Run, Rebel
Page 7
tells him to shut up.
Then her eyes will fill up
and the corners of
the whites turn red.
She’ll put her hands
to her face,
pressing her fingers
to her eyes.
Classic Ruby trick.
Pretending to yawn.
Pretending to rub her eyes
when really she’s soaking up tears
through her fingertips.
No one Gave gifts when Tiya was born.
No one dId anything. There were
no celebRations,
no tempLe blessing. Instead they mourned
like it waS a funeral.
I watch Tiya
run round the living room
as I flick through TV channels.
I hope you don’t have to put up with the same stuff I do.
I hope it’s different for you.
She looks at me
with her chubby round
innocent face.
I hope you can be whatever you want to be.
She turns away
and continues to play,
too young to understand
the walls that are built round her.
Every now and then
I hear the word ‘wedding’.
I hear the words
‘need to watch her’.
There is a tightness in my chest.
A quickness in my breath.
An anger in my blood.
Maybe –
it’s always been there
waiting –
for the right time.
A fight.
I deserve more,
something whispers
deep inside.
I look at Tiya.
For you.
I’ll fight so you won’t have to.
To Rise.
To Exercise your rights.
To Break through resistance.
To Expostulate.
To Lead the revolt.
Turn the volume down,
turn the telly off.
Don’t say a word.
Can’t he wait?
Five minutes,
just five minutes.
He stands in the doorway, swaying.
Mum – exhausted –
rolls out chapattis.
Ruby stirs the curry,
I serve,
Dad eats,
Jas eats.
I want to
scream the house down.
I worry I’m like him.
I’m becoming him.
I look at my father
and wonder what
happened
to turn him
into the man
he is and how it
trickled
down
to
me.
Is that how it starts?
A silent anger
bubbling inside,
simmering,
waiting like a
dormant volcano
until one day
it erupts
and you’re
no longer
in control.
When Ruby and Jas leave,
I try to pick my moment.
I have the form in my hand.
I study his mood.
On a scale of one to ten how drunk is he?
Eight.
On a scale of one to ten how brave am I feeling?
Zero.
I have a few weeks till half-term.
I have time.
Dad waves letters
in front of my face.
Read these, he slurs.
Three are junk mail.
One is in a brown envelope.
Something about brown envelopes
makes me nervous.
Brown envelopes are always
important. Official.
If it’s important,
if it’s official,
and I get the important
and official information wrong,
I’ll be
in big trouble.
I am eight.
I sit nervously,
taking on the fear of a father
who is embarrassed he can’t do this himself.
But my Punjabi’s not as good as my English.
One language taking over the other,
I sit soaking up anxiety like a sponge,
carrying it around,
heavy and drenched,
unsettling my insides.
Facts wash around in my head.
Wringing out the information
as best as I can remember
only for some bits
to be dribbled out incorrectly.
When you have illiterate parents,
everything falls on you.
No matter how young,
you become the parent too.
The important letter
is from the council.
They are cutting
our benefits.
I fear Dad will
fly into a rage.
But instead
we all sit in silence.
The air feels thick
and heavy with desperation.
A sense of impending doom.
There must be a mistake.
Call tomorrow.
Make an appointment,
he demands
while picking up his coat,
muttering
bewakoof, nikame
under his breath
as he leaves,
slamming the door,
making the whole house
shake with his rage.
I lie on my bed,
staring at my wardrobe,
notice how it’s
leaning to one side.
Doesn’t have the
other one to lean against,
doesn’t have Ruby’s
bed to prop it up.
Ruby would always
fix everything.
A bit of cardboard under there,
a bit of superglue here.
The loneliness is drowning.
I feel like there’s a hole in my chest
and all the darkness is seeping in.
I wish for a time
I could bury myself
in my mother’s arms
and she’d rock away the tears.
Or cuddle up in bed with
Ruby and her stories.
Or have Dad hold me
high above his head,
flying me round the room,
making aeroplane noises.
I wish for that time.
Write your truth.
I try to start on
my English assignment.
Write your truth.
I see Mr Walker
already disappointed,
already writing a big fat
F on my work.
Write your truth.
The words send spikes
rushing into every corner,
irritating skin and bone.
I stare at the blank page,
unable to start.
The muscles in my hand
seem locked.
I shake. Not cold.
Scared if I reveal too much
I’ll open myself up,
turn inside out,
and Mr Walker
will see everything.
See me.
See it all.
My truth
is not
mine
to tell.
I hear the front door slam.
I hear Dad shouting my name.
Amber! Amber!
You call tomorrow. You hear me.
You call the Jobcentre tomorrow.
You sort this out, do something useful for once.
Why else do we bother sending you to school!
I don’t answer.
He’s not looking for an answer.
&
nbsp; It pays to be silent.
Leave her alone. She said she would.
She needs to study.
Why does Mum answer back?
She knows what he’s like.
She provokes him.
Fear buries the guilt
that surrounds
these words.
Was I talking to you?
How dare you answer back,
I wasn’t talking to you!
I press my hands against my ears
and begin reading out loud …
‘A rebellion is an act of open resistance
against an established authority …’
I read louder and louder
as voices are raised …
‘A revolt seeks to overthrow and destroy …’
as objects are shattered …
‘A rebellion is an act of resistance. A revolt seeks
revolution …’
until there is quiet.
I open my bedroom door.
I creep downstairs,
see her on the settee,
head shrouded in a shawl.
Hands in prayer,
rocking
back and forth
back and forth.
I check her face.
Wipe her tears,
search for bruises.
I put my arm round her.
She feels hard.
My embrace
makes her wince.
I hold her tight,
try to melt
her tough exterior
with the warmth of my embrace
no matter how much
she might resist.
The history books
demand my attention.
They seem to ground me
in the chaos somehow.
I begin reading about heroes
that rocked the status quo.
Those who had visions of liberation
that were bigger than themselves.
Those who vowed to fight
for change above all else.
From a picture, a man with wavy hair
and flat cap stares back at me.
It’s not just about me wanting to run away.
The fight is bigger than that.
If I go, Mum has to come with me.
Mum and I
stand up to Dad.
We overthrow his regime.
It won’t be easy.
He will resist.
But we fight back.
We are cleverer than him.
We leave this house
for a better one.
A house on a tree-lined street
and wide-open
spaces around us.
She reads.
She writes.
She has friends.
I run
I run
I run
and we are safe.
Tossing and turning
mind racing
athletics club
Dad
fights
threats
Mum
crying
Mum
Mum
Mum
revolt
destroy
Ruby
Tiya
Dad
revolt
destroy
The Man
threats
David
Tara
David
Tara and David
their holiday
them
together
whispering
athletics
them
together
athletics
them together
heart-breaking
heart-breaking
heart-breaking.
Seven a.m.
alarm.
Snooze for another ten.
Slept too badly
for it to be morning.
Slink under the covers.
Wrap the duvet round my head.
Tight.
Battling instincts,
fighting thoughts.
Today is a good day.
Whatever.
Slink down further,
try and catch the words
before they
fall
through
the
cracks
in my heart.
Try and catch them
before they are
engulfed by coffin dreams.
I sink.
Not breathing.
ALARM!
Can’t be ten minutes already?
Went too quick.
I stare at the clock.
It stares right back.
Seven ten a.m.
I throw it.
Pissed off.
It hits my shelves,
knocks Ruby’s old A-level guides.
Next time she comes over
I’m gonna throw them at her.
Tell her to take them home.
I emerge.
Check the clock.
Seven twelve a.m.
I want to get back into bed,
can’t face this day.
No sports today.
Just a normal day
swimming in my own thoughts.
Fourteen stairs
between the ground
and first floor
of our home.
My mini playground.
My gym.
My weekly circuit session.
Not allowed out
so got to learn to be
inventive.
Jump lunges,
sprints up and down the stairs,
lunge up the stairs two at a time,
hop up,
jump down,
jump squats.
The possibilities are endless.
Sprint up two at a time and
back down again.
Repeat ten, twenty, thirty times.
When I’m puffed out,
I stand at the kitchen window,
glugging down a glass of water.
Look out at the undulating streets,
knowing the arboretum
lies just beyond.
Wishing I could get my trainers on
and run down there.
Smell the fresh air,
feel the wind on my face.
I see The Man across the road.
He stands in his front garden,
looking at his red roses.
My heart thumps with fear.
I take a final gulp of water
and do ten more sprints.
One Weetabix,
one teaspoon of sugar,
milk,
half a banana,
one cup of sweet chai.
Pour me some tea.
Make me toast.
Put cheese on it.
Hurry up.
Dad’s demanding.
Been up an hour himself.
Can’t put bread in the toaster.
Can’t make tea.
He’ll wait.
As long as it takes
till I come down the stairs.
I’m the one needing to get somewhere.
Where’s he got to be?
Oh yeah,
the bench outside Tesco
where he’ll sit till dinnertime,
watching,
keeping guard over the town’s daughters and wives.
I do as I’m told.
Although these days I’m not so polite.
I’m getting angry.
Can’t help it.
I stomp.
Huff.
Close cupboard doors a bit louder.
Slam plates down harder.
Making breakfast for someone
is not that big a deal
in itself …
It takes less than twenty seconds to put bread in the toaster.
Less than thirty seconds to butter it.
&nb
sp; Less than sixty seconds to cut some cheese
and place it on the toast.
That’s less than a minute and a half of my day …
It’s the principle.
‘A situation that requires something be done a certain way
because one believes it is the only right way.’
Dad believes I should make his breakfast
because I’m a girl.
That’s what girls are born to do.
To serve.
His words.
Not mine.
I wouldn’t mind making his breakfast
if he made mine sometimes,
if he didn’t expect me to make his.
I don’t mind doing things for other people.
But I do mind when I’m doing it because
I am less than.
It’s the principle of the matter,
and therefore
it IS a big deal.
Since Ruby left
this is down to me.
Speaking to official people
makes me nervous.
The sound of
classical music
while on hold
unsettles my breakfast.
Dad sits with me,
watching and waiting.
The earliest appointment,
he reminds me
for the tenth time.
I try and make one
for the weekend
but the offices are closed.
Next week is the earliest.
Tuesday morning.
Nine a.m.
Appointment made
and I’m annoyed
that I’ll be missing school.
I can’t miss school. This year is important.
He ignores me.
Pours himself a whisky
and shuffles upstairs.
Finally out of the door.
Cut through the estate,
dodge the dog shit,
past the garage,
the chippy,
the corner shop,
up the hill,
try and beat my time.
Carrying books telling tales
of revolutionary rebels
puts a fighting spring
in my step.
I see Tara and David talking
outside the school gates,
looking all cosy,
and just like that
courage twists into jealousy.
Mackie D’s later, yeah?
David holds my arms out
like a master puppeteer,
dancing round me,
playing the nerd.
No way.
That lady saw me yesterday
and called the house.
You’re joking!
He drops my arms
and looks at me
in disbelief.
It’s OK.
I’m OK.
I’m so sorry.
She did tell you to walk ahead, David.
Tara strokes my arm.