‘Ignore it, Uma, don’t say anything,’ Dad whispers. ‘The more we make a thing of it, the longer she’ll want to stick it out!’
‘Stick what out?’ Mum whispers back.
‘Her landing protest!’
The smell of bacon comes wafting up the stairs. Dad never makes bacon sarnies in the week. I come down in my uniform and sit at the table.
‘Here you go! Weekend breakfast on a schoolday! Can’t be bad!’ Dad places a sizzling bacon bap and a glass of orange juice on the table.
My stomach makes a hungry growl.
‘Sounds like you need it.’
I sit and look at the plate, and even though the smell is driving me crazy, and my mouth’s producing mad amounts of saliva, I can’t get the slaughterhouse pictures from Nana’s Protest Book out of my head.
‘I can’t eat this, Dad.’
‘Why not? Come on, Laila. It’s my cheer-you-up breakfast! Tuck in!’
‘It’s meat!’ I say.
‘And? You love meat.’
‘Not any more. It makes me feel sick.’
‘It’s from free-range pigs. They’ll have had a good life.’
‘Before their throats were cut.’
Dad looks at me like he thinks I’m messing about.
‘I’m not eating it. I’m vegetarian now.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I read about what actually goes into slaughtering animals. Anyway, if everyone was vegetarian it would help with climate change. Do you know how much cows fart?’
Dad bursts out laughing.
‘That’s what happens when you eat too much rabbit food!’ Dad jokes.
I give him my ‘so not amused’ look.
‘That’s it then. It’s all over! Am I the only carnivore left in this house till the prodigal son comes home?’ Dad moans.
‘Looks like it!’ Mum sounds pleased. ‘What did I do with those case notes?’ she asks, rushing around, trying to find a file for work.
‘It’s on the sofa in the living room,’ I tell her.
‘Thanks, Laila!’
I open the fridge to get some milk for cereal. All I can see is meat. Minced beef, chicken and bacon . . . I inspect the bacon. It’s bog standard. There’s nothing on the packet that says anyone’s made an effort to give the animal it once was a good life. I close the door and start rearranging the mini fridge magnets. The ones Mira and Krish used to write notes to Mum and Dad with when they went out. It takes me a while.
‘You lied, Dad,’ I say as I’m arranging the second ‘t’ in ‘torture’. There are only capitals left for ‘TORTURE’.
‘Lied about what?
I point to the fridge. ‘Nothing in there’s free range, not even the eggs.’
‘It usually is, isn’t it, Uma?’
Dad’s doing that funny ‘talking between clenched teeth and raising his eyebrows up and down’ thing to try to get Mum to agree with him.
‘No! Don’t you remember? Krish was eating so much it was getting too expensive . . . but I’m thinking if you’re the only carnivore in the house, we might as well all go veggie! Great slogan, Laila!’ Mum laughs as she reads the fridge letters.
‘Thanks for the support, Uma!’ Dad scowls.
‘So you lied to get your way, Dad?’ I say.
‘Give me a break, Laila! I’m in the minority here. My only hope is Janu—’
‘Not a chance! He’s veggie too – he might even be vegan . . . I’d better check.’ Mum laughs at the look of despair on Dad’s face.
Dad places his forehead on the table, arms dangling by his sides, like his world has come to an end.
‘Ready!’ Miss Green shouts, and lowers the red flag.
I feel my legs judder and I’m off, arms and legs pumping fast, heart thumping. I glance to the side and see that Pari’s keeping pace. She’s only a bit taller than me, but she’s light. She grins my way. I think it’s a challenge!
We pull ahead of the others and sprint for the finish line, arriving at exactly the same time.
Miss Green clicks her timer. ‘That was a competitive time. Like it or not, you two are definitely down for the school team!’
We both double over to get our breath back.
‘Well done, Pari. Fantastic run. And you’re –’ Miss Green looks at me like she’s trying to size me up – ‘Krish Levenson’s sister, aren’t you?’ She taps me on the shoulder as I straighten up.
I nod because I’m still too out of breath to talk. Pari catches her breath much faster than me.
‘Thought so. You’ll need to put in some training though, get your fitness levels up.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever sprinted as fast as that!’ I tell Pari, as we get changed.
‘Didn’t you race in primary?’
‘A bit on Sports Day. But that was just in teams. They didn’t do competitions really.’
‘I don’t get that! I like being able to win at something.’
At first I think she might be joking, but when I look at her she seems dead serious.
‘This is the bit I hate though,’ she says as we walk into the gym block. Pari holds her nose as she looks with total disgust around the changing room.
I suppose it does whiff a bit of sweat, but it’s not that bad.
Bits and pieces of people’s uniforms have fallen off the pegs under the changing hangers. Our things have been knocked off too, so we start sorting through them to find out whose uniform is whose. When I pick up Pari’s blazer I see that someone else’s name tag has been removed and a new one for ‘Pari Pashaei’ has been stitched into it with perfect, even stitches. I’ve made a real mess of mine. I ended up writing over Krish’s name tag in black marker pen, which was a mistake because it looks like a mish-mash name now and you can’t really work out any of the letters. If I lost it somewhere around school there’s no way anyone would be able to read my name.
I hand Pari her crumpled blazer.
‘It’s got trainer marks all over it!’ She grabs it off me, runs over to the sink and starts to dab at it with a paper towel.
‘Who did this?’ she shouts. I hardly recognize her voice. It’s all sharp and hard. She turns and looks around accusingly.
‘What’s your problem?’ Stella asks, and looks at Pari like she’s lost the plot. ‘Don’t get up in my face. I didn’t do it!’
‘I don’t think anyone meant to stand on it . . . clothes just get knocked off the pegs,’ I say, trying to cool things down.
‘They don’t take enough care. Look here! Dirty footprints all over it . . . and on my skirt too. They always do it on purpose, just like in primary . . . I have to get this off!’
‘Here – try this.’ I hand her a tissue.
She rubs it hard but it actually looks worse now because the tissue fluff sticks to the sleeve.
‘It won’t come off!’ Pari’s scrubbing at it now.
‘It’s not that bad!’ I say. I can’t believe she’s in such a state over her uniform. ‘I don’t care about mine. It’s my brother’s and sister’s old uniform anyway,’ I tell her.
‘So? You should care. Everyone should take more care!’ She’s shouting now and all out of breath, as if she’s been running again.
‘What’s all the commotion? Everything OK in here, girls?’ Miss Green pokes her head around the door.
‘We were just practising something for Drama,’ I say.
Miss Green looks from Pari to me and nods. ‘Well, it was pretty convincing!’
Pari keeps her back turned away from me as she tries to calm down.
‘Pari?’ Miss Green walks over and places her hand on her back. ‘Have a sit-down and take a few deep breaths.’
Pari breathes in and out slowly, keeping her head down.
‘Better?’ Miss Green asks.
Pari nods. ‘You go on ahead, Laila,’ she says quietly.
It’s so strange, going from knowing Kez so well to then starting from scratch with someone new. The way Miss Green put her hand on Pari’s
back makes me think teachers know stuff about her that I don’t. I wish she would trust me enough to let me in. I don’t know why it is that you want to get to know some people more than others, but I really would like to be friends with Pari.
I wait outside the PE block. Miss Green comes out first and smiles at me. ‘Pari won’t be a minute.’
It’s a lot longer than a minute! When Pari finally joins me, she won’t look me in the eye.
‘Sorry I got into a state. I get panicky sometimes,’ she says. ‘I just need to keep my uniform smart. I don’t like to make more work for my mum.’
I have loads of things I want to ask, but I don’t because I get the feeling that if I push her she’ll clam up completely.
‘Thanks for saying that thing about Drama . . . and for waiting for me,’ she says as we cross the courtyard.
‘Laila! Pari!’ Kez calls out to us and I swivel around. At first I can’t work out where her voice is coming from, and then I catch sight of her flame-red hair tied back in a ponytail as the platform in the minibus slowly lowers and I go over and wait for her to get off. She stretches out her arms to me and we hug.
‘I was so worried about you. I should have told you . . . sorry we argued,’ she whispers.
‘Me too!’ I whisper back.
‘Bubbe says you’re grounded now?’
I nod and check Kez out to see if Bubbe’s kept her promise about the Banner Bag. I don’t think she’s told her.
Behind her, one of the PE teachers comes over to talk to Miss Green.
‘It’s an amazing facility, well worth the journey, and such a great atmosphere with them opening it up to all the schools on the same day. It’s huge.’ He’s doing that thing of talking loudly on purpose so we can overhear. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ he tells Miss Green. ‘And Kezia and Selina here were in-spirational. Selina just ran her first two hundred metres.’
Kez raises her eyebrows at me and Selina and mimes ‘OTT’.
I laugh. He was being a bit Over the Top enthusiastic!
Stella walks straight up to Miss Green. ‘You said you would talk to the Head about it. Can I go with them next time, or not?’ she asks.
‘Just a minute, Stella.’ Miss Green looks a bit annoyed with her for interrupting. ‘Mr Bamford, could you go and discuss that plan in the office with Stella?’
‘Was she being funny? Why would she want to come with us?’ Kez asks.
‘Right, well, you lot are all on my team radar then!’ Miss Green announces, and goes off to help another PE teacher unpack equipment from the minibus.
‘Selina . . . this is Laila, and Pari,’ Kez says, introducing us all.
‘Where did you go for PE?’ Pari asks Selina, and they talk while Kez and me chat.
As we reach the school entrance Kez starts talking to Selina about physio. It seems like they knew each other before from there.
‘Yeah . . . I’m going to the hydropool straight after school today. My muscles are really tired after all that exercise!’ Selina says.
‘Mine too,’ Kez says. ‘Float with you later!’
I hang around in the park for a while after school, giving Kez enough time to go off to physio. Mum won’t be back from work till five anyway so hopefully she won’t find out if I go over to Kez’s, and if she does I’ll tell her I went to say sorry for putting Bubbe in a difficult situation at the weekend. Mum can’t get too angry with me for that. Anyway, there’s no way I can wait another day to look at the Protest Book again or see what else is in the Banner Bag.
On my way to see Bubbe I try to work out if I’m telling myself the truth. OK, so the letter was meant for Mira, and so was the Protest Book. I shouldn’t have picked it up or read it, so I did lie about that, but I am going to come clean with Mira and give it back . . . though Simon did give the Banner Bag to me. He wanted me to have it. So it’s mine to keep. I don’t think I’m lying to myself.
Bubbe’s neat steps click through the hallway.
‘Oh, Laila – what a lovely surprise!’ she says as she opens the door, reaching up a little to stroke my hair. She always does that; does it to Kez too. ‘But Kezia isn’t here. Didn’t she tell you she’s got physio?’
‘Yes, she did . . . I actually only came by to pick up the bag.’
‘Ah yes, your mysterious bag. Come in, come in. I’m glad of the company. Pull up a chair!’ Bubbe orders.
‘Actually, I’m grounded . . . I’ve got to get back before Mum gets home from work.’
‘I’m sure Uma won’t mind you spending a little time with me. I’ll text her to let her know we’re having our chat,’ Bubbe says, tapping the table.
I sit down beside her. There’s a candle lit in a glass jar and a plant next to it that I’ve never seen before. The candle looks like it’s been burning for a long time.
‘It’s my Stan’s yahrzeit, his anniversary,’ she explains.
‘Oh sorry, I don’t want to disturb you . . .’
‘No, no. I could do with the company. It’s nice to have someone to share the memories with.’
‘I like that little tree!’ I say pointing to a bonsai tree like the one on the box I found Nana’s chime in.
‘Isn’t it beautiful? Hannah bought it for me today,’ Bubbe says. ‘So delicate and old-looking! She probably thought it looked a bit like me!’ Bubbe laughs. ‘Oh, look, it’s still got the tag on – what does it say? I can’t find my glasses anywhere.’
I read the little square tag for her:
May this bonsai tree bring harmony, peace, order of thoughts, balance and all that is good in nature. This evergreen bonsai is easy to care for. Give it light and space. Keep out of draughts. This specimen is from the Chinese Elm family (Ulmus parvifolia) – the tree of harmony. The Elm symbolizes inner strength, intuition and wisdom.
‘Well, that’s a bit of a tall order! I’ve never been very successful at growing things, but I’ll give it a go.’ Bubbe laughs. ‘Here’s hoping! Talking of harmony, I was hoping to have a little word with you, Laila. I don’t want to interfere between you and Kezia, but I’m going to say one thing and get it out of the way . . . clear the air.’ She wafts her hands around her head, as if to get rid of smoke.
‘We’re OK now, Bubbe.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that – but as I explained to Kezia, if she’d only talked through her decision about the tutor groups with you in the summer, there would have been no need for all this tension. You girls are growing up so fast . . . it happens in every friendship. You have to be honest, try to understand what the other person’s going through and take the people you love with you.’
Kez would call this one of Bubbe’s ‘lectures’. She can go on a bit – but it’s Bubbe, so I don’t mind. ‘Really, everything’s fine now, Bubbe,’ I reassure her. ‘Can I have the bag now?’
She nods, goes into the hallway and pushes a button on the wall, which is actually a hidden cupboard. It’s so smooth the way it slides back.
‘I tucked it under there behind all the shoes . . . I’ve thrown a coat over it.’ Bubbe points it out for me.
I bend down on my hands and knees to get hold of the handle. ‘Thanks for not showing it to anyone,’ I say.
Bubbe nods and inspects the bag again like she really wants me to tell her about it.
‘Right! Well . . . I’ve kept my promise,’ she says.
I carry the bag through to the kitchen.
‘Put that down on the chair for a moment. You’ll have a cup of tea and a slice of strudel with me while we chat. It was always Stan’s favourite.’
Bubbe brings a dish with a tea towel over it to the table, cuts us a slice each and hands me a plate. It’s so delicious the way the apple squidges out of the thin pastry. Bubbe laughs at the mess I’m making, pulls open a drawer in the table and hands me a serviette.
‘Good, good – glad it’s being appreciated.’
I glance down at the newspaper clipping that’s open on the table. It’s a brown colour, like it’s been tea-staine
d.
‘I was just about to read Stan’s obituary. I get it out every year,’ Bubbe tells me. ‘But I can’t find where I’ve put my glasses down. I should keep them around my neck really.’
‘What’s an obituary?’ I ask.
Bubbe thinks for a moment.
‘You could say it’s a little potted story of a person’s life.’
‘I can read it to you, if you want,’ I offer.
‘Thanks, Laila. Let me get you a drink and then I can give it my full attention. What would you like? Apple juice?’
‘Tea, please!’
‘Tea!’ Bubbe sighs. ‘You girls are growing up so fast . . . I don’t know. Still, I’m the lucky one, living long enough to see Kezia’s bat mitzvah.’ Bubbe switches the kettle on and nods that she’s ready for me to start reading.
‘Stanley Levi Braverman (1930–2000), beloved husband of Dara Braverman and father of Hannah, both of whom survive him, died peacefully on 15th October 2000.
‘Stanley was a child of the Kindertransport. He arrived from Germany, aged nine, in 1939. He lived in a hostel for several years before being adopted by Dr and Mrs Feinstein of Manchester. From an early age he was a promising student with a passion for social justice. After finishing his schooling in Manchester he moved to London to study Law. At a dance in Camden Town, North London, he met his wife Dara, who was studying to be a teacher at the time . . .’
I pause. Bubbe’s standing over by the kitchen counter staring out of the window. ‘Carry on . . .’ she says. ‘The best is to come!’
‘. . . They discovered that she was also one of the Kinder. They married in 1956 and had one child, Hannah, who was born in 1966. Stanley and Dara are respected members of the North London Reform Synagogue. Our thoughts are with the family at this time.’
Bubbe keeps her back turned away from me for a while. ‘He was a treasure of a man, my Stan.’ Then she turns around. ‘He’d have loved you and Kez; he would have felt much nachas for you both.’
‘Nachas?’ I ask.
‘Yes, very proud he would have been of his family.’ Bubbe smiles and holds out her hand for me to give her back the newspaper clipping, then she places it carefully into a silver box with the initials SLB engraved on the top.
Tender Earth Page 12
