‘Mum’s being weird . . . cleaning.’
‘That is suspicious behaviour! She told me she’d rearranged a few things.’ Dad looks towards the shelves a bit doubtfully. If anything, now that she’s shoved everything back on them all higgledy-piggledy, they look even messier than before.
‘Did Mum tell you I found the chime Nana Josie gave me?’ I ask, but I’m not sure he hears because he has this faraway look on his face. ‘Dad?’ I touch his arm. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Sorry, Laila, I was miles away.’ Dad kisses me on the forehead like he used to before bed when I was tiny. ‘I’d love to see that again. We hunted everywhere for that little rattle . . . I thought it was lost for good.’
‘It nearly was,’ I say, running upstairs. I unzip the cushion cover and feel around for the chime. It doesn’t look like a rattle. No one would ever let a baby put this in their mouth. Whoever gave it to Nana Josie when she was a baby definitely meant for someone to ring it for her . . . it’s a chime, not a rattle. I slide the letter about the Protest Book further into the cover and zip the cushion up again.
Dad walks up the stairs to find me. ‘Let’s see it then.’
I sit down on my perch and he sits next to me. He holds his hand out and, as I place the little chime in his palm, it rings. A smile spreads across Dad’s face.
‘Stars, moons and suns. Pretty!’ Dad yawns and leans his head back on the cushions and I lay my head on his chest. ‘I remember my mum asking us to give this to you,’ Dad says with his eyes closed.
The way he says ‘my mum’ makes him seem like a little boy. I’ve hardly ever thought about how Dad was when he was young.
When Mum comes back I make her some tea too.
‘How was work?’ Dad asks.
‘Tough,’ Mum says, putting some files down on the table. They say ‘Confidential’ on the front. ‘But once I’m back in the swing of it, it’ll be easier – the more I get to know the children. Some of them have quite complex needs. Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn’t bring it home.’
Dad looks at the pile of files on the other end of the table and raises his eyebrows.
Three is an odd number to sit around a long table that used to have at least five of us eating at it. Usually more with Mira and Krish’s friends and sometimes Kez too. Dad’s cooked way too much food.
‘We’ll never eat that much,’ I tell him as he ladles some into my bowl.
‘Yes . . . and I met one of Mira’s flatmates. Seemed really friendly . . . Punky-grungy type.’
‘That’s not a thing!’ I groan.
It’s going to be so boring around here without any proper banter.
‘Do we have to eat at the table every night?’ I ask.
Mum nods. ‘So, are you going to tell me about school?’
‘I like my tutor. I’ve told Dad about her already – I can’t be bothered to go over it again.’
Mum looks disappointed. ‘Tell me one thing you learned,’ she asks.
‘I’m not at primary any more!’ I sigh.
Mum pulls a begging face and holds one finger up.
I give in. ‘Lingala is a language that millions of people speak in Africa.’
‘Which countries in Africa? Never heard of it!’ Dad says, looking it up on his phone. It’s so brilliant how they ask me a question and then don’t believe what I’m saying.
‘You interested in Geography?’ Mum asks.
‘It was in tutor time. A girl called Carmel speaks it.’
‘Here we go. It’s spoken in Angola, Congo . . .’
‘She’s from Cameroon,’ I say. ‘Can we not talk about school now?’
‘Fair enough. You must be tired. Oh! I’ve got you a remedy for your eczema and some cream.’ Mum takes a little pot of cream and a little glass tube of her white sugary homeopathy pills out of her bag. She taps one into the lid and tips it on to my tongue. ‘Take another in the morning. Let me have a look at your skin.’
‘Stop fussing, Mum.’ I hold out my arm and she smoothes the cream over it.
‘This should soothe it at night especially.’
When I hear Mum and Dad switching their lights out later, I drag my duvet out to the landing. I feel inside the ruby-coloured cushion for the chime and I take out the letter from Nana Josie’s friend and read it over and over again . . . What difference would it make to anyone if I went to pick up the Protest Book, instead of Mira?
Is it always wrong to lie?
Is it always right to tell the truth?
I could just say to Mira that the book arrived by post, and give it to her when she gets home. She probably wouldn’t even be that bothered if I read it. She’s got loads of things of Nana’s after all. Maybe Mrs Latif’s ‘Connected Lands’ category isn’t just about countries in the world; maybe it means the lands of the past too. Everyone else in this family seems to have a connection to Nana Josie except me. I look at the address on the letter. It’s not that far. Would it be that wrong of me to go and pick the book up myself?
‘Is this sleeping-on-the-landing thing some kind of protest, Laila?’ Dad asks, picking up Simon’s letter to Mira. I must have fallen asleep reading it.
I snatch it off him before he can read anything.
‘What’s that you were reading?’
‘Nothing,’ I say – but why did he ask me that? How can sleeping on the landing be a protest? ‘Protest about what?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, Laila, you tell us. Krish and Mira going away? Starting secondary school? Or is all this feeling so unsettled something to do with Kez?’
He waits for a minute for me to answer, and when I don’t he sighs.
‘Well, if you want to talk . . .’
‘I don’t,’ I jump in, before he can say any more.
‘You’d better get ready for school then.’ He sighs and carries on down the stairs.
I tiptoe down the first three steps and sit on the stairs so I can hear Mum and Dad talking.
‘She’s curled up on that sofa like a frightened little kitten.’
Is that what Dad really thinks about me?
‘She was reading a letter, but she wouldn’t tell me about it.’
‘Yes, there was something she was looking at from Kez the other day . . . I wish I knew what was going on between those two,’ Mum chips in.
‘Don’t get involved, Uma – whatever it is, they’ve got to sort it out for themselves.’
Now I can’t hear much . . . except for one word: ‘puberty’. It’s such a vile word. I suppose it serves me right for eavesdropping. I cringe, cringe and cringe some more at the thought of Mum and Dad talking about me like that. I hate this house without Mira and Krish in it.
After Dad’s gone to work, Mum runs around getting her things together and keeps asking me the same questions over and over again: ‘Have you eaten enough breakfast? Sure you’ve got everything?’ She straightens my tie and puts my gym bag by the door even though I’ve told her we don’t have PE today.
‘Set off in twenty minutes!’ she tells me as she runs out of the door.
I can’t stand all the fussing around.
I’m actually glad she goes into her school before me now.
‘So how’s your first week been, Laila?’ Mum asks, as she tidies up the landing sofa and plumps the cushions around me. Maybe that little velvet cushion isn’t the best hiding place for the letter after all.
‘Mum! Do we have to talk about school now?’ I ask.
If I look over the whole week, I think I’ve seen Kez to talk to about eight times. Mostly I go around with Pari – and I like her, but it’s not so easy to get to know someone from scratch. There are so many gaps in what you do or don’t know about each other . . . and what you feel like you can ask. I like Mrs Latif’s tutor time more than anything else – the way she asks questions that run through your mind whatever you’re doing through the day. Probably the best lesson of the week was Citizenship. I think it’s my favourite subject. I don’t know why they don’t have
it in primary; it’s like learning about everything together. It sort of helps you join things up. I suppose the other thing that’s got me thinking is about starting up dance again. Mrs Latif asked if anyone was interested in an after-school dance club she’s thinking of setting up next term, and me and Pari both registered for that. Even though I was too shy to go to ballet without Kez when she gave it up, I think maybe seeing Priya’s videos has sparked me up again . . . and if Pari comes too . . . But if I told Mum that, I know she would get so over-the-top happy and go on about how talented I was at dance and how I should never have given up ballet. Those are the main things I would tell Mum if I was going to tell her anything, but I don’t – and no matter how patiently she smiles at me, waiting for an answer, I won’t. School feels long enough, and I don’t want to have to go over everything again now I’m home. I think she’s just as relieved as me when the phone rings . . .
It’s not Mira, Krish or Nana Kath calling. I can tell by the way Mum answers the phone.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ Her voice is all high.
There’s the usual polite asking after all the other aunties, uncles and cousins in India, then . . .
‘Ah! Yes, Anjali, I spotted that on Facebook a while back . . . A final fundraising push – it’s a massive target he’s set himself.’
I’m good at deciphering the other half of a phone conversation. I think I would make quite a good codebreaker, like those women in Bletchley Park in the war. I think that was the last film Kez’s gran – our bubbe – took the two of us to see. I can’t remember when I started calling her my bubbe too, but I’ve always sort of thought of her as my other gran. Anyway, if I’m right, the Facebook thing will be about Janu raising money to open a new refuge in his village.
‘Laila was watching one of Priya’s videos the other day. She’s doing so well in New York. A bit of a star, isn’t she? Near Central Park! Swanky . . . I know – Mira was talking about going to stay.’
Mum’s in deep listening mode now.
‘Of course. It’ll be our pleasure to have Janu stay here. That’s generous of Hannah to offer to put him up but, no, he must stay here. We’d be offended if he didn’t. There’s no question. We’ve been waiting to repay your hospitality. Really? Has it taken that long? I know it’s not easy to get a Visa these days, but he’s only visiting for such a short time. Well, yes, I suppose . . .’
I jump up and lean over the banister so that I can hear Mum better.
‘To be honest, Anjali, it’ll cheer us all up. And it’s perfect timing with Krish and Mira away . . . We’ve shrunk to just the three of us. It’s so quiet around here! I know, Laila keeps reminding me they’ll be back, but . . . Just let me know when you’ve booked the flights, OK? Email me the details . . .’
Up until now I think I’ve just about managed to work out everything that Aunt Anjali has been saying on the Kolkata end of the line, but for this next bit I have no idea.
‘For Mira? Really? Sounds intriguing . . . is he? What’s he called his charity? Barefoot Trust? Well, good luck to him!’
I sit on the top stair and watch Mum walk up and down the hallway as she chats on to Aunt Anjali. They always take ages to say goodbye even after it’s obvious that they kind of have. You think they’ve finished and then they start talking about something new.
When Mum’s finally hung up, I take the stairs three at a time. I lean on the banister hard and swing my body around the bottom. The post groans and shakes a bit.
‘Don’t you start doing that! That staircase is rickety enough as it is!’ Mum says. ‘Guess who’s coming to stay?’
‘Janu!’ I laugh.
‘Did you hear everything?’
‘Pretty much!’ I nod.
‘Anyway, glad it’s put a smile on your face.’
I go up to Mira’s room, close the door, stretch out on her bed and text Kez. I think maybe Janu coming will change things between us. It could give us something that’s about me and her again.
You’ll never guess who’s coming to stay!
Are you keeping that snake?
No!
Well?
Janu!
Oh yeah! Mum said he might come over. You know they’re working together on his new refuge . . . the one in his village? I think she wants to show him round some of her community builds. Have you checked out his website? We’re fundraising for his charity at my bat mitzvah.
Yes . . . your friend Rebecca said.
I can’t help that accusing tone that keeps creeping in between us.
I lie on the bed and look around the walls where Mira’s photos used to be and I get to thinking this: the gaps between me and Pari are because of the things we don’t know about each other, but with Kez and me it’s like we know too much. I can’t pretend I’m not upset that Rebecca knows things about Kez that I don’t, especially when they’re things that were always between just the two of us. Janu’s work at the refuge was something I shared with her, like she shares her grandma with me and doesn’t mind that I call her my bubbe too. But I have no idea how to explain why I’m being so off and moody with her, and I don’t think Kez knows either. The one thing it never was before with me and Kez was awkward . . . kind of sour. I wanted to be the person to break the news about Janu coming to stay. Why did she already have to know?
I wait to hear Mum and Dad go up to bed, then google ‘Barefoot Trust Orphanage, India’. It doesn’t take me long to find Janu’s new website. There’s a photo of him and a description of the refuge in Kolkata that me and Kez raised money for in primary school. There’s another photo of him standing on a plot of land by a river where he plans to build a refuge that’s going to be called ‘Vimana’. I don’t know why it annoys me so much that Rebecca knew that name before I did and that Kez has named her new chair after it and didn’t think to mention it. I wish I could tell her how it makes me feel, but when I try to work out what I would say it just sounds petty. It’s not like Janu belongs to me or anything. It’s not like anyone belongs to anyone really. Maybe that’s what Kez is trying to tell me. Have I been clinging on to her too hard?
These thoughts flick through my mind as I click on the different pages of Janu’s website. It looks really slick, with quotes and photographs and video clips. I press the PLAY arrow and Janu’s talking.
‘Like my own mother, many disabled children born into poverty are abandoned, often left on the street at the mercy of others who would exploit them. I walk barefoot for a future for every one of them.’
Janu smiles with his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s sad or happy.
‘Please join me on my barefoot journey.’
Then a computer-generated building plan flashes up.
‘Vimana Refuge is to be designed and built in consultation with Hannah and Maurice Braverman of the award-winning Out of the Box community architects in London. ‘Out of the Box’ specialize in open-access buildings. Their services are generously offered free of charge.’
And nobody thought to tell me. I wonder if Kez actually came up with the name Vimana. And if she did, why should it matter? I really hate thinking like this, but I can’t seem to stop . . . Why should she have to tell me everything? It’s not up to me what she gets involved in . . . but I suppose it’s what we’re used to. Maybe she feels as uncomfortable about what’s happening between us as I do. My head aches from trying to work things out. I just wish I could switch off my brain.
There’s a gauge showing how much money Janu still needs to raise to get the refuge up and running for a year, and there’s a holding page, like it’s not been set up properly yet.
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I click on the lin
k and enter my email address, even though he’s already got it. I suppose Kez must have done this already.
‘I don’t get why you have to go to his house to pick him up, Mum?’
‘It’s not that easy for some children, Laila – to make that transition between home and school,’ Mum explains. ‘Now, are you sure you’ve got everything organized? Sorry I’ve got to rush out. Dad’ll be back from his conference soon and he’s planning to go in late for a few days after so you’re not on your own.’
‘I’m fine, Mum – stop fussing!’
I go through to the kitchen and switch through the radio stations till I hear a song I like. I think Mira liked this one too. She used to sing those lines about a new dawn, a new day. I know the tune but I’ve never really listened to all the lyrics before. It does what the words say . . . makes you feel good. I turn it up really loud so I’ll be able to hear it upstairs.
I sit on my perch and look at the photo of me and Krish and Mira on her bed before they left. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. I can’t wait for Janu to be here. It’s far too quiet. I can actually hear bits of the house creaking. The staircase nearly talks to you when you walk up and down it, and the boiler downstairs makes a hissing, sighing noise. I can hear it from here. I think about calling Mira, but I suppose it’s my guilty conscience that makes me press on Krish’s number instead. Please answer.
Krish: How’s it going, Lai Lai?
Me: Laila. Remember?
Krish: Oh yeah!
Me: All right. How’s your work thing?
Krish: I’m loving it. I have to help all these city kids do abseiling, climbing and rowing and stuff.
Me: You’re a city kid!
Krish: I know – that’s why I get them. I think I could actually live here though. It’s so chilled with the mountains and lakes. That’s what I bike through every day! It’s good for my lyrics.
I hear Nana say in the background, ‘All very well, but he’s eating me out of house and home!’
Tender Earth Page 7
