‘Yes, she has disowned Sandra and put her out as well, and I think that’s what’s wicked, Pop.’
‘You shut your wicked mouth and get them out of here. Now, what am I going to do with beautiful Parveen?’
Suddenly Bashir grinned. ‘Give her to me in marriage.’
‘What?’
‘Why not, Pop? I need a wife. You’ve said so yourself more than once.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Then we can all live here together as a proper, happy family.’
‘Not him and that white Christian girl. That’s too much for any devout Muslim father to put up with.’
‘Och, all right, they can stay with Mae Kelly at number two until they move into their own place tomorrow.’
‘Their own place?’ Mahmood echoed incredulously.
‘I’m helping them, Pop, financially as well as in every other way.’
‘You are a fool, Bashir, as well as a wicked man.’
Bashir grinned again. ‘So that’s it all settled? I take this woman, Parveen, as my lawful, wedded wife?’
Mahmood hesitated.
‘I suppose there is no alternative now.’
‘Good. Don’t worry, Parveen. I’ll be a kind husband to you.’
Parveen smiled at him, then modestly lowered her gaze.
Bashir led Mirza and Sandra from the house and along to number two.
‘It’s just as we thought, Mae. Pop has disowned Mirza and put him out. But I’ve got a flat for them over the other side of the Art Galleries. I’ve finished the legal negotiations. And we’ve been getting furniture and furnishings moved in.’
‘That’s great, Bashir.’ Mae welcomed them inside. ‘You’ve been so kind to them.’
‘And we appreciate it,’ Mirza said. ‘Don’t we, Sandra?’
‘Oh yes.’ Sandra flung her arms round Bashir’s neck. ‘What would we have done without you, Bashir? We both love you dearly.’
‘Get off,’ Bashir laughed. ‘If my future wife sees you, she’ll be jealous.’
‘Future wife?’ Mae echoed.
‘Yes, I’m going to marry Parveen, the bride Pop brought for Mirza. A real beauty, she is, so I’ve done all right. I’m happy.’
Mirza said, ‘Mae, is it OK if we stay here tonight? The flat will be ready with a bed, etc, tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’
Bashir said, ‘It’s only a one bedroomed flat but it’s got a bathroom. The kitchen’s small, but there’s a good sized sitting room.’
‘We love it,’ both Mirza and Sandra cried out, ‘and it’s still near enough the Art Galleries for us to visit there as often as we like.’
Mae said, ‘I’m so happy for you. And you’ll be especially happy in your own we place, I’m sure.’
Bashir managed to leave despite both Mirza and Sandra hugging him and clinging to him and repeating their heartfelt thanks.
Afterwards Mae sat the young couple down beside Doris. She’d already explained to Doris who they were and as much as she could about their situation. Now Doris held their hands and listened eagerly to their latest news, while Mae put the kettle on.
‘What beautiful hair you have, Sandra,’ Doris said suddenly. ‘I’ve never seen such long hair before in my life.’
One of her hands stroked Sandra’s hair. ‘It goes right down to your waist.’
‘She’s a beautiful person,’ Mirza said. ‘I’ve always loved her and I always will.’
38
Bashir was a romantic at heart. And despite the fact that there was no need for the kind of courtship that British Christians had, he wanted to show some feelings for his wife-to-be, Parveen. To her obvious shy delight, he recited Burns to her.
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry …
Parveen clapped her hands and encouraged him to repeat another very tender Burns poem that was one of his favourites.
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee
Or did Misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
He had never seen Parveen without her head covered and he admired her hair which was like black wings. She no longer wore the burkah indoors and in his presence. It was not a very acceptable garment anywhere in Glasgow, with its dark retreat and tiny slits for eyes.
‘More,’ she said, with a smile and a flutter of lashes. She was an educated girl and could speak good English. Although he sometimes wondered if she properly understood the Scottish tongue – especially that of the poet, Robert Burns.
‘OK,’ Bashir said. ‘Just one more.’ And he went on to recite,
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet!
Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d,
Ne’er summer sun was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er the sultry line,
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heav’n gave me more – it made thee mine!
While day and night can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When the grim foe of Life below
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss, it breaks my heart!
But neither Bashir nor Parveen’s heart was broken because their marriage went ahead and was a very happy occasion.
39
Before Jack did the shopping, he had to attend Bashir’s wedding. Everyone did, and it was a very happy day. After the wedding ceremony, they all trooped off to a huge hall where a caterer had been booked to serve the six hundred guests. Both Bashir and Mahmood had invited every Muslim they’d ever known in the Gorbals – good customers mostly of the grocery business, but many others in the area and beyond. Bashir also invited many non-Muslims. There were tables seating six to twelve people and one long table at one end of the hall where Bashir sat with his bride and the Shafaatulla family.
The exception was Mirza. Mahmood would have banned him not only from the big table, but from anywhere in the hall. Bashir insisted, however, that Mirza and Sandra must at least be allowed to sit at one of the tables in the hall with his other guests.
The meal was vegetarian and the bottles on each table were lemonade, Irn Bru and water. No alcohol was allowed.
Bashir and Parveen could not go on a honeymoon or holiday because of Bashir’s business commitments. The grocery had grown into quite a supermarket and, thanks to Bashir’s conscientious hard work, was increasingly successful financially.
Parveen didn’t seem to mind. She showed nothing but delight and happiness and it was a pleasure to watch her with Bashir. She kept gazing up at him with such adoration and admiration.
‘Ah well,’ Bashir said after the ceremony, with one of his wide white grins lighting up his brown face, ‘that’s another good job done.’
Jack Kelly was there with Clive and Paul. He’d given them a lift in his
car. He’d offered Mae and Doris a lift but Mae said she feared it would be too much for Doris. Eventually she was persuaded, however, to come for the meal but not wait for the entertainment that was on the programme for after the meal. And so Jack took the four of them in his car.
‘I’ll get a taxi back,’ Mae said. ‘I don’t want to drag you away and have you miss all the entertainment.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘But I do, Jack. I’ll only come now if you’ll agree to that.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘All right. All right.’
During the meal, they all chatted happily together. They shared the table with Mirza and Sandra as well as Clive and Paul. She was glad to see that Clive and Paul looked much better and stronger, certainly more confident and cheerful.
When Mae commented on this, Paul said, ‘Actually we’re suffering awful suspense just now. A publisher wanted to see my finished novel and I’m still waiting to see if he is going to buy it and give me a contract.’
‘We’re both suffering,’ Clive said. ‘Our writer friends all tell us that it’s nothing unusual. Apparently publishers usually take quite a while. I have to laugh at the story about Robert Burns, although I’m sure it’s not typical. His publisher was called Creech and one day, a friends of Burns’ saw Burns rushing down the street brandishing a big stick. The friend asked Burns what he was doing. Burns said, “I’m going to batter my money out of that bloody Creech.”’
Everybody laughed, but Doris looked confused.
‘Who’s Robert Burns?’
‘A famous Scottish poet. A very emotional kind of man. I don’t suppose his publisher was all that bad,’ Mae said. ‘He wrote “Auld Lang Syne” and it’s recited and sung all over the world.’
Sandra said, ‘My favourite of his is “Ae Fond Kiss”. I think it’s the most beautiful love poem ever written.’
‘Yes,’ Mirza agreed, ‘but so sad. I hope it never applies to us. “Ae fond kiss and then we sever, Ae fareweel and then forever!”’
‘No, never,’ Sandra said. ‘We’ll always be together. Always. Always.’
‘And so will we,’ Clive said, patting Paul’s hand. ‘We’ve been through a lot together and survived, and we’ll go on surviving. And just wait until Paul is a world famous author with a best-selling novel. That’ll show everybody.’
Jack laughed as he poured glasses of Irn Bru for everybody. ‘One thing’s for certain, we won’t get drunk on this.’
‘Och, we like it, don’t we, Paul? We seldom bother with alcohol.’
‘It’s a good Scottish drink. If I remember, it used to be advertised as “made in Scotland frae girders” – something like that.’
Doris suddenly said, ‘What beautiful red gold hair you have. I’ve seen it before somewhere.’
Clive said, ‘You’ve seen Sandra often before, Doris.’
‘No,’ Mae said. ‘I think she means the painting in the Art Galleries. We saw it when we were last there. The woman in the painting had a long cape of hair just like Sandra’s.’
‘That’s right,’ Mirza cried out. ‘I’ve seen that one. It’s gorgeous. Just like Sandra.’
Mae suddenly felt sad. The couples at the table were obviously so much in love and so happy. She had once felt like that. She wished she could feel like that again.
Despite this, she enjoyed the meal and before the entertainment was due to begin, she went to the top table, explained to Bashir why she had to leave and wished him and his beautiful bride every happiness.
There was a taxi rank outside and she helped Doris into the first available taxi.
‘Did you enjoy the wedding, Doris?’
‘Oh yes, it was lovely. Was I ever married, Mae?’
‘No, dear. You looked after your mother for many years. It was a strain on you but you were a good, loyal, loving daughter. That’s what you must remember.’
‘I’ve got you now, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you’ll always have me.’
‘But you have a husband, haven’t you? Wasn’t he that handsome man sitting next to you tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s such a handsome man.’
‘Yes,’ Mae sighed, ‘indeed he is.’
40
‘Hurrah!’ Paul shouted over the telephone to the president of the writers’ club. ‘I’ve had a letter of acceptance. The publisher wants to publish my novel.’
‘I’ll get in touch with the others and we’ll be over right away.’
‘I wish I’d known at Bashir’s wedding,’ Paul said. ‘I could have announced the good news there.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Clive said. ‘That was Bashir’s celebration day, not yours.’
The writers wasted no time in arriving at Waterside Way and once inside the house, there were joyous hugs and congratulations.
Paul cried out delight, ‘I’ll be a writer. A real writer.’
‘You are a real writer,’ his friends assured him. And always have been.’ They all danced around the room, unable to contain their happiness.
Right away they organised a party – writers only – because as Paul now agreed, only writers and people wanting to become writers could fully understand the sense of achievement and joy a book acceptance brought.
It was an unforgettable night. Alcohol flowed for anyone who wanted it. Everyone came with something – a bottle of red or white wine or a bottle of non-alcoholic wine. Sandwiches and biscuits and cakes were also brought along. Everything was set out on a table in the dining room and on a tea trolley.
They had quizzes and all sorts of literary games and everyone had a good laugh, as well as a good meal. Exhaustion ended the evening at a very late hour. Congratulations were repeated and goodbyes said.
Before going to bed, Paul and Clive knelt down as they always did, clasped their hands and said their prayers, ending with the Lord’s prayer.
Then Paul said, ‘And thank you, Jesus, for helping me to get my book accepted. Thank you so much for all my blessings …’
Next day, they could hardly wait to rush along to tell first of all Jack Kelly, then Mae and Doris, and then the Shafaatullas next door. Because Bashir was needed in the business, he could not get away on honeymoon or holiday after his wedding. And so he was working every day as usual. He was delighted for Paul.
‘I’ll be your first customer for an autographed copy, Paul. I bet the booksellers in town will have you sitting at a table with a big queue of customers waiting for you to autograph piles of your book.’
‘I can just see that,’ Clive said. ‘Oh, it’ll be great, Paul. You’re going to be famous.’
‘Hang on,’ Paul countered. ‘It might not sell well at all.’
‘There you go again,’ Clive said. ‘You keep losing confidence in yourself, Paul. You must stop yourself doing that. Think what’s happened – a publisher thought so highly of your book he’s paying a lot of money for it. You’re going to be rich, Paul.’
‘Lucky devil,’ Bashir said.
‘No,’ Clive corrected. ‘Not luck, talent, Bashir.’
‘Yes, you’re a very talented guy, Paul. By the way, we haven’t seen each other since the wedding but did you enjoy it?’
‘Yeah,’ Paul laughed. ‘Especially the entertainment.’ He started singing Indian-type music, flinging his arms up and swinging his body about in an effort to imitate the shapely women dancers.
‘It was a really good night,’ Clive agreed. ‘And what a beautiful wife you have. Where is she this morning?’
‘Through in the kitchen with Rasheeda. I’ve already said goodbye to her. I was on my way out to work when you came to the door just now.’
‘We’d better go but we just wanted everyone to know Paul’s good news.’
‘Congratulations, pal. Your success is well deserved. And lots more books to come, I’ll bet. You’re not going to be a one-book-wonder.’
‘I suppose not,’ Paul said, somewhat worriedly.
‘Of course not,’ Clive said. ‘
He’s full of ideas for other books. He’s a writer. Always has been and always will be.’
‘Yeah.’ Paul brightened and sounded more confident. ‘Yeah, you’re right.’
41
Mirza and Sandra decided to try the night tour round the Art Galleries. They discovered that when the lights went down at night, it was a different place altogether. Shadows loomed, footsteps echoed round the empty marble halls and exhibits took on a life of their own. In the dim light, the knight on his armoured horse looked as if he was about to leap off his stand in a clatter of hooves and clashing steel. The Egyptian room, which was all about life and death, was especially creepy and it was easy to imagine that the lid of the sarcophagus was about to swing open and release the spirit of its ancient occupant – Pa-ba-sa.
Sandra clung tightly to Mirza.
‘It’s even creepier than I thought it would be. Especially in this Egyptian room.’
‘I know, and there’s a really macabre story connected with a sarcophagus. The Duke of Hamilton wanted to be mummified and buried in a sarcophagus. But it turned out to be a woman’s one that was sent for him and his legs had to be broken after he died to fit his body into it.’
Sandra shuddered. ‘He must have been a right weirdo.’
‘He was certainly eccentric. A story I like,’ Mirza said, ‘is that Dali got a Hollywood stunt man called Russell Sanders to model for his painting of Christ of St John on the Cross.’
‘You mean he painted a real person?’
‘Yes. He reckoned Sanders had the perfect physique for Christ and had him pulled up on ropes and dangled from the ceiling in his studio while he painted.’
Suddenly Sandra said, ‘I love you.’
Mirza laughed. ‘Where did that come from all of a sudden?’
‘You’re so clever, Mirza. No wonder your teachers think you’ll do well and get a great degree.’
‘So it’s just my mind you love?’
She nudged him. ‘No. You’re very clever in bed as well.’
The Kellys of Kelvingrove Page 13
