“Well, I hate sharing with you, too!” I yelled, shoving her hard. We hadn't shared a bed since we were tiny, and I'd forgotten how much Jazz fidgeted and grunted and kicked. Last night had been like sleeping with a bag of monkeys. Guess who'd got my room.
“Aargh!” Jazz rolled over, and fell half out of the bed. I pounced on her.
“Give me the magazine!”
“No.” Jazz stuffed it down the front of her pajamas, which made me really mad. So I grabbed a big handful of her hair and pulled. She screamed, quite loudly.
“Give. Me. That. Magazine,” I said through my teeth, bouncing up and down on top of her. “Or I'm going to pull all your hair out, bit by bit, and you'll be bald all over like Mr. Grimwade—”
I stopped there. Auntie was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.
“What's going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I jumped to my feet and slid my hand behind my back. It still had some of Jazz's hair attached to it.
“Jasvinder?” Auntie looked at Jazz.
“Nothing,” Jazz said sulkily, rubbing her scalp.
I stared back at Auntie and smiled very slightly. There was nothing she could do. We'd closed ranks.
“All right.” Auntie shrugged and turned away. “Make sure you give Jazz her hair back, Amber,” she added as she went out.
“She thinks she's so great,” I muttered.
“Here's your stupid magazine.” Jazz pulled it out of her pajama top, and threw it at me.
“It's cool.” I tossed it back to her. “It's last month's anyway.”
Auntie had already started interfering. Last night, Dad had come home in time for dinner, looking very embarrassed. No surprise there. We'd been thrown right into this thing before we'd had a chance to come up with a decent plan of action. I hadn't even had a chance to talk to the others properly without Auntie hanging around, spying on us and asking if we'd done our homework.
Anyway, the best way had to be to start as we meant to go on. To show Auntie we didn't need her. Show her that she couldn't boss us around. Show her that Dad was on our side, not hers.
“Dad, when can I get my new trainers?” I'd asked as we sat eating dinner.
“New trainers?” Auntie chimed in, before Dad had a chance to open his mouth. She bent sideways and looked at my feet under the table. “What are those things you've got on then? Wellington boots?”
“Ha ha,” I said, freezingly polite. “These are my old trainers.”
Auntie stared me challengingly in the eye. “They look new to me.”
“They're not new at all,” I said a shade too quickly. I'd had them for about three months. “Anyway, I'm bored with them.” I didn't look at Auntie, but at Dad.
“That sounds like a waste of money,” Auntie said pleasantly but firmly. She looked at Dad, too. “I hope you're going to say no.”
I did a double take. I must have looked like some actress in a bad sitcom. What did it have to do with her?
Dad looked embarrassed and apologetic. “Your auntie's right, Amber,” he muttered. “You don't need new trainers at the moment.”
Geena and Jazz looked as stunned as I was. Dad hardly ever said no to anything. Not since Mum.
“More curry, anyone?” Auntie asked briskly.
The three of us made faces at each other and seethed in silence for a bit. I could tell that Geena had decided to keep quiet about getting her bedroom redecorated, for the moment. But then Jazz returned to the attack.
“Dad, can I have my ears pierced this weekend?”
“What do you mean?” Auntie peered at Jazz's ears. It was seriously beginning to wind me up, how we asked Dad questions and she answered. “Your ears are already pierced.”
“I want two more holes,” Jazz explained.
“Why?” Auntie wanted to know. “You've only got one pair of ears.”
Jazz stuck her nose in the air. “I'm asking Dad,” she said.
“And your dad's saying no.” Auntie turned round to look inquiringly at Dad. “Isn't he?”
“No,” Dad said helplessly. “I mean, yes. Yes, I'm saying no.”
“That's not fair,” Jazz gasped.
Auntie shook her head. “Life isn't fair, Jasvinder,” she said. “Have another chapati.”
You can see what we were up against. After dinner, Geena, Jazz and I sat ourselves down in front of the TV, maintaining a frosty silence. Meanwhile, Dad and Auntie talked. They didn't say anything about what had happened over the last few years. Instead they talked about when they were kids growing up in the family village in the Punjab.
“Remember that bad-tempered bullock we were both really scared of?” Auntie said, laughing. “I used to hate feeding it every day.”
Dad nodded. “Remember when it escaped from the pen and got out into the sugarcane fields? It took us ages to catch it.”
They talked about playing cricket in the fields, riding on the back of their dad's motorbike, going to the nearest town to watch Bollywood films at the cinema, chewing sugarcane, milking the cows, sitting on the flat roof of the house listening to the peacocks calling to each other. I tried not to listen, but I couldn't help it. It was a long time since Dad had looked like he was enjoying himself.
And yet all the time they were talking, I could see that Dad felt just a little uncomfortable. Auntie's arrival had changed everything for him, too. Which ignited a faint spark of hope inside me. Maybe Dad didn't really want Auntie there either… .
Jazz and I climbed back into bed, and snuggled down under the duvet. We often got up early and went into town on Saturday mornings, but today we'd decided to stay in bed. We thought it might annoy Auntie, which was what we were aiming for. There was a Bollywood film on BBC2 we wanted to watch that went on for nearly three hours. Bollywood films are long. That meant we could avoid Auntie all morning.
“Oh, you're awake.” Geena came in, still wearing her CK nightshirt. “Who was that I heard screaming a few minutes ago?”
“Auntie,” I said. “We tied her up and locked her in the airing cupboard.”
“Best place for her.” Geena climbed under the duvet at the bottom of the bed, and squeezed herself between our feet. “Can you believe what she did last night?”
“Shhh.” Jazz cocked her head to one side. “I can hear something.”
Dad and Auntie were outside on the landing, talking. Arguing.
“You're not going into work today, are you, Johnny?” Auntie was complaining. “Not when I've only just arrived?”
“Wrong,” I whispered. Dad always went to work on Saturdays. He had done so ever since Mum. Sometimes Sundays, too. He didn't seem to want to be in the house at all. Maybe it was because it reminded him of Mum. Maybe we reminded him too.
“And I'm sure the girls would like to spend some time with you,” Auntie went on. “You don't seem to see much of them at all.”
“Leave us out of it,” Geena said in a low voice.
We couldn't hear what Dad was saying. But a few minutes later, we heard the front door close.
“Well, she didn't win that one,” I said gleefully.
“Put the telly on, Jazz,” Geena ordered. “It's time for Reena aur Meena.”
“Why me?” Jazz moaned.
“Because it's your telly,” Geena said.
“Amber's nearest.”
“I've hurt my foot,” I replied.
“You haven't,” Jazz said.
I kicked her under the duvet. “Ow. I have now.”
“Screamingly funny,” Jazz sniffed. She got out of bed, and switched the TV on. The credits were just starting, and Reena aur Meena filled the screen in big, yellow letters.
“Oh, great, Shakila Devi's in it,” I said. She's our favorite actress.
The door opened, and Auntie came in.
“Not dressed yet?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“We're watching Reena aur Meena,” Geena explained.
“You can video it, can't you?” Auntie said. “I thought we might d
o something together this morning.”
We looked at each other in shock.
“We'd like to watch the film now, if you don't mind, Auntie,” Geena replied politely.
“I don't blame you, actually,” Auntie said chattily, folding her arms. “It's a really good movie. Reena and Meena are identical twins, but they get separated at birth from their mum and dad. Reena gets adopted by some rich people, and Meena gets kidnapped by some bandits.”
We stared pointedly at her. The film was starting, and we couldn't hear a word.
“Then they grow up, and when Reena's on her way to marry the hero, she gets captured by the bandits,” Auntie went on, so enthusiastically I could have strangled her. “And Meena goes to the wedding in her place. So then Meena gets married to the hero, while Reena has to become a bandit. And then— Oh, wait a minute, I've missed a bit—”
“I'll find a blank video,” Geena said quickly, jumping out from underneath the duvet.
“Oh, are you sure?” Auntie settled herself comfortably on the bed. “We could always watch it together.”
“I'm sure,” Geena said, her face grim.
Auntie shrugged, and went out. I wasn't sure, but I thought I could hear her laughing to herself.
“What do you think she wants to do?” Jazz grumbled, throwing back the duvet.
“Probably go shopping or something,” I said. “Why can't she just leave us alone?”
Geena came back with the videotape. “I know how we could really freak her out,” she said, smiling wickedly.
It took us half an hour to get ready. Short skirts, tiny T-shirts, hair mascara, glittery eye shadow, shiny lip gloss, fake tattoos, nail transfers. Everything. We had quite a bit of stuff that Dad had never seen, and wouldn't have liked, which we kept for school discos. By the time we'd finished, we looked fab. Far too glam for a visit to Tesco.
“She won't want to go shopping with us now,” I said with satisfaction.
If we did go out like this, we'd be the talk of our street, as well as several other streets round about. The Indian families always kept an eye on each other, and reported back to the parents if they thought the kids looked too outrageous. When Baljeet Baines from down the road dyed her hair blond, everyone had gossiped about it for weeks. It was like being stalked by the antifashion police. Dad was all right. He let us wear mostly what we wanted. Sometimes it was stuff from New Look and Top Shop, sometimes it was suits from the sari shop. But a lot of the Indian parents we knew spent all their time trying to stop their daughters wearing fashionable clothes. On school disco days, some of the girls would sneak their cool clothes out of the house in carrier bags. Then they'd get dressed up in the girls' loos. It was all a bit sad, really.
Triumphantly we went downstairs. Geena nearly went head over heels in her patent leather boots with stiletto heels, but she said it was worth it to see Auntie's face.
Auntie was in the kitchen, frying pakoras. When she saw us, her eyebrows shot up and nearly disappeared off her head. We gave her a polite but evil smile.
“Aren't you a bit overdressed for cooking?” Auntie asked. She lifted a pakora out of the boiling oil with a fish slice.
“Cooking?” we shrieked.
“Yes, cooking.” Auntie lifted out another pakora, and added it to the pile. “I've had a look in the freezer and there's barely anything in there at all. Do you girls live on takeaways?”
“No, of course not,” I said, lying with ease.
“Auntie, isn't it a bit sexist to expect us to cook, just because we're girls?” Geena said politely through her teeth. “There's more to life than making meals.”
Auntie raised her eyebrows. “We can discuss football or cars while we're cooking, if that makes you feel any better,” she said, rather sarcastically. “Or what about computers? I'm doing a correspondence course in computer maintenance at the moment. Or cricket. I love watching cricket. What do you think of India's chances in the Test Match?”
That shut us up.
“One of you can chop the potatoes for the samosas, while the other two make the pastry,” she went on. “Everything's laid out ready on the worktop.”
Auntie passed me a knife and handed Geena and Jazz a large bowl. Sullenly I began chopping the boiled potatoes, while Geena and Jazz sulkily added butter and jeera seeds to the flour. We were speechless with fury. What a waste of a Saturday morning.
“How's school?” Auntie asked.
“All right,” Geena muttered.
“Are you behaving yourselves?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And are you working hard?”
We let Jazz answer that. “Yes.”
There was silence.
“I'm sure your mum would be very proud of you.”
My heart stumbled and missed a beat. Shut up, I thought. I mixed the diced potatoes savagely with the peas, and Geena and Jazz kept their heads down over the flour. Auntie sighed and turned back to the frying pan.
The large drum of chili pepper on the worktop caught my eye. I put down my wooden spoon, reached for it and poured a huge stream of pepper into the bowl. Then I mixed it quickly into the potatoes and peas. Any visitors we had were in for a red-hot surprise. They wouldn't be coming back for more of Auntie's cooking in a hurry.
“That'll teach her,” I muttered.
“What did you say, Amber?” Auntie turned to me.
“Nothing.”
Geena, Jazz and I made eight samosas, while Auntie finished cooking the pakoras. I kept nodding and winking at Geena and Amber, but they didn't get it. Sisterly telepathy does not exist. I found that out when we'd tidied up and Auntie looked at the clock.
“It's just about lunchtime,” she said. “We'll have some of the samosas.” She picked up the ones she'd just finished frying. “These are still nice and hot,” she said, carrying them over to the table.
“But …,” I began.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Geena and Jazz sat down at the table, while Auntie chopped salad. I sat down too, although I wasn't planning to eat anything.
“Don't eat the samosas,” I said under my breath.
“What did you say?” asked Geena.
“Don't mutter, Amber.” Auntie brought a bowl of salad over to the table. “It's rude.”
There was nothing I could do, honest. Geena and Jazz helped themselves to samosas. I ate a tomato and waited.
“Be careful,” Auntie warned, “they're still quite hot.”
You don't know how hot, I thought.
Jazz and Geena took a big bite at the same moment. Jazz screamed and spat hers out across the table, just missing my eye. Geena spluttered, and spat hers onto her plate. They both grabbed the water jug and started fighting over it.
“Oh dear.” Auntie sat down at the table. “I did warn you that they were hot.”
“Hot!” Geena roared, between gulps of water. “They're scorching!”
“Too—gulp—much—gulp—pepper,” Jazz mumbled, fixing Auntie with a glare.
“Oh dear.” Auntie turned to look at me. She smiled widely, and I knew she knew. “Aren't they the ones you made, Amber?”
“Oh, I don't think so,” I said airily, trying to bluff it out. “All samosas look the same to me.”
Auntie bent over and picked a nail transfer out of the remains of Geena's samosa. “Oh, really,” she said.
I looked down at my nails. I hadn't had time to varnish the transfers on properly. One was missing from my little finger.
Geena and Jazz stared at me. I could almost see their minds ticking over as they put two and two together. And I knew I was going to have to pay for it sometime. Probably quite soon.
“Sorry,” I muttered, as Auntie went to fetch more samosas.
Two shoes connected with my shins under the table.
“Ow!” I suppose I couldn't blame them, though.
“Here, try these.” Auntie handed round another plate of samosas. She smiled at me, and I could see the chal
lenge in that smile. She thought she'd got the better of us, and so she had. This time. But although she'd won this particular battle, the war wasn't over yet. Not by a long way.
She made us go to bed at 10 that evening. Would you believe it? And she took the fuse out of the plug on Jazz's telly. Geena's, too. We were seething with rage. Dad hadn't come back from work yet, so we couldn't moan to him. That was why I was reading under the bedclothes with my torch, even though it was after midnight. She wasn't going to boss me around.
Jazz had said the same thing. But she had only lasted about half an hour before she fell asleep with her head in a book. She was snoring ever so slightly now, sprawled out with her knee in my back. She looked younger when she was asleep, more like how I remembered her looking years ago. Sweet, too. I wouldn't have told her that under torture.
“Amber?” Dad had pushed the door open, and was standing in the doorway. “Why aren't you asleep?”
“Sorry,” I said, quickly switching off my torch.
Dad came further into the room. “Everything all right?” He said it in a pleading kind of voice.
For once, I wanted to say no. Here, in the middle of the night, in the dark, with just the faintest glow from the landing light, maybe it was easier to be honest. I was desperate to ask him if he really wanted Auntie here at all. Or maybe talking would just start something I should keep away from at all costs.
“Everything's fine,” I said, and the moment passed.
“Good.” I could hear the relief in Dad's voice. He went out and closed the door.
It was a long time before I got to sleep.
Everything continued to go spectacularly wrong. By Monday morning the three of us were ready to take our case to the European Court of Human Rights.
“She got me up at eight o'clock on Sunday morning to tidy my bedroom,” Geena exploded as we stalked out of the house. “Eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. It's disgusting.”
“So's your bedroom,” Jazz sniggered, and got a clip round the ear for her trouble.
“You can wipe that grin off your face, Amber,” Jazz snorted, rubbing her ear. “I heard Auntie telling Dad that no way are you getting new trainers when you've got six pairs already.”
Bindi Babes Page 4
