She Wore Red Trainers (8 page)

I knew that plenty of the guys I went to school with would be taking a gap year after our A levels. It was almost an obligatory rite of passage. But those guys had parents who could afford to indulge them and would be totally cool about paying thousands of pounds for their kids to go backpacking in India or something.

That is not my dad.

Dad is the kind of father who will look through the uni prospectus before you do and put a star next to the courses he is prepared to pay for. According to him, my options were Law, Engineering, Computer Science, Economics and anything in the medical department.

I made a big show of collecting the plates and taking them to the kitchen. As I passed him on my way to the kitchen, Dad put his hand out and touched my arm. I looked down at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. It wasn't easy.

‘Son,' he said, ‘I've been on this earth a long time and I know when someone is trying to avoid an issue. So I suggest you put those plates in the kitchen and come and sit yourself down and tell me what is really on your mind.'

I swallowed and nodded. ‘Sure, Dad. Just give me a minute.'

While in the kitchen, I mentally prepared what I was going to say,
Dad, I would like to take a gap year to consider my options in light of our new circumstances
. No mention of not being sure about studying Law. No mention about not
being sure about what I want to do with my life. No mention of the fact that I felt the boys needed me at home because Dad was just too wrapped up in his own problems to really be there for them.

When I was sitting in front of him in the living room, facing his armchair, my delivery was smooth and even. But he didn't buy it. He peered at me over his glasses, a suspicious expression on his face.

‘What do you mean “in light of our new circumstances”?'

I squirmed in my seat.
Please, Dad, don't make me do this
.

‘Are you talking about the move, son?'

That was an easy exit so I nodded vigorously.

‘Well, I don't see why that should make you change your plans. We already looked at the possibility of you living in halls of residence anyway…'

I bit my lip. ‘That's not it, Dad…' I faltered. ‘It's just that… with Mum being gone…and Umar… J…'

Dad looked at me sharply. ‘What's that got to do with it?'

I became exasperated then. Why was he pretending that he didn't know what I was talking about? ‘Dad!' I raised my voice, just slightly, just enough to let him know that I didn't want to play this game of Let's Pretend Mum's Still Here. Not anymore. ‘Dad, Mum's dead. And I just don't think I could cope with studying Law right now. Plus it wouldn't feel right to go off to uni and leave you all…'

‘Ali, you don't have to worry about us, we're fine!'

‘Dad, please! Don't talk as if Mum's death hasn't affected us. Umar is angry, J is confused and I… I…' I tried to keep my voice level. ‘I'm still hurting, Dad. I'm still grieving. Can't you understand that?'

But Dad's face remained a mask. ‘Son, life goes on – we belong to Allah and we will return to Him, all of us. Your mother – may Allah have mercy on her – would have wanted you to continue with your studies and that is what you will do. You're so close now; I won't have you giving up.'

‘But, Dad…'

No buts, Ali! I have said my piece. If you can't make sensible decisions, you will have to allow others to make them for you; it's as simple as that.'

‘So that's it then, is it?' I flared again. ‘You aren't even going to take my opinion into account?'

‘Son, one day you will thank me for this. Remember, I am your father: no one wants more for you than I do.'

‘Not even me?'

‘That's right, son, not even you.'

***

I had to get out of that house. I pushed my feet into my running shoes and grabbed my iPod. I needed to run, to feel the wind in my face, to flood my ears with Mishari Rashid, to let the rhythm of running calm my jangled nerves.

When I got to the gate at the bottom of our road, I turned left, towards Brockwell Park, where I played basketball with the brothers. As I ran, I tried to empty my head. I didn't want to think about my conversation with Dad. I didn't want to think about the prospect of going off to uni to bury myself in legal textbooks, of leaving Umar and Jamal. I didn't want to think about how my whole attitude to everything had changed. What would Mum have thought? I guess that is a
mercy for the dead: they don't have to watch the living falling apart as they grieve.

By the time I reached the top of the hill, it was starting to get dark. I prayed three
raka'at
under an enormous oak tree then began to jog back home.

Reaching our street, I keyed in the code to open the gate and began to walk up the hill. It wasn't bad at all, this place. Seville Close was clean, the gardens well kept and all the houses were in good condition: respectable.

As I looked back down the road before heading for our front door, I could just make out the figure of a girl walking up to the last house on the close. She was wearing a hijab and black
abaya
and, just before she turned into a driveway, I caught a glimpse of her face. My heart did a little flip. That was Zayd's sister, I was sure of it.

Then the realisation dawned on me: Zayd and his sister were my new neighbours.

14

It was him, I knew it. I would have recognised him anywhere. What was he doing on our street? Then, I remembered the moving van I had seen parked by number 7 and everything fell into place.

Mr Light Eyes was my neighbour.

Instinctively, I looked over at the sketch I had propped up on my desk, still piled high with A level textbooks, the sketch of his hands that I had drawn off by heart, literally.

Too close
, I thought.
Too close for comfort
.

But, to my frustration, that thought didn't stop me dreaming about him that night.

***

I don't know how many times I fell asleep as the double-decker bus crawled along the High Road, choked with Monday morning traffic.

Four of us – Abdullah, Taymeeyah, Malik and I – were on our way to the Islamic centre in Streatham. The community had finally got itself together and put on a summer programme for the kids and I wasn't wasting any time: those kids were
going to be the first to sign up for summer school.

Don't get me wrong now. It's not that I didn't enjoy the rugrats' company; it's just that I wanted them to get out more. It wasn't healthy, staying indoors all day, only playing with each other, fighting over the computer. I'd always wanted them to get out more – especially Abdullah. Abdullah, my sweet, loving, tender-hearted brother who was born deaf, needed this more than any of them. He needed to be around other kids his own age. And they needed to be around him, to get to know him, to learn that the fact someone can't hear you doesn't mean that they can't understand you, that they can't be your friend. Abdullah needed to get out there and so did the other two. It was breaking my heart to see them preferring computer games and TV to reading books and playing outside. Even their Qur'an and Islamic Studies had taken a back seat to those games, something Mum was always ranting on about. I told her to just take away the computer, let them go cold turkey, but she just looked at me like I'd gone crazy.

‘Then what will we do with them?' she wanted to know. ‘They're driving me crazy as it is.'

So I knew exactly what kind of summer holiday they could look forward to, especially with Mum in her
iddah
and on anti-depressants again. I overheard her talking on the phone to one of the sisters, Umm Laila, saying something about him not coming back, about needing to move on. But the waiting period after a divorce is three months and a lot can happen in that time. I walked away then. No way was I getting pulled into any of that drama.

All of which had made me even more determined to get my brothers and sisters into that summer school. I didn't want
them soaking up all the bad vibes in the house.

‘You guys excited?' I said brightly as we walked towards the Islamic centre. Abdullah was walking in front of us and I held Malik and Taymeeyah's hands.

‘Stop sucking your thumb, Tay,' I said, nudging her with my elbow. She grinned up at me, flashing her big gap.

‘But it tastes so
good
!' she giggled, batting her eyelashes at me.

‘Yeah, that's because you flavoured it with bogey,' growled Malik.

‘No, I didn't!' retorted Taymeeyah, whirling to face him. ‘I pick my nose with
this
finger, not my thumb!'

‘Arghh, Taymeeyah, TMI!' I laughed. ‘No picking noses and no bogey business, all right?'

Abdullah had turned around and was looking at me, all the confidence gone from his face. ‘Ams, do we
have
to go summer school?' he signed with his chubby little hands. ‘Can't we just stay home with you and Mum or go park or something?'

‘No,' I signed back, putting on my no-nonsense face. ‘This summer's going to be different. You guys are going to do new things, meet new people.' Then I made my face bright and signed, ‘Don't worry, yeah, trust me, it'll be fun!'

Abdullah looked up at me, doubt all over his face. Poor kid, he was finding it hard to trust anyone. That was problematic. I needed Abdullah onside. Without him, the whole thing could end in disaster. Like the time me and Rania took the kids to an Eid party in West London. Don't get me started on the tears, the yelling, the meltdown and then, the grand climax: the hide and seek that lasted three hours because Abdullah wanted everyone to just
leave him alone
. I stopped
walking and knelt down in front of him.

‘Hey, listen,' I said out loud, taking his face in my hands so that he would look at me and read my lips. ‘I know you're nervous – that's cool. I would be, too. But I've got this, OK? You're going to be fine, I promise. Just relax, yeah? It'll be fine.'

Slowly, slowly, I saw him relax and his face lost that pinched, worried look. He believed me. Now I had to make sure that these people took good care of my babies.

I wasn't worried about the girls' side; Rania was volunteering to run the arts classes and she had roped me in to accompany them on the trips. It was the boys' side that I was worried about. Abdullah was ten, when they started having separate sessions for boys and girls, so I was hoping that, for once, the brothers had got their act together to cater for the boys.

When we got to the centre, it was clear that we were the first ones there. There was a big pile of boxes by the door and we could hear the sound of scraping chair legs coming from inside. A girl's face peered out of one of the windows, and then it was covered by a bright poster advertising the summer school.

Not bad, I thought, as we all stood there, reading the poster. Malik put his arms up to me and I picked him up so that he could read it too.

Well, they were certainly aiming high – Qur'an challenges, quizzes, football, art, you name it, they were hoping to offer it.

A young Asian brother with a wispy beard and a tracksuit top over his
thobe
came out of the front door and gave a little jump when he saw us.

‘Oh,
As-salamu ‘alaykum
, sister,' he said, his eyes sliding away from my face to the kids. ‘Are you guys here for the summer programme?'

‘Yeah, that's right…'
What else would we be doing there?
‘You guys are early,' he blushed furiously. ‘Would you mind giving us 15 more minutes to set up?'

I looked around at the car park. There was nowhere to sit and I didn't want the kids to start getting restless. I turned to him and saw that he was having the same thoughts as I was: there was no way we were waiting outside.

‘What am I talking about? Sorry, sister, please, come in. The sisters are setting up in that room over there.' He ushered us in. ‘Just give me two minutes, yeah? I'll get one of the brothers to bring the registration forms over.'

The room that the sisters were in looked bright and welcoming. We greeted each other with
salam
s and smiles and then they got back to writing a big ‘Welcome' sign on the blackboard.

When Taymeeyah and Malik wandered over to them to see what they were doing, they laughed, said how cute they both were and invited them to colour with them.

I began to relax.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. I heard a brother with a rather posh accent say ‘
As-salamu ‘alaykum
, sister, I've got the forms.' And then, the door opened and there he was, as real as anything, in front of me.

It was Mr Light Eyes.

15

It was her. It was really her. I couldn't believe it. She looked even more amazing than the last time I had seen her, My mind was a blur of confused questions. What was she doing here? Did she remember me? I needed to keep it together get a hold of myself. Be polite, not too friendly. Try not to drop the forms I was meant to be giving her.
God, she's pretty
, I thought.
Astaghfirullah
.

16

I saw his eyes flash for a second as he did a double take. He recognised me, there was no doubt about it. He remembered me. I smiled inwardly. Definitely something naughty about that feeling you get when you become aware of how much power you have as a woman. Of course, it can be a very destructive power, which is why we hijab up, lower the gaze and all that. But I hadn't done anything wrong. I was just me, covered as always, behaving myself as usual. And yet… I'd had an effect on him.

Very naughty feeling indeed.

Of course, I then did what any self-respecting girl would have done: I acted like I had never seen him before in my life, let alone dreamt about him off and on for the past week.

‘Yes, brother?' I said, my voice as cool and detached as could be.