Being Emily

by Anne Donovan

  Jas never asked any questions, just sat listening as the story unfolded, how she was fine during the pregnancy, just a wee bit high blood pressure.

  And that’s just to be expected at my age, she said. I’ll be fine.

  How she seemed tae glow with happiness and I’d catch her in the kitchen daeing dishes, watching bubbles rise fae the washing up bowl.

  How she looked when the baby got bigger, carrying it high and proud in front.

  How the pains came the day afore her due date and how calm she was as she set aff to the hospital wi ma da, her last words as she went out the door, Now make sure the twins dae their hamework tonight and mind – put their gym kit in their bags for the morra.

  How she never came back.

  Doesnae happen nooadays. Doesnae happen tae a healthy woman who’s already had four weans. Doesnae happen in a clean bright modern hospital with highly trained professional staff and all the technology you can imagine. In a Victorian novel, aye, but no on the eve of the twenty-first century. Mammy died in childbirth. And her baby, a perfect wee lassie, died with her.

  Jas took ma haund; the skin felt dry, too auld for someone his age, spoke of years of work carting boxes around and being out in the thin early morning air. I looked intae his face, asked the question without speaking while he kept staring at our haunds, interlinked between the high stools.

  My da was struck by lightning. He paused, took a deep breath. He was sheltering under a tree. A fucking tree. How stupid can you get?

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Jas swear.

  Where did it happen?

  He was away on a business trip and the guy had taken him out to play golf. He’d never played golf in his life. A golf course in the middle of nowhere and a storm starts and he goes under a tree and gets struck by lightning.

  It’s … terrible. I had no words.

  Jas turned to me. You know I’ve never said this to anyone else and I probably never will say it to anyone else but I know you’ll no take it the wrong way … it’s the embarrassment of it, the pure riddy you get fae having a dad numpty enough to get struck by lightning. It’s such a stupid embarrassing way tae die.

  It grew darker outside. Spits of rain hit the windae.

  I stroked Jas’s wrist. I’ve always been terrified of lightning. When I was wee I’d run and hide in the big press in the hall, squeezed in behind all the auld boxes and suitcases and stuff. The only place in the house you cannae hear it.

  I used tae love lightning storms. I’d stand at the windae and watch them. But no any mair.

  Mammy came in the cupboard with me. She’d put her airm round me and explain how lightning couldnae really get you in a tenement. It goes for height, she’d say. It cannae get you indoors. It’s only if you’re out in the open.

  Yeah, on a fucking golf course.

  Jas’s face twisted up and I thought he was gonnae start tae greet but all of a sudden a smothered giggle came out.

  Mibbe he thought his turban would save him … muffle the electricity … He was shaking, couldnae haud it in any mair, and I started tae giggle too, then to laugh, the two of us on these stools, laughing and giggling as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

  See, said Jas, wiping tears away. My da was the smartest guy you could meet – always full of information about everything, statistics – I can just see him with this business guy, sheltering. He put on a mock serious voice. You see, Mr Parmi, the statistical probability of being struck by lightning while standing under a tree is actually very low and the statistical probability of being killed while wearing a turban is even lower … in fact …

  Then zap!

  Suddenly it wasnae funny any mair.

  IT MUST OF been easier in Victorian days. You had mourning clothes and there were rules about how many months you’d tae wear black, then gradually cut back on it; everyone could tell how long it was since you were bereaved. And there was black jewellery you could wear to remember your loved ones. Nooadays you’re straight back at school or work and you don’t talk. You don’t even talk in the hoose, at least we never. Ma daddy couldnae cope wi talking and the twins, well they seemed tae bounce back. It was different in Jas’s house, rituals of grieving. A photie of his dad wi flowers and stuff all round it, in a position of honour, as if he was still watching them.

  Jas took me hame after we’d known each other a few weeks. I was surprised – boys didnae usually introduce girls to their family unless they’d known them for ages. Hame was a tenement flat, much like ours but bigger, with a couple of attic rooms up a stair fae the main part of the flat. Jas’s room was under the eaves – huge, with its ain bathroom. Pale blue bathroom suite. Jas had painted the walls midnight blue wi silver stars and a moon on the ceiling.

  My God, it’s like having your ain flat up here. Dead posh.

  A guy my da knew done it up to let to students – put in a couple of extra bathrooms and showers – there’s one in Ma’s room too. Then haufway through he’d to sell up and my da bought it, finished the bathrooms and decorated the place for us. We’ve been here since I was seven. It’s dead handy for the shop.

  The shop was a pharmacy. Since his da’s death his uncle ran it; Jas’s ma helped out during the day and Jas efter school.

  Jas and me sat side by side on his bed. The cover was blue too, with gold and silver stars and moons patterned over it.

  Is your uncle a pharmacist too?

  No but my cousin Harpreet, my uncle’s daughter, is. And when I qualify, I’ll be able to take over. Harpreet’s getting married and she wants to have her own business with her husband.

  So you’re gonnae be a pharmacist? Just like your da.

  That’s the idea. I already have a place at Aberdeen Uni for next year.

  I smoothed a wrinkle in the cover. Somehow I’d assumed Jas would go tae Art School. Or study literature at uni. Or even be a politician, change the world. I couldnae see him in the shop for the rest of his life, giving out prescriptions and stacking boxes of cold remedies on plastic shelves.

  What about your art?

  He shrugged. I’d love to … but it’s a hobby.

  I stood up, walked round the room. Everything tidy, books neatly arranged on shelves, desk clear except for his computer. On the wall above the chest of drawers hung a framed photie of two boys, the older one with his airm round the wee brother. Identical pairs of brown eyes but I could recognise the line of Jas’s mouth in the wee one.

  Me and Amrik. I was five, just about to start school, and he must’ve been eleven. He was in Primary Seven and it was so cool having a big brother in the playground.

  You had long hair then, I said. Their hair was tied in a topknot under a navy blue cloth.

  Like a real Sikh, you mean?

  I just wondered if it was a big deal, when you cut it?

  We’d never really talked about Jas’s religion. I’d always taken for granted his version of Sikhism, just as, I guess, he done the same with me being Catholic.

  Jas stood beside me, looked at the photie.

  Ever since I can remember I was taught that a Sikh doesnae cut their hair because the body is a perfect creation of God. You have to look after your hair, keep it clean and combed, tie it up – that’s how it was when I was wee. Sometimes I’d get slagged about it but no that much because Amrik was always ahead of me, kind of paved the way. Then when he got to about fifteen he started tae wear his hair out, tied it back in a pony tail instead of on top, under his turban. My da was pissed about it but Ma kept the peace. Amrik looked dead cool, like a pop star. And of course I wanted to be like him but didnae dare.

  Then it was time for me to start secondary school. My primary class went on a visit and I was the only Sikh boy with my hair up. There were a few snidey comments. Amrik was in sixth year and about to leave so he wouldnae be there to protect me.

  The first day of secondary came and I was scared. I left the house looking normal then ducked intae a close on the way, pulled my hair out and tied it back
in a pony tail. It was down to my waist. I went to school like that and no one said a word. There were lots of looks and a few teachers thought I was a girl but I didnae care – somehow wearing my hair out like Amrik made me feel strong.

  At the end of the day I was all set to put my hair up on the way hame. I walked out the school gate and there was my da, come tae meet me. All the time I was at primary and he never came to get me out of school, was always working, and he had to choose this day. Can you imagine what it was like? I nearly dropped to the ground and his face, well, it was all contorted. I just stood there; all these kids streaming out of school on either side and this guy in a suit and a turban in the middle of them getting shoved every way. I was working out what to say to him when he turned and walked off. Never spoke a word.

  I was terrified to go hame, walked about for ages, but I knew Ma would be worried and I figured she’d protect me. If she’d been there nae doubt it would of been different but when I got back Ma had been called away to her sister who was sick and it was just him. He sat on the settee and made me stand in fronty him like we were in a court or something.

  So Jaswinder, you are ashamed of your religion?

  I’m no ashamed of my religion, I just want tae wear my hair in a pony tail.

  First Amrik, now you? What have I done to deserve such children?

  You’re making a big deal about nothing.

  So it’s nothing is it? One of the sacred principles of the Guru.

  But I havenae cut my hair – I’m just wearing it differently.

  In a way that does not reflect your religion or your traditions. You might as well have cut it. Oh go away, get out of my sight.

  I left the room, eyes blurring with tears. I knew he’d seen me start tae greet and that made me mad. I rushed up to the bedroom, stood in fronty the mirror and pulled the pony tail out. My hair hung in a mass over my shoulders and all down my back. It was like a cape or something it was that long and thick. I opened the drawer, took out the scissors, and almost without thinking, cut it off. It was a mess of course, looked like a bad wig. And all this hair in big clumps round the floor. I lay on the bed and howled.

  Ma found me there when she came hame. She put her airms round me, held me for ages, wiped my tears – she was greeting as well. She picked up the hair and put it in a bag – she’s still got it in a drawer in her room. Then she blew her nose, said, ‘Come on put your coat on,’ and took me out to the barbers to have it cut properly. I’ve kept it short ever since.

  So what did your dad dae?

  Nothing. It was never mentioned again.

  That must of been awful.

  I think that was the hardest part. Him looking at me, obviously disapproving. Ma used to ruffle my hair, tickle my neck and went on at me to wear a hat cause I must be cold but he just pretended nothing had happened while all the time carrying this stone round inside him.

  What about Amrik?

  Oh, he’d left home by then – I think my da had kind of given up on Amrik anyway – no given up exactly, but we always knew Amrik was different and there was nae use in expecting him to behave like other folk. Whereas I had to be the good son. I think what pissed me off maist of all was that I actually was a good son – done the right things, worked at school, helped in the shop – but he couldnae cut me any slack, couldnae understaund how a boy might of felt on his first day at secondary school. If he had, I would never of cut my hair at all.

  He put his airm round me. And what would you have thought about that, having a boyfriend with long hair?

  I stroked the back of his heid, the place where the silky hair gave way to the jaggy spikes of the cut edge, the smoothness of the back of his neck.

  Dunno, I said. Mibbe I might like it.

  Let’s go down – Ma will be wondering where we’ve got to.

  Jas’s ma had made tea, set it out on the round table in the kitchen. At first I didnae think she looked like Jas, saw mair resemblance between him and the photie of his da, but when she smiled her face crinkled up in exactly the same way as his, and a big dimple appeared in her right cheek.

  Jaswinder tells me you have sisters, Fiona.

  Twins. They’re thirteen.

  Lovely. I’d have liked to have a daughter but it was not to be. She shrugged. But I am blessed with my two wonderful boys. Though of course we don’t see so much of Amrik now he is in London.

  My brother Patrick lives in London too.

  I mind the night he tellt me he was gaun, just afore the Easter holidays when I was in third year.

  D’you have tae go?

  You can have my room when I’m away.

  I’d rather have you.

  Got tae get out, Fiona. This place is daeing my heid in.

  Some pal of his had a job in a restaurant doon there and Patrick started aff in the kitchens, making desserts. He’d come up every three month or so, and every time he looked a bit different; smoother, shinier, his hair blonder, his accent flattened out just a bit mair. There was always something new he was intae. First he’d taken a part-time class in design then got intae food styling for magazines.

  That one got Da to take his eyes fae the box.

  Food styling. Whit in the name of the wee man is food styling?

  It’s for cookery books and magazines. Sometimes it takes ages to take the photies and the food melts or congeals, so there’s things we dae to make sure it looks right in the pictures.

  And they pay you for this?

  Better money than making desserts in the restaurant.

  What kind of world dae we live in?

  Gie the boy a break, says Mammy. You should be glad he’s daeing so well.

  Aye, but could you no just have stayed here and done really well being a baker, son?

  Da, maisty the folk I worked with are redundant noo.

  It’s just, when my pals ask me how you’re daeing I really don’t want tae say my boy’s a food stylist.

  Patrick had moved on fae that noo, something else in the magazines but higher up, daeing occasional wee bits for TV too. He never seemed tae stick at one job but always had something that was good pay.

  I missed Patrick. At first I thought he’d get fed up wi London, but as the months passed there was nae sign of it and I suppose I just got used tae it. I mind one time when he was just off the phone, saying to my mammy, D’you think our Patrick will ever come hame? And her looking at me straight and saying, No hen, I don’t think he will.

  How no?

  I just have a feeling Patrick needs the space. Glasgow’s too wee for him.

  I couldnae understaund what she meant – Glasgow seemed huge to me. After all it was the biggest city in Scotland. I’d never been tae London except tae change flights on holiday when we couldnae go direct, but I knew it was dirty and busy and full of traffic and folk all jumping on and off the subway they called the tube.

  I mind that was when I realised Patrick had changed, no just his clothes or his job, but hissel – when he used that word insteidy subway. Said something about the tube and my da saying, Who you calling a tube? and Patrick hesitating for a minute afore he smiled.

  Would you like milk in your tea, Fiona?

  Thanks, Mrs Singh.

  Here you are. She passed the cup tae me. But it’s Kaur, dear. Some Sikhs do use a family name too but in our tradition, boys are always named Singh – it means a lion. Girls are Kaur, which means princess. So you don’t have the same name as your husband.

  I think that’s brilliant. I’d never change my name if I got married.

  See, Fiona, said Jas. Sikhs were the first feminists.

  I don’t think I’d put it quite like that, though we do believe everyone is equal. Mrs Kaur smiled. Have a chocolate biscuit, dear.

  IT WAS WHEN I asked Jas tae come for his tea I realised how much things had slipped. He’d been to the door when he walked me hame but just for a minute. Looking round the house, imagining how it would look to him, made me see it clearly. I’d tried tae keep things tidy, cl
eaned the kitchen and bathroom every week, but compared to the way it was when Mammy was alive, it was a pure midden; corners where dust had accumulated, insides of cupboards in the bathroom sticky with spilled shampoo and ringed fae the bottom of shaving foam cans.

  He was due at six efter his work in the shop, so I had time. I spent the Saturday gutting the place, even put bleach round the taps and plughole, scrubbed at them wi an auld toothbrush like Mammy used tae. I had just enough time tae jump in the shower and throw on my clothes afore he arrived.

  The twins arrived hame fae their usual Saturday ritual of traipsing round the town texting their pals and meeting up in shops and cafés. Da or Janice or Patrick were always slipping them cash which they spent in New Look or Claire’s Accessories and there was usually enough left over for a hot chocolate. It was hard tae believe the twins were still only thirteen – they could easily of passed for two year aulder – and I worried aboot them. I knew if Mammy’d been around there was nae way they’d be allowed to go out the house showing their bellies and wearing skirts that barely covered their bums, but they wouldnae listen tae me. And ma da, well, he didnae even seem tae register it.

  Ah’m starvin – whit’s for tea? Mona lifted the lid aff the pot. Yuch! What is that?

  Veggie chilli – there’s rice and pitta bread with it.

  We don’t like vegetables. Rona nearly spat the word out. Only tomatoes.

  You like chilli.

  Con carne, with meat. Duh.

  Jas is coming round and he’s vegetarian.

  We live here and we urnae, in case you hadnae noticed.

  Ah can dae burgers for yous – there’s some in the freezer.

  Cool. Mona flicked her hair back. The twins had wavy hair like mines but you’d never know it as they used hair straighteners about fourteen times a day.

  What time’s the boyfriend arriving?

  Should be here any minute noo.

  So like, are you no gonnae get changed?

  I just did.

  She looked at my baggy jeans and sloppy tee shirt.

  Sis, you really need tae make mair of an effort if you want to keep this guy.