking and being so different from the others. He’d be picked on, for sure.’

‘I don’t know about that. My pupils are good lads. But you could be right. It could turn out to be a difficult situation. But just to disrupt Mirza’s education by changing his school would be bad enough.’

‘Poor Mirza and it’s all because of his love for Sandra. Isn’t life damnably unfair.’

‘Let’s include them in our prayers tonight, Paul.’

And they did. Down on their knees beside their bed as usual, they recited the Lord’s Prayer and then they added, ‘And please, Jesus, have mercy on Mirza Shafaatulla and Sandra Arlington-Jones. Please protect them from harm and help them to be happy together and to go on loving each other in peace and freedom. For this is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, for ever and ever, for Jesus’ sake, Amen.’

The first opportunity they got, they spoke to Bashir and Bashir said, ‘I know. It’s absolutely damnable. I’ve tried over and over again to speak to Pop, but it’s no use. All it’s made him do is hurry his plans to find what he called “a suitable Pakistani Muslim wife” for Mirza. He can’t find any in Glasgow and he’s actually talking now about travelling over to Pakistan to find one.’

‘Serve him right,’ Paul said, ‘if Mirza and Sandra got married at Gretna Green while he’s away.’

‘That’s a thought!’ Bashir said. ‘And a romantic one. I wonder if they still marry couples over the anvil in the smiddy. Hundreds used to run away from England to be married there. It was the first place over the border, I think, where they could be married at sixteen – the law in Scotland – and without their parents’ permission.’

‘Serve the old guy right,’ Paul repeated.

‘Here, you might have made a serious point,’ Bashir said thoughtfully. ‘There would be nothing Pop could do if the young couple were legally married by the time he came back from Pakistan.’

‘Have a secret word with Mirza,’ Clive said, ‘and see what he thinks.’

‘I will.’

‘And we’ll help all we can,’ Paul said. ‘We could probably even rustle up a few bob if he needed financial help.’

‘That’s kind of you, boys, but money wouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got plenty for a start, and I’ll certainly help them financially, and in every way I can.’

Clive couldn’t help laughing.

‘I bet once you tell him about the Gretna Green idea, you’ll have a job holding him back from immediately rushing away there with Sandra.’

‘Oh, but I must. It wouldn’t be safe otherwise. There’s no telling what Pop might do to prevent Mirza running away though. He’s surprisingly ruthless and obsessional about doing things the proper way and being true to their faith, as he sees it.’

Paul said, ‘Mirza is a kind boy and a good Muslim. He also shows respect to other people’s faiths. He has always shown respect to Clive and me, despite knowing that we are devout Christians.’

Clive patted Bashir’s shoulder. ‘He’s like you, Bashir. We admire you for being a good Muslim and a good, kind man.’

‘Thanks, pal. I’ll try to speak to Pop again. Really plead with him, because I really don’t want to do anything behind his back. But poor Mirza. If I’m forced to, I’ll have to help him. He’s in such a state.’

Hand in hand, Mirza and Sandra climbed the hill in the park to their usual place behind some bushes. Mirza had brought his binoculars and Sandra also had a pair. They didn’t need them to see the beautiful towering university. It was near enough on the hill behind them. They gazed instead down across the sprawling park and green area, and then the familiar line of houses facing on to Waterside Way and the River Kelvin. Further away they could see the imposing Kelvingrove Art Galleries. Then there were the tenements and shops on Argyle Street, Sauchiehall Street, Dumbarton Road and a plethora of other streets reaching beyond to the River Clyde. They loved this wide view of the city to which they both felt they belonged. Eventually, they lay down on the grass. They cuddled their arms around each other and spoke of the future.