Worlds Apart (4 page)

The meal ended when Dad came in, probably to figure out what all the noise was about. He stood between us making polite conversation with Julie in English, which I was thankful for, then left the kitchen holding a cup of chai Mum had handed him.

I smiled at Julie, pleased that something had eventually gone right, and took a sip of water.

Julie smiled back. ‘Is that your granddad?’ she asked.

The glass missed my mouth and water trickled down my chin onto my netball skirt. I couldn’t believe she’d said that and I felt a sudden rage set in. No one had
ever
said that, nor had it occurred to me before that my dad was probably twice as old as most of the parents at my school. Perhaps the teachers thought my brother was my dad when he attended parents’ evening in the place of Dad, who worked late, and Mum, who couldn’t understand English.

I responded with a poker face. He may be older, I wanted to tell her, but he was the best dad in the world. He was my universe.

The next morning, school started with geography. I hated the subject. Who cares where Gambia is located, I thought. It wasn’t as if I was ever going to go there.

I sat at the back of the class with Julie, studying a map together. The teacher, Miss Wilcox, was stood at the front. She had the most boring monotone voice. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying but kept thinking about Julie.

We’d hardly had a chance to talk about the evening. I did try to spark up a conversation during registration but she avoided eye contact. My paranoia kicked in when I noticed a few girls looking round at us during class and wondered if she had told them anything.

Julie turned the page over to a map of Chile and studied its strange shape and population data.

‘Did you like coming to my house yesterday?’ I whispered.

She shrugged in response and carried on staring at the map.

I wasn’t giving up and I threw a few more questions at her when Miss Wilcox turned her back to write on the blackboard. ‘Did you like the food?’ ‘Is your tongue still burning from the spices?’ ‘My mum really likes you.’

Each time I got the shrug, which made me wonder which part of the evening she didn’t like.

In the end, I had let her think my dad was my granddad. First, because I didn’t want to explain that my parents had had an arranged marriage when Mum was fourteen years old and that she was Dad’s third wife. Secondly, she wasn’t worth the effort; I was still very annoyed by her hurtful comment.

Julie suddenly reached across the desk for my Biro and started scribbling over the map of Argentina. I looked up at the teacher who was still writing on the board, then back at Julie, not quite believing what I was seeing. Scribbling in books would earn us detention for the rest of the year. I didn’t really understand the Falklands War, apart from Margaret Thatcher not being happy with Argentina, but I didn’t expect Julie to be so patriotic.

‘Are you alright?’ I finally asked.

‘My auntie’s having a baby,’ she replied, eyes down still scribbling over the contour lines. ‘It’s going to be brown.’

B
Y THE TIME
I was twelve, Mum had me fully trained in all the skills necessary to become the perfect housewife: knitting, sewing and sitting pretty. She took me to bridal evenings in the local community to watch brides having their hands and feet hennaed. She also became more attentive towards me as my body developed.

The biggest fear Muslim parents had in those days was that their daughters would bring shame upon the family. I wasn’t allowed to go out on my own any more and I had to wear a headscarf and loose-fitting clothes around the house. My brothers could do what they wanted; go out at night, talk to English girls and wear Western clothes.

Dad didn’t really get involved in these matters. He was busy building up the butcher’s shop, working seven days a week, and never moaned. He tried to have as little as possible to do with the visitors that came to the house, who were mainly from my mum’s social circle. He didn’t have time for illness, people who ran to the doctor’s with a headache, or signed on the dole. He enjoyed quietness, simple food and sometimes a game of chess with me on a Sunday.

By this point Mum had time on her hands. I was out at school all day and in the evenings would go to the mosque or do my homework. She asked Dad if she could help out in the shop but he didn’t have anything for her to do.

However, Mum wasn’t having it and decided to throw all the stereotypes of child brides and illiteracy aside to go her own way. She taught herself to read with Ladybird books, which I had to fetch from the library. During the day, she began to travel independently by randomly jumping on and off buses and getting lost for hours on end. Then she began inviting the English neighbours over for tea to practise her English. Though most of them politely declined, two did come round; they turned out to be Polish and Irish.

She admired Margaret Thatcher on telly and one day told Dad she wanted to vote at the next election. Her
literary skills weren’t fully polished and she needed Dad to indicate which box represented the Conservatives. Unfortunately, when she arrived at the polling station she was holding the card upside down and voted for the National Front. My dad found out by asking for a description of the ballot card, which turned out to have the tick boxes on the wrong side.

He was so annoyed he stopped speaking to her, saying enough was enough of her recent shenanigans. But she wasn’t listening, she didn’t care – she was on a roll.

My dad tried not to let it get to him even when she’d witter on about it during their walks in the summer evenings. Sometimes I would tag along. These were the only times I was able to see the area we lived in.

One evening we took a longer route and ended up in different part of town. We walked past a detached bungalow with a hairdressing shop attached to it with a ‘For Sale’ sign up. Mum stopped and stared at it for a moment then looked at Dad and suggested they buy it. My dad laughed because it looked expensive, with a big garden. They would never be able to afford the mortgage and bills on that place.

‘You won’t have to worry about the bills and housekeeping, I’ll take care of that,’ Mum said.

This made my dad laugh even louder.

It was the first time I stopped and looked at Dad
differently. Did he think she wasn’t capable or was he concerned that Asian women didn’t work, let alone try to run a business.

Just at that moment, an English couple came out of the house towards their car, which was parked on the drive. Mum nudged Dad to go to speak to them. He finally plucked up the courage and engaged in conversation with them about their house. They were ‘polite’ and excused themselves after a few minutes saying it was best he contacted the estate agents. Dad’s last attempt was to ask if they would consider ‘part exchange’. This made them both shake their heads and walk away.

‘We live on Drayton Road,’ Dad called out.

The woman stopped in her tracks and turned round. ‘The Drayton Road up there?’ she asked, pointing her finger in the air over her shoulder. She looked surprised, probably because it was an English area.

He nodded.

‘What number?’

The couple did come round to see the house and Mum was up at the crack of dawn cleaning it. She wasn’t with us any more, she was in her world, the one she had dreamt about and was now coming true. The odds were against us getting the exchange, but knowing Mum she would do anything, even if it meant selling her dowry gold.

I knew things were going to change because I understood my mother. She had grit and determination and when she wanted something, she got it. A price was agreed and an exchange was made.

Dad’s biggest concern was how Mum was going to run a hairdresser’s if she couldn’t cut hair and had never run a business before. However, she had other plans ticking as she discovered that the only food places nearby were a bakery and a fish & chip shop. That’s when she announced to Dad that she was converting the hairdressers into a kebab shop.

The kebab shop took me through my teenage years, along with the grease that clung to my hair and skin. It was a convenient set-up. The shop was attached to the house by a door leading from the back room, which had a ringer that went off when a customer came in.

I finally finished the Koran when I was fourteen; four years later than my sister, who had since passed her school exams with flying colours and was heading for university entry. My parents bought her a desk, a lamp and a comfortable chair. The bedroom was out of bounds for me in the evening while she studied.

My time after school was replaced with chopping, kneading and scrubbing, before opening the shop at 6 p.m. It shifted the dynamics between my parents and me. No longer did they see me as a child, but instead as
a responsible member of the family running the house alongside them – a role usually taken by sons in our tradition. My brothers had all left home by now and were living their own lives.

Mum hired a chef from the local community. I wasn’t sure if it was intentional or coincidental, but either way it raised a few eyebrows to have a man working for a woman. The chef was known to me as Uncle Hajji. Hajji wasn’t his real name, nor was he my uncle, but he had done the pilgrimage journey to Mecca and therefore had the title ‘Hajji’. (Hajji is for a man, Hajjah for a woman.) He lived on the other side of town with his extended family, which was so big that they were scattered over a number of terraced streets nearby. He had arranged his two daughters’ marriages in Pakistan, left them there and brought back a village girl for his son to marry when he turned sixteen. His family came from a different part of Pakistan, which meant their Punjabi accent was hard for me to understand.

I didn’t have many friends at the time because I wasn’t allowed out, and I was working in the shop when I wasn’t at school. Mum was worried that I was becoming socially isolated compared to the Pakistani girls who lived in a community. She introduced me to Hajji’s many nieces. To her relief, I ended up making friends with one of them: Shazia. She was the eldest in her family and spent most school days helping her mum bring up
her younger siblings. When we were in the same room as our mums we spoke fast English so they wouldn’t understand. Mum was still speaking pigeon English but she was catching up. Shazia and I were the same age, but our lives were totally different.

She was engaged to her cousin as soon as her umbilical cord was cut and she was announced a girl. The cousin lived down the road from her, which I thought was weird. All the girls in Hajji’s family got married young, and if it weren’t for being in England, they’d have all got married as soon as their menstrual cycles kicked in. The women in his family weren’t allowed to drive as it ‘gave them too much independence’, nor were they allowed to go out without a male escort from the family – and even then, they would have to walk 10 feet behind him, even if it was their little brother.

I never passed judgement, nor did their strict religious regime affect me, as I respected Islam as a peaceful religion.

Shazia and I got on like a house on fire. We laughed at anything and everything as if we could read each other’s minds. I’d share my dramas about working with her uncle in the kebab shop and she’d gossip about everyone in the neighbourhood. I had no idea who she was talking about, couldn’t keep up with all the names and sagas, but you didn’t have to watch
Dallas
for entertainment
when Shazia was around. My heart would sink when we said our goodbyes, knowing I would have to wait another week before I saw my best friend again, my only friend. Sundays were when my dad had time off work and the only time he could drive me over.

However, as time went on our conversations changed. More from her side than mine.

‘Who are you getting married to?’ Shazia asked.

‘No idea.’ I’d reply flatly, shrugging my shoulders.

‘Cousin from Pakistan?’ she continued, oblivious to my hostile body language.

‘Why?’ God, she’s nosy, I began to think.

‘You should be engaged by now…’ she smiled, exposing a set of small teeth and high gums, quickly covered up by poppy red fingernails. ‘It takes ages for the visa to come though.’

Shazia would wear a tight headscarf that covered all her hair, while mine hung round my neck and was only donned over my head when I served tea to guests in the living room or went to mosque. I never wanted to swap my life for hers but I did wish for the close network of aunties, cousins and nieces she had around her. Mine were all in Pakistan and my grandparents had died long before I was born, so I had no recollection of them; just a black and white photo of Dad’s mum, which he kept on his bedside cabinet.

My relationship with her Uncle Hajji in the shop was distant but polite. He would give me dirty looks for no reason when I asked him a question about food orders, but it didn’t bother me. I respected him as an elder member of the community and as a Hajji.

‘Is this the chicken or lamb madras, Uncle?’ I would ask, pointing at the foiled container he put down on the stainless steel wall between us.

Grunt
.

‘Uncle?’

Hand on hip, he’d toss his head the other way. Reluctantly I’d peel back the lid and check for myself.

I know he disapproved of me not wearing my headscarf the way Shazia did, and not being more subservient towards him, but I didn’t care.

The dynamic between him and Mum was fascinating. She never spoke as a meek woman from as far back as I can remember, but now she made a conscious effort not to. She would march into the shop to inspect his work, speaking in a loud voice but with less drama than she used to use in the home. Less is more, as she was slowly learning from Dad. Her presence made Hajji nervous.

When the shop was quiet, I’d hear him in the back banging the pots around and making heaving noises that sounded as if he was carrying a ton of bricks on his back, and then when the shop was busy he’d flap
around making dramatic arm gestures like he was some big Michelin-star chef. He’d argue with me when he’d get the order wrong, vowing I’d said chicken madras and not lamb, then blaming me for forgetting to put the chip pan on. I nicknamed him ‘The Snake’ because he chose his moments to tell Mum how good Shazia was to get married young before she did something to bring shame on her family, like being seen talking to a boy on the street.

The customers were a mixed bag: some were from the council estate across the road and the pub next door, others were lads in uniform from the fire station and Territorial Army barracks down the road. I would juggle my evenings between serving the customers, doing my homework and taking care of house chores. My routine was watertight and safe. I didn’t mind any of it, no matter how many people asked whether I was tired or overworked.

What I did mind was guests visiting the house and having to serve tea all the time, particularly the ‘auntie and uncle from Longsight’. They had recently been coming round too often for my liking. I got so sick of them that one day I deliberately broke wind as I offered a plate of Jalebi, a fried Indian sweet made from flour and syrup. Dad turned the other way and Mum looked mortified. Fortunately, the guests pretended they hadn’t heard anything and carried on talking about their family in Pakistan.

I left the room in a bit of a state, worried that Mum was going to tell me off when they’d gone and then realised I’d forgotten the tray. I turned to go back inside and could hear them in full flow of conversation so stopped outside and pressed my ear to the door.

‘Oh no, brother,’ I heard Mum say, ‘My daughter is still studying, we haven’t even thought about her marriage yet.’

I knew they were talking about me. My sister’s marriage had already been arranged to some chap in Pakistan and she was happy. It had been a civilised process, with agreement from both families who communicated openly. To me it was one big farce that I was not going through. I was not giving up my life to a stranger.

‘What are you going to gain from letting her study, besides people talking and getting a bad name for the family?’ the uncle asked with a mouthful of food.

‘Maybe if she got a degree she could marry a doctor,’ Mum retorted.

‘Or maybe she could run away with a boy she meets at college, then which doctor will have her?’ He snapped back.

The room fell quiet. I felt myself getting angry. How dare he talk to my mum like that? Also, why isn’t Dad stepping in?

I heard Dad clear his throat like he’d read my
thoughts. ‘Our children are brought up here and want partners brought up the same way and who speak English.’

It was the first time I had heard Dad speak up on these matters. He was a man of few words but when he spoke, he spoke sense.

‘Nonsense!’ the uncle interrupted. ‘Are you suggesting we forget our ways? Both my son and daughter married in Pakistan and both are happy.’

They’re not happy, they’re scared of you
, I thought.

‘So what are you suggesting?’ Mum asked.

‘We have a nephew, who lives in Pakistan,’ the uncle raised his voice a notch. ‘Very educated and works in a bank.’