Bindi Babes (11 page)

“Why not?” I argued.

“I suppose she
is
quite pretty,” Jazz said grudgingly.

“Whoever marries Auntie is going to be our uncle,” I reminded them. “Do you really want someone with a wooden leg or a sad specimen who collects bus tickets?”

Geena nodded. “That's true.”

“Can you imagine how jealous all the girls would be if Mr. Arora was our uncle?” Jazz added, beginning to warm to the idea. “We could sell photos of him and locks of his hair and stuff.”

Geena and I did not reply.

“Oh, all right,” Jazz muttered. “It was just an
idea
.”

“Right,” I said. “We're going to have to do our best to get them together.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that?” Jazz asked.

Geena looked encouragingly at me. “Yes, Amber, how?”

That was a question, all right. I had absolutely no idea. “Why do you always expect
me
to come up with all the answers?” I blustered.

Jazz turned to Geena. “She's got absolutely no idea,” she said in disgust.

“Oh, really, Amber!” Geena snapped. “You'll have to do better than this.”

I gritted my teeth. “When's the next parents' evening?”

“When we get our reports,” Jazz replied.

That was at least five months away. Five months of Auntie interfering and making us cook and stopping Dad from buying us stuff and sending us to bed early. No human being alive could be expected to put up with that.

“All right,” I muttered. “I'll think about it.” I eye-balled my sisters sternly. “We'll
all
think about it. There must be a way.”

Brave words. They haunted me for the rest of the day. It was all I could think of. Luckily, we had the student teacher, Mademoiselle Véronique, for double French after break, and she was too busy trying to stop George Botley looking up rude words in the dictionary to notice that I didn't do much work. At lunchtime I met Geena and Jazz in the drama studio to paint backdrops for the special assembly. Geena's best idea was this: we wait until Mr. Arora is on break duty, then Geena pretends to be ill and faints. A phone call brings Auntie rushing to the school, and she and Mr. Arora meet for the first time.

I accused Geena of hoping that Mr. Arora would pick her up and carry her in his strong arms to the school office. Geena said, what was wrong with that? I then added that it was a much better idea if
I
fainted, as I was in his class and had plenty of time to choose my moment. But Geena was hovering menacingly over me with a paintbrush, so I decided to let her have her way—this time.

Nothing had come to me by the end of the day, but I wasn't giving up. Not when we walked out of school at four o'clock and saw Dad waiting outside in the car.

“Look, your dad's here,” said Kim, the queen of stating the obvious. She was trailing along with us, determined not to be left behind.

Geena looked twitchy. “Why? What for?”

“It'll be something to do with Hitler in a sari,” I muttered. “You can bet your bottom dollar.”

“I can't cope with Dad turning up unexpectedly all the time,” Jazz said in an agitated voice. “I'm not used to it.”

Dad was fidgeting in the driver's seat. He looked massively uncomfortable. “Hi, girls,” he said awkwardly. We looked at him with raised eyebrows and he cleared his throat. “Er—your auntie called me at work and asked me to pick you up,” he stammered. “She wants us to have a nice family dinner tonight.”

Geena snorted in disgust. “Dad, do you actually
like
her interfering all the time?” she demanded, a bit recklessly.

Dad tried to look stern and failed badly. “She's just trying to help, that's all,” he said lamely. “Oh, and you're to bring any of your friends who want to come.”

Geena, Jazz and I immediately glanced over our shoulders to check that none of our mates had overheard.

“Thanks, I'd love to,” Kim said in a pleased voice.

“No,” I said. “You don't want to do that.”

“Oh, I do,” Kim assured me.

“Kim.” I said her name so savagely, every letter was one beat long. “You don't
really
want to come,
do you
?”

“Yes, please,” Kim said cheerfully.

“I'll talk to you later,” I said under my breath as we got into the car.

Kim sagged, looking a bit worried, but it didn't stop her getting in too.

As Dad drove home, I daydreamed in the back of the car. A wedding. Auntie in red and gold with rows of tinkling bangles on her wrists, hands patterned with henna. Mr. Arora in a white suit and a dashing pink turban. Singing and dancing and feasting. And then the bride leaves home and I get my bedroom back and everything goes on exactly as it did before she arrived… .

“What happened to Ma Macey?” Geena asked, as we drew up outside our house.

We peered out of the car windows. There was a trowel, some clippers, a pair of gardening gloves and
a black bag half full of weeds in her front garden. But there was no sign of the other old bag.

“Maybe the paperboy murdered her and buried her in her own front garden,” I suggested.

“She'll probably rise again and haunt us forever,” Jazz added. She put her hands out in front of her and intoned in a zombielike voice, “
Why don't you all go back to where you came from?”

“
Girls
,” Dad said halfheartedly.

Geena unlocked the front door. We heard voices as she swung it open.

“No,” Geena whispered, her eyes out on stalks. “Not even Auntie would go that far.”

“She wouldn't,” I breathed.

But she would and she had. There was Auntie in the kitchen, holding the kettle and smiling a cheerful welcome. And there, perched on a chair and looking as uncomfortable as if she was sitting on a spike, was Mrs. Macey.

Jazz made a kind of shocked gurgling noise. Geena and I stared. Dad looked stunned.

“Hello, everyone,” Auntie said casually. “How was school? Gloria's just popped in for a cup of coffee.”

Gloria?
Oh no. This would never do.

Mrs. Macey shuffled around in her seat. She couldn't quite meet my eyes, and I guessed that she was remembering the last time we'd met.

“And who's this?” Auntie turned to Kim.

“This is Kim,” I told the traitor crossly. How dare she invite Mrs. Macey into
our
house?

“Hello, Kim,” Auntie said. “Would you like a cup of coffee? You're quite safe, it's Nescafé.” She turned to smile at Mrs. Macey. “Gloria thought I was going to poison her with some strange brand of Indian coffee.”

Mrs. Macey looked positively on fire with embarrassment. She cleared her throat. “I must be going,” she muttered. “Thank you for the coffee—er—Susie.”

“Anytime,” Auntie said with a wave of her hand.

“I'll see you out,” Dad added.

Mrs. Macey did her best not to look amazed that Indian men could have good manners. Mumbling goodbyes, she scuttled from the kitchen toward the front door.

I consulted Geena with a glance, my eyebrows raised. She nodded. Auntie had come from India. She didn't know that sometimes things could be difficult here. It was time she was told.

“You know Mrs. Macey doesn't like us, Auntie,” Geena said pointedly.

“Yes,” Auntie agreed, filling the kettle. “That's why I invited her. I thought it was time we got to know each other.”

I cast up my eyes. “She doesn't like us because we're Indian,” I said.

“I know,” Auntie replied calmly.

“You
know
?” Jazz roared.

“So why are you being nice to her?” I demanded.

Auntie shrugged. “Because now Mrs. Macey feels bad for not liking us when we've been good to her.” She smiled. “Maybe now she'll change her mind.”

“Oh no, I don't think so,” Geena said icily. “Mrs. Macey will just turn into one of those people who says,
Well, I don't like Pakis, but you're all right because I know you
.”

“Yes,” said Auntie thoughtfully. “But if she doesn't hate all of us, at least it's a start.”

I remembered Mrs. Macey muttering that we were all the same, and I wondered if Auntie was right. Just in time, I caught myself. Eek. For a minute there I'd nearly given Auntie some
credit
. Scary.

“I think that's a good idea,” Kim said.

As one we turned to stare at her. Kim didn't voice opinions. She didn't
have
opinions. Or she'd never had them before, at least.

“Good.” Auntie smiled at her. “Kim, you come and help me make the pizzas, and we'll have a little chat. Amber, Geena and Jazz can lay the table.”

I didn't like leaving Kim alone with Auntie, but I didn't have any choice. Every time I went into the kitchen to collect cutlery or plates or salad dressing, Kim and Auntie had their heads together over the pizza bases. One time they were laughing uproariously. Another time they were talking about Kim's mum. And once they were talking in lowered voices and I couldn't hear what they were saying. I began to feel seriously uneasy.

Dad was hanging around the living room, getting in our way as we laid the table. He looked jittery and jumpy, as if he'd rather be a million miles away.
He'd spent more time in the house over the last few weeks than he'd done for the whole year since Mum. I wondered what Auntie had been saying to him. Had she been nagging him the way she nagged us? Was he getting as fed up with her as we were? I really hoped so.

The pizzas were made, and they smelled delicious. I had to give it to Auntie: she was a great cook. We all gathered round the table, mouths watering.

“Save the piece with the burned cheese for me,” I ordered. “I like it like that.”

I went back into the kitchen to collect the last pizza. Auntie was just lifting it out of the oven. She slid it onto a plate and turned to face me.

“Tell me, Amber,” she said softly. “Why is Kim so unhappy?”

My jaw dropped. Of all the things she could have said, I wasn't expecting that. “She's not unhappy,” I said.
Here she goes again, interfering in something she knows nothing about.
“She's just—Kim.”

“You should speak to her.” Auntie glanced sideways at me to test my reaction. “If people are unhappy about something, it's better to talk about things than hide them away inside.”

No one could ever accuse her of being subtle. Well, I could walk all over someone else's feelings too, no problem.

“Why didn't my mother like you?” I asked abruptly.

She wasn't expecting
that
. Her face changed and her eyes dropped. For once, I'd completely floored her.

“Here.” She held out the plate to me, visibly pulling herself together. “Just remember what I've said, won't you?”

“Not if I can help it,” I said under my breath as I walked out. Didn't she realize that the only thing we were unhappy about was
her?

We might have ended up murdering Auntie and burying her in
our
back garden if I hadn't had my next brilliant idea. Everything fell into place the next morning. We were in class waiting for Mr. Arora to arrive for registration.

“So, Kim,” I said for the eighth time. “What were you and Auntie talking about in the kitchen last night?”

Kim's eyes became vague. “Oh, just stuff,” she said feebly, for the eighth time. I gave up and turned my back on her to talk to Chelsea and Sharelle. They were perched on our table, giggling.

“Who did
that?”
I moaned, as a loud, rip-roaring raspberry sounded around the classroom.

“It's Botley,” said Sharelle. “He's got one of those remote control fart machines hidden in his bag.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “How original.”

Mr. Arora swept into the room, eyes darting here and there. I wondered if Botley would be stupid enough to use the machine during registration. I don't know why
I even wondered. At the exact moment Mr. Arora's bottom made contact with his chair, a loud noise reverberated around the room. No one dared to laugh.

“Botley,” said Mr. Arora in a dangerous voice, “bring that thing to me immediately.”

“How did you know it was me, sir?” George asked foolishly.

“Just a wild guess,” Mr. Arora snapped.

“I was only trying to cheer everyone up, sir,” George protested, shambling out to the front of the class with the machine in his hand. “You know, with the inspectors coming next week and everything.”