by Meera Syal
‘We could buy a ticket to London,’ added Anita. ‘We could just get up now and goo to London and no one would ever see us again.’
At this, Baby broke into fresh sobs and clung to Pinky’s leg. ‘Don’t want to go to London, didi!’ she wailed. ‘Mummy will be angry! And I’ve got a maths test tomorrow!’
‘Who said yow was coming anyway?’ snapped Anita.
I could see she was getting bored of having the moral majority following us around. Pinky finally spoke, she sounded so calm and grown up I wanted to gob on her T-bar sandals. ‘The man in the shop. He will soon find out you have taken the tin. Then what will you do, Meena?’
‘Then what will you do, Meena?’ Anita mocked her, in a bad parody of Pinky’s accent which came out as adenoidal Welsh.
‘He won’t know it was us. Unless you tell him,’ I added, staring at Pinky.
‘Us?’ she blinked. ‘But me and Baby …’
‘Baby carried the tin didn’t she?’ I continued. ‘That means you helped us doesn’t it? That’s what I’ll tell the police anyway.’ I finished off with a wink to Anita.
Pinky gulped and blinked rapidly for a few moments; I had not noticed before how long and luxuriant her eyelashes were, she looked like Bambi with a nervous tic. ‘We will not tell, Meena,’ she said finally. ‘But we want to go home now.’ And with that, she turned on her heel and led Baby through the long grass, both of them picking their way carefully through the cow pats and nettles like two old ladies negotiating a slalom.
‘Hey, our Meena,’ Anita said softly. ‘Yow’m a real Wench. That was bostin what yow did. Yow can be joint leader with me now if yow want, you know, of our gang. Want to?’ I nodded stupidly, too overcome to speak. I had earned my Wench Wings without even trying, and it had been so simple and natural, and what thrilled me most of all was that I did not feel at all guilty or ashamed. I had finally broken free, of what I did not quite know, but I felt my chest expand as if each rib had been a prison bar and they had all snapped slowly one by one, leaving my heart unfettered and drunk with space.
‘Let’s goo and buy summat, right now!’ I said, heady with my triumph and Anita’s praise.
Anita laughed wryly, ‘Where? There’s only one shop round here and we’ve just robbed it. We’d have to gerra bus into town and …’ She glanced down the hill towards Pinky and Baby’s retreating figures.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I sighed. ‘I’d better go with em…you know, in case they say summat,’ and heaved myself to my feet whilst checking my bum for burrs.
‘Yow gonna keep the tin then…till we get to some proper shops?’ Anita asked. ‘Oh yeah, no problem,’ I said, taking her arm in mine. No one would come looking for me. Only the ones who fell bad got caught, everybody knew that.
The knock at the door came just as we were about to serve supper. We kids, as usual, had been fed first and I was just wiping up a final mouthful of spinach with the favourite end of crispy chapatti that I always saved till last. The Aunties and mama were lining up a battalion of plates for papa and the Uncles who hovered around the entrance of the kitchen like hopeful domestic pets at a banquet. Pinky and Baby had not eaten anything, despite Auntie Shaila’s loud protestations. ‘You know how long it took me to puree this methi? Three hours, just because I know my betis like it smooth-smooth. And now you just sit there with a Pite-Moo …’ (This was one of Auntie Shaila’s favourite expressions, which meant the object of the insult had a face curdled up like the top of a yoghurt.) And indeed it was the perfect description of her daughters, who had both studiously avoided me since we had got back home.
I had hidden Mr Ormerod’s tin amongst the rows of canned tomatoes in the bike shed, a perfect camouflage I had thought proudly, and had enjoyed a whole evening of being pinched and fussed over whilst opening my presents from the Uncles and Aunties. It had not been a bad haul either – the usual sick-making selection of frilly girlie dresses which all made me look like a biker wearing a collapsed meringue, but amongst these were a couple of books (Look And Learn Compendium, a Jackie Annual, a collection of Indian folk tales), and best of all, a bottle of perfume called Summer Daze, The Teenage Fragrance from Auntie Madhu. ‘Now you are getting such a big lady, Meena, and maybe you won’t come to my house smelling of cow’s muck anymore,’ she said kindly as I unwrapped it. Pinky and Baby had sat in a corner, regarding me with mournful moon-eyes and I knew they were hoping I would suddenly break down in filmy tears and confess my crime, to save all our souls. But their disapproval only made me more manic; the more they stared, the harder I giggled and quipped and chattered excitedly about nothing. I basked in their fear and bewilderment, it fed me and I welcomed it for it reaffirmed I was nothing like them, would never be them.
And then Mr Ormerod was standing at our front door and talking in whispers with papa, both of them throwing me sidelong glances, papa’s face set like stone and Mr Ormerod’s expression somewhere between wonder and disapproval as he scanned the glittering array of silks draped over the Aunties’ magnificent bosoms.
‘Please do come in Mr Ormerod,’ said mama, wafting over to him holding out an empty plate, unaware of the gravity of the men’s chat. ‘We cannot allow a guest to leave hungry…there is so much food, mountains!’ she continued cheerily.
‘Not now, Daljit,’ said papa softly, staring hard at me.
The chapatti in my mouth suddenly turned to a clump of barbed wire and I could not swallow. I hurried into the kitchen and spat out the end of my meal into the bin, running my tongue over my teeth which felt as if they were covered with a sour, greasy film.
Papa appeared at my elbow. ‘Meena, I am going to ask you something and you had better not lie …’
I affected an innocent expression, vaguely aware of Mr Ormerod, who had advanced a couple of feet into our front room and was gingerly holding a pakora between his fingers as if it was a small, sharp-toothed rodent.
‘A collection tin has gone missing from Mr Ormerod’s shop, a tin full of money for charity. Charity, Meena. Do you know anything about it?’
I opened my mouth to allow the story sitting on my lips to fly out and dazzle my papa, but stopped myself when I saw how furious he was. Both his eyebrows had joined together so he had one angry black line slashing his forehead like a scar and his usually light brown eyes were now black and impenetrable, glowing dark like embers. Then the enormity of what I had done hit me and a fear so powerful that I felt a few drops of wee land in my knicker gusset. I did the only possible thing and burst into tears.
‘It was Baby!’ I wailed. ‘She wanted sweets and I didn’t have money! I told her not to take it! She put it…put it down her jumper! Honest! Ask her!’
I upped the volume of my wails and forced more snot out of my nose, waiting for papa to take me in his arms and tell me how sorry he was to have falsely accused me. Instead there was an endless pause and then, ‘Are you lying? Because if you are …’
‘No papa! I swear! I got the tin! I hid it and I was going to take it back tomorrow! Honest!’
At that moment, Mr Ormerod rushed into the kitchen and flung himself at the cold tap, turned it on and stuck his mouth under it, gulping like he’d just come back from a long desert trek. Mama bustled after him, wringing her hands fitfully. ‘Oh please, Mr Ormerod! We do have glasses you know!’ she fluttered, and then to papa, ‘He bit on a green chilli…poor man …’
When Mr Ormerod stood up, there were beads of sweat on his nose and he spoke in a breathy whisper, ‘Please don’t worry, Mrs Kumar…I’ll be right as rain. I mean, I eat English mustard but this has never happened to me before …’
‘I should have given you one of the children’s snacks, they don’t take to chillies either. Oh I feel so bad!’ mama continued, until papa whispered something to her and she backed out gracefully, shutting the kitchen door behind her.
‘Mr Ormerod,’ papa said in a businesslike tone, ‘I’m afraid one of our friend’s daughters may have taken your tin and I don’t want to embarrass her parents�
��you understand.’
Mr Ormerod nodded, taking deep gulps of air, waving his hand in assent.
‘But Meena said she managed to get the tin off her, so if I refund you the difference, maybe we can say no more about it, eh?’
Once Mr Ormerod had counted the contents, he told papa, ‘It’s just a couple of bob missing…Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’
But papa insisted on giving Mr Ormerod a ten-shilling note, pressing it into his hand in a fervent manner that left no room for disagreement. I mentally calculated how many sherbet saucers I could have got for ten shillings and felt aggrieved.
We must have been in the kitchen for a while because when we came out, the Uncles were finishing off their meal and the Aunties whispered curiously behind papa as he bade a still perspiring Mr Ormerod farewell. Mama raised questioning eyebrows at papa but he waved her away, indicating he could not talk whilst Auntie Shaila was at her side. That was a mistake because Auntie Shaila had radar built into her sari blouse and she collared papa soon afterwards in a corner, demanding to know what had gone on. Pinky and Baby were cuddled up together on the settee, testing each other on the capitals of Europe from one of the encyclopedias I had been given at Christmas and had never read. They were completely unaware of Auntie Shaila’s murderous glances and trembling gestures in their direction, but when it finally came to everyone to leave, Auntie Shaila merely threw their coats at them and shouted, ‘Car! Now!’ Pinky and Baby fumbled with their toggles and hoods nervously, now wide awake and alert.
Papa stopped Auntie Shaila at the door and pleaded with her in Punjabi, I caught the words for ‘Gently…children…finished …’ none of which made any impression on Auntie Shaila.
I stood shivering in the doorway, watching Uncle Amman lead them to the car which was parked a little way up the lane. I told myself that if Pinky and Baby managed to get into the car without being told off, they were okay. The whole incident would be forgotten on the way home. I held my breath as Auntie Shaila held open the car door for them. Pinky got in first, Auntie Shaila did nothing. They were fine. Then as Baby got one leg into the car, Auntie Shaila cuffed her soundly on the back of her head, making her bangles jingle. Baby immediately burst into sobs, so Auntie Shaila hit her harder and then reached over her to slap any bit of Pinky that came within reach. ‘So now you are becoming robbers? My own daughters?’ Every word was punctuated with a swing, followed by a plaintive ‘Mama nahin! Nahin mama!’ ‘So you think because you live here you can become like the goree girls? What next, huh? Boyfriends? Babies? You think you can spit in my face? Your own mother!’ Auntie Shaila was still shouting over her shoulder as Uncle Amman pulled shakily away, forgetting to put his headlights on until he was halfway down the hill. I briefly saw Pinky and Baby silhouetted in the back of the car. They had their arms wrapped around each other and their heads lifted in silent wails, like they were howling at the stars.
I could not sleep that night and apparently neither could papa. I heard him tossing and turning next door, and then much later, through a hazy half-doze, heard his heavy footsteps going downstairs. The next morning he did not look at me and when Anita came calling at the back gate, he picked up his newspaper and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
7
Spring was always my favourite season in the village, and as the first cuckoo sounded, almost every cottage door would swing open revealing taut-jawed women in pinnies and headscarfs brandishing an armoury of cleaning materials. You could not walk down the street without falling over some possessed female hunched over a front step with a wire scrubbing brush, choking over the clouds of dust rising from the scores of rugs being beaten to a pulp by strong sleeveless arms, picking your way through clusters of china dogs and horse brasses laid out on sheets in the watery sun, drying to a gleam whilst indoors, cupboards, shelves and cabinets were being emptied and washed down. The air filled with dust motes and the women’s screeching voices, calling to each other from their upturned nests, swapping domestic hints, ‘Yow want to try some lemon juice on them glass doors!’, the latest gossip, ‘Some big knob come down to look at the school…says it’s too small to keep open! That’s the bloody point, in’t it? Don’t want the estate kids coming round here …’ and always the litany of marital woes, ‘So he spends all the housekeeping, rolls into bed stinking like a brewery and says, brace yourself chick, I’m coming up! Course, I bloody walloped him! We made it up after though …’ ‘Yeah I bloody know, I live next door remember! …’
I loved hanging around the houses during this ritualistic skin shedding, fascinated by the objects and memories behind all those shut doors, intoxicated by the smells of disinfectant and coal tar soap which complemented the sticky new buds adorning every tree certain that something clean and brand new was about to happen.
Of course, not every household embraced the spring with soapy red arms; the Mad Mitchells next door merely chucked a few more bits of junk into their front garden, adding to their bizarre monument to kitsch. There was an old style perambulator filled with a jumble of mangy fur coats, a half-smashed fake crystal chandelier, a coal scuttle, two brand new bedpans, a car battery and two cracked wing mirrors, a hat stand, a stuffed mongoose, and a collection of rusted, unopened cans of fruit. Whilst mama tut-tutted every time we passed their house, taking in the grimy opaque windows, the tattered curtains and peeling front door, I always checked to see if there was another imaginative addition to the Mad Mitchell Collection. I thought it was like a living sculpture, each object telling a story which grew more complex with every new throwaway, charting the changing tastes and fortunes in their lives. Whose baby had gurgled in that pram? Why didn’t they ever eat those tins of fruit? Was the mongoose once a dearly beloved pet? My excitement increased when mama told me that mongooses came from India, and also fought and ate snakes. Had there once been a plague of serpents in Tollington, like those pestilences Uncle Alan had talked about at Sunday School? Maybe Mr Mitchell had lived in India and brought back the mongoose to clear up the village.
It was true I had never seen any of the Mitchells travel further than the town shops. Journeys seemed to bother them greatly. They would line up at the bus stop at least a half hour before the hourly bus was due, Mr and Mrs Mitchell checking the horizon every few minutes, not seeming to notice Cara wandering down the white lines in the middle of the road, singing to herself. Mr Mitchell’s favourite place was definitely his outside lav, which looked out onto the entry dividing our houses. In winter, I’d hear him straining and cursing as he rattled his newspaper, but for him, warmer weather meant he could stay in there as long as he liked, sometimes for hours on end, and not bother to lock the door. That was his version of a spring clear out, I supposed. Whilst running down the entry, I often glimpsed a hairy leg with long johns draped around the ankles, and once or twice he’d even called out a cheery, ‘Bloody noice morning, Meena duck!’ as I had scampered past, terrified one day a sudden breeze would swing open the door and I would face the moral dilemma of whether I should ignore or greet an elder sitting on the bog.
Later on, when I read about The Sixties, when enough time had lapsed for those two words to be headed with capital letters, I felt as if I was reading about some far off mythical country where laughing teenagers in sharp suits and A-line dresses drove around in psychedelic Minis, having sex in between chain-smoking and dancing lumpishly in the audience of Ready Steady Go! We owned a Mini which I was not sure had a fourth gear – that was the only point of contact I could find.
Tollington’s version of the sexual revolution was Sam Lowbridge’s heavy-petting sessions on the park swings, which were always cut short by a giggling audience of five-year-olds or Mrs Keithley running out of her yard brandishing a garden hose. Drugs were what Mr Ormerod kept on the top shelf of his shop, buttercup syrup, aspirin tablets in fat brown bottles, Old Sloane’s Liniment Ointment, a particular sell-out item round spring cleaning time. Parties were what grown-ups had, my parents’ chaotic passionate music eveni
ngs, the occasional tea dance organised by Uncle Alan in the church hall when our yard would be overrun by blue-rinsed ladies and proud old men with ostentatious cravats, whilst the local dogs would be driven barmy by the high-pitched whine of dozens of hearing aids jamming the airwaves. Sometimes, the Mitre pub would host an engagement party or stag night, playing loud rock and roll music that made the geese shit in terror and cower under the apple trees, but the music would always be switched off at ten o’clock on the dot.
But if Tollington was a footnote in the book of the Sixties, then my family and friends were the squashed flies in the spine. According to the newspapers and television, we simply did not exist. If a brown or black face ever did appear on TV, it stopped us all in our tracks. ‘Daljit! Quick!’ papa would call, and we would crowd round and coo over the walk-on in some detective series, some long-suffering actor in a gaudy costume with a goodness-gracious-me accent. (‘So Mr Templar, you speak fluent Hindustani too! But that won’t stop me stealing the secret formula for my country from where I will soon rule the world! Heh heh heh …’) and welcome him into our home like a long-lost relative. But these occasional minor celebrities never struck me as real; they were someone else’s version of Indian, far too exaggerated and exotic to be believable. Sometimes I wondered if the very act of shutting our front door transported us onto another planet, where non-related elders were called Aunties and Uncles and talked in rapid Punjabi, which their children understood but answered back in broad Black Country slang, where we ate food with our fingers and discussed family feuds happening five thousand miles away, where manners were so courtly that a raised eyebrow could imply an insult, where sensibilities were so finely tuned that an advert featuring a woman in a bikini could clear a room.
Our revolutions were quieter and often unwitnessed, I soon realised, after years of earwigging on the elders’ evening chats. They had their own version of history: ‘You remember, walking round Swiss Cottage, trying to find a boarding house that did not have that sign “No Irish, Blacks or Dogs?”…Hai, the letters I wrote home, so many lies about the jobs we had, the money we were making. My mamaji still thinks I am a college lecturer…You know that old trick, you ring up and get an interview in your best voice, then they see your face and suddenly the job is gone…Ah yes, but also these people on Christmas Eve, they see us standing at the bus stop in the snow and drive all of us right to our front door…these people can be so cruel…some of these people are angels, I tell you…if only mama/papa/bhaiya/didi were here to see this …’ None of these stories appeared in any book or newspaper or programme, and yet they were all true. But then I was beginning to realise that truth counted for very little, in the end.
