Bindi Babes (9 page)

“A
n
arranged
marriage?” Geena stared at me. I nodded.

“Arranged by
us
?” Jazz's eyes were round as dinner plates.

I nodded again. “We find a husband for Auntie, get her married off and get rid of her. It's perfect.”

Geena and Jazz didn't seem to think so. They were looking distinctly doubtful.

“We've got to find someone who'll have her, first,” Jazz pointed out.

“
That
won't be easy,” Geena remarked.

“If anyone's got a better idea,” I snapped, “just say so.”

There was silence.

“So it's agreed then,” I went on. “We look for someone daft enough to marry Auntie.”

“Exactly
how
are we going to do that?” Geena asked. “Stop suitable husbands in the street, and beg them to propose?”

“We could put an ad in the newspaper,” Jazz suggested. “
Wanted: one man daft enough to marry a bossy, interfering aunt
.”

“We could hold a raffle,” Geena added. “The winner gets Auntie.”

“Or the loser,” Jazz said, and they both giggled.

“Oh, behave,” I said. “I thought we'd try Mrs. Dhaliwal.”

Mrs. Dhaliwal lived a few streets away, and her mission in life was to get people married off. She always carried a huge file, which was full of the photos and personal details of people who were looking for husbands and wives, and she'd show it around at every possible opportunity. Mrs. D could smell an unmarried person a mile off. In fact, I was surprised she hadn't homed in on Auntie already.

“And what do we say to her?” Jazz asked.

“Nothing much,” I replied. “We just get her to come round for tea: she'll bring her file because she always does, and then we're away.”

“It can't possibly be that simple,” Jazz said doubtfully.

And, of course, it wasn't.

The first thing we had to do was get our hands on Mrs. Dhaliwal. Even though she only lived a couple of streets away, she was really hard to pin down because she was second only to Auntie in the interfering stakes. If she wasn't in the minimarket telling Mr. Attwal how to arrange his shelves, then she was visiting all the Indian families in the area, trying to arrange marriages. We didn't want to knock on her door and just invite her over, because that would have looked too suspicious. And anyway, she was never in.

It took us four days of hanging around and stalking Mrs. Dhaliwal's family to find out her movements, and by the end of it we were three nervous wrecks. It was another bad week, too. At school, a stressed-out Ms. Woods threw a fit and announced that the assembly would not be taking place. Rumor had it that Mr. Grimwade had to get down on his bended knees to get her to change her mind. At home, Auntie was sweeping through the place like a tornado, destroying everything in her path. She was really going for the unpopularity vote.

One night Geena had had a standup row with Auntie over the time she'd got back from a mate's house and had then got into trouble with Dad too when Auntie snitched on her. Geena was prepared to murder her, and Jazz and I were quite ready to help with the disposal of the body. These were desperate times.

“Here comes Mrs. D,” Geena whispered.

We popped out from behind our hedge. We were on our way to school, but we'd been hiding there for the last ten minutes, waiting for Mrs. Dhaliwal to come along. We'd discovered that she'd just started a part-time job in the local library. It hadn't been easy finding out which shifts she worked, but we'd managed it, thanks to Geena chatting up Mrs. D's son.

Mrs. Dhaliwal was walking briskly along the road, her green sari swishing around her ankles. She was tall and square, and she wore her hair up in a fat bun, like a cottage loaf. Jazz said she had antennae hidden under there that beamed in on people who weren't married.

“Hello, girls,” Mrs. Dhaliwal beamed. “On your way to school?”

We smiled and nodded.

“I hear your aunt's staying with you,” she went on eagerly.

I swear I saw that huge bun of hair twitch.

“Yes, she is,” Jazz agreed.

“And your father tells me she's not married yet,” Mrs. Dhaliwal went on. She smiled widely, a cat preparing to pounce on a mouse.

“No, she isn't,” I said. “And she'd
love
to meet you.”

“Why don't you pop round and say hello to Auntie?” Geena suggested.

“I'll do that,” Mrs. Dhaliwal said. There was a faraway look in her eyes, and I guessed that she was running through her file of possible candidates. With any
luck, she'd find the perfect match. Then our troubles would be over.

“Yes!” Jazz said with satisfaction, as Mrs. Dhaliwal went on her way. “Auntie won't know what's hit her.”

“Amber, wait for me!” Kim was rushing down the street toward us.

“How's things?” she asked. “Is your auntie still getting on your nerves?”

“Is the grass green?” replied Geena.

“But we've got a plan to get rid of her,” Jazz added. “We're going to find her a husband.”

Kim looked confused as she took that in. “But what if she doesn”t want to get married?”

“Of course she does,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “She probably just hasn't found anyone dumb enough to marry her yet.”

“But you can't
make
her get married if she doesn't want to—” Kim began.

“Indian girls get married, Kim,” I said impatiently. “It's what they
do
. Everyone expects it.”

“Sarika Sharma didn't,” Geena remarked. “You know, my friend Kamini's sister? She's got that amazing job with Microsoft, and a posh penthouse in Canary Wharf.”

“And what about Razia Khan?” Jazz said. “She's a lawyer, and
she's
not married.”

“All right,” I retorted. “So they haven't got married
yet
. But they probably will. We're just hurrying Auntie
up a bit, that's all.” I played my ace card. “And if no one's got a better idea …”

Nobody had.

As the inspectors' visit drew nearer, panicking had become a daily activity at school. I honestly don't know how the teachers would have managed without us three. We spent every lunchtime helping Ms. Woods design and paint the backdrops for the assembly. And calming her down each time she got upset, which was often. I didn't do PE that afternoon. Instead I spent the lesson helping Mr. Arora to tidy up the lower-school maths cupboard, just in case the inspectors inspected it. Geena was outside the school office, painting a mural on the wall that said WELCOME in about forty different languages. It covered up the cracks really well. Meanwhile, Mr. Grimwade had Jazz going round the lower school for most of the afternoon, delivering messages and threats about the coming visit.

“They should let the three of
us
run the school,” I said, as we walked home that afternoon. “Then there'd be no problems.”

“True,” Geena agreed.

Jazz was staring down the street at the minimarket, which was just ahead of us. “I think I'm seeing
things,” she said in a dazed voice. “What's Mr. Attwal doing?”

It was all very strange. Mr. Attwal was sitting outside the shop on a chair. He did that sometimes if the weather was fine and sunny, as it was today. He could pounce on passersby and lure them into conversation more easily then. But today Mr. Attwal was reading some kind of leaflet or pamphlet. What it was, we couldn't see from here. But it was so interesting, he never once raised his head. Not even when a load of schoolboys went into the shop, one after the other.

“What's going on?” Jazz wanted to know.

We were all quite curious. We went up to Mr. Attwal and stood in front of him. Eventually he looked up, but only because we were casting a shadow across him.

He blinked. “Hello, girls.”

“What are you reading?” Geena asked. But we could see what the leaflet was.
Want to learn about computers? Want to learn a language? Fulfill your potential with our CORRESPONDENCE COURSES!
There was a large pile of similar leaflets beside him.

Mr. Attwal's round face lit up. “I'm going back to school,” he said triumphantly. “Well, not really. I still have to look after the shop. But that's why a correspondence course is perfect for me.”

“What are you going to learn?” Geena asked.

He shrugged. “There are so many things. Book-
keeping, computers, engineering, languages. I haven't made my mind up yet.”

“That's great,” I said, meaning it. It certainly solved the problem of him boring all his customers to death. But I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't thought of it years ago.

“Actually, it was your auntie who gave me the idea,” Mr. Attwal said happily.

“
Auntie?
” I repeated.

“Yes, she came into the shop and we got talking, and she said what about a correspondence course?” Mr. Attwal went on. “So I left my wife looking after the shop, went to the library and got these leaflets. Your auntie's a very clever lady.”

Clever wasn't the word I was thinking of.

“Now I can be whatever I want to be,” Mr. Attwal said. His eyes were dreamy.

We walked on. We were stunned.

“I don't believe it,” I muttered. “Now she's interfering in the neighbors' lives as well as ours.”

“She's so
nosy
,” Jazz said. “Why can't she mind her own business?”

“Because she just has to interfere, wherever she goes,” Geena snapped. “She's a professional nosy parker.”

We were furious. None of us wanted to point out that maybe it was a good thing for Mr. Attwal and his customers that Auntie had interfered. She shouldn't have interfered
at all
.

“She's obviously not satisfied with running
our
lives,” I said moodily. I walked along the gutter, kicking an empty Coke can. “She's branching out into the whole community.”

“Amber, look out!” Geena grabbed my arm and hauled me onto the pavement. A millisecond later the paperboy cycled past like a demon. He was grinning all over his face.

“I'm going to
kill
him,” I said through my teeth. I was totally fed up, and someone was going to suffer. The paperboy seemed like the perfect victim.

I threw my bag at Geena and raced after him. He hurled the evening newspaper first into our porch, and then into Mrs. Macey's. But before I could even get near him, he stood up on the pedals and cycled off.

Suddenly, Mrs. Macey's front door flew open. She stood there, red in the face, and she shook her fist at the paperboy's back. I've never actually
seen
anyone do that before.

Then she noticed me panting at our gate. She glared at me, muttered something about us all being the same, went back in and slammed the door.

“Miserable old bag,” I muttered. It was obvious what she meant, about us all being the same. Obvious, because the paperboy was black.

Geena and Jazz joined me.

“What is her problem?” Jazz asked.

I shrugged. It wasn't worth worrying about. We'd always suspected Mrs. Macey didn't like us because we were Indian. Now we knew for certain.

When we let ourselves into the house, we could hear voices from the living room. Auntie and Mrs. Dhaliwal. Already. We hadn't expected things to move quite so fast.

Mrs. Dhaliwal was sitting comfortably on the sofa. She had a cup of tea in one hand, and a biscuit in the other. Her file of marriage partners lay on her knees.

“We've been waiting for you, girls,” Auntie declared easily. She didn't look cross or upset. If anything, she looked pink-cheeked and pleased. My heart lifted. Maybe she really did want to get married after all. Oh, this was going to be so easy.

We each got a cup of tea and sat down. I wasn't quite sure how to bring up the subject of husbands. But as it turned out, I didn't need to.

“Right, shall we get started then?” Mrs. Dhaliwal asked eagerly.

“Yes, let's,” Auntie agreed, looking just as enthusiastic.

I grinned at Geena and Jazz. None of us could believe it was going so well.

“What about your brother, though?” Mrs. Dhaliwal frowned at Auntie. “Shouldn't we wait until he comes home?”

I pulled a face at Geena and Jazz.

“Oh, I don't think so.” Auntie glanced at us, as if she was looking for our support. “We're all modern, liberated women here. I'm sure my brother will back any decision we make.”