The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

  ‘Not everything can be blamed on the country,’ she replied.

  ‘Where are those cushions I bought for the sofa?’ he asked.

  She responded to him and added: ‘I’m very surprised my sister isn’t worried. But she was always a bit careless. If I was Farah’s mother I’d have told her she is a shame to the family for waiting so long to have a baby.’

  ‘Hmm. No, not these ones. The green ones,’ he said.

  The blood rushed to my face as sweat prickled my skin and I swung the door open.

  ‘Hello, Beti. Which of your uncle’s cushions do you prefer?’ she asked, holding a green embroidered cushion in one hand, and yellow in the other.

  ‘Farah is not a shame to the family,’ I said.

  They both looked at each other.

  ‘Of course she isn’t. We were just talking. Although, it’s not normal, is it?’ she replied. ‘Doesn’t matter. These things aren’t up to us in the end.’

  My birth dad took the cushions from her hands and put them both on either side of the sofa.

  ‘I prefer the green one,’ he said. ‘Fatima – you must tell me which you like best.’

  It was as if they didn’t realise I’d heard them.

  ‘Hmm?’ I said.

  ‘Which do you prefer?’

  ‘The er … the green one. About Farah—’

  ‘—No, no,’ he said, waving a hand in the air, putting another green cushion on the other side of the sofa. ‘Forget about that. You mustn’t take these things to heart. We love all our daughters-in-law equally. Mustafa’s Amma – shall we have chai?’

  He turned around and looked at his wife expectantly.

  ‘Yes, but we have to get ready for dinner as well. Look, Fatima, I bought you this suit.’

  She handed me a turquoise outfit with little white mirrors all over the shirt dress.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘It will look very nice on you.’

  I tried to detect whether there was any spite in her voice; a dig, a jibe. But I don’t think there was. Her husband was still looking proudly at the new cushions.

  ‘Yes,’ he added. ‘Turquoise is a good colour for you. Girls should wear bright things.’

  They weren’t startled when I’d come in. It was as if they didn’t care if I heard or not.

  ‘This was the colour dress you wore when you went home with my sister,’ she said.

  ‘You looked like a doll,’ said her husband.

  He looked at me rather fondly as my feelings softened towards him.

  ‘When we gave you away I said to your … kala: “She would have given us lots of happiness.”’ He smiled and I felt tears surface my eyes. ‘And you know what she replied?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘“But I am giving my sister happiness.”’

  From that moment something began to shift. Every day, as I visited more family members, and spent time with people that weren’t Amirs, that hurt I felt the first few days began to disappear. Visiting everyone’s families reminded me so much of back home – the way Farah would come through the door; Bubblee returning from London like a tsunami and then leaving; Mae, quietly going around, being sneaky and taking snapshots of all of us without us realising; Mum peering out of the kitchen window to see whether Dad was trimming the hedges or looking over at Marnie. The mum and dad that raised me. I remembered Ash’s words: ‘Did they ever make you feel as if you weren’t loved?’

  My thoughts were interrupted by one of Malik’s brothers’ wives: ‘When do you think you’ll go home?’

  I smiled and didn’t even take offence at the idea that she might only be repeating what my birth mum and dad were talking about behind my back. All this time I wondered why I felt so removed from my family, and the answer came when I found out I was adopted. Coming back here, I thought I’d finally find a sense of belonging. But all it did was make me realise where I didn’t belong. Funny – it took thirty years and a flight across an ocean to realise belonging isn’t about the family you’re born into, but the family you’ve grown into.

  ‘Soon,’ I said.

  That’s when I picked up my phone and called the airline to ask when the next available flight back to England was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bubblee

  The first thing I noticed when I walked into Farah’s living room was the row of cards on the mantelpiece, the side table and dotted around the room. She explained they were from friends and neighbours.

  ‘Who’s Augustus and family?’ I asked, picking up a bright-green card with flowers on the front.

  ‘Remember the little grocery on Rectory Lane?’ she said. ‘They sold it to a family who now run it.’

  ‘Oh yeah, right. The Greggs used to own it,’ I said, putting the card down again.

  ‘Yep. The Greggs are now the Blacks,’ she said, throwing her keys on the coffee table.

  I picked up a few more cards, skimming the messages written inside.

  ‘That’s quite an essay,’ I said, reading one in which the handwriting had been squeezed so much it was barely legible.

  Farah smiled. ‘That’s from Pooja – you know, Sanjay’s mum? He goes to Mae’s school.’

  I put the card back. No, I didn’t know Sanjay’s mum Pooja. I barely knew who Sanjay was. ‘I thought Mae went to an all-girls school.’

  ‘No,’ said Farah as if I was slow on the uptake. ‘She got the youngest-child treatment and got to choose where she wanted to go. Remember?’

  ‘I almost forgot that. You’re right.’

  Glancing at the various well-wishes from neighbours, I wondered how many cards I’d get if my husband went into a coma. Just as well that’s not likely, given my lack of a husband. Something to be thankful for.

  ‘Right, so first things first – we need to know exactly how much debt you’re in,’ I said, settling on the floor with papers and files all around me.

  Farah stared at the abyss of paperwork.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I said.

  This might’ve been stretching things slightly because, quite honestly, I couldn’t see how it was going to be okay. What a god-awful mess. The only useful thing I could think of was how I could use all this paper to make some kind of papiermâché sculpture. It would be symbolic; the hollowness of the sculpture being a metaphor for our materialistic life. I was going to mention this rather clever notion to Farah but after looking at the expression on her face, I realised perhaps it wasn’t the right time. The only thing now was if Jay would come through and be able to recover some of that money. It was her only hope.

  ‘How?’ she asked, not looking at me.

  ‘One step at a time,’ I replied. ‘There’s enough despair going around for now.’

  Farah seated herself on the floor with me. ‘How do you think Fatti is?’

  We’d all been banned from calling her by Mae.

  ‘Let her be,’ Mae had exclaimed. ‘God, even flying to the other side of the world, she can’t get rid of us. She just needs time.’

  Mum had called her sister: the look on her face when she was told that Fatti didn’t want to speak to anyone was one I’d never witnessed before. I’m used to Mum looking surly, but not heartbroken.

  ‘How are you?’ she’d asked, her voice strained once she’d got over the fact that she’d been denied access to Fatti.

  I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other side. Mum then added that Mustafa was much the same, but everyone was praying for him.

  ‘You will look after my daughter, won’t you?’ she said after a few minutes of conversation. ‘She’s a sensitive girl, but very good.’

  It was interesting to see how Mum understood that about her. Not that it was rocket science, but you do wonder what your parents pick up on.

  ‘Did Mum eat before we left home?’ I asked Farah.

  ‘That’s the last thing on her mind,’ she replied. ‘I tried to feed her something, but she just couldn’t seem to stomach anything.’

&nb
sp; Hours passed as we went through bills and documents and cheques. We both looked like we’d weathered a storm by the end of it.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look good, does it?’ I said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I sighed. ‘Sorry.’

  Just then the doorbell rang, which Farah got up to answer.

  ‘You put the casserole in the oven at a low heat,’ I heard.

  A few seconds later Farah entered the room with Alice, who was apparently her next-door neighbour.

  ‘Oh my,’ she said, putting the casserole on the table and barely able to suppress her excitement as she looked at me. ‘You must be the glamorous artist twin sister from London.’

  I tried to get up from the mountain of paperwork and had barely managed before I was taken into Alice’s arms and held there for much longer than was comfortable or necessary.

  ‘You are every bit as beautiful as Farah said you were,’ she said, holding on to my arms and looking at my face. The only thing I noticed were the freckles that were scattered all over her face.

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ asked Farah.

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. I have to get going. What’s all this?’ Alice said, looking at the paper-covered floor. Before either Farah or I could reply, Alice was already looking out into the garden, having put the floodlight on.

  ‘Right, dear, I’ll ask John to come over tomorrow to mow your lawn. I mean, you don’t have time for it and it’s a shame to see it so, well, run down.’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,’ said Farah. ‘Really.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Alice. ‘All the things you do for us.’

  I had a feeling that Farah could’ve protested until Mustafa came out of the coma and she’d still have lost the argument. It seemed as if Alice was a regular occurrence in this house and yet I’d never heard of her. But then it’s not as if Farah and I talked on a regular basis. I wondered if Alice knew the whole story about me: the twin who didn’t like her sister’s husband and wasn’t happy with the marriage?

  ‘Now, the Neighbourhood Watch meeting—’

  ‘—God,’ interrupted Farah. ‘I’m so sorry—’

  ‘—Don’t be silly. Of course you can’t have it here now. Dan’s already offered to have it at his.’

  ‘But he did it last time.’

  Alice waved her hand as if to shoo away my sister’s ridiculous comment.

  ‘And of course you can’t come to it,’ added Alice, ‘so we’ll take notes and Pooja said she’d send those to you.’

  In another flurry of conversation, casserole instruction and garden assessment, Alice was about to leave when she said, ‘Oh, it’s chicken, by the way, but halal.’

  She lifted her shoulders as if this was the most novel thing she’d heard all week.

  ‘I had no idea we had a halal butcher’s here!’

  Farah leaned in and hugged her tightly. When Alice left I said: ‘She seems … excitable.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Farah. ‘She’s lovely.’

  She sat down next to me and picked up a bunch of papers, sighing. I don’t think tragedy is necessarily a bad thing – it can show what a person is made of, and that adage – whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger – I believe that. In some ways I think tragedy can even be good, but looking at Farah in that moment, I guessed not everyone had the same feeling.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘How do you think I am?’

  ‘I was going to say that Jay might come through and find a solution to this, but we both know that’s not going to happen,’ I said.

  Just another failure in the line of all his failures. It wasn’t one that Farah could cover up this time, either.

  ‘Don’t say that. He’s my only hope right now.’ She paused and then looked at me. ‘Is it my fault? Did I have this coming to me?’

  I shook my head, trying to organise the papers by invoices and statements, as well as dates. ‘I don’t think many people deserve to have their husbands in a coma,’ I replied. ‘But our actions … obviously they have consequences.’

  She looked at me in amazement. ‘I just can’t believe the things you say sometimes.’

  ‘Far, I’d be lying if I didn’t think you covering up for Jay all the time’s hardly helped, but to be honest, that’s our parents’ fault more than yours.’

  ‘Everyone’s to blame for something, then. What about you?’ she said. ‘Or are you just able to sit back and judge all of us while you’re let off, scot-free?’

  I leaned on the sofa. She was upset and so I wasn’t going to get into an argument about it – not after what happened last time – but I wasn’t about to lie just to make her feel better, either. I did wish I could take her out of this nightmare, but we’re all adults; we should be able to handle the truth.

  ‘I never covered up for my brother. He’s always been havoc and the sooner Mum and Dad realised, the better it’d have been. Anyway, like I said – they’re the adults and should’ve behaved liked it.’

  ‘And you leaving home and never actually asking about your family helped, did it?’

  ‘I’m entitled to have my own life,’ I replied.

  ‘So entitled that you forgot about the one you lived for twenty-three years before moving out.’

  It was ridiculous, her equating me moving from home – which any normal person should do as an adult anyway – with covering up for Jay and letting him be the disaster he is.

  ‘But Bubblee,’ she said in a much smugger manner than suited her, ‘everything has consequences. Right? You weren’t here to solve family problems; help Mum and Dad when they needed it. You weren’t here, full stop.’

  ‘Let’s not argue,’ I said. ‘It’s not the time.’

  ‘But it’s time to dish out responsibility and yet take none of it yourself? You living your great, liberal life in London, not caring what goes on back here, and thinking you’ve evolved beyond us?’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ I said, holding up papers.

  She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Yeah. It only took a coma. I might’ve messed up with Jay, but at least I cared enough to be around to mess up.’

  Fine, I’d been eager to get back to London after just a few days of being here in the beginning, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care. Of course I cared. I just had things to get on with. My family don’t understand the kind of commitment and time it takes to succeed if you’re going to be an artist.

  ‘And have we ever told you otherwise?’ she asked when I said that to her. ‘I know Mum goes on about you moving back home and getting a proper job, but has she forced you? Really?’

  ‘Well, no but, God. It’s as if wanting to do something outside of the family’s a sin,’ I said. ‘I mean.’

  ‘No-one said you had to stay here. But a few more phone calls, just asking how everyone is. I mean, you’d forgotten Mae was in a mixed school and you had no idea who Alice was, even though I know I’ve mentioned her to you over the past month. You just don’t seem to think anyone’s life, other than yours, is important.’

  I could feel my face flush. She didn’t understand. I didn’t have time – I was busy. I didn’t need the day-to-day humdrum of who did what; the latest concern in Mum’s life about Fatti’s driving, or Mae’s school work, or Farah’s lack of having any babies, to clutter up my creativity. Sasha told me that I needed to focus on myself and try to achieve my dream. Farah was already looking over some papers again. I did wonder – when was the last time she thought about herself before others?

  ‘I didn’t realise anyone missed me,’ I said, getting back to the papers too.

  After all, I was the black sheep, with all these odd ways and ideas. Who even cared about my opinion when it’s always so different to everybody else’s? As if not having me call was a huge loss to anyone. Of course my family loved me – most families love each other just because they have to – a weird tic in the DNA – but there are levels of love and I don’t think mine ranked very high. Fara
h looked up at me and shook her head.

  ‘For someone who thinks she sees people for what they are, you can be really blind sometimes.’

  *

  I stayed that night at Farah’s. She said she shouldn’t get used to staying at Mum and Dad’s. They were worried about Fatti and there were only so many problems we could all deal with at one time – so we were delegating them. I stayed up in bed for a long time, thinking about what she said about me not being in touch enough. I knew there was truth in it, but I’m not about to apologise for wanting to do more in life than just get married and have babies. Still, perhaps I could’ve called home more often, listened, even if I didn’t really hear what was being said. Maybe I was too caught up in my own life to care about what was happening in everyone else’s. But their problems were just so provincial. Did this make me a snob? Is that how they saw me?

  I didn’t sleep very well that night and then the doorbell rang far too early the following morning. When Farah didn’t answer, it rang again. Not knowing where Farah was, I went to see who it was, still wearing my shorts and vest top.

  ‘Oh.’ It was Malik. ‘Sorry,’ he said, staring at me.

  ‘For what?’ I asked, because if you’re ringing a person’s doorbell then you expect someone to answer.

  He looked away, fixing his eyes on the welcome mat. ‘I … er, it’s very early still, isn’t it?’ he said, glancing at his watch.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, blocking the doorway. If he wanted to come in, then he’d have to ask.

  ‘Is Farah in?’

  I nodded.

  He waited a moment before adding: ‘I’m like a vampire – you’ll have to invite me.’

  He smiled. His wit wasn’t really amusing but I couldn’t stand and block his way forever, so I let him in.

  ‘Farah!’ I called out, wondering where she was.

  ‘I’ll let you get changed,’ he said as he walked in and took a seat at the kitchen table.

  ‘Why? Haven’t you seen a girl in shorts before?’

  It was preposterous: a man coming into my – well, my sister’s – house and telling me what to wear. If he was uncomfortable then that was his problem, not mine. The colour in his cheeks rose as his dark hair flopped over his eyes and he stared at the table.