I am thrilled to see him. He can barely carry his bag into the house, it’s so heavy. I’m sure it must be all my books.
Rajiv is trying to look offended but he can’t manage it. He’s so pleased that Dad is home. The tip of his nose is bright red which is what happens when he is happy. He looks like a football player who’s just been told that his knee injury, which he thought would rule him out for the rest of the season, is actually a minor matter and he’ll be up and running in a few days.
Mum is still in the house. She doesn’t come out when Dad gets back from a trip. It sounds strange but I guess she’s just not that excited to see him. It’s silly of me to expect anything else. Whenever Rajiv and I go through one of our quarrelsome patches (like we’re doing now because of his supporting Germany in the World Cup final) – we can’t walk past each other without trying to annoy one another. Sometimes Rajiv even sticks a foot out to try to trip me up!
How much worse must it be for Mum and Dad whose quarrelsome patch has now lasted most of the years I’ve been alive?
I guess I should be grateful that they’re not sticking a leg out trying to trip each other up.
Rajiv sticks a leg out and tries to trip me up. But I’m in training to be a professional footballer now – I skip over his leg like he’s a despairing last defender sliding in to stop Zico going one-on-one with the keeper.
Dad says, ‘Rajiv,’ in a warning voice.
I decide not to let Rajiv spoil Dad’s first evening home.
‘It’s all right, Dad. He missed! Which books did you get for me?’
Dad is distracted and unzips his suitcase.
Rajiv grins at me – this quarrelsome patch is over.
I see the Foyles’ bags. This is going to be good!
Mum finally comes out of the kitchen.
They don’t speak directly to each other, Mum and Dad.
‘Look, Mum. Look at the books Dad got me!’
I drag them out of the bags in a rush, shouting out titles. ‘It’s To Kill a Mockingbird and all the Secret Seven books and—’ I stop to glare at Dad ‘—Five Run Away Together. Dad, I have this one!’
‘Sorry, honey – I must have gotten confused, or maybe Foyles did!’
He ruffles my hair and I hug him around his expanding waist.
‘That’s all right, Dad. It’s just wonderful. You’re the best Dad in the whole world!’
I see Mum’s face as I say that and she is smiling to see me so happy but it is the funny, twisty smile that gives me a pain in my chest.
My smile becomes twisty too. I can feel my lips turn down at the edges. My arms are still around Dad’s waist and he is laughing with pleasure but I have a really weird feeling that things are about to get plain awful.
Mum says, ‘Dinner is on the table.’
Dad says, ‘I could really use a good Indian meal – it’s been fish and chips out of old newspapers for days!’
Rajiv and I catch each other’s eye and I see the hope in my eyes reflected in his.
Maybe things are going to be all right and that sinking feeling, like an out-of-position defender watching a striker on a hat-trick skip around the goalkeeper, was just indigestion or something.
I say, in a cheerful voice that almost gets caught in my throat, ‘I’m hungry too.’ (I feel like that poor footballer who swallowed his tongue and needed medical help so he wouldn’t choke.)
It takes real skill, like being able to juggle a football on a knee or a foot and then flick it up and land it on the back of your neck, to take part in a conversation between four people without speaking directly to one of them. But Mum and Dad can both do it.
Rajiv and I ask questions about Dad’s trip and he tells us. Mum is listening but she doesn’t say anything. But if I ask her a question about what Dad is talking about, she answers. He doesn’t talk over her or ignore her and she doesn’t do that to him either. If you didn’t know better or weren’t paying attention, it would seem like a normal dinnertime conversation.
I ask, ‘Dad, did you watch the World Cup final?’
‘Yes, great game.’
‘I was supporting Argentina,’ I say smugly. ‘Rajiv was cheering for Germany.’
‘Were you now? Was it just to annoy your sister?’
Rajiv nods and grins.
‘Who were you supporting, Dad?’ I ask.
‘It was tough – no Englishman can support Germany!’
‘But what about the Falklands? Mum says that you were at war with Argentina too! Right, Mum?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘It’s true, we were,’ says Dad, making a face like he’s just got a yellow card for a dangerous tackle even though he got the ball before the player.
‘So who were you cheering for?’ I ask impatiently. I just want an answer to a simple question about whether Dad and I were on the same side. I don’t need a history lesson about every war England has fought with another football-playing nation.
‘Well,’ says Dad, putting on his thoughtful face – like a coach trying to decide whether to use his last substitute, ‘I had to choose the old-fashioned way – by picking the team that played the best football!’
‘That was Maradona and Argentina!’ I exclaim.
‘It was indeed,’ he says and we grin happily at each other.
That night there is no yelling. I am up reading one of my new books, Two Weeks with the Queen. When I get out of bed for a pee I notice that Mum and Dad’s bedroom light is still on.
They’re up but they’re not quarreling … that is strange.
I don’t think about it too much because I’m anxious to get back to my book.
The next day is Saturday.
At breakfast, I notice that Mum and Dad look really tired – like they haven’t slept at all. Mum’s hair is all over the place and Dad’s eyes are red. Usually it’s Mum’s eyes that are red in the morning if they’ve been quarrelling. I really hope things haven’t got to the stage where Dad is crying too.
Probably he went out in the garden for his early morning smoke and the wind changed and the smoke got in his eyes and they’re still smarting. That will teach him to have a cigarette before breakfast.
We eat in silence.
I don’t like this sort of quiet – it’s like a stadium full of people observing a minute’s silence because someone important has died. It’s quiet but it’s sad and tense as well.
Usually, I’d talk to fill the empty spaces but today I just don’t seem to be able to do it.
After breakfast, Mum picks up our plates and puts them in the sink.
Dad clears his throat.
We look at him but he doesn’t say anything.
Mum sits back down which is strange because she normally just gets on with the washing up.
‘Kids, we have something to tell you,’ says Dad.
We turn to look at Dad but he doesn’t tell us anything – he just looks at Mum instead.
She runs her hands through her hair and smiles a twisty smile.
She says, ‘You probably won’t be that happy when you hear the news but in the long run I think you’ll understand it is for the best.’
What is she talking about?
Dad tries to explain. He says, ‘You know your mum and I have been having a tough time.’
‘What do you mean, Dad?’
Rajiv pipes up, ‘Are we out of money again?’
I remember all the books Dad bought for me from Foyles. That must have cost a small fortune.
‘If the books were too expensive, I could ask Mr Hamid at the shop if he wants to buy them?’ I hate offering to give up my books but it seems like the right thing to do. I don’t want to raise their hopes that Mr Hamid will solve our money problems so I add, ‘But he still has some copies of Five Run Away Together so he might not be interested.’
Can you believe it? Dad does the twisty smile thing. It must be catching.
He says, ‘No, it’s not about money.’
Mum says, ‘Sometimes grown-ups who are married t
o each other aren’t that happy.’
Does she think Rajiv and I are blind and deaf?
‘We know that, Mum!’
‘It is important that you know that it doesn’t mean that we don’t love the two of you. It’s just your dad and I who have problems.’
Dad adds, ‘It has nothing to do with you.’
Rajiv and I have gone quiet. Rajiv is rocking his chair back and staring down at the table.
Usually, Dad gets really cross when he rocks his chair. Today, he says nothing. This is not good.
I look from Mum to Dad and from Dad to Mum.
They both look really sad.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Your dad and I are getting a divorce.’
I wait for Rajiv to say something but he’s just rocking his chair, back and forth, back and forth.
It’s like I’ve been given a red card even though it’s the other guy that headbutted me in the chest and I’m so winded I can’t speak to explain to the referee that it’s all a terrible misunderstanding.
Mum says, ‘It really isn’t about you kids. Your dad and I have just decided that we can’t be together anymore.’
I finally find my tongue. ‘But what does that mean?’
Dad says, ‘I’m going back to England.’
Rajiv’s chair stops midrock. He’s too far back and the chair tumbles and he has to twist out of it so he lands on his hands and knees and not on his head.
He gets slowly to his feet. The chair is lying on its back.
Mum, who leapt to her feet as he fell over, asks, ‘Are you all right?’
That is such a dumb question.
Dad is just looking at Rajiv.
Rajiv asks, ‘What about us?’
Mum says, ‘You’ll both stay with me. You’ll see your dad as often as possible, of course.’
‘But why do you have to go to England?’ I ask the question – I know it because I can hear the words and they’re in my ‘squeaky with worry’ voice. I am so numb with shock I would not be able to tell otherwise.
Dad mumbles, ‘I’ve found a job there. You know the flying club is losing money…’
‘But I’m sure you could find a job here,’ argues Rajiv. He is getting angry – his nose looks like a white flag but he hasn’t given up yet.
Dad looks at his feet and then he looks up at both of us. He says, ‘I need to get away.’ His voice cracks a little. ‘Maybe I’ll find a job back here when I’ve had a change of scene for a while.’
My dad needs a change of scene – from his family. From Mum and Rajiv and me. My dad who takes us to the beach every weekend, who lets us fly his little aeroplane, who bought me a ton of books from Foyles, needs a change of scene.
I feel like I’ve just scored an own goal in a tied match in the last minute of extra time.
Dad’s gone in a month.
His last words as he gets into a taxi to take him to the airport are, ‘I’ll save some money and fly you guys out for Christmas. That will be great. Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas!’
I have my football under my arm and there are tears in my eyes. I usually prefer not to cry – I don’t think it looks right for the ‘I’m too tough to wear shin pads’ type of footballer to cry except from happiness when winning World Cups or something like that. But this is a special occasion. Probably, even Zico would have cried.
Besides, if we have to wait for Dad to save enough money before he flies us out to England we’ll probably never see him again.
In some ways, it is easier at home without Dad. There is no quarrelling at night. There is no one at breakfast who does not speak to anyone else – at least when Amamma isn’t around.
And she’s not around much.
She says it is too humiliating to have a daughter who couldn’t even hang on to her own husband – she’d rather spend time with my uncles. Lucky them.
But when I look at the garden and it is thick with leaves because Dad is not sweeping furiously or we go to the beach on Saturdays and there is no one to yell at us if we get too deep, I have to bite my bottom lip real hard because there is a huge hole in our lives where Dad used to be and nothing to fill it with.
Mum has gone back to work part-time. She says she just feels more comfortable not having to wait for Dad’s cheques to arrive – they might get lost in the post or something.
Who is she trying to kid, I wonder? We all know that if Dad’s cheque doesn’t arrive it will have nothing to do with the postal system. Mum seems to have made up her mind that she won’t say anything nasty about Dad now that he’s gone.
I guess she thinks it will make it easier for us kids.
I wish she had thought of it earlier. Perhaps he wouldn’t have left if she hadn’t said nasty things to him before.
I know that’s not fair. It’s not really Mum’s fault.
Rajiv is really angry though. He won’t let Mum come to any of his hockey matches. I don’t suppose he really thinks it’s Mum’s fault either. I am sure he knows it takes two to quarrel. Mum smiles her twisty smile and pretends she doesn’t mind about Rajiv. I guess none of us are fooling anyone about how we feel.
Nobody at school knows. I’m far too ashamed to admit that my dad has left his family.
There’s Sok Mun’s dad working all hours at the fruit stall to make enough to feed the family and Batumalar’s dad bringing her in on the motorbike everyday so that she can attend a good school and Nurhayati’s dad owning the biggest company in town. They’re sure to think there must be something wrong with me or Rajiv or Mum that made Dad leave.
Maybe there is something wrong with us – I don’t know.
But I’m not telling anyone that Dad lives in England now.
Unfortunately, they’re bound to find out.
Kuantan is such a small town. I try not to think about the whispers and the stares when the news gets out. I can just imagine the girls pointing and nodding, ‘There’s that girl whose father went to live in England. He needed a change of scene. I always thought there was something odd about them …’
It’s definitely time to practise with the football.
My skills are improving. I can dribble around the rose bush and do a ‘keepy-uppy’ thing with the ball on my knee and my foot – thirty-eight bounces is my new personal record.
The team is getting better as well. The five of us play everyday and we hardly ever miss a pass. Sok Mun has overcome her fear of the ball so well that she now plays in goal.
One morning, Mum drops me off just as Batumalar’s dad arrives on his motorbike with Batumalar on the back, her helmet strapped around her head. She gets off while he waits.
I am walking past and I smile at them. I don’t want her dad to realise that his daughter doesn’t have any friends.
He speaks to me and I stare at him blankly. He is speaking Tamil and although it is my mother tongue, unless I’m saying ‘no’ to a second helping of rice or Mum is asking if I want more dosa, my Tamil is embarrassing. At least Amamma says so and she should know.
He points to the football under my arm and says in English, ‘You play football?’
I nod. If I’m caught being chatty to Batumalar’s dad, I’m finished.
Then I remember that at least Batumalar has a dad who doesn’t need a change of scene, so I smile and nod and say, ‘Yes, I love football.’
‘You must play with Batumalar,’ he says. ‘She is a good player – the best!’ He waves his arms around to emphasise the point.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
He disappears in a cloud of dust. I turn around, determined to ask Batumalar to join the team. She has gone ahead.
For once, she’s on time.
I reach the classroom late and have to write lines.
I speak to Dad on the phone once a week.
It doesn’t really work that well.
He’s always asking me what we’re doing and how Rajiv and I are getting along.
Bu
t there’s just not that much to tell.
I practise my football, read my books, quarrel with Rajiv and worry about Batumalar being bullied (and that I’m too chicken to do anything about it).
It’s just normal life. And normal life is not very interesting to talk about over the phone. Normal life is about living it with your dad.
It’s not about telling him that you can flick the ball over your head with your heel and volley it into the goal. It’s about running into the house the first time you do it and dragging him outside to see you try to repeat the trick.
It’s not about telling him about the book you’re reading – it’s about Dad telling you to get your nose out of the book and do your homework.
It’s not about describing a picnic that Amamma has ruined – it’s about catching his eye when she’s knee deep in water and sharing a secret, in-your-heart-not-out-loud giggle.
Rajiv refuses to speak to Dad on the phone at all.
After a while, Dad stops calling so much. There’s no mention of a white Christmas anymore.
Mum says he’s probably busy working hard at his new job – it’s not that easy settling down in a new place. Dad must have a lot on his mind.
He has a lot on his mind – but it doesn’t seem to include Rajiv and me.
It’s a miracle!
Nurhayati wants to join the team.
‘But why? I thought you said that football was a boys’ game?’
Nurhayati tosses her head and her long, beautiful hair bounces like she’s in a shampoo ad.
‘I’ve changed my mind, that’s all.’
I am still staring at her in amazement – like she’s a streaker who’s run onto the football pitch naked.
‘Well, can I play or not?’
I shake off my surprise and hold out my hand. She shakes it gingerly. ‘You’re in!’ I shout and then I juggle the ball on my knee just to show her how much work she has to do to be as good as me.
Later, Sok Mun tells me that Nurhayati really likes a boy who lives down the road from her but he only cares about football. So, she’s decided to target his weak spot – and if that means she has to join our team, so be it.
Ten Page 5
