I have this knot in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow.
‘What’s a parsha?’ I ask quietly.
‘It’s like the portion of the Torah I’ve got to learn to talk about at my bat mitzvah. I’m only on the first Aliyah . . . ’
I know the Torah’s the Jewish holy book, so I suppose an Aliyah must be a verse or psalm or something like that. I don’t want to ask though, because not knowing for sure makes me feel a bit dim.
‘I was just really looking forward to hanging out today.’
Kez looks up at me through her tangle of hair and I can see she’s upset too. Even though we’ve been carrying on as if everything’s the same, nothing is.
For the first time ever, I don’t know how we’re going to find enough to say to fill even another half an hour. I definitely won’t show her the letter about Nana Josie’s Protest Book now. Or ask her if she thinks it would be safe for me to go and get it by myself.
‘Why are you scratching your arm?’
‘Got a bit of eczema, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t know you had that.’
‘Apparently I did when I was a baby . . . it’s come back.’
‘Hang on a minute. I’ve got cream for when I wear my arm brace and it rubs.’ Kez opens her bedside table drawer and takes a out a tube. ‘Try this.’
I pull my arm away from her.
‘No! I’m fine.’
‘Please, Lai Lai . . . let me!’
Kez gently dabs the cream over my arm. She looks up at me and whispers, ‘Promise you won’t get upset if I try and explain something. I’ve wanted to tell you the truth about this since I got back from camp. We’ve never lied to each other, have we?’
‘You have now!’ I pull my arm away.
‘Please don’t be in a mood with me, Lai Lai.’
Maybe this is one of those situations when telling the truth might not do any good at all. Because I’m pretty sure I know what she’s going to say . . .
She takes a deep breath, then comes straight out with it, like she’s been storing this up for ages. ‘I asked to have nobody I knew from primary in my tutor group.’
‘Nobody! Not even Becks?’
I say her name the way Kez does, like she’s known her forever.
‘Don’t be like that, Lai Lai. She’s not from primary . . . and I didn’t know she was coming to our school . . .’
I shrug like it doesn’t make any difference to me one way or the other.
‘. . . I thought it would be better for both of us to try and meet new people. Bubbe warned me I should explain to you before we started school – she said we should sit down together and talk about it. I wanted to, and I kept trying to find a way, but I . . . just couldn’t.’
‘I guessed anyway. I can tell when you’re lying.’ I keep my voice really flat and I won’t look at her so I don’t risk getting all emotional. ‘Thanks for telling me about Vimana too!’
‘Sorry, I should have . . .’ Kez’s voice trails away.
She looks like she’s about to cry. A bit of me wants to hug her and tell her not to get stressed out over us because I don’t even really know why all this has got to be such a big deal . . . except I can’t tell her that because to tell the truth I don’t think I’ve ever felt this angry with anyone before.
‘Lai Lai, I want you to understand; at camp it was like finding this really big family. I never thought I could go somewhere where I didn’t know anyone and then do all those activities. It was easier than I thought it ever could be and I met so many great people. I didn’t feel so on my own!’
‘But you’ve never been on your own! I’ve always been around and I’m always thinking about you . . .’ I’m having to bite the inside of my mouth really hard to stop myself from crying.
I look at Kez’s bedside wall; at all the photos of me and her when we were little. There’s one of us standing by our pegs with our matching drawstring bags. Kez and Laila, always by each other’s sides.
‘How’s your new room?’ she asks, keeping her eyes on the photo wall.
‘I dunno; it doesn’t feel like mine. Mum keeps on at me to decorate.’
We’re just surface-talking now. It doesn’t mean anything. I look up at the parachute silk and fairy lights.
‘My mum had this really good idea. Why don’t you take a video of your new room and we can all design it together?’ she suggests.
‘What’s the point? It’s not like we can hang out in there, is it? Even if you wanted to!’
‘Please, Lai Lai.’
The hurt feeling just bursts out of me.
‘You can call me Laila from now on.’
Kez winces.
‘But . . .’ She looks down at her nails.
‘Nobody’s calling me Lai Lai now. It sounds babyish.’
‘Am I nobody?’ Kez whispers.
‘No, but I am . . . Obviously or you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to ask for me not to be with you.’
Kez takes my hand. ‘I know I should have told you . . .’
I won’t look at her.
‘Laila, please . . . OK, if this is how you want it . . .’
‘Don’t turn it on me. It’s not about what I wanted.’
Kez looks up at the ceiling for ages, and when I don’t say anything she fills the silence with: ‘. . . We’re decorating too. The parachute’s coming down. I’m just going to have it plain – all this feels a bit childish.’
‘Yes, really childish.’ I get up and walk out without turning back.
‘Are you going, Laila? Everything all right with you girls?’ Bubbe calls out to me as I pass the kitchen.
‘Everything all right with you girls?’
Bubbe’s voice echoes through my head as I run all the way to the station.
I arrive at the underground and my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Kez.
You OK?
I don’t feel like answering, so I head straight in then change my mind. The last thing I need is Kez or Bubbe worrying about me and calling Mum or Dad. I step out on to the street and text back.
Fine. Sorry I was in a mood. See you tomorrow at school.
I wait for a while to see if Kez messages me back, but then the screen goes blank. Why can’t I ever remember to charge it? I touch my card on the reader and walk down the escalator. I’ve taken this journey into town so many times before with Mira and Krish and Mum and Dad, but on my own it somehow feels completely different.
I squeeze around a woman in front of me carrying a wide suitcase. As I brush her shoulder she tuts loudly, like I meant to bump into her. I can feel my heart thumping hard and fast as I reach the bottom of the escalator. My head’s pulsing too and I feel a bit faint. I think I’ve been holding my breath. I open my mouth and take a huge gulp of grimy underground air, and the tug-of-war voices in my head crank into overdrive.
‘You haven’t got a clue where you’re going. You should have looked up the address.’
‘Just do it! You know where Finsbury Park is. Pari makes this journey on her own every day. When you get there you can always ask someone the way.’
The overhead electronic information board flashes that the train will be here in three minutes. I look down at the track where a couple of mice, the exact same colour as the grey of the rails, are chasing each other into the tunnel. They’re cute and tiny. I could never feed one of those to a snake. I wonder how they survive down here without getting crushed.
There’s a poster opposite where I’m standing. It says: ‘I am a Refugee.’ It has a picture of a doctor wearing a white coat talking to an old lady in a hospital bed. Underneath it says: ‘Dr Ahmed Habib, from Afghanistan, NHS Consultant.’ The photo reminds me a bit of the one we have of Grandad Bimal on our landing by Edinburgh Castle, when he was really young and had just passed his exams to be a doctor.
A crowd of boys in football hats and scarves appears on the platform. They must be about fifteen or sixteen years old. I think the team’s Arsenal. If K
rish was here he’d probably get into some banter with them. Every time one of them says something, the next one in the group ramps it up a bit louder. The boy with the scarf is listening to music on oversized headphones and he raps along, half dancing, half mucking around. He sees me watching and stretches out the ends of his scarf and moves his hips around as if he wants to dance with me! I shove my hands in my pockets and walk further down the platform towards the end. I wish I’d charged my phone now.
A boy in a cap says, ‘She’s cute!’ I think I’m supposed to hear. I felt angry enough before, but now my neck and face feel all hot. How do they think that it’s OK to make me feel like this? Now I have to stand here while they smirk at me.
This is the slowest three minutes ever.
I pretend to be really interested in the posters at the end of the platform. There’s a philosophy course you can do that says it will give you answers to all the big questions you’ve got about life.
Then there’s something called a Public Information Poster where the writing scrolls across on a loop. I read the same lines as they come around and around. They don’t make me feel any better.
This city is on high security alert . . . Make sure you keep your luggage with you at all times . . . Report any unusual behaviour to Underground staff . . . Beggars are not welcome on the London Underground or any other transport networks . . . Please report any begging activity to staff . . .
I look up the platform but I can’t see any staff. One of the boys waves at me and whistles. Idiot!
Finally the train arrives and I step on to a carriage where there’s a woman sitting with a toddler on her knee. I can’t think of anything else to do so I unzip my hoodie and take the letter from Simon out of my dungaree pocket and read it again. Not that I need to – I know the words off by heart now. I’ve got this picture of what Simon looks like in my head. I can’t wait to see if he’s anything like the person I’m imagining.
The warning voices from the leaflets we got in Year Six fill my head: Where did they come from? I haven’t even thought about them since we did that lesson. I wish I could get them out of my head now. They’re not helping.
Always tell someone where you’re going.
Never visit a stranger even when invited.
Never accept gifts from strangers.
Always, Never, Never. My head’s starting to really ache. Always, Never, Never – the words keep repeating in time to the rhythm of the tube as it speeds through the tunnels. The train comes out into the light of the station . . .
Simon Makepeace doesn’t know I’m coming, but he’s not really a stranger because he knew Nana Josie, so you could say he’s more of a family friend than anything, and Krish did say he was a legend. All he wants to do is give back something that belongs to our family, and he was expecting Mira, not me, and she’s an adult so . . . I wonder how old he’ll be by now. I read the address again. It’s not like I’m going to his house or anything. ‘The Caring Community’ sounds like an old people’s home to me.
In the next tunnel the train slows, comes to a standstill, and a voice fills the carriage. It’s like the man’s holding his nose while he speaks.
‘Apologies for the delay. We are being held at a red signal.’
Finally we move off again. At the next station a few more people get on and now the carriage is about half full. Just as the doors are about to close, a family steps in. A mother, a father, a girl a bit younger than me and a little boy – a toddler. The mother has a handful of laminated notes and she places one, along with a packet of tissues, on the seat next to mine. Then she trails along the carriage, leaving the rest on empty seats.
The dad and the children stand by the door and watch the mother make her way through the carriage. The weird thing is that no one’s reading the notes. Maybe they’ve read the poster and don’t want to encourage begging, because that’s what I think this is . . . but I can’t stop myself from glancing down at the words, all written in capitals.
WE ARE WAITING FOR HOUSING. UNTIL THEN WE HAVE NOT ENOUGH MONEY TO FEED OUR CHILDREN. WE RELY ON THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS. WE ARE ALONE. PLEASE SPARE SOME LITTLE MONEY. GOD BLESS YOU.
By the time I have finished reading I realize that the little girl is standing in front of me. She has cropped hair with a chunk missing out of the fringe, and she’s holding out her hand. I can’t believe she can look at me for so long with her huge brown eyes, unblinking.
I feel in my hoodie pocket.
The woman sitting opposite shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath about ‘gypos’.
If Mum, Dad, Mira, Krish or Kez were here, I think I would leave it for them to decide what to do. I would take their lead. Why is this girl still standing in front of me? I wonder if she’s got an instinct . . . I suppose even someone as young as her would get a feeling for wavering people.
I catch the eye of the dad holding his toddler’s hand. He keeps looking at me for a second and then lowers his head and winces like he’s in pain. Can shame actually cause you pain? I quickly look away and smile at the little boy instead, but he doesn’t smile back.
I don’t know where to look myself so I glance down at my feet. The little girl’s foot taps on the floor. Her sandals are all worn and broken and her toenails are stubby and caked full of dirt. I can’t stand it any more so I take a pound coin from my purse, give it to the girl and hand back the tissues. I think at least she can use them again. She runs back to her dad as if she’s discovered treasure. He nods twice at the ground but doesn’t look up. Now the mother is making her way up the carriage collecting the rest of the messages and tissues.
When she returns to her family the little girl points to me and talks in . . . I don’t know what language. The mother’s face is stern. She pushes her daughter hard on the shoulder so that she stumbles towards me. She hands me back the tissues and I see that her eyes are full of hurt and tears. I think it’s me who should be handing her a tissue.
The doors open and the family get off the train. As I put the tissues in my pocket the woman opposite catches my eye.
‘Best not to encourage them, love. They’re professional beggars. They’re trying to put a stop to it, you know.’
I feel as if I’ve been told off. I’m glad there’s only one stop to go. As I wait by the doors, a tall old man in a grey coat reaches into his pocket, smiles at me and slides out his packet of tissues just far enough for me to see.
It feels like I’ve been travelling for days by the time I get off the tube at Finsbury Park. I can’t believe that Pari does this every single schoolday.
When I finally arrive outside I take a glug of air. You can smell the fumes in the atmosphere. I check the address on the letter and look around for a street map, but can’t find one. I’m getting bustled around a bit as I try to work out who I can ask for directions when a tall boy with a guitar slung over his back knocks into me. He’s about two heads taller than me, but I reckon he’s about my age.
‘Sorry! I’m always doing that! I should get a rearview mirror!’
I smile at him but don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. Ask him the way, Laila – why don’t you ask him the way?
I look at the network of roads, traffic lights and busy streets and realize I haven’t got a clue which way to go. I’m about to turn around and go back home when someone taps me on the shoulder and I swivel around.
It’s the boy with the guitar.
‘Sorry! Didn’t mean to shock you. I was just thinking that you might want some help?’ He looks down at the envelope in my hand.
I turn it over, point to the address on the back and hold up the palms of my hands as if to say, ‘I don’t speak English and I don’t know where I’m going.’
The boy frowns like he’s a bit confused. ‘Right! OK. I know that building. That’s the one with all the solar panels.’ He points straight ahead. ‘It’s near where I live. Near my home. I’ll show you!’
‘Where are you from?’ the boy asks as we walk up the r
oad.
I shake my head like I don’t understand.
‘Where’s your home? Your country?’
‘India . . . Kolkata,’ I say, trying to do an accent that sounds a bit like Janu’s.
What am I doing?
‘My mum’s best friend is from India. I really want to travel there one day.’
Why is he still talking to me? I’m sure he doesn’t believe that I don’t understand. We walk along in silence after that, but he keeps glancing sideways at me and smiling with his soft hazel eyes and sandy hair. I can’t believe how stupid I’m being. I keep blushing every time he looks at me.
‘This is the address you wanted . . . Funny, I’ve walked past here so many times and never noticed its name. This is it . . . The Caring Community.’ He smiles at me and points up to the sign. When he smiles, his whole face lights up.
My face feels all hot. I know I’m blushing, so I look down and nod. I feel a bit rude as he walks away. ‘Thank you,’ I call after him as he continues up the road. He looks around and smiles at me again. Am I imagining it? I don’t think any boy has ever looked at me like that.
‘No problem, Mira!’
I turn the envelope over. I suppose he must have spotted the name on the front and thought it was me.
Well, what difference does it make? I’m never going to see him again.
I wait till he turns the corner, then walk up the pathway to the row of old brick cottages.
‘The Caring Community’ seems to be a line of cottages all knocked together. The spaces where the doors used to be have been replaced by arched windows. In front of each one there’s a rose garden where there are still a few red and white rose petals hanging on. There are onions too that someone’s dug up, their brown strands lying on the grass. In among them are three huge pumpkins, including a Halloween one with a face cut out, collapsed now and drooping at the mouth.
Tender Earth Page 9
