Brick Lane (85 page)

She stood by Shahana's desk. A cracked mug bearing a picture of a thatch-roofed cottage and a mouse in trousers leaning on the gatepost. It was a picture of England. Roses around the door. Nazneen had never seen this England but now, idly, the idea formed that she would visit it. The mug held pens, a gnawed ruler, hair slides and two lipsticks. Nazneen pulled the lid off a lipstick and it gave way with a satisfying pop. On the back of her hand, the colour showed like dried blood. She saw Shahana's pink mouth turn to black.

She recapped the lipstick and put it back in the mug. There was a lot to be done. It would look best, she had decided, if most of the packing was finished by this evening. Or Chanu would find a way to make her change her mind. The children were distorted with anxiety, but she could not help it. Not yet. When they left for school – for the last time, as far as they knew – Shahana had stamped on her foot. 'Be careful,' said Nazneen, swallowing a scream.

'I hope it's broken,' said Shahana. She cracked her thumb joint.

Bibi ducked away, and dodged a kiss. She did her own plaits before Nazneen had even risen. They were tight and straight and without need of a mother's hands.

Nazneen worked quickly. The clothes went into the suitcases with room to spare. The gaps made everything more unhappy and she rearranged until they disappeared. Then she fished the books from beneath the desks and piled them into boxes. How little time it took. Nazneen left the room without looking round.

The rest of the packing could wait a while. There was something she had to do now. The sitting room was half packed. The computer sat inside an old nappy box. A pink and white baby reached its little fist out from the side. Brown cardboard boxes, full of Chanu's papers and files, were stacked up on the trolley. The door of the corner cabinet was open and the only thing inside was yellowing newspaper, lining the shelves. What had been in there? When was the last time she had opened it? Inside the glass showcase the pottery tigers, lions and elephants still roamed freely, hampered only by dust and lack of will. The shelves had been cleared of books. Only the Qur'an floated above on its special ledge. Nazneen went to the trolley and opened up one of the brown boxes. She searched through, looking for Chanu's address book. She knew the name of the street where Mrs Islam lived. She knew the house by sight, but she did not know the number.

For some reason, it was impossible to go out on her mission without arming herself with this knowledge. She wished she had something else to take with her. A piece of paper, a letter with official stamps and powerfully illegible signatures, an amulet to hang around her neck. She felt the letter at her hip, and removed it to the table. Then she lifted a corner of the sewing machine and slipped it beneath the flat metal.

There was somebody at the door. Nazneen touched her hair: the temples, across the forehead, the crown and the bun at her nape. She went to the hallway and caught the cloying smell of medicine and the high lift of mints.

'I was on my way to see you,' Nazneen told Mrs Islam.

It was impossible for Mrs Islam's face to register surprise. Her eyebrows lifted but they could say nothing more than 'I disapprove'.

'Indeed?' Mrs Islam rolled into the hallway, massaging the top of her thigh. Two wide shapes swung into view and overlapped in the doorway, like a pair of ill-fitting double doors. 'What are you dawdling around there for? Get along now, for the love of God.' She didn't bother to look over her shoulder. Her sons walked behind her, one toting the black bag, the other clutching a can of Ralgex Heat Spray.

Nazneen went to make tea. All but two of the mugs were packed. While the kettle boiled she pinched the air out of bubbles in the plastic wrapping.

When she returned to the sitting room Mrs Islam was lying on the sofa, feet on one armrest, head on the other.

'Not long now.' Her voice was small but still sharp around the edges.

'Tomorrow,' said Nazneen.

'Tomorrow?' snapped Mrs Islam. 'I don't have long, but I can assure you I will live out this day and the next.' She snorted. 'God willing,' she added.

'What I thought you meant. . .'

'Yes, yes. What you thought I meant. I know. But how is it that young people these days never listen to their elders?'

Son Number One and Son Number Two stood behind the sofa. Son Number One wore a round-necked peach jumper and a collar of chest hair. The distance between his nostrils and his upper lip was unusually small. As a result he appeared constantly offended. He looked like he was making up insults. And failing. By contrast, his brother looked like a genius. He had a politician's face: alert, eager, sensitive, cunning. His eyes twinkled with a love of his fellow man, and his mouth was a cast of sympathy. How galling it must be for Mrs Islam. How often did she look at Son Number Two, let hope triumph over experience, and expect from him what his face so patently promised?

Mrs Islam regarded her sons. She closed her eyes.

Nazneen poured tea.

Upstairs the television was on. An audience applauded. Two faint pings, some mumbling, more applause.

'I have brought something for the girls,' said Mrs Islam. She opened her eyes and fluttered her hand at Son Number One.

Son Number One opened the big black bag. 'They're here.' He closed the bag.

His mother mouthed some terrible and soundless curse. She pushed her hand against her forehead.

'Make her give the money first.' Son Number One's mouth appeared to brush his nose as he spoke.

'Idiot! Stupid! Imbecile!' Mrs Islam blew the words from her mouth like poison darts. 'First you must get a brain,
then
you can use it.' She began to cough. Each cough lifted her feet off the armrest.

Son Number One looked straight ahead, his face immobile as his brain.

Son Number Two seized the medicine bag. He fished out two little brown-glass bottles with white prescription labels. Mrs Islam took the pills and chewed them slowly. Her teeth clacked together. She washed down the bitter powders with a swig of Benylin Chesty Coughs.

'The girls,' she said to Son Number Two.

Son Number Two drew two sets of ankle bells from his mother's bag. He shook them next to one ear and then the other.

Mrs Islam gave him a look.

'Just a small thing. A gift between friends.' She spoke in short gasps and held her chest as though that would stop it heaving. 'How are the girls? Don't tell me. They don't want to go. I know how it is. Giving you plenty of worry. And it never stops.' She gave birth to a long-gestated sigh. 'Believe me, it never stops.'

Nazneen said, 'I was coming to see you.'

But Mrs Islam was still circling her own thought. Her hair was coming loose as it rubbed on the sofa. It was tied in a loose white bundle. The hair looked so dry it was a wonder it did not simply crumble.

'You'll miss the march, then,' said Son Number Two. He turned his intelligent face to Nazneen.

'Yes. The flight is later, but yes.' Nazneen looked around. 'So much to do.'

'We'll be there,' said Son Number One. 'It's going to be good.'

'I reckon,' said Son Number Two. He wagged his finger and looked sure to produce some insight of stunning acuity. 'It's going to be a laugh.'

'Laugh? I'll tell you what's funny.' Mrs Islam lifted her head and propped herself on her elbows. 'All our boys going around, march, march, march. They have nothing better to do. Who is going to go and march against them? One or two troublemakers sticking dirty leaflets through our door. Why not catch them and give them a good once-for-all beating? Why go to all this bother, march, march, march. I will tell you something now.' She paused a while. 'I will tell you something. Not more than ten white people will turn up tomorrow. Not more than ten.'

She rested her head again. Nazneen could hear her breathe. Each breath came so unwillingly, how many more could come? How brave it will be, thought Nazneen, to stand up to this dying woman.

'I'll tell you something else,' said Mrs Islam, speaking to the ceiling. 'The rest will not come because they are too busy. When there is money to be made, why should they care about anything else? No. They will not come because they are not afraid. They have no respect for us. How can they fear us?'

She began to rub her hip and Son Number Two, proving no slouch, handed her the Ralgex. Mrs Islam sprayed her sari indiscriminately.