‘I can’t face Mum,’ he said. ‘Can I stay at your house for the first few nights?’
The Maajid idea was extinguished almost as soon as I’d thought of it.
‘I’ve sold it. I live in Edmund Street now. I sleep in your bed.’
He stopped rubbing his hands and looked up at me.
‘No worries. We’ve got a couple air beds in the attic. The front room’s warm enough.’
We reached Manchester Airport and, apart from some tight, compact breathing after take–off in Vienna, I was in better shape than expected. The curious sensation of the right side of my body being a bit heavier than my left had been with me since I first boarded a plane but I shrugged it off as something to do with my right lung not being able to cope with being up in the clouds. The vocal tics also died down but there was one big problem: the cold. As soon as we stepped out for a taxi, a blistering wave of mouth–numbing air seeped down into my body and refused to budge even when I got into the black cab. It was particularly bad on my neck and no amount of rubbing was going to change that. I hoped it wasn’t a taste of things to come as it was only a mild, drizzly evening and the freezing winter nights were still some months away.
I fell asleep in the cab as soon we pulled out onto the M56 and I only woke up when my head ricocheted off Wasim’s broad shoulder and onto the back seat. By that time, we had pulled up at the traffic lights on Spotland Road, with the Falinge flats to my right. We were home. I rubbed my eyes and instantly perked up when I saw a pregnant woman kissing a tattoo–heavy, ear–studded man outside the boarded up Albert Hotel. The woman’s arched body was in such an extraordinary position that I was impressed by her dexterity rather than appalled by her conduct. I wished I could be so flexible.
Despite this intriguing sight, the town felt cramped and claustrophobic compared to the wide open spaces of Iraq. I had never seen it in this light before. The tight streets and shop were clumped together while the few people milling around were shoehorned into a space that wasn’t big enough. I also started sneezing almost straight away. My sinuses had improved dramatically in Iraq, perhaps because of the environment or because of Bilu, but here I was back to that old Shah again, spluttering, coughing and clearing my throat.
As we entered Edmund Street, Wasim reached into his bag and pulled out an immaculately–folded red and white checked keffiyah. He carefully rolled it round his head and tied it near his ear. I sighed wearily but didn’t have the strength for another dispute. I asked the cab driver to pull up right outside our home but he went a bit further. Wasim got out of the car first while I paid the driver. I gave him a generous two–pound tip but he was more interested in looking at Wasim; I could tell he didn’t approve. I walked slowly across the pavement and stopped at the end of garden path, standing behind the low brick wall. Wasim looked over his shoulder and rattled the letterbox impatiently.
‘Fuckin’ lost my keys in Quetta, didn’t I?’ he said.
How embarrassing. The whole street could hear the clatter of that letterbox and, unsurprisingly, I saw Mrs Gleeson’s head pop round her curtains to see what the fuss was about. The front door opened and Nadia stepped out with her arms folded and her hair untied. I looked at her puffed–up face and instantly felt guilty. For the first time in decades, I was scared of my daughter. Her eyes darted around Wasim’s face but then she ran forward and put her arms round me. She hugged me tighter than I could remember and it was a rough, awkward embrace rather than a delicate one.
‘Jesus, you fuckin’ scared the life out of us,’ she said. ‘Please don’t do that ever again, Daddy, you’re everything to me.’ She let me go and but then rested her forehead against mine. Her harsh, piercing glare was intimidating but provided a curious sense of safety. ‘Do you understand? Everything.’
I nodded and glanced at Wasim who was stood there sheepishly, fiddling with his keffiyah.
‘Don’t you think you’re hugging the wrong man?’ I asked.
She completely ignored me and spoke frantically. ‘I was about to contact our MP and the foreign office but thought better of it and what about your medication? How did you manage in those Kashmiri villages? It’s a miracle you’re still around.’
I had totally forgotten that no–one in the town knew that Wasim and I had been in Iraq. It came as a shock but it also gave me breathing space in terms of not having to go into detail about a country that fascinated everyone right now. The conversations would be feisty and endless: all in good time.
‘I managed,’ I said. ‘I taught children how to play cricket.’
Nadia shook her head and slowly let go of me. She looked over at Wasim and there was an unbearable silence between mother and son. I had to step in and say something but my mind went blank. It didn’t matter because Wasim stepped forward into the house without saying a thing to his mother.
‘Take that off before you go in,’ said Nadia.
Wasim didn’t listen and walked into the house, stroking his keffiyah like some sheikh who had a bob or two to spare. Nadia sighed and was about to say something but I had heard enough. I put my tired hand on her shoulder and prepared to walk into the house. A few minutes ago, I had been full of hope that our return to Edmund Street would be met with joy or, at the very least, relief that a wayward boy had been brought back from the brink but the frostiness between Nadia and Wasim had been unwelcome as well as unexpected. Did I know them as well as I thought? I stepped into the house and sensed the atmosphere wasn’t the one I’d left behind.
* * *
One of Nadia’s pet hates was making dinner for guests without warning and that’s what she had to do on this occasion, although of course, we weren’t guests. She thrashed out a couple of shapeless chapattis but, luckily for us, she already had a hefty pot of aubergines and potatoes prepared for the evening meal. It was one of her favourite dishes. She had taken a fancy to it despite hating it the first time she ate it under duress by Fareeda. She was about 11 or 12 at the time and I only remember it vividly because she was still wearing her Redbrook School uniform on a very hot summer’s evening. It felt strange to me that someone dressed immaculately in a navy blue sweater, light blue shirt and red tie could be so utterly engrossed in a meticulous VHS recording of Falcon Crest. Why not Grange Hill? She never watched that. Nadia, however, told Fareeda she wasn’t hungry but Fareeda was adamant her daughter would consume a portion of the evening meal because she had spent hours in the kitchen preparing it. Eventually, Fareeda got her way but Nadia vowed she would never touch ‘the animal–like’ aubergines again because they made her throw up. How times change. Nadia now made her dish in a different way as the aubergines and potatoes were cut smaller and mashed together but it still had a tangy, satisfying impact and I ate more than my stomach could handle. Wasim ate almost nothing – only half a chapatti and a couple of water melons – and disappeared upstairs. Nadia joined him and I didn’t see mother and daughter again for a couple of hours. I spent most of the evening with Elisha in the living room. Salim wasn’t at home and I didn’t bother to ask why. There was more than enough time to talk about that later. Elisha mostly talked about her brother and how much he had changed in the couple of years she hadn’t seen him. She didn’t mention the actual trip at all. It was clear from Elisha’s demeanour – the folded arms and the slightly sarcastic tone – that she wasn’t exactly elated her brother had returned. But she was more than happy with me, I suspected. She even took one of her wristbands – the blue one – and put it on my wrist. I didn’t know what it meant but it was a nice touch. It was the first genuine heartwarming moment since I’d returned.
Wasim finally appeared again and had changed into a shalwar kameez and slippers. He had even taken his keffiyah off. He walked towards me and sat down on the sofa. He looked at Elisha and she got the hint, getting up and leaving the room. Wasim slipped his feet out of his slippers and put them on the sofa, holding them close to his chest. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
‘It was Turner Brothers, wasn�
��t it?’ he asked. ‘They made you sick. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Your welfare was more important…’
‘We’ll go down there and fuck them up.’
‘Good luck because they don’t exist.’
I realised I had underestimated the extent of Wasim’s naivety. He genuinely did not know that the factory had shut down in 1989 and was now a derelict site. I tried to pass it off as a teenage thing and give him the benefit of the doubt but it wasn’t convincing. A more plausible explanation was that Wasim was totally unaware of the community on his doorstep: what they did and how they managed. Instead, he was connected to another community, more disparate and more widespread and the two rarely overlapped.
He got up suddenly and walked barefoot towards the oval mirror above the mantelpiece. He glanced in the mirror and then walked back towards me.
‘I’ll hire a solicitor tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Amjad’s a good man, he’s done some work for a sister who wasn’t allowed to cover herself in a job interview.’
‘Is this what you and your mum were talking about?’ I asked.
Wasim sighed and shook his head. He sat down again, but much closer to me. He put his hand on my thigh and moved his head much closer.
‘Nana jee, you don’t understand. We have to get these people back. They’ve poisoned people. We can’t let them get away with it.’
His darting eyes couldn’t stay still. They flitted across my face at lightning speed. His giant eyeballs triggered a fresh theory in my head. It was about the nature of jihad and what my grandson had just experienced in Iraq. In most people’s eyes, that is what he was: a jihadi. But what inspired him to go all that way to fight for a cause most people didn’t understand or agree with? What had motivated him? I deduced that religious scholars, imams and persuasive groups of friends had all worked their black magic to get him thinking a different way but there was another component that couldn’t be ignored: injustice. This was the clincher, the game–breaker and the matchwinner for him. In his mind, there was an injustice or a perceived injustice to be fixed or put right. If that component didn’t exist, the selling of armed jihad would be more difficult. Now, as I looked into Wasim’s eyes, he was showing that exact zeal for something completely different: a disease caused by a former industrial giant. He was engaged and enthused. He wanted to get them back. Here was another injustice to get worked up about. Here was another jihad.
But could I get him onside? Suddenly, I was ambivalent about not getting some sort of recompense from Turner Brothers or their representatives for what they had done to me. I still felt hugely sceptical that writing letters, hiring a solicitor or joining a campaign was worth the hassle but I also realised the opportunity to get into Wasim’s head might not come again. I may have a chance of getting my grandson concentrating on the things that really matter: local and community struggles that have a real impact on people in their day–to–day lives. It was clear he was genuinely aggrieved about how my condition had come to pass but now I had to use his fiery idealism for my own benefit and for the sake of the wider community. I hoped I could turn his attentions away from a global fantasy into something more achievable, tangible and long–lasting.
‘What about getting a job first?’ I asked.
‘I’ll just sign on for a while,’ he replied. ‘This is more important. I feel sick just thinking about it.’
* * *
I knew a lot of Kashmiri parents who could not deal with the community burden. By this, I meant they were never brave enough to travel for holidays anywhere other than Kashmir, wouldn’t let their sons or daughters marry whoever they wished and could not be seen listening to English music or reading English books. Even if they had the urge, they wouldn’t dare take the plunge because it might mean the community would frown upon them and their respect within that circle would be compromised. Fortunately, I had kept my distance from that unspoken code of honour and the trigger for this way of thinking probably came after my marriage to Fareeda because a vicious rumour had spread in the village that Fareeda liked women and that was the reason her marriage was delayed until the age of 33. It wasn’t true but it did hurt Fareeda and her subsequent journey to England was one she was desperate to make. That was one of the reasons why the community burden was never really indoctrinated into Maple Street – we only had two Kashmiri families from Briar Street, the Kamals and the Qazis, who visited us on a regular basis and even then they were superficial, cake–rusk dipping afternoons rather than substantial, chapatti–clapping evenings. So this doctrine of friendly isolation carried on when I moved to Edmund Street. Many people in the street knew of me but didn’t know the real Shah. There was a further loosening of ties when I became an umpire. That was definitely seen as an indigenous pastime with its stereotype of village greens, cramped pubs and gentlemens’ agreements.
But I could not escape the drawbacks of the community burden as I was forced to sit opposite at least four families (I lost count at about 11pm) the morning after Wasim and I had returned. News had spread like wildfire that Wasim was back and there was nothing any of us could do to halt the well–meaning, but overbearing, tide. Wasim was happier than me because he hadn’t seen his friends for more than two years so he escaped in Zaki’s BMW and headed off to the town centre. I wasn’t so lucky and had to share jalebi and milk tea with Mr Shafiq who continually spoke about the four–floored villa he was building in Mirpur with the income from his Hajj travel business. He did, however, notice my throat–clearing and coughing and wondered if I’d picked it up from Kashmir. It was easier to say I had. I wasn’t quite ready to start my campaign for justice in Mr Shafiq’s presence.
The visitors thankfully drifted away before noon. Nadia, who hadn’t been herself since that conversation with Wasim, had been dropping hints all morning that she had a busy afternoon at university (to get rid of the so–called guests) and it worked a treat because they left earlier than I expected. I went back to bed straight away because I was exhausted. Nadia had bought me a new inhaler and watched me carefully to ensure I took my medication. She was adamant a couple of steroid tablets had to go down the hatch too. I could tell she wasn’t happy – but also that she worked things out.
‘So you were in Iraq,’ she said, putting the glass of water down on my bedside table. ‘How could you not tell me about the letter? I’m his mother.’
‘And I’m his grandfather. I had to do something. You and Salim have got your own problems.’
‘Oh fuck Salim,’ she said, rushing towards the door. ‘Tell me about Iraq tonight. I only promise to forgive you if you tell me absolutely everything.’ She left the room and I looked out of the bedroom window as a blackbird perched on a chimney above Mr Whitworth’s house. It flew away almost instantly but Nadia came back within seconds. She came in through the door again. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, you’ve got an appointment with Howarth in three weeks. I’ll come down with you this time.’ She shook her head. ‘You sold the Proton too. Unbelievable.’ She closed the door and left the room.
It would have been better to have stayed in Baghdad rather than see Howarth again. What would he say anyway? That I had a few more scars on my lung? That I had progressed slower or faster than he expected? I really didn’t hold out much hope for a positive outcome; I was simply another patient on his overloaded conveyor belt. He could offer me words and toxic remedies but little else. But no matter how much I dismissed the appointment’s validity, the thought of making the journey to the infirmary didn’t help me sleep. Eventually, I had to get up and make an extremely uncomfortable trip to the bathroom to release some of the wedged mucus from my throat. There was more: a sharp pain in my chest, particularly when I bent down, something I hadn’t experienced with such ferocity before. I must have been adjusting to the cold weather again, I thought. I walked back to the bedroom knowing I wouldn’t get any sleep but was desperate to get back under the duvet. After a few minutes, the doorbell rang and I didn’t want to answer it so I walked up to the window
and pressed my nose right up against it to see who it was. I expected another ‘community gossip’ but I got a pleasant surprise. It was Len and I suddenly felt the day wasn’t that bad after all. He had a batch of leaflets in his hand and offered me one as soon as I went down and opened the door.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked. ‘I called round a couple of times. Your daughter said you’d gone to visit relatives. You shouldn’t be travelling in your state, anyhow.’
‘I had to sort something out. Come in, I might have a new recruit for your daughter…’
‘No, I can’t stop. Here you go. It’s all sorted. Charity match, next month. Workers 11 against Bosses 11…’
I took the leaflet with little enthusiasm.
‘I don’t know about this.’
‘I do. And besides as luck would have it, Sylvia saw my little ad in the Observer and got back in touch with us. She wants to help out and do the catering. I was gobsmacked, really, it was totally out of the blue but I’m meeting her now so we’ll see…’
I felt a strange euphoria which propelled me forward to grab Len’s hand. ‘What are you wasting time here for then?’
A Fistful of Dust Page 15
