Worlds Apart (11 page)

The next day I crawled out of bed, my stomach muscles hurting as I breathed in and out. I checked for bruising but there were no signs of last night’s ordeal. It all felt like a surreal dream now, including Liz. I started to think about how I was going to train – I could hardly move my body let alone do a three-hour circuit tonight, and there was no chance of wearing heels to work today.

The week didn’t get any better, especially as Wednesday crept up on me. I got mood swings, couldn’t sleep at night and lay awake thinking about how much fitter the other girls would be than me and how I would cope with another beasting.

On Wednesday, I was up early and prayed to Allah to get me through the training that night. In the office, I spent the morning staring at the computer screen, couldn’t eat my lunch then mentally argued with myself
not to go in. The afternoon dragged torturously and by then I just wanted to get the evening over with.

Five thirty finally struck and I was out of the door. I lied to people in the office that I had a doctor’s appointment. Usually I wouldn’t leave the office before eight. On the way to the barracks, I grabbed some fries from McDonald’s and sat at a table of noisy kids, forcing them down. My stomach was acidic from the two cups of coffee I’d had that day.

Twenty minutes later, I was back in the dark courtyard wearing sports kit. Liz was standing in the front rank. I couldn’t thank her enough for saving my life tonight. With all the faffing around this morning, I had forgotten to pack my jogging bottoms. Luckily, she had a spare pair of shorts.

Staff Wright was stood at the front, counting us with his eyes. ‘We’re five short, any more to come?’

The response was silence, so he led us out once more.

My eyes skimmed the blackened skyline as we entered Hyde Park. A memory floated to the surface of my mind – my first summer in London as a student; strolling across the green, passing an array of romantic couples, Arab families and teams of people playing rounders and football. My head was tilted towards the warm sun. I had smiled to myself, thinking what a different world this was to the kebab shop.

Staff Wright’s screaming broke into my dreamy consciousness. Three torturous hours later, after the same circuit as last time, we were back in the barracks courtyard. We got down to press-up position. My fingers had turned white. I couldn’t feel my body and my stomach felt like a big hole had been cut out of it.

Ten press-ups turned to twenty, then forty, then eighty…

I closed my eyes and tried to block the pain, but it kept coming back. My senses became blurry and a strange humming sound went off in my head. Just as I thought I was about to pass out, we were dismissed. I dashed to the changing rooms, grabbed my bag and headed out, still wearing my soggy sports kit. I needed to be on my own for the training ordeal to sink in. Liz said something to me as I passed her but I ignored it. A part of me wanted to make an excuse not to come in next week, but the reality was that I didn’t have a choice. I would be failing myself, which was harder to live with than getting through this training.

The week flew by and I was back at the barracks. Most of my paperwork for becoming a member of the Territorial Army had gone through and I was given an army number. My security clearance was taking longer to come through than the others’; I didn’t question it but it did play on my mind. The army number was like
a new identity, a sense of belonging to an establishment, which I didn’t feel when I received my national insurance number. I’m a squaddie, I thought proudly. No I’m not, I corrected myself, I don’t burp or fart in the company of others, nor do I have a partner with peroxide hair, which most of the male squaddies have. I’m a private – Private Ahmed.

Getting the number somehow changed my mental state. I got tougher with my training regime. I walked into work every day carrying a rucksack weighed down with books to strengthen my legs. I trained every day in the gym except the evening before barracks, when I gave my body a rest. Liz started taking me to kickboxing and got me punching so hard I could hardly uncurl my fingers afterwards. She said I wasn’t aggressive enough and tried to teach me to switch off my emotions, which became a challenging exercise.

Over the weeks, I felt my body change; it became stronger but I wasn’t putting on any weight. In fact, I was losing it, now weighing 6.5 stone. My appetite increased, though I still had difficulty eating breakfast, which had been a problem since childhood.

I began to leave the office early on a regular basis and received the silent treatment from colleagues, but I didn’t care. They would never understand what the army meant to me, how it enriched my life more than
this job. I began to view life differently. No longer did I feel the need to please the people at work.

Over the weeks, the number of girls dwindled down and the training became more intense, with less chatter in the changing rooms. Then something terrible happened, Liz didn’t turn up one week. I sent her a couple of text messages to meet up but all I got back was radio silence. I was gutted. Training wasn’t the same without her but I had to keep going, female selection was almost complete.

I got to know the other girls from a distance. Adele turned out to be not only scary but loud as well. She reminded me of my mum’s friend Auntie Pataani but without the rolls of fat and laughter. I learnt to accept her blanking me. The only time she would say something was when she had an audience to criticise me in front of. Sometimes when we stood in a long line, on parade awaiting training instructions, she would look round at me to check I was in position properly then roll her eyes at the other girls.

Then there was Specky, who had been in the army for quite some time, chewed gum and wore glasses that made her eyes looked massive. She talked openly about her previous training and ‘survival tactics’ that involved killing animals, cutting them up and eating them, which made me feel sick. She was good friends with another recruit who looked the most experienced and oldest of
the group. I called her Blondie because I never really got to speak to her or find out her name. She was in her late thirties and was very quiet.

Andrea was the ‘it’ girl who worked in the military as a medic. All the girls were nice to her because she was engaged to a man in the regular SAS.

I came to realise that most of the girls were of officer status. Some, like Liz and Kate, didn’t make a big deal about their achievements, but others wanted to shout about it and remind the privates what rank they were. Caroline was tall, intelligent and stuck up and wore a Cambridge University sweatshirt that had seen better days. She hung close to another officer who had a lot of clout – I had no idea what her name was but she never smiled so I named her Ice Maiden.

Then there was Jenny, who drank pints of Guinness and drove the big four-ton army trucks. She didn’t seem to take the training seriously: I only saw her there for two weeks then she didn’t turn up again.

Finally, if there was one girl we all knew would get through, it was Becky, the South African international champion rock climber. She was the fittest of us all and every girl knew it.

Every now and then, my mind would wander back to Mum and how I had left it with her the last time I was home. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know what
was going on in my life and was only trying to do what was right. I swallowed my pride and called her. I was relieved to hear her voice, though the demand to return was still there. I stayed calm by switching off. I only cared about getting through female selection, a feeling no one would understand. I was waking up in the morning thinking about it and closing my eyes at night dreaming of it. It was emotionally torturous, the effect was like a drug, but it was now my world.

T
HE TRAIN PULLED
into Manchester Piccadilly station and I was up before everyone, clutching my small bag and making a beeline for the doors. I hated this part of the journey; the walk to the bus stop, waiting ages for the bus, then the hour-long journey back to my parents’ house.

Nothing changed around here and my mind switched modes accordingly. I was back home, things slowed down, life became simpler and I needed to behave more subserviently.

I looked out of the window as the bus drove past the familiar shops and roads. There was a pub on every block, something I hadn’t noticed when living here.

What surprised me about the army was how the drinking culture was engrained into their daily lives. It was both a means of bonding and an outlet for socialising. It took me a while to get my head around it but realised it was similar to the social gatherings we had growing up, of which chai, rather than beer, was the main component.

A few women with screaming kids got on the bus looking bad tempered, their clothes and hair worn carelessly. This was a daily occurrence when I lived here but today it felt like a distraction. I watched them throwing the prams into the luggage carrier, talking loudly as they took their seats, and then I suddenly recognised one of them from school. I felt embarrassed for thinking she was a woman, as I still saw myself as a girl. More surprisingly, I remembered her being one of the clever ones in our year. She would sit at the back of class messing around but then flew through her exams without much effort. She could have become anything she wanted. I wanted to go over and say hello but wasn’t sure where the conversation would go. Would she be happy to see me or still too annoyed with her kids to spark off a conversation? I knew for sure she would be shocked if I told her I lived in London and still wasn’t married. It was a given that Pakistani girls got married off as soon as they left school. Maybe she wouldn’t recognise
me out of my school uniform, I convinced myself, and decided to stay put.

I was wearing a pale blue shalwar kameez under my Puffa jacket. It was free flowing and comfortable. My training shoes beneath looked unfeminine but my feet were too sore for girly ones. Nowadays all my clothes hung off me and I worried that Mum would notice the weight that had dropped off my face. I’d caught her looking at me strangely a few times in the past few months. If anything, I should be putting
on
weight coming into my late twenties, but I seemed to be going the other way.

Perhaps it was the stress; there was a lot going on and my head was buzzing. I thought about my training, the business and my future. Part of me wanted to walk away from the company because work colleagues had noticed my attention span dwindling in the office, which was not good for morale. However, at the same time, the sentimental side of having set it up from my bedroom and then watching it grow had made me cling on.

I wasn’t concerned about being financially stable any more. I was drawing a minimum wage from the business and cash flow was tight but it didn’t matter as long as I had enough to keep me afloat during training. I thought back to that first meeting at the barracks and the officer’s comment about having to make a choice
sooner or later. In the past, I had balanced much more in my life, but this was something out of the ordinary and most definitely didn’t feel part time. Was it worth the risk of leaving the company now? What were the chances of getting through to the next phase of training? Adding a further complexity, I was still waiting for my security clearance to come through. I made regular visits to the admin department to check, but each time got the silent headshake from Captain Wood. It was strange going back up there and seeing him. Perhaps something unexpected had come up about my family background that was causing the delay. I didn’t know much about my relatives in Pakistan as I hadn’t been over since I was a baby and I couldn’t exactly ask my parents if there was anyone dodgy.

I imagined Becky and the others out doing a ten-mile run and felt lazy sat on a bus. I would never be as fit as they were, but I needed to keep my fitness up to a level that meant I could survive without getting injured.

I wished that I could talk to someone about all these dilemmas. I thought about Shazia. She had always been the one I could reach out to no matter how contrasting our lives were and she was also very discreet, which was unique in our community. There was a time when she didn’t pass judgement, but now she nagged me as if she was my mother.

I wished I could tell Dad but I knew that was impossible. Even if I did tell him, he wouldn’t believe me; nobody around here would – they’d think I was a nutter. Besides, it wasn’t worth risking, especially now my parents were off to Mecca. It would be the biggest journey they would take together, apart from their marriage; a completion of their lives before going to heaven and I was still racking my brains for an excuse not to go with them – they were still under the impression that I would be joining them.

I jumped off the bus, in a world of my own, and suddenly was stopped by Scott, an old customer who was getting on.

‘Hiya,’ he said, folding up a buggy as his girlfriend got on with a baby.

It was nice to see familiar faces. I wasn’t sure if they looked older or just tired but they weren’t the fresh-faced couple I used to see going to the pub. I wondered how I looked to them and then caught my reflection in the side mirror of the bus. I had no make-up on and my skin looked dry. I looked down at my hands: my nails were broken, and underneath each was a line of deeply embedded dirt that would not come out no matter how much I scrubbed. Quite a contrast to my floral years at college, when I would match my jewellery, butterfly eyeshadow and nail varnish.

I arrived home and to my dismay could hear Auntie Pataani talking to Mum in the living room. I recognised her loud, screechy laughter as soon as I came in through the front door. I didn’t want to go inside so instead pressed my ear to the living-room door. I could hear her gossiping about someone’s daughter who’d run off with an English boy. This woman never ceased to amaze. There she was, tarnishing families in their difficult times when her own daughter had married someone she’d met at college and had stopped speaking to her.

I heard Mum trying to interject a few times about the plans for hajj, then it suddenly came to me. Auntie Pataani had been widowed for ages and had always wanted to go on hajj. As a woman, though, she was not allowed to go without the presence of a husband, father, brother or son. If none of these were available, only then could a close male friend, acting as a brother, accompany her. She was a complete pain in the arse but perhaps I could persuade my parents to take her instead of me. This would guarantee them all a place in heaven. Pleased with my brainwave, I entered the living room with confidence.

Auntie Pataani was sprawled over the settee, head propped up on one of Mum’s plump cushions, eating her way through a bowl of rice pudding. She waved me over, making a big deal about how terrible I looked since
leaving home, asking how long I was home for, how I should be looking after my parents now they were getting old, and how she’d heard that I’d be going on hajj with them. It all came out in one breath. I reckon she was long overdue to go home but had waited for me to get here just so that she could stir things up with me and Mum. I’d never forget her efforts to change Mum’s mind about me studying in London. She’d even got as far as bringing a woman over whose son had studied away and had ended up marrying a Chinese woman who, according to her, ate snakes and cats.

I wanted to retaliate by asking Auntie Pataani if
her
daughter was at home looking after her, let alone her son who had long gone. But I would never cross the line with my parents’ friends no matter what they said.

I stood in the middle of the room between them both and turned to Mum. I opened my mouth to talk about the hajj trip but was prevented from doing so by Auntie Pataani twittering on about something behind me. I turned round, trying to stay focused on what she was saying … something about making sure I looked after my parents when they came down to London next week.

I nearly had a heart attack. Mum intervened, reiterating what Auntie Pataani had said, confirming that she and Dad were planning to come and visit some friends in Croydon.

Before I could say anything, Auntie Pataani tugged the hem of my dress and pulled me back. She was now sitting up on her big bum and telling me it was her idea that my parents stay with me, for respect, otherwise people here would gossip that they couldn’t stay with their daughter. I wanted to kill her. The only tongue that would wag was hers, I was sure! She didn’t deserve to go to heaven, I suddenly decided.

I should have stopped there and waited until she’d gone home to discuss it further with Mum, but the panic had already set in. I told Mum I had to work and perhaps it was best if they went directly to Croydon and stayed there. Mum mulled over it for a moment, pressing a maroon fingernail into the dimple of her cheek, and then agreed. I was relieved. Then stupid Auntie Pataani poked her nose in and suggested that, since the visit to Croydon would be during the day, they could see me in the evening after ‘work’. Mum changed her mind and agreed with Auntie Pataani.

I didn’t know what to say; they both had me in a corner. But I couldn’t miss the training, not now. Suddenly the hajj story didn’t seem as urgent any more. I needed to thrash out some convincing excuse for them not to come and see me – fast. The thought of their first visit to London had haunted me since the start of female selection. They’d never asked before. I needed to go and see Shazia.

‘Who is this Shazia?’ Auntie Pataani asked, surprised she’d never heard of her before.

‘You know,’ Mum said, ‘the one who runs the Urdu classes for children at mosque.’

‘Ah yes.’ Auntie Pataani looked relaxed again. ‘The good girl … your other daughter’s friend.’

I decided not to waste my time. I was now beginning to think this woman had no idea how tactless she was.

The evening ended with a visit from yet another family, which meant I couldn’t see Shazia until the morning.

Dad had made his excuses about some late delivery at the shop, which left Mum to run the show. I got changed into some glitzy outfit Mum had put out for me to wear and entered the living room.

‘My daughter’s a manager,’ Mum cooed, and sank into the armchair, patting the empty chair beside her.

I crossed the room and did as I was told, trying to avoid eye contact with the man sat on the large sofa close to his mother. Too close.

He watched me with hard brown eyes. Mid-thirties, I guessed, judging by his clean-shaven coffee complexion and perfectly drawn side parting in his hair.

The smell of rose-scented cream drifted across from the gentle-looking woman wearing a pale yellow headscarf over long grey hair and matching cotton suit. She smiled kindly as she prepared a cup of tea and handed it to her son.

I smiled back then looked over to the other sofa, which was lined with four sisters, all wearing brightly coloured silk suits with costume jewellery and gold woolly socks. They cased me up and down.

‘My daughter works for a very big company. Just like your son, Nasser.’ Mum reached for the plate of shortbread biscuits on the table and handed it to one of the girls. The girl took one and passed the plate down.

‘What do you do?’ Nasser asked with a northern twang.

I looked at Mum blankly, then back at him. ‘I work for an internet company,’ I replied.

The room went quiet. All I could hear was the crunching of biscuits coming from the girls’ corner.

Nasser nodded approvingly, taking a sip of tea, and then handed the cup and saucer back to his mother.

I watched his mother make the exchange and offer a plate of Indian sweets to him, which he waved a dismissive hand to, his eyes still on me.

‘A manager,’ he repeated. ‘Where did you do your degree?’

Was this some kind of interview?

‘London,’ I replied flatly, dropping the polite expression for a hard stare back.

He nodded again, leaning back and resting an ankle on his knee, revealing stripy brown socks and black shiny shoes. ‘Does it pay well?’

Who was this man?

I didn’t reply.

‘Does it pay well?’ he repeated.

I didn’t answer his question but instead smiled sweetly and asked, ‘What do you do?’

The room fell quiet. The girls’ jaws dropped, his mother looked fearful for her son, and Mum burst into nervous giggles.

‘I’m a banker,’ he said, and cleared his throat.

More like a wanker, I thought. ‘Which bank?’

‘High street.’

My mouth curled up at the ends. Not quite an investment banker then…

He shuffled around in his seat and looked at his mother.

‘Times have changed, sister.’ Mum gave me one of those glares I got as a kid that meant I should shut up.

‘My son is very Western,’ Nasser’s mother said glowingly, trying to rescue the conversation. ‘He will only marry a girl who has a university degree and a good job. His father would be very proud if he was alive today.’

‘God willing,’ Mum dramatically raised her hands up to the ceiling in prayer position, ‘both our children will be married soon.’

I looked at Nasser’s mother. He doesn’t want a wife, I thought, he just wants a replacement for you.

The next morning I headed to Shazia’s. The walk from the bus stop was agonising on my feet. I had spent ages in the bathroom covering them with Vaseline and plasters before coming out. I’d been recommended all sorts of ointments to soothe bruising and blisters at the barracks, but Vaseline was the only thing I relied on.

I didn’t bother ringing her before coming over and hoped she would be in. After I’d knocked on the painted blue door of her house, I looked down the street while I waited for her to answer. This place hadn’t changed in the years I’d been gone. I still recognised the same plastic flowers in some of the windows, including those in Shazia’s old house, which I’d just walked past. I wanted to go in and say hello to her mum but felt it best to make peace with Shazia first, just in case I heard something I didn’t like and arrived at Shazia’s in the wrong mood. I couldn’t be doing with another nagging.