The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  I’d been hoping to get some sympathy from Sandy about Amma’s forced-voting scheme. She’d come to visit, cigarette hanging out of the window, when I began my defence. But as soon as I mentioned the word ‘voting’ she lit up like a lamp, telling me she was the only one of her friends on Westhill who ever voted.

  ‘People say there’s no one worth voting for,’ she said. ‘I ask them if they’re abstaining. They look at me like I’ve gone loopy but I watch the politics on Sundays, see. You’ve got to know the system, Ravine. Got to know what they’re doing at the top. I’ve learnt my lesson from those God-awful Blair years.’

  It popped all the air out of my balloon to have her supporting the voting plan.

  ‘I’m voting Cameron, for sure,’ she continued. ‘He’s a posh boy but he can’t do worse than this government. My benefits will be safe under his watch, mark my words.’

  Sandy is highly protective of her benefits. She’s convinced that Cameron won’t cut hers because of her legitimate clinical depression, unlike Mrs Patterson who says she has a bad back but still goes to Zumba every Wednesday. Sandy’s been living on benefits since she was sixteen. It’s the only way she knows how to function. It’s the same as me and this room. You might be stuck in a pit but when you’ve never seen the light of day, it’s more comfortable to stay in the dark.

  As Amma reads through the flyers I look at her casual expression and wonder when she’s planning on telling me about her return to Bangladesh.

  ‘Do you want anything from Laser’s car boot?’ she asks, tucking the flyers away.

  My shoulders drop. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’

  ‘But it is his name.’

  ‘His name’s Ian. And it’s not a car boot, it’s a knock-off goods stall.’

  Behind Amma I can see the leaves of the tree fan around her head in a green halo of innocence. She shakes her head, smiling at me as though I’ve made a simple mistake.

  ‘Laser assures me all his products are above board and of the highest quality.’

  ‘Laser’s also been in prison for fraud so I wouldn’t trust everything he says.’

  Amma blows her cheeks out as though I’m being deliberately contrary. She told me the same thing herself about Laser when I was younger, and only changed her mind when he gave her a discount on a set of stainless steel saucepans.

  ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for exotic ladies,’ he said through a gap-toothed grin.

  While any other woman would have found this repellent, my mother began giggling manically. She was always a sucker for a compliment and a discount, and the double whammy left her senseless. Now she won’t hear a word against the person she once referred to as ‘the lying cheat man’.

  After my mention of Laser’s prison sentence Amma becomes stiff.

  ‘Do you want something from him or do you not?’ she says.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Very good.’

  She places her reading glasses on the tip of her nose and begins opening her bills. I carry on ripping chapatti between my fingers, wondering if I can somehow sneak down to Laser’s stall without Amma noticing. Maybe if I go out by myself now, going out to vote with Amma later won’t be so bad. Besides, I could do with some new crossword books and could maybe rifle through his collection of second-hand CDs from the discount box he always keeps on the floor.

  Knowing Amma, she’ll go down to Laser’s straight after breakfast to get first dibs on his ‘high quality’ goods and from there to the park to feed ducks. I’ll have a good one-and-a-half-hour window to scuttle downstairs, have a quick look at what’s on offer and make my way back to my room. I try to visualize the plan, rushing down the pissy concrete steps and out into the light of Westhill. I imagine looking down at the pavement, the shield of my hair concealing my identity. I’ll scan the crowd, locating the faded jeans and Tommy Hilfiger jumper that is Laser’s uniform (on closer inspection the words spell Tommy Hillfinger). I try to visualize walking up to his gap-toothed grin and opening my mouth in greeting but when I get to that part of the scene I feel a twisting pain in my chest that snaps me out of my thoughts. The pain is sharp, as though a tiny hand is wrestling with my oesophagus. I think it’s the chilli in Amma’s chickpea curry but even when I gulp down the mango juice the pain grips tight, the light of the room becoming dazzlingly bright, making me dizzy.

  ‘I have some news,’ Amma says abruptly.

  When I look at her she has her chin buried deep in her chest, eyes fixed to the envelope in her hand. Just seeing her there, ponies dancing across the curtains behind her, makes the pain soften. The world of the estate is a far-off place again, stuck behind the walls of our flat.

  ‘News?’ I say, trying to keep my voice indifferent.

  ‘About Mr Chavda,’ she says.

  She keeps her eyes fixed on the envelope, leaving me to assume the worst. I stuff chapatti in my mouth and think of all the times I haven’t listened to Mr Chavda and rolled my eyes at him. Of all people, he’s the type to die and come back as a ghost just to spite me. Sailing around my room at night, wailing times tables at me.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I say.

  Amma begins to rip open the envelope and, in her fury, tears the corner of the letter inside.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, shaking her head and pulling out the mutilated bill. ‘He’s just being a big baby.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  Amma purses her lips. ‘Never you mind.’

  I drop my shoulders. ‘Then why tell me?’

  She glances up at me for a second then looks back down at her bill. ‘Because he won’t be teaching you for a while. He’s too busy sulking.’

  I don’t press any further as Amma is clearly in no mood for explanations. Besides, I’ve already guessed the reason for Mr Chavda’s sulk: she’s told him the news of her return to Bangladesh and he’s reacted with a temper tantrum. Amma (who never responds to such tactics) will have refused to talk to him until he apologizes and Mr Chavda (who I imagine hasn’t apologized to anyone in his life) will be waiting for the same.

  ‘What exercise shall we do today?’ Amma asks, still ripping her way through the junk mail.

  ‘How about staying in bed?’ I suggest.

  She drops her chin. ‘You do enough of that already … I know! We shall time you sitting up and down again. We will see if you can beat your record.’

  I groan, letting my body deflate with the noise.

  ‘Can’t I do the window exercise?’ I say. ‘I’m getting really good at that one.’

  She doesn’t seem to hear me, distracted by the electricity bill.

  ‘The price of fuel is very high now,’ she mumbles.

  I bet it’s cheaper in Bangladesh, I think, stuffing chapatti in my mouth before the words come out.

  I must have fallen asleep because, later that day, my eyes spring open at the sound of Amma’s voice.

  ‘You cannot hide for ever, Ravine. You cannot hide.’

  She’s whispering in my ear, repeating the words at juggernaut speed until I fling my head back, ready to tell her to give it a rest. But she isn’t there. As I look around I hear the front door click shut and realize she’s gone out on her errands.

  I sit up, my head feeling like a broken-up jigsaw. It tries to piece itself together as I rub my eyes, shoulders aching from all the tossing and turning. Amma has left a lunch tray on the bedside table but when I look at the lamb pieces buried in grains of yellow rice my stomach remains indifferent. I glance at the crossword books on the table, the zig-zag stack of library books on the floor, the upturned television remote at the bottom of the bed. Nothing tempts me. Eventually I come to a conclusion. I’m going to do something different today. Something I haven’t done for a long time. I’m going to get dressed.

  The last time I got dressed was four months ago when I had a hospital appointment. Of course I’ve had clothes on since, but only in the form of pyjamas or old shalwar kameezes covered in gaudy paisley patterns. The
y are comfortable at night but not exactly suited for estate wear.

  I swing my feet out of the bed and plant them on the carpet, carrying out little pinches on my arms, then clenching and releasing different parts of my body. I go to the wardrobe in the corner of the room and open the doors. Before me is a collection of office wear, party gowns and nothing in between. Suits, waistcoats, shirts and skirts. Prom-style dresses, glittering saris I have no idea how to put on, slinky satin evening wear and ruffled items that easily rival the whipped-cream dresses we wore aged seven. Amma has been renewing my wardrobe each and every year and, judging by the contents, expects me to be attending job interviews and award ceremonies. It hasn’t occurred to her I’d need everyday items – T-shirts, day dresses, jeans.

  In the end I decide to put on one of the less flamboyant dresses: a short-sleeved crimson smock reaching down to my ankles and tucked in just beneath my bosom.

  I go to the bathroom to brush my hair and wash my face. As I stand at the sink I see Amma’s kohl eyeliner and attempt to press the waxy tip on my own lids. I’m left rubbing the black marks off, the smudges giving me panda eyes and leaving the edges so red raw it looks as if I’ve been crying for the past hour. I think maybe I can correct this with some talcum powder but decide against it. I don’t plan to be out for long.

  I begin my descent down the stairs. It’s the first time for years that I’ve made it down unaided and I have to lean my hand on the wooden rail, trying not to go Crack! Crack! Crack! down the steps like the girl in Jonathan’s Soul-drinker story. My legs are not as unsteady as I thought they’d be, Amma’s exercises having built up some strength in my thighs and calves. When I get to the bottom of the stairs I’m only a little out of breath, pausing for a moment before I slip into a pair of Amma’s plastic sandals. When I turn my head I see the full-length hall mirror. I used to press my face against the glass, blowing hard so I could form condensation marks around the shape of my lips. I barely came halfway up the mirror back then and now I’m at full adult (or at least Bengali) height. It scares me to see myself so tall and dressed up. I look like some other person. A grown-up person with long flowing black hair and a surprisingly large bosom. I place my hand on the knob of the Yale lock and, leaving the door ajar, step outside the flat.

  A chill breeze hits me square in the face. I crane my neck out to scan the landing. When I see it’s empty I creep out from the front door, keeping my head ducked down. I step sideways to what used to be your door and look down at the mat the Ahmeds had left behind. It’s a straw mat, the word WELCOME printed against the background of a Union Jack. It was a declaration of the family’s dedication to its new country and a polite request to please not egg their door.

  A few days back, your brother spoke to me through the wall. I couldn’t understand him at first. I thought he was saying, ‘Give me the hat, Ravine, the hat.’ Then, when I put a glass against the wall, I realized he was saying, ‘The key’s beneath the mat, Ravine, the mat.’ He wants me to come and visit him.

  It’s clear that, for whatever Jonathan-shaped reason, your brother is in hiding and has decided to reveal himself to me and me only. I suppose this is flattering in a way but I’m still unsure. I haven’t seen your brother in over ten years and our last meeting wasn’t a particularly happy one.

  He’d come to visit me in the hospital with a lady from the social services. His pale face sat on top of a rigid body and if it hadn’t been for the lady’s subdued voice, the room would have been filled with nothing but the beep of hospital equipment. Jonathan was going into foster care, she said, until what was best for him could be decided. He didn’t look at me as she explained this, not once, but kept his eyes glued to the end of my bed as though my hospital chart was the most fascinating image he’d ever seen. When he left, I made sure to call out, ‘What’s the weather, Jonathan-Weatherboy?’ even though the pain was shooting up my jaw with each word. I said it without malice, hoping to elicit a reaction from him, for him to chant ‘Ravine Ravine Dictionary Queen’ and perform his fairy dance. For a moment he stood there, shoulders hunched over, but then he kept walking.

  I bend down to the Union Jack and pull the key out from beneath. I wonder what Jonathan will make of me in my Little Red Riding Smock. Then I begin to wonder what he looks like now, no longer a little boy in too-big glasses but a fully grown man. Is he handsome and broad or as weedy as ever? Does he still wear those thick-framed glasses or a slim pair that give him the air of a university professor?

  I turn the key. The lock clunks open. I push the door forward. There’s the shuffling of feet. His feet. Your brother’s feet.

  I don’t know why that sound makes me panic but it does. I yank the door shut, shove the key under the mat and dash back into my flat, up the stairs and into bed. I lie under the sheets with sandals still on my feet, the red smock twisted around my legs. And it’s then, as I lie still, that the pain strikes. When I look over at Shiva, his chin is pressed down, face full of disapproval.

  5 across: Faint-hearted. Yellow-bellied. Chicken (6)

  I watch the walls closing in, a little white crossword box drawing up against my body. There are no clues linked to me, just a sea of black around each edge. As the darkness narrows in I try breathing deeply, waiting for Jonathan’s voice to come through the walls.

  I can hear him moving, but he doesn’t say a word. Then, a noise comes shrill and brutal. Crockery smashing into the brick on the other side of the wall, a sound so sharp it makes my body jolt and my ears ring. I hold on to my knees, waiting for the walls to come tumbling down. But there’s no more crashing, no more noise. Nothing but the silence, surrounded by the dark.

  The Constellation of Disappearing Suns

  When I watch the universe programme with Amma, the professor is viewing a solar eclipse in Varanasi. He stands on the banks of the Ganges as throngs of spectators wade in the river up to their waists, with a multitude of saris and bare chests. I sit transfixed at this image of India. The lush greenery, the colourful garments, the hot glowing sun, and I realize that these must be the things Amma misses most about Bangladesh. I wonder what our lives would have been like if she’d never been shipped out of the country and flogged to the first man with a decent offer. If she’d stayed she might have defied all convention and become a lawyer or an academic. She might not even have had me.

  I watch in silence as the disc of the moon travels over the orange globe of the sun, listening carefully as the professor tells me about the amazing coincidence that allows a solar eclipse to occur.

  The moon is approximately four hundred times smaller in diameter than the sun, and the sun lies approximately four hundred times as far from Earth as the moon. This twist of fate means that when the three bodies align during an eclipse the distance between them creates the perfect effect of the moon covering the entire mass of the sun. The professor takes a green coconut and a lime from a cart and lines the objects up to the camera lens until the coconut is obscured by the roundness of the green sphere.

  ‘This proves,’ he says, ‘to be one of the most remarkable coincidences in all of nature, and a truly breathtaking vision for any spectator to behold.’

  Varanasi becomes covered in darkness. The crowd cheers.

  I hear the creaking of bedsprings next door. I glance over at Amma. Her hands, which have been kneading chapatti dough in a metal bowl, are now frozen as she watches the professor. It isn’t until the end credits roll that she becomes reanimated, jumping to her feet with floury hands and a shaking head.

  ‘That professor is a very clever man.’

  I smirk, knowing full well she doesn’t watch for his cleverness, then let her kiss me on the cheek before switching the screen off. When she leaves the room, I hear a tapping on the wall. I glance towards the door as Amma’s feet plod down the steps. I’ve been worried your brother would stop speaking to me after yesterday. That he’d be in one of his almighty sulks. I told myself I didn’t care – I’d survived all these years without Jonathan Dickerson,
I could manage a few more – but still I quickly spin my body to a half-kneeling position and use my glass to listen through the wall. Eventually I hear his deep voice vibrating through the plaster.

  ‘Ravine?’

  I gulp down the saliva in my throat and close my eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  Even with this one syllable I can hear my voice shaking. I press hard onto the wall to steady myself. There’s a pause.

  ‘What did it look like?’ he asks.

  I glance at the TV and frown.

  ‘Better than that other one,’ I tell him. I remember the day he missed out on a (partial) solar eclipse. We’d all gathered on the top floor of Bosworth House. I imagine his frustration at sitting so close to another eclipse, even if it’s only a televised one. To hear the applauding and cheering of a thousand Indians and see nothing himself.

  I hear the patter of two palms being pressed against the wall. I almost pull away at the thought of him so close.

  ‘Better?’ he says.

  I lean my ear into the glass and try to think of the most appropriate synonym.

  ‘Phenomenal.’

  A pause. ‘Can you describe it?’

  I think about this for a second.

  ‘Well …’ I say. ‘When the moon was completely covering the sun, there was still this glow around it. Fuzzy and white.’

  ‘The sun’s corona,’ your brother says.

  I roll my eyes. He always was a know-it-all.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘And the sky was totally black. The moon was totally black. Everything black except for this fuzzy white disc in the sky. It was so … clear. Back when we were kids you could only see clouds.’

  There’s another pause. I let my hands slide off the wall as I sit back down on my heels.

  ‘You could probably find it on YouTube,’ I say.