Being Emily (3 page)

WHEN I FIRST
knew Jas his front teeth had wee jaggy bits across their biting edge like a wean’s. Serrated. Most folk’s teeth wear tae a straight edge by the time they’re about fourteen but in sixth year at school his were like mini-saws. I could feel them when we were kissing, hours spent tangling with passion in a quiet bit of wasteground on the edge of the park. We never really done anything much, just kissed till wur lips swelled up. Every time it seemed as if we’d be carried away by it, one of us would pull back or move the other’s haund away fae the danger spot and we’d break, talk for a while until the moment passed. Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I’d imagine what it’d be like for him tae put his haunds under my claes, touch my naked skin. In the beds across fae mines were Mona, an unidentifiable lump under her downie,
and Rona, wan airm thrown out of the covers, white in the light of the streetlamp.

How did Jas sleep? What would it be like to lie beside him, coorie like spoons all night long?

It seems weird we never spoke about it, since we spent all the rest of our time talking, never ran out of conversation. He never anyway. Always something on his mind; big things, never trivia.

Look at this
, he’d say, showing me something he’d cut out the newspaper about fossil fuels. Or he’d start a conversation wi my da.
So what do you think of the situation in Iraq, Mr
O’Connell? D’you think we should end the sanctions?

Da cairried on watching
Countdown
wi the sound turned doon; I knew he was making up words in his heid while he answered Jas.

Havenae a scooby aboot politics son, but these things’ll never hurt
the government – it’s always the ordinary folk end up suffering
.

Jas didnae know the meaning of the word casual; everything was important to him and if it wasnae important, what was the point in talking aboot it? Why gossip aboot some daft popstar’s lovelife when you could discuss the meaning of life, why watch soaps when you could read about the molecular composition of polymers?

And he didnae just talk about things, he done them. He was aye writing letters for Amnesty or campaigning for something on the school council. Or studying. Or working. Probably the only time he wasnae daeing something purposeful was when he was with me.

I met Jas when I moved to the non-denominational (or – as my da called it – proddy) school in sixth year. I wanted to dae Advanced Highers in English, Art and History and St Philomena’s couldnae timetable them thegether. They tried
tae persuade me to change one of the subjects, then suggested I go to Burnside just for History but it seemed less complicated tae move school – it was only for a year. And though I’d been dead happy at St Phil’s when I was younger, after all the stuff that had happened this past year, I was glad enough tae go where no one knew me.

I met Jas the first day when he came up to me after English and thrust a photocopied leaflet about the debating club in ma haund.

‘Is multiculturalism the new racism?’

I went alang cause I’d nothin else to dae efter school on Friday and Friday is a day when you want to have something to dae. I thought it’d be good to get tae know some folk at school but it was just Jas and two of his pals and a couple of fourth-year girls who wanted to get off with the sixth years. And me. Clocked in a dusty classroom wi the desks moved back and stacked upside doon so you could see the chuggie stuck tae the underside.

Jas was electrifying. I wasnae convinced by all he said, but he said it wi a passion that was infectious. He had these beautiful haunds, long and spidery like the winter branches of trees, and he moved them as he spoke, like someone daeing calligraphy in the air. The other guy never stood a chance; he plodded through his well-prepared and well-meaning speech at a steady pace, stopping at regular intervals tae pause, look at us and sum up his point in a deeper voice afore lifting the next index card. He said all the things I’d ever been told about respecting different cultures and religions, about us all co-existing in some happy melting-pot of a city.

But Jas.

I am sick, sick, sick of being a Sikh
.

He looked round, dark eyes taking in each of us.

Not because I am unhappy with my religion or my culture or my
family heritage, but because so-called multiculturalism has stolen
Sikhism, has tamed it and made it cute and cuddly
. He put on a patronising adult voice, the kind of voice people use when they’re trying to humour a three-year-old.

Oh, look at the cute little Asian boy with his hanky tied round
his heid, that’s because he’s growing his hair. It’s his religion, you
know
.

Oh, why don’t we all make paper lanterns this week in the Art
lesson because it’s Diwali? Maybe Jaswinder could tell us about it.
Then next week Hassan can tell us about Eid. Then it’ll be time to
start learning the carols for our Christmas concert
.

If I had a fiver for every time I’d told my primary school class
about friggin Diwali I’d be a millionaire. But making lanterns
every November or drawing pictures of the five Ks doesnae mean
they understand anything about being a Sikh – it’s just paying
lip service to the real diversity of our culture and smoothing over
the racism and suspicion that divides us, even those of us who tick
the brown boxes in the ethnic monitoring forms we need to fill in
in the name of equal opportunities – Sikh and Muslim, Hindu
and Sikh
.

And I don’t have time in the four minutes allowed me to even
get started on those of mixed race – those who should be the
zenith, the culmination of our so-called multicultural society (if
we really believed in it). Yes I am referring to those of mixed race,
who, rather than being what we aspire to, far from being the
epitome of multiculturalism, are in fact an embarrassment as they
can’t be done, ticked off on a multicultural calendar by making
something symbolic out of coloured paper, or placed in the correct
box on the multicoloured form. No, they fit nowhere, not even
with their own family
.

Efter the debate, predictably, was won by Jas, he and the other guy shook haunds and the fourth-year lassies fluttered round him. I sloped off out the room and heided doon the road.

SO
. MS HARRIS
crossed her legs and clicked the top of her pen.
Today I thought we’d go round the group so each of you can
say what topic you’re proposing for your dissertation and why you
chose it. I’d like you to give us some idea of the areas you intend to
explore. Is that clear
?

She looked round us, sat in a circle on scabby plastic chairs. Of course it was clear. Everything she said and done was clear. She spoke wi a precision that was quite different fae the sloppy way the kids done, every other word
like, yeah, dunno, whatever
. But it was also different fae the way the other teachers spoke. They mumbled or tailed away their sentences, turned their back on you while they were explaining things or failed tae make eye contact. Ms Harris was young – 26, 27 mibbe – and everything about her was perfect. The other young teachers
were either buttoned up as if they were wearing their parents’ clothes or else sloppy like they’d fallen out of bed, but she wore the kind of clothes that managed to look quite cool but perfectly appropriate for a teacher – little cardigans with glittery bits on them, silky skirts that never creased, funky shoes. Even her specs had a designer label. She knew her stuff too – was always prepared, never seemed harassed. Of course the sixth year werenae likely to gie teachers up cheek but some of them could be stroppy in their ain way. And I’d seen her in action in the corridors, gliding through a tumultuous sea of second year, effortlessly calming them with a word.

Naebody said anything. Terrified if we looked up we’d be asked to start, everybody stared at their folder. Ms Harris had gied them out last week at the first meeting of the class; unlike the usual thin school cardboard ones, they were dead fancy, with spaces for lined paper, a pouch for books, plastic pockets for putting pictures and stuff in.

I want you to see this as a very organic process, sixth year, different
from the way you’ve worked before. Don’t feel you have to limit your
research to critical books or biographies. Maybe a found object, a
photograph or poem is what you need to carry around, focus on
.

I’d felt excited when she talked like that, imagined mysel piecing thegether a portrait of Emily with all kinds of things I associated with her – heather fae the moors, sketches of her dog – but the day, my bum already numb fae the uncomfortable seat, Kevin next tae me scratching hissel as if he had fleas, I just felt stupid.

Jaswinder, can you start us off?

Jas nodded.
I’m gonnae write about Shelley. Percy Bysshe Shelley,
1792–1822, was everything. One of the greatest poets who ever lived
– in my opinion, the greatest – he was a philosopher, a traveller,
friend of Byron and other important poets, had several lovers and
many children as well as being married to the woman who wrote
Frankenstein – and he was a political and a radical thinker
.

That sounds really interesting, Jaswinder. But your dissertation
must be no longer than 3000 words so you’ll need to focus on one
or two aspects of Shelley
.

That’s the problem – to do that is to limit him, and he never
limited himself, he thought these barriers were artificial. ‘Hail to
thee blythe spirit, bird thou never wert
.’

Thanks, Jaswinder. Let’s move on. Kevin?

I’m gonna write about three lyrics of the Manic Street Preachers
.

Ms Harris touched the bridge of her specs with one perfectly manicured finger.
I can safely say that this will present
a different set of challenges from writing about Shelley. Only three
lyrics?

Well you said we had tae focus
.

True. Do you think the Manic Street Preachers will provide sufficient
weight, though? I want to encourage you not to limit yourself
to the conventional literary canon, but you must ensure that your
choice of text falls within the parameters of the Exam Board
.

Eh?

Alice dunted Kevin in the elbow.
She means the Manics are
crap writers
.

That’s
…

Which they are
.

Ms Harris said coolly,
I don’t actually know enough about them
to express an opinion. Perhaps you’d better leave the lyrics with me,
Kevin, and I’ll get back to you
.

We plodded on round the group. Alice wanted to compare the portrayal of women in the novels of Toni Morrison and Janice Galloway, while Sana was obsessed with Chuck Palah niuk. Danny, Lee and Katie all planned to dae
Lord of the Rings
. I could sense a slight tightening of Ms Harris’s lip but her only comment was
that choosing popular texts meant you had to work harder to find an original take on them. Two other folk wanted to dae George Orwell and Steinbeck. Then it was my turn.

Emily Brontë
.

Ms Harris looked slightly more animated.
Why Emily Brontë,
Fiona?

I’ve just always loved everything she wrote, the poems and
‘Wuthering Heights’
.

Have you a specific aspect of her work in mind?

I thought either a sense of place or mibbe her family
.

Sounds promising. Can you tell some of the others, who may not
be so au fait with the Brontës, what that means?

Well, Emily lived in this remote Yorkshire village – she was the
parson’s daughter and her mother died when she was really young.
She had a brother and sisters and they all wrote and made up stories
and plays thegether. The sisters became really good writers – well
folk say Anne isnae as good but I still like her – and her brother
fell in love with this married woman and took tae drugs and drink
and then he died but he could of been a writer too. Emily was a
recluse and wandered the moors and
…

I realised everyone was looking at me and my mind went blank.

Thanks Fiona. Your enthusiasm is evident
.

Kevin stuck his haund up.
What kind of drugs did they have then?

Not now, please – time to pack up. Kevin, can you make an extra
appointment to see me?

I shoved my folder in my bag and walked out the room. My cheeks were burning as I heided doon the back stair. Then I heard a voice calling,
Hey Fiona, wait
, and when I turnt round it was Jas, rucksack slung across one shoulder.

Fiona
.

Hi
.

Where you off to?

Oh, just home
.

Got time for a coffee?

There was a wee place round the corner fae the school, no really a café, just a takeout place wi a few high stools at a counter. Legs dangling, sitting side by side, we talked, hardly looking at each other. Maist of the time I stared doon at his shoes, black shiny lace-ups, nice shoes, nothing like the ubiquitous trainers or boots the other boys wore.

See, Fiona, I dunno anything really about the Brontës but when
you were talking it sounded so much as if she was almost opposite
to Shelley
.

I guess – she hated being away fae hame, got sick when she wasnae
at Haworth, near the moors
.

And Shelley was always travelling – he almost never had a home
.

Emily hardly even spoke, except to her ain family. Folk that met
her talked about her as if she was like a sphinx or something
.

Jas laughed so much he became unbalanced fae his seat.

Cool. Shelley never stopped talking, he wrote polemic and essays
. He turned and looked straight in my face for the first time.
But it sounds like they both had this true inner thing – they were
pure artists
.

It was the first time I’d heard anyone my age talk like that. Dead serious. He looked straight at me and his eyes were dark chocolatey brown.
That’s what I want for my poems. I don’t
mean I think I can be like Shelley but I want tae have truth in them.
Know what I mean?

I nodded.

Do you write as well, Fiona?

I used tae try to write poetry, when I was younger. But I … kind
of stopped. Last year
.

I’m gonnae dae the creative writing option this year – you should
try it too – don’t let your poetry go
.

You’re taking Art this year too, aren’t you?
He was in my class, so obviously he was, but I wanted to keep him talking.

Aye. Photography, mostly. It’s that immediate. Real. D’you specialise
in anything?

No really – bit of painting, collage stuff. I feel I want to dae
something different this year but
.

What’s your third subject?

History, but History is … well I like it but I don’t feel the same
way I dae about Art or Literature
.

Same with me. My third subject is Chemistry. I like it but I don’t
have that … passion for it
.

Silence. Jas looked at his watch. I assumed he was fed up wi me, that whatever had attracted him had fizzled out in the reality of talking to me. I was used tae that. No one ever thought I was interesting.

I’m sorry, Fiona. I’d like to go on talking but I have to get to work
.

You have a job?

I work in the pharmacy, my family’s shop
.

He climbed doon fae the stool, stood next tae me, looking smaller fae my perch.

You know I think we should work together sometimes – talking
about stuff could really help
.

Cool
.

And that was us.

After school we’d go for coffee, sit on the high stools, then I’d go hame and Jas would go tae work. Later we’d talk on the phone or go out thegether. At first I said I was meeting Mon and Jemma but after a few weeks it felt daft tae pretend. Jas and me were real.

I’d never been in love afore, never even had a crush on anyone really. The rest of the lassies were aye fancying guys or gaun mad over the latest popstar but I never had. When I was aboot fourteen I started tae wonder if there was something wrang wi me, did I have a bit missing? I knew I didnae fancy girls but I didnae recognise the stuff I read in the magazines, the heart stopping, the churning in the stomach. I went out wi boys a few times, usually to make up numbers on a double date, but I never felt anything. When they kissed me goodnight it was less exciting than getting licked by the Jacksons’ cat.

The first time Jas kissed me was three weeks after that first coffee. We’d went tae study in the library after school, sitting side by side at the tables near the reference section. We were baith working on dissertations for English. I was poring over
Wuthering Heights
, writing out quotes about nature and he’d Shelley’s poetry open in fronty him. I wish someone had taken a photie of us that day; two heids, his hair dark and shiny and straight, mines tangled curls the colour of tea. Notepads and paper spread out in fronty us, his neat spiky writing and mines bigger, looped and flowing. Just happy to sit thegether, every noo and again feeling his elbow nudge against mines as he wrote. Then the moment when we baith turnt to one another and him bending towards me, the soft feel of his lips against mines. Big smiles spreading across wur faces.

That night he put his airm round me as we walked up the road, and he kissed me again in the park, haudin me close this time, tongue in ma mouth and the wee jaggy edge of his teeth on my lip. He wasnae tall, Jas, only three or four inches mair than me, and we fitted that neatly thegether. Then we broke apart and held haunds, walking alang the path while the early evening light faded tae a gash of salmon pink behind the trees.