by Humza Arshad
You can have a look if you like. This one’s pretty old, but check it out.
I gotta admit it, that is some strong literature. But today there was no time for PIA comics. Today Auntie Uzma had a special project for us: painting with chocolate.
That’s right. Painting. With. Chocolate.
I don’t know why I’d even doubted aunties as teachers – this was incredible! No normal teacher would let us do this. Auntie Uzma had brought in this big thing of melted chocolate, and we all got a cup full of it and a fat paintbrush. You could paint whatever you wanted on your paper, but you had to do it quick before the chocolate went hard.
It was pretty difficult with such a big brush and such thick paint, so in the end I just wrote …
LITTLE
BADMAN
… in delicious chocolate letters, next to a smiley face with my hat on (that’s my logo – I was gonna trademark it, but I don’t know how).
On his bit of paper, Umer drew a big happy bee.
‘That’s a nice bee, man,’ I told him. ‘Is it Mustafa?’
‘Yeah, he’s happy cos he just stung a teacher on the nose,’ replied Umer.
We let our pictures dry in front of the electric fan that Auntie Uzma had brought in specially. Then, once they were hard enough, she showed us how to peel the paper off carefully, so that the chocolate picture came away in one piece.
After that came the best bit. Eating. I tell you, man, art has never tasted so good! All artwork should be made out of chocolate – chocolate statues, chocolate pottery – hell, whole chocolate galleries!
I was gutted when the bell went for lunch. After eating my chocolate masterpiece, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to a steaming heap of mystery stew. We trudged into the canteen as usual and took our places in the line.
‘I might just have a glass of water,’ I said to Umer. ‘I don’t want to ruin the taste of my artwork.’
‘I’m just gonna lick the paper,’ he replied, taking out the folded-up sheet he’d used to paint on.
‘Is there any chocolate left on it?’ I asked.
‘No, but you can still smell it a bit,’ he said, giving it a sniff.
And that was when it happened. The kid in front stepped out of the way, revealing before us a sight that would make a hungry dog weep. Food! Mountains of it! And not school food … real food! Tasty food. Auntie food!
There was chicken tikka, lamb karahi, pakora, samosas, butter chicken, aloo gobi, prawn curry, laddoo and – yeah, you guessed it – gulab jamun! Behind the stacks of delicious dinners and desserts stood three brightly dressed aunties, working like machines to serve every kid who stepped up to the counter; heaping on extra-tall helpings, so heavy you needed both hands to lift them.
‘Umer …’ I said, my mouth hanging open like an idiot goldfish, ‘… it’s beautiful.’
‘I’m getting seconds!’ he gasped. ‘No, thirds!’
I’m not ashamed to say we got well and truly stuck in. Umer and I can hold our own in an eating contest, but, I tell you, we outdid ourselves that day. Maybe it was all the months of mystery stew, haddock surprise, or that nut roast made out of tree bark, but we ate like it was our last meal. Whoever had the idea of swapping dinner ladies with aunties was a genius.
‘Umbah,’ I said to Umer with a full mouth, ‘dis ib amabing!’
‘UH-HUNH!’ he agreed with a full mouth of his own.
It was a good day. Maybe the best day. Nothing – and I mean nothing – could wipe the smile off my face. Not the cricket team, not my dad, not even Mr Gibbs, the deputy headmaster, being escorted off the premises by the police (apparently, he’d been stealing garden gnomes all over town and would need to be replaced by a suitably qualified auntie). As I wandered back to class in a daze, my stomach was too full for me to worry about any of it.
I had definitely got these aunties all wrong. Yeah, it was weird but weird ain’t always bad. They were just stepping up, helping out, looking after us, the next generation. And they were doing it in classic auntie style: food, food and more food. Between this and the work we were doing on my music track, truth was, school had never been better.
Yeah, cricket practice still sucked worse than a vacuum cleaner full of leeches but, with a bit of luck, the team would mutiny before long and kick Dad out. Then I’d be free to quit.
I was heading back inside when I ran into Mr Turnbull pinning a photocopied sheet to the student notice board.
‘Hey, Mr T,’ I said, slapping him on the back. ‘If you ain’t had your lunch yet, do yourself a favour and get down to the canteen. I must have had six helpings. Even my shadow’s put on a stone.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘But my wife’s got me on a health kick.’
‘You’ve got a wife? Weird. I figured you just had cats or a big DVD collection or something.’
‘Nope,’ he said with a smile, and he pointed to a ring on his left hand. ‘Found someone who’d have me.’
‘Well, they do say there’s someone for everyone. Even bald guys in sandals. She must be a real special lady.’
‘Uh-huh, I’m very lucky,’ he replied, laughing. ‘So what do you think – are you going to enter the talent show?’
Mr Turnbull nodded towards the poster he’d just put up. It had a cartoon of a kid on it, standing on stage singing. Below that, there was a box for you to sign your name in if you wanted to take part.
‘Ah, man,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘Are you pushing that too? I already told Umer, I ain’t gonna sell out with some talent show.’
‘Why on earth would it be selling out?’
‘You know, getting up in front of the judges with some sob story – “Hi, my name’s Humza and I started rapping when my cat died of feline diabetes.” I ain’t into all that. I’m all about the music, son.’
‘I know you’re serious about your music, Humza, but this could be a good opportunity to practise performing to a crowd. It’s harder than it looks. And don’t call me “son”.’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just not my thing, you know? Thanks for the heads-up though.’
‘No problem. Are you looking forward to doing some more work on your track tomorrow?’
‘Ah, yeah! I can’t wait. Maybe you can send the rest of the class out to count clouds or something, so we can get some proper work done.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said with a smile, before turning and heading back to his room.
If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have followed him. I wouldn’t have let him out of my sight. Maybe I could have stopped it? Maybe I could have helped? But how was I to know that the same thing that was happening to all the other teachers at my school was about to happen to Mr Turnbull …?
CHAPTER SIX
The Grandpa Situation
It was about twenty past three when I let myself in at Grandpa’s house. Mum had given me the key so she wouldn’t have to bother coming round again. Pretty lazy if you ask me. But I suppose she does do all my cooking and cleaning and laundry – so I’ll give her a pass this time.
As usual, Grandpa was nowhere to be seen.
‘Yo, Grandpa! David Chesterton! Where you at?’ I called.
There was no answer. I dumped my school bag in the hall and walked into the living room. I figured they’d be curled up together in their usual spot. But when I got there all I found was a grandpa-shaped dent in the sofa.
‘Hello?’ I said more quietly.
Still no answer. I checked the kitchen, the dining room – no sign of them. It looked like Auntie Uzma had been busy though. There were pots and pans everywhere. And food. So much food. Cakes, pastries, pies. She was in cooking overdrive. I guess she needed to unwind after a hard day’s teaching or something, but this seemed a bit mental. I mean, she could have catered for a wedding with the amount of food she had in that kitchen.
And if you’ve ever been to an Asian wedding you’ll know what I’m talking about. They have so many guests even the bride and groom don’t know half of ’e
m. Second cousins, third cousins, fourth cousins, former neighbours, ex-doctors, childhood postmen – everyone your family ever met, lived near or shared a lift with is there. And they all want feeding. Hell, half the time they’re only there for the food.
And Auntie Uzma could have done it with this lot. It was like she was getting ready for the apocalypse. Making sure she and Grandpa would have enough food to last them to the year 3000. It goes without saying that I helped myself to a gulab jamun or two. It’s what Auntie would have wanted. And it’s not like anyone would have missed them – there were, like, seven hundred of the things just sitting there on the counter.
I munched one down as I walked upstairs.
‘Gwampar?’ I called out with a full mouth. ‘Dabid Chestertom?’
Still no answer. I checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, the airing cupboard. No sign of Grandpa or David Chesterton anywhere. Then I had an idea.
I fetched a chair from the bedroom and, climbing on to it, hooked a finger into the loop hanging down from the loft hatch. As it creaked open, two faces appeared in the darkness above. One belonged to a fluffy, overfed cat, and the other to the oldest uncle in the universe.
‘All right, Grandpa,’ I said, smiling up at him. ‘What you doing in the loft?’
‘What do you think, David Chesterton?’ asked Grandpa. ‘Can we trust him?’
David Chesterton stared at me long and hard.
‘Purr-rrp,’ he replied, then turned away, walking back into the attic.
Grandpa smiled.
‘Hello, boy,’ he said, and lowered the ladder.
Up in the loft, I took a seat beside Grandpa on the floor. I figured he might explain what he was doing up there, but, instead, he just sat staring at me.
‘So, uh …’ I began, ‘why you in the loft, Uncle? You been practising magic tricks?’
He didn’t smile, just leaned in close, with this intense look.
‘Hiding,’ he whispered.
‘Hiding? What you hiding from?’
‘That creature,’ he replied.
‘Creature? There’s a creature in the house? Damn, man, why’d no one tell me? I could have been eaten!’
‘It’s gone out,’ he replied matter-of-factly.
‘Gone out? Then let’s go lock the door!’
‘It has a key,’ said Grandpa, as though this was obvious.
‘A creature with a key? Does Auntie Uzma know?’
He gave me a weird look, like I was the confused one.
‘Auntie Uzma is the creature,’ he whispered.
‘Huh? What you talking about, Grandpa?’
‘Auntie Uzma is not Auntie Uzma,’ he said, leaning in. ‘It is an imposter.’
‘An imposter?’ I replied, raising my eyebrows and looking over at David Chesterton, to see if he also thought Grandpa might be losing it. ‘I see …’
‘I am not mad!’ snapped Grandpa.
‘Hey, no one said you were mad,’ I replied in my best calming voice. ‘It just all sounds a bit … you know … mad.’
‘That thing, cooking, cooking, cooking all the time! That is not my wife!’ barked Grandpa.
‘Right, well if it ain’t Auntie Uzma, then you must have got an upgrade, cos that thing sure can cook. I’ve never seen so much tasty food! Maybe we can swap my mum out for one of them too?’
‘This is not funny,’ said Grandpa, and I could see he meant it.
‘Grandpa, man. It is your wife. It is Auntie Uzma. I spent the whole day with her at school. She’s just the same as always.’
‘I knew you would not believe me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Only David Chesterton sees it.’
David Chesterton gave me a pretty severe look for a cat. I didn’t know what to say. I mean, this was properly crazy. Grandpa had always seemed pretty together mentally. I know old people sometimes get confused, but Grandpa wasn’t that kind of old person. He was the other kind that can’t open jars.
We sat in silence for a while after that. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to the whole ‘imposter auntie’ bit. I mean, what do you say to something like that? As a kid, it was a bit above my level of expertise.
‘I’ve been practising,’ I said, slipping the old coin from my pocket. I showed him my best attempt at the disappearing coin trick. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it wasn’t bad either. Grandpa smiled a small smile as he watched me.
‘Good,’ he said after a time. ‘Good.’
It was all he said.
We didn’t learn any more tricks that day. I sat and practised the coin trick in silence until Auntie Uzma came home. I thought about telling her what Grandpa had told me, but decided against it. Better just to leave them to sort it out themselves.
I felt a bit sad walking home that afternoon. I realized I’d actually kinda been looking forward to hanging out with Grandpa. This just wasn’t the same. Damn.
Back at school the next day, Auntie Uzma was upping her game yet again. She’d come up with a brand-new lesson idea: cake review! I’m not too proud of myself when I say that I totally forgot about the whole Grandpa situation the moment Auntie Uzma dropped that fat slice of cake on my desk.
‘Pinch me, Umer,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t think I’ve woken up yet.’
‘Can’t …’ he replied. ‘I’m dreaming too. Chocolate double fudge …’ he moaned. He was actually drooling.
When she’d finished giving everyone a slice, Auntie Uzma turned and faced the class.
‘OK, my beautiful, cuddly kiddiewinks!’ she said with a giggle. ‘Today we will be reviewing Auntie Uzma’s chocolate double-fudge gâteau.’
The class cheered. Only Wendy Wang looked puzzled. She raised her hand and waited to be called on.
‘Yes, Wendy?’ said Auntie Uzma.
‘I was just wondering,’ she said, lowering her hand. ‘What’s the academic merit of this lesson?’
‘Cake,’ replied Auntie Uzma with a big grin.
Again the class cheered.
‘Sure,’ said Wendy, forcing an awkward smile. ‘I enjoy cake as much as the next student, but I don’t understand how we’re learning anything from eating it.’
‘Quiet, Wendy!’ I shouted across the room. ‘Why would you argue with cake?’
‘Educational value aside,’ continued Wendy, ‘I’m just not sure it’s all that healthy.’
‘Right!’ snapped Auntie Uzma, the smile vanishing from her face. ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk. Go to the headmaster this instant!’
The class gasped. Wendy Wang was getting sent to the headmaster? I’d known Wendy for as long as I could remember, and that had never, never ever, ever happened before. Ever!
‘Excuse me?’ said Wendy, like her brain genuinely couldn’t compute what she’d just heard.
‘I will not put up with this kind of disruptive behaviour,’ continued Auntie Uzma. ‘You will spend the lesson with the headmaster and stay behind after school. For double cake review!’
I’d never seen Auntie Uzma look so strict. She was actually a bit scary. Wendy had gone as white as a sheet. Everyone sat quietly as Wendy pushed her chair out with a noisy squeak and made her way to the door.
‘I was just …’ she began.
‘Go!’ shouted Auntie Uzma.
Wendy pulled the door closed behind her without another word. A moment passed in total, stunned silence. Then Auntie Uzma turned back to face us with an enormous, happy grin.
‘OK then, my chubby little beauties!’ she said. ‘Dig in!’
Slowly, one by one, the class began to eat their slices of cake. Little whispered conversations began to spring up around the class and, though I couldn’t hear them all, I knew they were about Wendy.
‘What was that about?’ whispered Umer, as he plucked off a hunk of cake between his finger and thumb.
‘I don’t know, man,’ I replied. ‘I’ve never seen her snap like that before. I mean, she can be grumpy, but that was pretty severe. I don’t think Wendy’s ever been sent to the headmaster.’
> It was weird, but I found myself feeling a bit sorry for her. Normally Wendy’s just there to grass on me or make me look stupid in tests. Usually I’d be all on board with her getting in trouble. But now that it had happened, it just felt a bit … unfair.
Oh well, it was still pretty good cake. I was confident that I wouldn’t worry about it for long. And I didn’t.
Two hours later Umer and I were running down the hall as fast as we could go. We weren’t after a good place in the lunch queue this time – we were heading to our music lesson!
Today was the big day. The day I was gonna lay down my new vocals. I’d been working on them whenever I got a chance – though that seemed less and less of the time, what with Grandpa and cricket and all the eating I’d been doing. But it didn’t matter: my lyrics were perfect now. They were ready to go.
‘I’ve got a good feeling about today,’ I said to Umer as we tore up the stairs towards Mr Turnbull’s room. ‘I think we might finally get this track locked down.’ I was pretty sure Mr T would be as excited as we were.
We skidded to a stop outside his room, out of breath and grinning like idiots. We had arrived well ahead of the rest of the class, which meant we could set up in peace. The door was closed, which I knew meant Mr Turnbull was taking today seriously as well. He was probably already in there setting up microphones and doing sound checks.
I turned the door handle and walked in.
‘Yo, yo, yo! Little Badman in the house!’ I said, stepping through the door, eyes closed, head back and hands in the air, like I was walking on stage to the cries of a thousand star-struck fans.
But when I opened my eyes there was no Mr Turnbull. No recording equipment. Nothing but a sizeable Pakistani lady in a fluorescent green shalwar kameez. She was sitting on a child-sized stool in the centre of the room, smiling.
