So he knew as well. That meant everyone else for miles around knew. You can't keep anything quiet round here. If you sneeze, everyone discusses it.
“How do you know?” Jazz asked.
“Your dad told Mr. Dhaliwal yesterday, and he told Mr. Chopra and he told me.” Mr. Attwal frowned. “Or was it Manjit from number twelve?”
“Did he say when she was coming?” I asked.
Mr. Attwal shook his head. “Can't wait, eh, Amber?” he smiled.
“That's right,” I said bitterly.
“You must really be looking forward to it,” Mr. Attwal went on. I don't know where he got that idea from. Did we look pleased? “What does she do?”
“She teaches English in a girls' school,” Geena replied.
Oops.
“Ah, a teacher.” Mr. Attwal's eyes took on a faraway look. “Many years ago, when I was at school in Delhi—”
“Got to go or we'll be late for school,” we gabbled, and fled.
“Sorry, guys.” Geena was kicking herself. “He caught me off guard.”
I glanced at my watch. “Let's get a move on. It's quarter past eight.”
There was no way we could be late. We were never late for school, or anywhere. How could we show how well we were coping, unless we were perfect in almost every way?
“About Auntie,” Geena said as we speeded up. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, show her she's not wanted, for a start,” I said. “I mean, we do our own cooking, cleaning, washing—”
“It might be nice to have someone else do it,” Jazz offered. Then backtracked quickly when she saw our faces. “Not Auntie, though.”
“Amber!”
Kim was scuttling down the street toward us. As usual, she was carrying her overstuffed rucksack, which bent her in two and made her look like a giant tortoise.
“I thought we were getting the bus this morning,” she panted.
“Sorry.” I'd forgotten about Kim. I did that quite a lot, without meaning to. “We've got problems.”
“Oh.” Kim's face was always pale, but today she looked totally colorless. “Me too.”
I tried not to look irritated. Kim's always got problems. She has a panic attack if she loses her pencil case.
“No, real problems,” I said. Kim's face fell, but I ignored her. “Our auntie's coming over from India to live with us.”
We all looked expectantly at Kim.
“And?” Kim said, looking expectantly back at us.
“That's it,” I said.
“That's it?” Kim looked puzzled. Then she saw my face and finally got it. “Oh. That's terrible. Really, really terrible.”
I sometimes wonder why I'm friends with Kim. She started hanging around with me in the Infants because I stopped George Botley from painting her face blue once, and she's hung around ever since. A bit like a piece of chewing gum stuck to your shoe.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “She's going to interfere and boss us around. Like we're really going to put up with it.”
“Is she awful?” Kim asked.
Jazz and I looked at Geena. She was the only one of us who could possibly remember anything about Auntie's visit all those years ago.
“Hmm.” Geena wrinkled up her nose. “She's sort of … pretty.”
“Pretty?” Jazz and I shrieked. If Geena had said Auntie was a serial killer, we couldn't have been more shocked.
“Wow,” said Kim. “That sounds bad.”
I looked at her suspiciously, but let it go. Kim doesn't usually do sarcasm.
“Sorry,” Geena apologized. “That's all I can remember.”
It wasn't really much to go on.
“I bet she'll interfere all the time,” I said. “She'll have too much makeup on, and she'll keep hugging us.”
“Or pinch our cheeks,” Jazz added. Cheek-pinching is something our relatives love to do. It's embarrassing. Painful, too.
“She'll be really strict and she won't let us go anywhere or do anything,” Geena grumbled. Dad was strict too, but he was never there so that was all right.
We walked toward the lower-school playground. Someone had written I LOVE GEENA in blue chalk on the wall, and underneath, in yellow, was written I LOVE AMBER. To the side of that, someone had drawn a big pink heart, and chalked JAZZ 4 EVER inside it. There were some much ruder comments about us as well, but we hardly took any notice. We were used to the attention, good and bad, and we weren't stupid enough to think that everybody liked us. Two years ago, Geena had smacked a girl who called me a Paki on my first day.
“I've got another present for you, Kim.” George Botley was on the watch for us, grinning all over his face. “Come and get it.”
He held out his hand, which was curled tightly shut.
“Keep away from me, Botley,” Kim sniffed, trying not to look petrified.
“Oh, go on.” George winked. “You know you want to.”
He unfurled his fingers. A large, fat snail sat wetly on his palm.
“You pig, George Botley!” Kim howled, running behind me.
“Give me that.” I took the snail, which retreated into its shell, and put it down carefully on the grass. “What a slimy, nasty, horrible thing.”
“Snails aren't horrible,” George protested.
“Who said I was talking about the snail?” I said, eyeballing him. George roared with laughter and sauntered off.
“He fancies you,” Kim said gloomily. “That's why he keeps picking on me.”
“Maybe he fancies you,” I pointed out.
“Nobody fancies me,” Kim muttered. Once she starts her “poor me” routine, there's no stopping her. The only solution is to ignore her.
“So what are we going to do about Auntie?” Jazz asked impatiently.
“I don't know yet,” Geena said. “We need to think about it. We need to discuss it. We can't make our minds up just like that.”
“In other words, you don't know,” I said.
“That's right,” Geena agreed. “But we'll think of something.”
“The important thing is not to worry about it,” Mr. Grimwade boomed, glaring round the lower-school assembly hall. “The inspectors are simply coming here to help and advise us. The headmaster has asked me to reassure you again that there's nothing to be afraid of at all.”
We were getting our weekly pep talk about the inspectors visiting Coppergate. Despite his brave words, Mr. Grimwade never fooled anyone. The pupils didn't look worried at all, though. It was the teachers who were as white as ghosts.
“As you can see, the teachers aren't worrying at all,” Grimwade went on, baring his teeth, the closest he ever got to a smile. “They're very relaxed about it.”
Mrs. Murray, who was at the piano, twitched nervously and knocked over a music stand. It crashed heavily down on a member of the orchestra sitting next to her.
“There's nothing at all to worry about,” repeated Mr. Grimwade savagely, as the injured recorder player was helped from the hall. “But we do expect every one of you to be on your best behavior when the inspectors arrive.”
“Here we go again,” muttered George Botley, who was sitting two down from me, Chelsea and Sharelle. “What's in it for us?”
“There are some of you who are certainly a credit to the school.” Mr. Grimwade's gaze targeted Jazz, who was sitting with Year 7 several rows in front of me. His eyes met mine briefly, and then moved to the back of the hall. I didn't need to look round to know he had singled out Geena. “But there are some of you who really need to pull your socks up and do a whole lot better.”
He eyed George Botley belligerently.
“Remember, we are all part of the great community which is Coppergate School, and I'm sure everyone wants to impress the inspectors with our hard work, dedication, good manners and school spirit.” Mr. Grimwade leaned forward, sweeping the hall with a single glare. “Know now that I shall personally make it my mission in life to seek out and destroy anyone who steps out of line while the inspectors are
here. That is all.”
We stood up. The Year 7 classes went out first, from the front. I noticed Jazz was flanked by two boys, one on either side of her like bodyguards. They were both smiling proudly. They'd probably had to bribe or fight the other boys in the class to get to stand next to her.
“Off you go, Eight D,” said Miss Thomas, whose class was next to leave. As always, I said a silent prayer of thanks that Mr. Arora was our homeroom teacher, and not Thomas the Tank Engine.
“No, no, no!” Miss Thomas hissed, as 8D began shambling out of the hall. She rolled her eyes. “Like we practiced yesterday. Lead with the right foot, and keep in time. March, Eight D, march.”
“Thomas is going all out to impress the inspectors,” Sharelle whispered in my ear, while the rest of the school waited patiently for their turn to leave.
Cursing sulkily under their breath, 8D tried to get into step. They failed spectacularly.
“Right!” Miss Thomas snapped. “Back up, Eight D, and start again.”
“I think we'd better go, Eight A,” Mr. Arora said mildly. “It looks like Eight D might be some time.”
“Amber, a word with you, please.” Mr. Arora caught up with me in the corridor, as we went back to class.
“Yes, sir?” I put my speaking-to-teachers mask on. It was smiling and helpful, but cool and slightly reserved at the same time, so the other kids didn't think I was a creep. It took a lot of doing, but I was an expert by now.
“Ms. Woods wants to see you sometime today.” Mr. Arora smiled at me, and half the girls in the corridor sighed longingly. It created a noticeable breeze. “She's planning a special assembly for the day the inspectors arrive, and she'd like you to be involved.”
“Doing what, sir?” I asked. Ms. Woods was the head of drama. I'd been a favorite of hers ever since I'd played Aladdin in the lower-school pantomime last year. George Botley had hidden a stink bomb inside Aladdin's magic lamp, but I'd found it in time and lobbed it out of the window like a member of the SAS commandos. Ms. Woods had been very impressed.
“She's not sure yet.” Mr. Arora frowned, which, strangely, only made him look more gorgeous. “But both the lower and upper schools will be taking part, so it will be held in the big new hall. Ms. Woods is thinking along the lines of a pageant about the history of the school. Or maybe a musical introduction to some of the world's great religions. Something like that.”
“Just a normal Monday-morning assembly then” was what I wanted to say, very sarcastically. But I didn't. If Ms. Woods wanted a West End extravaganza of singing and dancing to greet the inspectors when they arrived, it wasn't up to me to complain. After all, I'd probably have a starring part. So, very likely, would Geena and Jazz.
“As Mr. Grimwade said,” Mr. Arora went on, as we reached our classroom, “we'll be expecting everyone to do their best when the inspectors are here. Some, of course, will do better than others.” He smiled gently at me, then switched it off like a light to glare at George Botley, who was making rude noises with his hand in his armpit. “Let's just say that we'll be relying on those people to show Coppergate in its best possible light.”
“Yes, sir.” I knew exactly what he meant. If the school was on show for the inspectors, Geena, Jazz and I would be expected to perform, and perform brilliantly. Like we always did.
“Did you get the big lecture, Amber?” Jazz asked. We were on our way home later that day.
I nodded. “From every single teacher I've seen today. Mr. Arora, Miss Patel, Mrs. Kirke, Miss Gordon …”
“Me too,” Geena said.
“And me,” Jazz added.
“Are you in Ms. Woods's assembly?” I asked.
Both Geena and Jazz nodded, as I knew they would.
“Is it true Ms. Woods is hiring an orchestra?” Jazz asked.
“I heard it was a gospel choir,” Geena offered. “And someone said the whole hall is going to be turned into a scale replica of St. Paul's Cathedral.”
“It wouldn't surprise me,” I replied.
We turned the corner into our street. Geena was in front, and she suddenly did that thing of stopping dead, so that Jazz and I rammed right into the back of her.
“Oof!” Jazz complained, holding her nose. “What did you do that for?”
“Is Dad home again today?” I asked, peering round Geena's back. “Because if he is, there's a few things I want to say to him.”
“No, Dad's car's not there.” Geena pointed down our street. “Look. Look at the windows.”
Even from the corner, a couple of hundred meters away, we could see that our living room windows were flung wide open. We could see the blue curtains fluttering in the breeze.
“What's going on?” Jazz asked, bewildered. “Who's opened the windows?”
“Burglars?” Geena's eyes were huge and worried.
“Burglars who like fresh air, by the look of it,” I said.
I was trying to lighten everyone up, but Geena turned on me.
“Shut up, Amber. This is serious.”
“All right,” I snapped. “Got any bright ideas?”
“We could stop at Mrs. Macey's, and ask her if she saw anyone go in,” Jazz suggested.
“She won't open the door,” I replied. “You know what she's like.”
“Let's walk past and have a look,” Geena said urgently.
We marched down the road and past our front gate, trying to look casual. As we went by, we sneaked a look through the open windows.
“The TV, video and DVD player are still there,” Geena said in a low voice. “So is the CD player.”
We all marched back again, stood by the gate and peered in.
“Maybe the burglar's started in the bedrooms,” I said in a low voice. “There's lots of … stuff up there.” I was thinking of Mum's gold jewelry, packed away with her silk and satin saris in suitcases and boxes that hadn't been opened for a year.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Geena said. “I'm going to take a proper look. You two wait here,” she went on, coming over all big-sisterly. “It might be dangerous.”
Jazz and I waited until Geena had tiptoed up the path. Then, of course, we followed her. We looked over her shoulder into the living room.
We couldn't see anyone, but someone had been there. All the things we would have done when we got home from school had already happened. The room had been tidied and the carpet had been hoovered and the surfaces had been polished.
We were mesmerized. The evening newspaper came flying over our heads and landed with a thud in the porch, but even that didn't make us turn round.
“I've got it,” I said. “It's a burglar who breaks in, cleans your house and leaves.”
“Shhh.” Geena clutched our arms. “Listen. There's someone in the kitchen.”
Someone was moving around at the back of the house. Without saying a word, the three of us crept over to the side gate. Geena unlatched it, and we all took a deep breath before going in.
The back door was propped open. A woman in a pink salwar kameez, her long black hair pinned up in an untidy topknot, was standing at the oven. She was stirring a big pot with a wooden spoon. Onions were sizzling in a pan, and the scent of spices floated in the warm air. Masala, ginger, turmeric and coriander.
Time spun backward. I remembered running home from primary school, one hand in Jazz's and one hand in Geena's, our long plaits flying. Mum would be in the kitchen, making curry. The scent of the spices was the same, and the sound of the onions cooking. They took me back to a time when everything was known and safe.
The picture splintered. Shattered. The sounds and the smells were the same, but it wasn't Mum. This woman was a stranger, although I knew who she was. Dad had ducked out of telling us that Auntie was already on her way. In fact, he'd waited till the last possible minute to tell us at all.
I felt sick. She had no right to be standing there, in my mum's place. And I knew that Geena and Jazz felt the same. If we'd been younger, we would probably have taken each other's hands. Instead
we moved closer together and stood shoulder to shoulder.
Auntie turned round. She didn't look anything like Dad. Dad is tall and thin and has long, spidery arms and legs. She was short and curvy. But to my surprise, I did remember her face. It was round and smiley, with two dimples. She had big eyes, which were very dark and shiny. They immediately filled with tears.
“Geena, Ambajit.” Auntie tried to hug us all at once. “Jasvinder.”
We stood there, stiff as boards with embarrassment and anger, while she sniffed and fished in her sleeve for a hankie.
“I was so sorry about your mum,” she said.
We stayed silent. I wouldn't have said anything then, not for a million pounds. But I was thinking, Why? You weren't even friends.
“I arrived this morning. Your dad picked me up and then went back to work.” She was answering all the questions we were supposed to be asking, but weren't. “How are you all? You look well.”
How much longer could she keep talking without any of us replying?
“Are you hungry? Shall we eat?” Auntie was at last beginning to run down. “The curry's nearly ready. We can have a good chat. I want to hear all about your school, and how you're getting on. We've got so much to catch up on.”
“We've got homework to do,” I said, politely but coldly.
Auntie's smile faded. She looked me up and down slowly and thoughtfully; then her gaze moved to Geena and Jazz. She would have had to be deaf, dumb and blind not to sense the hostility coming off us in waves. She didn't say anything, but I could read the sudden knowing expression on her face. So that's the way it's going to be, is it?
Ye s, I replied silently. So get used to it.
“Jazz, is that you?”
“Is what me?” Jazz was curled up on her side of the bed, reading a magazine.
“That smell.” I flapped the duvet irritably.
“No, it isn't me,” Jazz snapped.
“Well, it's around here somewhere.” I glared at her. “Is that my copy of Bliss?”
Jazz didn't look up. “No.”
“Let me see it then.” I lunged toward her.
“Get off!” Jazz squealed, whacking me round the head with the magazine. “I hate sharing with you.”
Bindi Babes Page 3
