Bhangra Babes (10 page)

Looking unusually flustered, Auntie hustled Geena and me out of the house after them.

“Well, this is a treat,” I said sulkily. “What about Saturday?”

“I feel sorry for her,” Auntie said defensively. “We

don't have to buy anything now. We can still go shopping on Saturday.”

“I know she's lonely,” remarked Geena, “but maybe if she was a bit less irritating, she wouldn't be.”

“I promised Jai I'd make an effort to get on with her,” Auntie snapped. “I'd be obliged if you three could do the same.”

She forced a smile as Auntie-ji turned and bellowed in a foghorn voice, “We'll go to Sameera's first. They have lovely styles there.”

Auntie's smile rapidly disappeared. “Don't you think they're a little old-fashioned?” she asked.

“Not at all.” Auntie-ji laughed uproariously. She marched on, still holding Jazz by the hand, knocking everyone on the Broadway out of their path.

Sameera's was where the local old grannies went to buy their clothes. Auntie-ji burst in, greeting everyone in the shop by name and inquiring about their most distant relatives. Auntie stood looking depressed and staring at the racks of dull, dowdy suits and saris. Meanwhile, Geena, Jazz and I skulked out of sight behind a rail of clothes. If any of our friends or relatives saw us in this shop, we'd never live it down.

“My hand's gone numb,” Jazz moaned, shaking it limply.

“Bring out the wedding saris,” Auntie boomed, slapping the tiny shop owner, Sameera, on the back and almost sending her flying. “The best ones you have!”

Unfortunately, she then spotted us lurking in the

corner. “Come on, girls. Start looking through the racks. I'll help you choose in a minute.”

We began to search halfheartedly through the hangers.

“I'm not wearing any of this,” Geena said through her teeth. “I'd rather wear a sack.”

“I think you can actually buy that here,” I remarked, whisking a brown, baggy salwar kameez off the rail nearest the window and handing it to Geena. As I did so, I saw someone I recognized going into Jaffa's sweet shop across the road.

It was Kiran. And to be honest, she didn't look ill at all. She looked remarkably healthy.

“Follow me,” I said to Geena and Jazz.

Leaving the two aunties looking at wedding saris, we slipped out of the shop.

“Great idea,” said Geena. “But what happens when Auntie-ji notices we've escaped?”

“We'll only be a couple of minutes,” I said. “I just want to find out what Kiran's up to.”

“We know what she's up to.” Jazz looked puzzled. “She's at home with the flu.”

“That's what she wants us to think,” I replied. “But I've just seen her going into Jaffa's.”

“And did she look all pale and wan?” asked Geena.

“Not at all,” I said. “So I suspect she's been playing truant.”

As we reached the other side of the road, Kiran came out of the shop with a carrier bag of barfi and samosas. Her face flushed when she caught sight of us, and she looked very guilty indeed.

“So, how are you feeling, Kiran?” I inquired pointedly. “Mr. Arora told us your mum phoned the school and said you had flu.”

“I'm much better,” she mumbled, not meeting our eyes.

“So you'll be coming to school tomorrow, then?” Geena asked sternly.

“Is that any of your business?” retorted Kiran, rallying a bit.

“If you're playing truant, then yes, it is,” said Geena, quite pompously. “Because even though it might seem like a good idea right now, it'll only end in tears, and you'll be the one in trouble.”

Kiran looked mightily annoyed at this, so I jumped in to smooth things over.

“What Geena means is that there's a better way to work this out,” I said. “I know it must be difficult having to move house and change schools after… what happened, but things will improve. You just have to try.”

Unfortunately, Kiran seemed even more annoyed.

“Oh, so you're sure of that, are you?” she sneered.

“Yes, we are,” said Jazz. “Our mum died eighteen months ago, you know.”

Kiran was transfixed. She stared at us as people ebbed and flowed around us along the Broadway. “I didn't realize,” she said at last.

“We had a bad time,” I replied quietly, “so we do know how you feel. You think it's not fair, and you think that you're the only person this has ever happened to.”

“And you get angry,” Geena added, “even if you try not to show it.”

“But then things do start to get better,” Jazz went on. “Auntie came to live with us, and helped us to see that you can talk about the person and remember all the good things, and not just the really bad thing that happened at the end.”

Kiran's lower lip trembled. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Girls!”
Auntie-ji bellowed across the road. She was hanging out of Sameera's door, waving at us. “What are you doing over there? I want you to come and look at some outfits.”

“Sorry, we've got to go,” I told Kiran. “Auntie-ji is quite capable of coming over here and carrying us off by force.”

Kiran's eyes opened wide.
“That's
your auntie?”

“Thankfully, no,” I replied. “See you at school tomorrow?”

But Kiran seemed to have closed in on herself again. She shrugged and hurried away.

Auntie-ji was already on her way across the road, bringing the traffic screeching to a halt by raising her hand imperiously. “Girls!” she roared. “I've found the perfect outfits for you. You simply have to come and see them!”

“Do you think we got through to Kiran?” Geena asked as we scuttled over to her, trying to ignore the irate motorists.

“I'm not sure,” I replied.

But you'll be pleased to hear that I did have one of my famous ideas.

“Urggh! Wassup?” Geena surfaced from under her duvet, blinking blearily “Oh, God, I was having the most terrible dream about that bottle-green suit Auntie-ji wanted me to buy.” She groped around on her bedside table. “Why didn't my alarm go off?”

“It didn't go off because it's only half-past six,” I replied, moving over to the door, where I felt safer from attack.

“What!” Geena shrieked, hurling a pillow at me. “You've woken me up an hour early?”

“For a reason,” I said soothingly. “So calm down. I've already had the same thing from Jazz.”

Geena pushed her hair out of her eyes and regarded me grumpily. “It had better be a damn good reason.”

“I thought we might go round to Kiran's house this morning and check that she's coming to school,” I explained. “If she's planning to skive, we might be able to talk her into changing her mind.”

Geena frowned. “We don't know where she lives.”

“I phoned Mr. Arora last night and got her address,” I said, quite smugly. “I didn't tell him we saw her yesterday. I just said we thought we'd visit her, as she's been ill.”

“Very clever,” Geena muttered. “May I ask why, if you had this idea last night, you didn't tell Jazz and me at the time?”

“Because I knew you two would moan about getting

up early,” I said chirpily. “Now hurry up or we'll be late.”

I strolled out of the room, propelled on my way by another pillow smacking into the back of my head.

Half an hour later we were on our way to Limetree Close, where Kiran lived. We'd told Auntie we were going round to visit her before school—just in case she compared notes with Mr. Arora.

“Poor Auntie,” said Jazz. “She almost had to buy that ghastly sari Auntie-ji picked out for her.”

“Yes, but wasn't that a master stroke, pretending to feel faint,” Geena said admiringly. “Auntie-ji practically carried her home straightaway.”

“She can't keep pretending to faint,” said Jazz. “She's going to have to stand up to Auntie-ji sometime.”

I shuddered. “Rather her than me. Here we are. Number fourteen.”

Fourteen Limetree Close was a rather run-down terraced house with a small, overgrown garden. We rang the bell and waited.

Immediately we heard yells and shouts and thunderous footsteps and a dog barking behind the front door. We all took a step backward, and Jazz clutched at me nervously.

A woman opened the door just a tiny crack. “Yes?”

“We're friends of Kiran's from school,” I said. “We were wondering if she'd like to walk with us this morning.”

“Oh, that's very nice of you.”

Mrs. Kohli opened the door wider. She wore a quilted pink dressing gown and scuffed old slippers, and her long black hair was knotted untidily on top of her head. There were shadows under her eyes. A baby wearing just a nappy clung to one of her legs, and a toddler in a Spider-Man outfit was clutching the other.

“Do come in,” she said. “I'll call Kiran and see if she's ready.”

We squeezed inside. The hall was awash with bikes, trikes, buggies, toys, clothes, dog's toys and lots of other bits and pieces. The living room door was open, and that was more of the same. Two slightly older kids were watching a cartoon on TV at a deafening volume.

“Excuse the mess,” Mrs. Kohli said, glancing round helplessly. “We haven't quite settled in yet. Ah, here's Kiran.”

Kiran had appeared at the top of the stairs in her pajamas. She looked anything but pleased to see us.

“Your friends want to know if you'd like to walk to school with them.” Mrs. Kohli scooped up the baby with one hand and the toddler with the other. “Excuse me, girls. I must make breakfast. Why don't you go into the living room while Kiran gets dressed?”

“Don't bother,” Kiran said rudely when her mum had gone off to the kitchen. “I don't need you to police my every move.”

“We're just here to walk to school with you,” I said cheerfully.

“You can't stop me running off if I want to,” snapped Kiran.

“Yes, we can,” Jazz chimed in. “There's three of us and only one of you.”

She dived behind Geena as Kiran thumped down the stairs toward us.

Kiran
almost
smiled. “I was going to come today anyway,” she muttered. “So you don't have to wait for me.”

“Well, we're here now,” I said. “There's no point in leaving.”

We sat down in the living room while Kiran went to get dressed. It was rather depressing. The walls needed painting and there was no carpet on the bare boards, although there were paint pots and brushes in the corner, as well as some carpet samples.

“Hello,” I said to the girl and boy who were watching TV—they seemed about five and seven years old. They looked at me as if I was mad, and didn't answer.

“Mrs. Kohli seems rushed off her feet,” I remarked.

“Kiran probably has to help out quite a bit,” said Geena. “I had to do that when you and Jazz were kids.”

“Oh, yes,” Jazz sniffed, “I do seem to remember that you bossed us around a lot.”

The door opened. The baby waddled in and proceeded to climb onto Geena's lap. He or she (I couldn't quite tell) was followed by a large, hairy dog who wanted to climb onto Jazz.

“Help!” Jazz wailed, trying to push him away.

“No, help me,” Geena said urgently, holding out the baby, who'd just started to bawl. “I think this nappy needs changing.”

Kiran came into the room. “Sharukh, sit!” she said briskly.

The dog got off the sofa and lay quietly at our feet. Meanwhile, Kiran took the baby and, under our fascinated gaze, whisked the dirty nappy off, cleaned him up and put a fresh one on. All this was done gently but with great efficiency. Then she disappeared to the kitchen to wash her hands.

“Well!” said Geena. “She's full of surprises, isn't she?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

We said goodbye to Mrs. Kohli and to the kids, who again took no notice, and left with Kiran.

“You've got a lot of brothers and sisters,” said Jazz. “How do you cope? I find Geena and Amber a complete nightmare.”

“How amusing you are,” I cut in. “I think you'll find it's Geena and I who struggle to cope.”

“It's a terrible trial being the eldest, isn't it?” Geena said to Kiran. “Everyone expects you to be sensible and practical and helpful.”

“I don't mind,” Kiran muttered. But she did look miserable. She was slouching along with her head down, hands in her pockets. And she looked tired, with great black rings under her eyes.

“Does the baby keep you awake much at night?” I asked sympathetically.

“Well, that's what babies do,” Kiran replied with a shrug. “Anyway, I'm all right. Everything's OK.” But her shoulders drooped more than ever.

“Look, if you want to talk to someone,” I went on,

“Mr. Arora's very good. And Mr. Hernandez may seem like a psychopath, but he's great too—”

“Can you please not be nice to me,” Kiran interrupted in a stifled voice. “I can't handle it right now.”

She strode off toward the school gates, leaving us feeling worse than if we'd been nasty to her.

“Shall I go after her?” I asked doubtfully. But at precisely that minute, as if by magic, George Botley appeared from a shop doorway.

“Hey, Amber,” he said.

“Hello,” I said coolly, remembering his disparaging remarks about Rocky the day before. “What are you doing lurking around there?”

“I wasn't lurking,” George said defensively. “I was tying my shoelaces.”

“You were lurking,” I stated firmly.

Geena and Jazz were giggling like drains.

“Can I carry your bag?” George asked, which sent Geena and Jazz into overdrive.

“No, you can't,” I said sternly, although secretly I was quite pleased. “You'd probably chuck it in the school pond or something.”

“Ah, that was the old George.” George grinned at me, showing quite nice white even teeth. “This is the new, improved version.”

“Well, you'll have to improve a bit more before I let you carry
my
bag,” I replied, and flounced off.

“It looks like George still has a thing for you, Amber,” Geena said gleefully, following me into the

playground. “Maybe you should concentrate on him and let me and Jazz fight it out for Rocky.”

“No chance,” I snapped. “I'm going to grind you two into the dust.”

Geena and Jazz both laughed derisively and went off to join their own mates. Meanwhile, I wandered across the playground to sit on the wall outside the canteen. I must admit, George's show of devotion had given me a bit of a boost, even though I wasn't interested in him. No,
really.