Anita and Me (26 page)

Mama said I had a very high temperature. ‘She’s burning up! My God!’ I heard her whisper to papa who must have arrived home by this point. I let them sponge me down with warm water which felt icy cold to my skin, and opened my mouth at obedient intervals for the glass thermometer, which mama would consult and then ‘tch tch’ loudly at. When I finally dared to lift an eyelid, it was not Nanima lying next to me but papa. It was that strange time when night is about to bleed into morning, when the shadows look textured and grainy and you keep thinking you hear birdsong.

Papa was sleeping in his characteristic pose, head resting on his right elbow which was tucked under him. As usual, he had discarded his pillow which lay at the end of the bed like another sleeping body. I prodded his chest and he awoke with a grunt and automatically felt my forehead.

‘Okay beti?’

‘Water,’ I croaked. My throat seemed coated with sand. Papa heaved himself out of bed, tiptoeing past Sunil who was flat on his back, legs and arms akimbo, sleeping the blessed expansive sleep of a baby. A minute later papa returned with a plastic cup which he held to my lips whilst I carefully slurped. It was warm and pungent, with a bitter-sweet aftertaste.

‘What is it?’

‘Hilachi tea. Nanima made it. Drink. It’s good.’

I finished off the whole cup and my stomach felt bloated, as if I had inhaled a four course meal.

‘Where’s Nanima?’

‘Sleeping with your mama. Rest now.’

I lay back and fitted my head into papa’s armpit, enjoying his scent of tobacco and aftershave.

‘Papa?’

‘Hah beti?’

‘I want to play with…I mean, hang round with Anita tomorrow. I want to go and ride Sherrie’s pony. Can I?’

‘If you’re better. We’ll see.’

I persisted. ‘Mama spoke to Anita’s mum today. They’ve made it up now. You can ask her.’

I did not tell him the real reason why I needed to see Anita, that image that kept coming back to me, of her thin shoulders shaking with sobs as she ran away into the night. Papa smoothed my hair from my face, a few wet strands clung to my temples.

‘There was nothing to make up. Why do you worry about such tiny things, eh? That is our job. Your job is to enjoy yourself, enjoy your studies, and leave the rest to us.’

‘So does that mean yes,’ I yawned, hoping the sympathy factor of me being ill and emotionally insecure would swing it.

‘Okay,’ papa sighed. ‘Now sleep.’

Later on, I could not tell exactly when, I felt Nanima sidle into bed beside me and pull my head onto her mountainous chest, which she fluffed up for me like a pair of pillows. And then she talked, and the strange thing was, although I am almost sure that she spoke in Punjabi, I understood every word. At first she did not make sense, but her broad vowel sounds and earthy consonants knitted themselves into a cradle which rocked me half asleep, then out of the rhythm came words, one or two I recognised, then phrases, then sentences, then all the stories I had been waiting to hear, the stories I knew Nanima owned and kept to herself, but I had never owned enough Punjabi myself to ever ask her if she would share them with me. And now she was, and I did not even need to open my eyes.

‘My village was very modern, top class roads, electricity, fresh water, BBC on the radio. Our family home was one of the largest – tiles in the courtyard, carvings on the shutters, we only ate what we grew in our fields. Your fields do nothing. You waste them.’ Maybe I told Nanima about the blackberry bushes at the far end of the park at that point. Or maybe not.
‘My childhood was good but short. It was always this way for girls. I was the plump one, the beautiful one. I never went out without covering my head, I knew my beauty would bring the dogs running if I did not.’ Nanima did not like dogs, maybe this explained why. ‘I went to school, my father insisted. I was lucky, to read and write and learn to recite from the Granth Sabib. Never did I think I was less than a man. More than a man sometimes, this I was. To cook and clean and carry and fetch and soothe and smile and climb and fall.’ My Nanima climbing trees, I grinned into the darkness. ‘At sixteen years of age, two brothers were married to two sisters. I was one of those sisters. The other is your Nani Masi. We lived together the four of us. At twenty, we had four children between us.’ I knew about mama’s brother, the one who had died as a baby. I thought I heard tears in Nanima’s voice. Then I thought about Anita who would be sixteen in three years’ time, the same age as Nanima when she got married. I could not imagine Anita ever getting married. Nor myself for that matter. Ever.

‘Then only stones fell from the sky; the fields were given over to English soldiers, the cattle too, the most dignified people had to eat dust when they passed, nothing we owned was ours anymore, not even our names, our breath.’ I knew this feeling, I had felt it too, but did not know why. ‘You know about your Dada, being taken to prison. I lived as a widow until he returned and he returned to nothing. Even the pots and pans we ate from had been sold, or taken. But after a death, what can you do but be born again? We lived. In five years, Dada owned trucks, I had gold earrings. But then came the accident …’ Dada trapped in one of his own trucks, his own brother taking over the business assuming he would die, Dada having a goat’s bone forced into his leg. Now I really wanted to wake up, the rocking became a seasickness, an ocean of heaving cinnamon-scented bosom. ‘Again we lost everything and this time we were reborn in Delhi. What is there to fear when you have already lived two whole lives? And
how many more to come? Your mama is on her second one, here, over here. And you Meena …’ I forced my eyelids apart and it was morning. There was no sign of Nanima except a slight depression in the mattress and a few strands of silver hair on the pillow, caught in the cotton mesh like fine slivers of glass.

I did not mind leaving Nanima the next day; I knew mama was now on holiday for two weeks—the great advantage, maybe the only one, of having a parent who was a teacher. It was a hard process, convincing mama that I was now fully recovered and was not about to keel over, foaming at the mouth. I forced myself to eat two aloo rotis which came sizzling straight from the griddle onto my plate, I broke off tiny morsels for Sunil which I blew on loudly, making him laugh. I also asked for a glass of milk, which Nanima prepared by warming up in a pan, adding crushed almonds and sugar till it foamed like a choppy sea.

Then I began an exaggerated routine of tidying up my comic pile and chirpily whistling the
White Horses’
theme tune around the kitchen until mama said, ‘Go on then, you’re giving me a headache now. But be back for dinner, okay?’

‘Nighttime dinner?’ I called, grabbing my cardigan.

‘No! Daytime dinner! Two o’clock or else I will come looking for you and you will get embarrassed!’

I did not get as far as Anita’s yard door before being mobbed by the rest of our now defunct gang. Karl and Kevin, Susan, Natasha, Nathan and Nicky, all crowded round me like the prodigal returned and I was touched. ‘Where yow been? On holidays, yeah? We cor get in the pigsty den, someone’s put a lock on it. How come yow don’t play out anymore?’ ‘Me nan’s come to visit,’ I told them, straining my neck to see if there was any sign of life in Anita’s back yard. The curtains both upstairs and downstairs were drawn and a half-eaten bowl of very old dog food sat on the
step. ‘She’s dead old, so I’ve been cooking for her, washing her and that…I’ve got a lot of responsibilities,’ I continued, enjoying the open-mouthed wonder and admiration that encircled me. They all seemed so small, I felt like I was wading knee deep in a sea of midgets, Nathan was still in nappies for God’s sake. How did I ever think this motley collection of toddlers and bedwetters constituted a gang?

It was Tracey who answered the door, still in her pink flannelette nightie with her finger on her lips. ‘Gorra be quiet! Me mom’s gorra headache!’ I was momentarily wrong-footed. Tracey was at least six inches taller than when I had last seen her – the day of the Peeing Competition – and the pinched, wan features had rearranged themselves into a compact heart-shaped face of such sweetness and sorrow that I felt like gathering her up from the kitchen lino and feeding her something hot.

‘Er…seen your Anita anywhere?’

Tracey sighed. Of course she knew I wasn’t calling for her but now I wished I had at least pretended to. ‘She’s up at Sherrie’s farm. She’s always up there now …’ she said wistfully.

‘I’m gooing up there as well,’ I said breezily, not thinking about what I would do if Anita chased me away with a pitchfork full of horse manure.

Tracey was already closing the door when I turned back and said, ‘Yow wanna come with me?’

Her eyes widened, ‘I’m not allowed. Not on me own.’

‘You won’t be on your own, will you, soft bat.’

Tracey slid inside wordlessly, leaving the door slightly ajar. I spent a few moments testing the crust of dog food with the toe of my shoe, it felt crumbly and light, and little puffs of dust flew up from the bowl. I heard snippets of conversation, Tracey’s slight whine counteracted by Deirdre’s smoke-laden bark, and somewhere the skittering of doggy feet. Soon, Tracey emerged, hair unbrushed, in a frilly summer dress and plastic sandals, her cardigan slung over her arm. She held the
door open for the mangy black poodle who flew into the yard on two legs and skidded madly towards the back gate. ‘Gorra tek Nigger with us,’ Tracey said proudly. ‘He needs walkies.’

Tracey ran her fingernails against the entry wall, changing her hands into a demon’s green taloned claws. The piddly poodle waited for us at the end. He let out an impatient bark which with the echo, sounded like a baby’s wail. ‘The Christmas house is haunted now,’ said Tracey authoritatively. ‘That’s why they can’t get rid of it. But I’m not scared of ghosts. Mom says she’ll buy it for me when I grow up and then we’ll be neighbours …’ We ambled past the park where I could see Sam Lowbridge and his gang lolling on the roundabout we called the Witches’ Hat. A few younger children stood by uncertainly, waiting to claim their territory back. I looked away quickly. I had seen his silhouette, that was enough for me.

A car zoomed past, quickly followed by Blaze, the mad collie, who yapped furiously at its back wheels, missing them as always by inches. The piddly poodle watched this with interest and then swerved towards the road. ‘Nigger!’ Tracey screamed, running towards him and swooping him up in her arms. ‘Bad dog! One of these days…He don’t have no road sense. Yow silly Nigger yow!’ she crooned, nuzzling up to his neck. He licked her face and as always, when he got excited, a slow drip began from his nether regions. That did it.

‘I hate that stupid name!’ I snapped.

‘What?’ said Tracey, startled.

‘His name! It’s so…stupid!’

‘It’s just ‘cos of his colour, honest!’ Tracey said pleadingly.

‘I know that!’ I retorted. ‘But it’s very insulting you know! It’s…it’s like a swear word.’

‘Is it?’ Tracey said quietly. ‘I…I didn’t know. Sorry.’

We quickened our pace and reached the end of the park where the big houses began. Tracey suddenly linked her arm in mine and said reassuringly, ‘Mom chose it. Anyway, I wanted to call him Sambo.’

As I turned into the rough pebbly lane leading up to Sherrie’s farm, I saw Anita immediately. She and Fat Sally were sitting on top of a five-bar gate around the paddock whilst Sherrie urged a brown fat pony over minuscule jumps. As the pony managed to heave itself over each six-inch bar, Anita and Fat Sally let out a whoop of joy and applauded loudly. Sherrie looked just like a medieval princess, I thought, her blonde hair streaming behind her, her sharp alabaster features focused and confident. Even though she was wearing tatty jeans and a baggy T-shirt with a faded print of Marc Bolan on it, she seemed elegant and completely in tune with her rotund steed, making him turn or speed up with the slightest nudge of her knees.

I lifted my hand to get their attention, but heard the rumble of a car engine behind me. A mud-spattered Land-Rover eased past us, the window rolled down and Sherrie’s dad poked his head out to greet us.

‘Alright girls! Come for a ride, then?’

‘Yes, Mr Palmer, if that’s okay, like!’ I called back.

Sherrie’s dad was so sinewy he had muscles in his earlobes. He was tall, blond and sunburned, even in winter, and every bit of him seemed to ripple when he moved.

‘Seen the mess they’re making of my back field?’ he said, pointing to the land at the back of the house where I could make out a yellow earthdigger moving slowly like some huge shiny snail. ‘Bloody slip road. They never mentioned that in the original plans.’

‘Oh, that’s awful, Mr Palmer! What you gonna do?’ I asked, imagining how the car headlights would light the whole Palmer family up as they lay in bed.

‘Oh, it’s been to court already, chick. Don’t worry, I shall be a rich man pretty soon. And then we’re off.’

He revved up the Land-Rover and began to pull away.

‘Off where?’ I shouted after him.

‘Lake District!’

His words were snatched away in the wind. ‘Buying a
hotel…No slip roads for bloody miles!’ he laughed loudly, and speeded up into the yard.

My feet felt heavy against the stony road. Everyone was moving away, everyone except for me. By now the girls had spotted us, and the last few yards up to the paddock felt endless. I was expecting a full-frontal verbal assault from Anita, maybe a three-pronged attack from all sides when she got the others to join in. ‘What the hell’s she doing here?’ Anita shouted. I was about to answer her when I noticed she was looking at Tracey, who was holding up the dog to her face, like a shield.

‘I said she could come. She was bored,’ I replied.

‘And who said yow could come anyway?’ challenged Fat Sally, whose large bottom spilled out over both sides of the fence, like she had a hot water bottle under her denim shorts.

‘Whose bloody horse is it anyway?’ called Sherrie, who drew in the pony’s reins, urging it to come to a gentle halt near the hedge, and threw Fat Sally a hard glare.

‘She’s my mate, so she can come. Is that right, Shez?’ said Anita, who looked me up and down coolly, enjoying my amazement.

‘Ar,’ said Sherrie, finishing the conversation and dismounting with a grunt. She patted the pony’s haunches and ran her fingers over its smoking muzzle, ‘Good girl, Trix! Wharra good girl you are, yes …’ she crooned. Trixie pricked up her ears in pleasure and snorted, spraying Fat Sally’s bare legs with spit. Fat Sally squealed and almost fell off the gate in her haste to get away, the rest of us howled till our bellies ached.

It felt so good to be back here and to be laughing at someone else. Anita and me bumped hips and laughed some more. I was not sure when or why she had forgiven me, and I was not going to press for an explanation. But the fact that I had apparently got away with it made me feel light-headed and free. Maybe now things would be different; I would no longer be Anita’s shadow but her equal, just like the slogan on
Mrs Worrall’s tea towel that said, ‘Do not walk behind me, I may not lead, just walk beside me and be my friend.’ She had bought it for herself on Mr Worrall’s behalf as her Christmas present from him, which I thought was sad as Mr Worrall didn’t walk anywhere.

Sherrie’s shout interrupted my reverie. She was pointing at Tracey imperiously. ‘What’s that bloody dog doing here! Get him away from the horse now!’

Tracey had been waiting at the paddock entrance all this time, and visibly jumped at Sherrie’s command. ‘I…I can’t send him home! Not on his own! He’s daft round cars!’ she stammered.

‘You’ll be sorry if Trix kicks him in the head, won’t ya?’ said Sherrie.

I didn’t think that would be such a tragedy, but Anita took over, snapping her fingers at Fat Sally who was wiping down her thighs with clumps of hay.

‘Ey, Sal, giz us your belt!’

‘No! Why?’ moaned Fat Sally.

‘Just giz it now!’ Fat Sally looked like she was going to cry; reluctantly, she undid the shiny green scarf tied around her middle and handed it over to Anita who yanked it from her to make a point.

‘That’s a Biba scarf, that is!’ Fat Sally protested. ‘My mom got it from London!’

‘Well tell her to gerranother one then! She’s gorrenough money, ain’t she?’ called Anita, who was striding purposefully towards Tracey.

At first I thought she was going to truss up her sister, but instead she quickly pulled one end of the scarf through the poodle’s collar, joined both ends together and tied him to a branch in the privet hedge running along the side of the lane.

‘There. He cor get out of that. Stupid dog,’ muttered Anita, as the poodle began to whine pitifully and pull against his haute couture leash.

‘He’s gonna get strangled!’ yelled Tracey, running towards him.

‘I’ll strangle you if yow don’t come here now!’

Anita’s tone was quietly threatening, all of us recognised it and all of us unconsciously stood to attention. Tracey sniffed loudly, gave in, and slowly lowered herself into a corner near the gate, occasionally throwing the now-chastened poodle long, apologetic glances.

‘What do you mean, my mom’s rich?’ Fat Sally demanded.

Sherrie and I immediately looked away, I busied myself with stroking Trixie, enjoying the sweaty velvet of her back. Anita’s nostrils flared slightly, momentarily giving her the alert, challenging look of a wary horse.

‘Yowr mom wears dresses all the time, even though they look like someone’s been sick down them …’

Fat Sally gasped audibly, I could tell no one had ever dared criticise her mom’s dress sense before.

‘And anyway,’ continued Anita pleasantly, ‘she’s sending yow to that posh slags’ school, in’t she? How much is that costing her?’

‘It’s not a slags’ school!’ shouted Fat Sally, trembling now. ‘It’s Catholic! So there! And we aren’t…I mean ain’t rich. We just work hard and save hard, we make sacrifices so I can have a good education!’ Although she was obviously repeating verbatim one of her parents’ lectures, this was a familiar mantra to me, any one of my Aunties could have said that. I wondered briefly if Catholics were anything like Hindus and that maybe Fat Sally also had an army of overpowering female relatives who made regular inspections of her homework books and sent her crash diets cut out of women’s magazines through the post.

Sherrie looked up, interested suddenly, ‘Ain’t yow coming to Bloxwich Comp with us?’

‘Nah, she’s too good for a comp,’ sneered Anita, taking Sherrie’s arm. ‘Me and Sherrie are the cocks of the school and yow’m gonna hang round with a bunch of bloody nuns.’

Fat Sally moved closer, her fists clenched. I had never seen her so enraged before, I did not think those soft fleshy features capable of anything but bad moods and wounded pride. She spoke through gritted teeth, I fancied I could hear her molars grinding with each syllable. ‘They are not bloody nuns! They are decent women who have given their lives to God!’

Anita and Sherrie both tittered in stereo. ‘Yow mean,’ Anita hiccupped, ‘they’re too bloody ugly to get sex! Yow should be in good company then!’

Before anyone knew what was happening, Fat Sally threw herself onto Anita with a strangled scream, grabbing handfuls of hair and pinning her squarely to the ground. Sherrie, Tracey and I all cried out in unison and Tracey dived straight into the tangle of kicking, biting, scratching bodies but was caught on the chin by a stray foot and reeled back onto her knees. The piddly poodle went mad, yapping hysterically and jumping up, trying to escape, repeatedly being hurled back on itself by the scarf which was gradually entangling itself round its neck. Sherrie just kept screaming, ‘Stop it! Stop it, you two!’ running round them helplessly, trying to identify a recognisable limb she could maybe grab onto and haul one of them out. I stood transfixed, not even daring to interfere, because I was concentrating on Anita’s face. It was clearly visible, poking out from behind one of Fat Sally’s wrestler’s shoulders. Fat Sally still had a bunch of Anita’s hair in each fist and was pulling so hard that the skin on Anita’s temples was lifted up from her scalp and any moment, I expected to hear an awful ripping sound. Fat Sally kept up a constant impassioned monologue as she pulled harder and harder, ‘You bloody slag! Your mom’s a slag! Everyone says so! You’ll end up in the bloody gutter! Everyone says so, slag!’