Nightingale

by Andrea Bramhall

  Charlie shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Charlie stared at her incredulously. She knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t help it? “Your parents.”

  “It won’t be the easiest issue to get around, no. But there is a way.”

  “That doesn’t have me sliding down the drainpipe every time they pay a visit? Do tell.”

  “Sarcasm’s the best you can do right now?”

  “Yes.”

  Hazaar sighed heavily. “Fine.”

  Charlie downed her next shot and ordered another.

  “Are you just going to get drunk, or are you going to listen to me?”

  “How about both? I’m multitasking.”

  “Jesus, Charlie. I’m being serious here.”

  “And I’m here for a party.” She picked up the glass, then glared at Hazaar when she took it away from her and handed it back to the bartender.

  “Move in with me.”

  “That didn’t sound like a question. More like a demand.”

  “Whatever it takes to get it through your head. I love you and I want you in my life. For now.” She cupped Charlie’s cheeks to make sure she was looking in her eyes. “Forever. Do you hear me?”

  “Well, since you took my drink, it looks like I’m listening to you.” The angry chill in Charlie’s heart thawed, just a little. But it was enough, and she knew Hazaar was going to convince her to go along with whatever crazy plan she had conceived.

  “Please.”

  Charlie swallowed and closed her eyes. “So what’s this grand plan of yours?”

  “It’s actually the same plan I had before.”

  Charlie thought for a minute. “Tell your parents I’m the lodger and stick all my stuff in the spare room.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but in essence, yes.”

  “So I’d be your lodger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paying you rent?”

  “Well, no. We’d split stuff like you do in normal relationships.”

  “Uh-huh.” Charlie felt herself swaying a little as the vodka took a hold. “And since Daddy pays all the bills now, how are you going to explain that to him?”

  “I’ll ask him to give me more control.”

  “And will he?”

  “If I explain it right. He’s been complaining about money lately, so maybe having a little financial pressure relieved will be a good thing for him.”

  “And what about me?”

  Hazaar frowned. “What do you mean? Isn’t this what you want? A future together?”

  “Is that what you think this little plan is?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Charlie stared at her and knew in her heart that as much as she knew it was a bad idea, she wanted it. She wanted to go to sleep next to her every night, and wake up with her each morning. She wanted to argue with her about what crappy TV show they watched, and whose turn it was to cook. She wanted to see her clothes hanging next to Hazaar’s in their wardrobe and their toothbrushes sharing the same glass in the bathroom. She wanted to share the bills and chores, and the decorating, the shopping, and everything else that made up a life together. She wanted everything Hazaar could give her. Or, at least, what she thought she could give her, for the moment.

  “Will you?” Hazaar whispered. “Will you move in with me?”

  Yes! Oh hell, yes! “On one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “Your father has to agree to me living in the apartment.”

  Hazaar paled and swallowed heavily. “You mean…you want me to tell him…” She blinked rapidly. “You want me to tell him about…” She waved her hand between them.

  “What? Are you crazy? No.”

  Hazaar’s knees gave out, and Charlie helped her sit on one of the bar stools. “I’m sorry. I thought you meant you wanted me to come out.”

  “No. I want him to agree to me living in the apartment as your friend, your lodger, school mate, whatever you want to call it. But I don’t want to have to flee in fear every time they arrive. I can’t live like that.” Charlie could hear the voice at the back of her head screaming at her, telling her how weak she was. But at the same time, she yelled back with the one argument that she felt could justify her actions. That living with Hazaar and loving her the very best she could would give her the best chance she had at keeping her when the time came for Hazaar to make her choice. Because whether Hazaar wanted to admit it or not, eventually, she would have to choose.

  “And if he does, you’ll move in with me?”

  Charlie took a deep breath and entwined their fingers. “Yes.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then I won’t.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. If he doesn’t agree, then I won’t. It’s disrespectful and it would cause you a world of trouble.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m sorry, no. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live under that shadow. Even with his permission, don’t you think it will be hard enough to live in a way that will cause no suspicion? That it won’t make your life with your family harder?”

  Hazaar stared at her a long time, nervous, playing with the button on Charlie’s shirt. She wouldn’t back down. She couldn’t. She had to believe, to know, that she meant enough to Hazaar to take this chance, or there was no way she would ever be able to take a bigger one down the line.

  “Okay.” Hazaar whispered the word, and Charlie knew she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at her lips.

  “Okay?” Charlie repeated, unable to actually believe that Hazaar had agreed, but a grin tugged at her lips.

  “Yes, okay.”

  “You’re going to ask him?”

  Hazaar relaxed a little and laughed. “That’s what I said.”

  “Okay, now can we go and enjoy the party?” Charlie pushed away from the bar and cursed when the room spun. Hazaar laughed.

  “Sure. If you can stay on your feet, we can even dance some more.”

  Charlie leaned back against the bar. “In just a minute.”

  Hazaar leaned into her and wrapped her arms about her waist. “Take as long as you want, baby. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Charlie rested her head on top of Hazaar’s. I hope so. She kissed her hair. I truly hope so.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The North of England, then

  Hazaar parked her car and grabbed her handbag, fishing out change for the ticket machine. She paid the fee and stuck the square on her dashboard before hurrying to the train station. She had five minutes before the train was due to leave. She glanced at the notice board to check which platform she needed to get to. Always the farthest one away when you’re running late. Damn it.

  When she got there the train was already at the platform and people were filing into the carriages. She joined the back of the nearest queue and picked a seat close to the toilets. She hated being so close, hated that she was going to have to go in there, but she hadn’t changed before she got on the train, and she knew her brother would be picking her up when she got to Bradford. While her mother tolerated her wearing Western clothes while she was at university, she didn’t when she returned home. In Bradford, her father was a strong, devout, upstanding member of the local community, and she was expected to behave in a manner that befitted his position, which meant wearing the proper attire. Or her mother would never let her live it down.

  The change at Piccadilly station was an all-out run from one end of the station to the other, and Huddersfield was no better, just with slightly less time. At some point, she was going to have to get changed in one of those stinking bathrooms and hope she could do so while holding her breath.

  She went over and over in her head how she was going to approach her father. What she was going to say. How she expected him to respond. And every time, the conversation played out differently, even though her words remained the same. Every justification wasn’t enough for him t
o allow someone else into her home. She rubbed the back of her neck and tried to twist out the knots as the train left Huddersfield. She ducked into the toilet and pulled the loose-fitting pants and tunic of deep purple over her skinny jeans and fitted T-shirt. It was far easier to keep her Western clothes concealed this way than to try to hide them in her bag. Her lovely brother, Hatim, had a penchant for going through her things at every opportunity, and the last thing she wanted was him parading her Western clothing in front of everyone.

  She went back to her seat and sent a text message to Charlie, letting her know she was almost there and that she’d call her when she got back to the train station on her way home. She double-checked the pass code feature was operating and turned the phone off. There was no reason to think anyone would snoop, but it didn’t hurt to be extra careful.

  She pulled her head scarf out of her bag and wrapped it around her hair and neck, making sure she was appropriately covered for a young woman out with her brother. She hated playing games, hated lying, but felt that it was all she ever seemed to do anymore. It had become her greatest skill, and much more vital to her survival than playing the piano had ever been.

  The train jerked to a stop, and the motion caused her to tear at the cuticle she’d been picking at. She cursed and stuck her finger in her mouth as she got off the train. Hatim was waiting at the main doors for her. He smiled and took her bag, slinging it over his shoulder and ushering her out the door to his car. She smiled. Sometimes he wasn’t so bad.

  She settled into the car and fastened her seatbelt. “So how’s married life, Hatim?”

  “It’s good.” He adjusted his beanie cap in the mirror and tugged up the collar of his jacket before he pulled the car out of the car park and turned toward their parents’ house. It was a ten-minute drive across the city of Bradford, and the closer they got to her childhood home, the more she felt it was a mistake to come back. Sweat trickled down her back and her leg twitched uncomfortably.

  “School is good for you, sister?”

  She smiled, grateful for the attempt at small talk. Maybe married life was good for him after all. “Yes. I have a lot of hard work this year, but perhaps you would like to come to one of my concerts?”

  Hatim glanced at her, then back at the road. “We’ll see. I might be busy. Baba keeps me pretty busy at work now I’ve got a family to support.”

  “I understand.” She hadn’t expected him to say yes, but at least she’d made the offer. He hadn’t come to a concert since he’d stopped playing himself, which was more than ten years ago.

  “Besides, I have to go to Pakistan with Baba soon.”

  “Really?” She could see the pride in Hatim’s face as his shoulders straightened and his chest puffed up a little.

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “He’s training me in more sides of the business, giving me more responsibility and all that. It’s important I meet his contacts over there.”

  “I’m pleased for you, Hatim. Baba must be very proud of you, and the business must be doing very well.”

  He shrugged a little, and Hazaar wanted to laugh. Modesty had never been Hatim’s strong suit, and his sense of self-importance bled through the false humility. “It’s doing okay. It’s tough times, you know, sister. Damn government taxes are so high on imports and all that, they’re killing business, you know what I mean? They’ve got to listen to people who know, the people on the street, but them kafirs, they’re too full of themselves, right?” He shook his head and drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

  “Baba doesn’t like that word, Hatim.”

  “What? Kafir?” He shrugged. “But it’s what they are. Nonbelievers.”

  “But you know how he feels about these things. That there’s no point in alienating people by flinging insults. It’s bad for business.” Hazaar had yet to figure out if her father actually harboured animosity and held it in check, or if he was accepting. She guessed that she’d find out today, one way or another.

  “But anyway, I’ve made some suggestions that Baba thinks are good and they’re making a big difference.”

  I just bet they are. Not. “I’m pleased for you both.”

  He pulled into the driveway of the large house overlooking the park. The driveway was steep, and as a child, it had always reminded her of the way medieval castles and fortresses were built at the top of hills to give them better defences in case of attack. The look of the house had only added to that impression, as it had a round, tower-like room at each side of the main building, and the pointed conical roof over each one made her think of fairy tales. She’d pictured herself as Rapunzel many times when she was a girl sitting in her room, waiting to be rescued. So much for my handsome prince!

  The front door opened, and her mother pulled her into a hug. “You’re not eating enough.” She pinched Hazaar’s cheek and laughed. Once again, Hazaar was reminded of how much she looked like her mother, with her large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips, and Hazaar hoped she looked as good as her mother did when she reached the same age. “I made some of your favourite, aloo gosht and fresh peshawari naan bread for lunch. I like this outfit on you. The colour is good.”

  Hazaar’s mouth watered at the mention of her favourite treats: mutton and potato curry and bread stuffed with sultanas, pistachio nuts, and spice. “Thank you, Maa Jee.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and stepped into her father’s warm embrace. The long whiskers of his beard scratched her cheek as he squeezed her tightly and planted a tender kiss on top of her hair.

  “It’s good to see you, Jugnu.”

  “And you, Baba.” She nodded a greeting to Fatima, Hatim’s wife, and smiled as the shy young woman almost hid behind her brother.

  “Come, let’s go and do this spread of your mother’s justice.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and ushered her into the house. It didn’t matter how long she spent away from the family home, as soon as she stepped through the door, she felt as trapped as she had always felt. The weight of their love and expectation settled heavily on her shoulders.

  The meal passed by fairly quickly as her father and brother discussed plans for the business, and the upcoming trip to Pakistan. It was easy to see how excited they both were about it, and her father appeared more animated than he had about anything since Hatim’s wedding. Hazaar picked at her food, her stomach in knots as she tried to decide when would be the best time to broach the subject of Charlie moving in with her.

  “You are not eating, Beti. Are you sick?” Her father pointed at her plate.

  “No, Baba, it’s delicious.” She smiled and lifted a forkful to her mouth.

  “So what do you think?” her father asked.

  “I think it sounds wonderful.” She hoped that was the correct response, as she had lost track of the conversation, but from the frown that marred her father’s forehead she knew it wasn’t.

  “Beti, you were not listening to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Baba. I was distracted, thinking about my classes. I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “We were talking about the new mosque that is being built at Horton Park.” The mosque was huge, and upon completion would easily accommodate eight thousand worshipers to prayer. It wasn’t just a centre of worship, but also included information, education, and a gathering place for the community. It was to become the new heart of the Islamic community in Bradford, and her father was proud of the work he had done to help in its creation.

  “Is it nearly finished?” She put her fork down and sipped some tea.

  He frowned. “Not quite, Beti. They have had some delays and are now running low on funding.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible news. What are the problems?”

  “There were protests at the planning offices, so getting planning permission took longer than expected.”

  “Bloody kafirs.” Hatim plunged his fork violently into his food.

  Her father cuffed him across the back of the head, knocking his beanie cap askew. “You will show some respect in my house,
boy. You use language like that in front of my wife or my daughter again in my presence and I will remind you what manners are. Do you understand me?”

  Hatim straightened his hat and stared at his plate. The flush of humiliation coloured his cheeks, anger and shame emanated from him like a shockwave, and Fatima paled and visibly cringed. Whether in sympathy for her husband’s embarrassment or in fear of its consequences, Hazaar didn’t know. She hoped for the former, but knowing Hatim as she did, she suspected the latter.

  “I asked you a question, boy.”

  “I understand, Father.”

  “Good.” Her father sipped his tea. “Now apologize to your mother and sister for your lack of control.”

  Hatim looked up so quickly Hazaar worried that he would hurt himself. The look in his eyes as he stared at their father was nothing short of incredulous, and Hazaar was shocked at the display of power her father was demonstrating. Normally, he wouldn’t go to such lengths to teach a lesson for such a slight infraction, and she wondered what else was going on. How else had Hatim disgraced himself to justify her father’s attitude? To apologize to his mother in private was one thing. To be made to apologize in front of other people, even if only his own wife and sister, was massively embarrassing, and called into question his honour as a Muslim, as well as a man trying to establish his own household.

  “I told you to apologize.”

  Hatim ducked his head and turned away from their father. “I am sorry for my outburst, Maa Jee. You deserve better from your son and I ask your forgiveness.”

  “Of course.” She nodded her head but kept her gaze on her plate.

  “Good. Now as I was saying, because of the delay in getting planning approval, by the time we broke ground, the costs of the project had escalated from around five and a half million pounds to closer to seven.”

  “Why such an increase, Baba?” Hazaar’s voice croaked a little as she tried to give them all the chance to get back to normal.