Worlds Apart (6 page)

‘W
hy do they keep coming over?’

Mum was preparing yet another feast for the Longsight couple’s arrival.

‘Because we have things to talk about that unmarried girls should not be asking about.’

‘Who’s getting married?’

Mum was saved by the shop bell.

I put my pinny on and headed over. The living-room door was open as I walked past. Dad was inside watching the news. Iraq had just invaded Kuwait and America had gone over to help. It had kept him on an adrenalin rush. He hated America and what it stood for; a country that only took action if it benefited them, in this case – oil. The shop customers had mixed views on the situation, but most of them supported America poking its
nose in and quoted from what they’d read in the papers. I didn’t feel I understood enough to have a view.

Tim, one of our regular customers, was stood at the shop counter.

‘Hiya, love! Can I have a kebab?’ He pointed at the doner spit. ‘Make it a large one with that garlic stuff and chips.’

I smiled politely. I was not in the mood for small talk tonight but he was a regular. Luckily, the noise from the electric carving knife as I sliced the doner meat made it impossible to hear what he was saying.

However, when I switched it off and turned back round, Tim had his elbows sprawled over the counter blowing smoke rings into the greasy air. I couldn’t believe it, there was a ‘no smoking’ sign on the door before you walked in. Everyone was getting on my nerves today.

‘That Madras you made the other night nearly blew my bloody head off,’ he pointed the cigarette at me. ‘Tell that beardy to put less chillies in next time.’

Tim was referring to Hajji, who did have a rather long beard, come to think of it. Ever since the shop opened, I had dreaded getting one of those random health and safety inspectors coming round and closing us down. If women had to tie their hair up, why didn’t men put their beards in a net or something? But there was no way
I could approach Hajji on the topic; he would accuse me of blasphemy.

‘I told my boss where to go the other day.’ Tim was off again. ‘He didn’t like it but the tosser had it coming. I’ll go on the dole if I have to, council can pay my rent for a change.’

I tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. I kept thinking about the Longsight couple. I couldn’t stand them. How dare they come round and try to take over my life! I could feel the stress going to my fingers, and then the kebab suddenly ripped and collapsed in my hand. Thankfully, Tim was looking the other way.

‘Off to the pub tonight?’ I asked, quickly wrapping it up.

‘Yeah, wanna come?’ He raised a smile.

I ignored his comment and gave him the silent treatment, which usually worked.

‘So, what’ve you been up to, love?’ he asked. It did.

‘I went to a wedding.’ Mum knew so many people in our community that she was invited to weddings most weekends and she dragged me along to showcase me in front of women who had eligible sons and nephews.

‘One of your lot?’ Tim let out a smoker’s cough, which sounded disgusting mixed with the phlegm at the back of his throat. ‘Is that what you’ll be having?’

He was pushing all the right buttons, fishing for a big debate on what he’d read in the tabloid papers about forced marriage. I hated the ignorance of some English people round here.

Tim lit another cigarette and gazed into space. ‘If it was up to my mum I’d end up with some specky, four-eyed librarian.’

What’s wrong with that? I wanted to say, but instead scurried into the kitchen.

Beardy reappeared from prayers and started banging the spoons around in the back. Recently we were getting under each other’s feet and it was always I who had to apologise. His response was to tut dramatically and turn his head away.

I watched him fret over the bubbling pans on the cooker. His eyes were red from peeling a sack of onions earlier and his white coat was stained at the hips from shocking red tandoori paste. This marriage thing was getting me down and I knew this ‘snake’ was fuelling my mother. I wanted to grab his prayer cap off his head and kick him up his bum. Instead, I gave him Tim’s order of chips and headed inside the house.

This time I didn’t stop at the door to listen, but barged in. I wanted to know what was going on. The room fell silent. All four of them, my parents and the Longsight couple, were huddled around the coffee table staring up at me.

‘I just wanted to check if you wanted more tea,’ I said, trying to figure out why the auntie was clutching her handbag so tight.

Mum shook her head.

Purposely, I left the door slightly ajar when I walked out so that I could peer inside between the nick.

They all turned back into one another again.

‘So, yes … he’s from the same caste, you have no worries,’ the auntie reassured Mum.

That surprised me. I hadn’t realised Pakistanis had castes. I’d thought they only existed in India. Now that I thought about it, however, Pakistan was originally part of India.

‘When are we going to get to see a picture of him?’ Mum sipped her tea, trying to remain cool and in control by leaning back and crossing her legs.

‘You can see him now.’ The auntie put a hand in her handbag and rummaged for what seemed like ages and then finally pulled out a notebook. She flicked through the pages until a passport photo dropped out.

My heart pounded as I watched Mum take the photo from her, a little too quickly, and study it. The room was so quiet I could hear the cars outside on the road through the double-glazed window.

‘He’s very handsome,’ Mum finally said, and passed it onto Dad.

Dad stared at it for a lot longer, making the uncle light another cigarette straight after finishing one. Dad didn’t comment and passed it back to the auntie.

‘What do you think, brother?’ she asked my dad with a nervous laugh.

‘He looks a lot younger than twenty,’ Dad replied flatly.

‘It was taken a few years ago when he was a student … but he hasn’t changed much.’

‘Yes,’ Mum agreed quickly. ‘Children don’t change.’

I didn’t believe any of it. It was one of two things: either he was pretending to be older, or he was much older and they were showing a college photo to hide his age.

I thought back to my recent critique with Dave at college, when he said I’d probably be staying in Manchester to do my degree. The thought hadn’t occurred to me as we were still a few weeks away from applying for degree places.

‘Why do you think that?’ I had asked.

‘Well, who’s going to look after the shop?’

His words turned over and over in my head; the more I thought about it the more I realised this place wasn’t my future. I didn’t want to look back in a few years’ time and wished I’d done something different. However, I was also torn with the dilemma of hurting my
parents and going against their will. The struggle became bigger in my head.

There were two ways to do it; either I leave without saying a word and put my parents through hell or, for the same result, I face the music.

But first I needed to secure a place somewhere. This was my life and my choice.

I decided to study at Bristol as it had a good art department and was close to Bath, which I’d heard was beautiful.

It was only once I had been accepted at Bristol that I realised I was about to make a drastic departure from the world I’d been brought up in. I made my first attempt of breaking the news to Mum, which went down like a lead balloon. I used the excuse that the subject I wanted to study wasn’t available in Manchester. ‘Pick another,’ she replied.

For some reason I hadn’t thought she would respond so logically. I pursued this in front of Dad. His reaction was just to sit on the sofa, flicking his eyes between Mum and me as we stood above him arguing. Every so often Mum would spin round to him for a reaction, but he wasn’t giving anything away. It was annoying as I expected more reaction from him. I expected him to say
something
at least. My brothers didn’t have to go through this, so why did I? Why did boys have different rules?

The second attempt was on a Tuesday evening when the shop was quiet and Mum and I were both sat at the table in the back room. Dad sat on the armchair reading the
Daily Jang
newspaper.

I was doing an art project on my drawing board, smudging the pastel colours with my thumb. Mum was picking small stones out of a bowl of dry lentils.

‘Why can’t I study away?’ I finally said, rubbing an invisible line out on my drawing.

‘Because girls don’t leave home before marriage,’ Mum replied, matter of fact. ‘We don’t want you getting into bad company.’

‘I could be doing that now,’ I replied. ‘You don’t know what I get up to when I say I’m going to college all day. But I’m not. There’s more to life than boys.’ It came out before I could stop myself. I had never spoken like this before.

The brushing noise of her fingers trailing through the lentils stopped. I held my breath, preparing for a telling off, only to be faced with a wall of silence. My eyes flickered up and I noticed she was lost for words. I wasn’t sure if this was because of my sudden upfront behaviour or by the words spoken. Either way, it worked, something happened. Dad looked up from his paper. Tears sprang to my eyes. I didn’t want either of them to see this weak side of me. Head down, I ran into the bathroom. I blew my nose as quietly as possible so they
wouldn’t hear, and prayed the shop bell wouldn’t ring before the puffiness around my eyes reduced. It felt like I had been grieving for a life I’d lost before it had begun. I just couldn’t imagine a life like my sister’s or Shazia’s. I didn’t see myself as special or better, it just wasn’t me.

Finally, I came out of the bathroom and saw my dad stood outside looking down at me.

Did he hear my sniffling? Was he going to tell me off for speaking to Mum in that way?

‘I’m sorry I spoke to…’

I noticed he was looking at me in a peculiar way, almost straight through me.

‘You’ve always been self-sufficient. The shop will look after itself.’

It was like decrypting some World War Two code. At least with Mum she said what she thought.

‘Dad, I promise I will call every night, come home every weekend…’

He opened his arms and embraced me with the biggest hug I’d had in a long time.

Over the following few days the conversations between Mum and I were minimal. In the shop, I just called out the curry orders to her and Hajji and carried on serving at the front. If the order went wrong, we did not argue about it like we normally did, I just re-did it.

It came round to another Friday evening and the shop
was chocka after the pubs closed, with people trying to get their orders in before we shut at 12 p.m. Mum handed me an order of lamb madras and Pillai rice she had prepared.

‘You can go!’ she shouted over the noise.

‘What?’ I shouted back, thinking she was saying something about the order.

‘Bristol.’ She touched my fingers as I took the foiled containers from her. ‘You can go.’

I was up all night not quite believing what Mum had said. Part of me thought I’d dreamt it and part feared she might change her mind.

The next morning I was up early and headed into college to tell Dave the good news. The canteen was surprisingly busy for that time of the year and I joined a table of six students trying to listen into their conversation. Someone was being congratulated for being accepted to Central Saint Martins.

I leaned over and looked down the table. ‘Where?’

‘Central Saint Martins in London … it’s one of the best art colleges.’

I was dumbstruck. I had never heard of the place, but if I had, I would have applied there instead. I suddenly felt this ball of adrenalin build up inside me. I felt like I’d been short-changed in some warped way. Just then, Dave walked in and headed over to the sandwich bar.

‘Dave.’ I sped up to him as he inspected a cheese roll wrapped in cling film. ‘I’ve changed my mind; I want to go to Saint Martins.’

Dave looked bemused, not knowing where this had come from, then threw me a sympathetic smile. ‘I think you have enough things to deal with … have you told your parents you’re leaving?’

My mind wasn’t on my parents any more; Bristol or London – it was the same story to them.

‘You’ll love it in Bristol,’ he continued, putting the sandwich back down and walking over to the drinks machine. ‘Besides, what makes you think you’re good enough to get into Saint Martins?’

That was the best thing Dave could have ever said to me. That night I lay awake and couldn’t get his words out of my head. He was someone I respected. Did he really think I wasn’t good enough to get in? The next morning I found myself in a phone box down the road from the house calling up Central Saint Martins.

The lady on the other end of the telephone was firm, telling me all the places were full this year but that I could come and see the degree show with a view to applying the following year. That evening I told Mum I was attending an art exhibition and might be a bit late home, but would prepare the salad bowls for the shop in the morning before going to college. I’d saved
up enough money from the pizzas sold in the shop to buy a travel ticket.

With my big portfolio tucked under an armpit, I caught the train to London. I’d never been to the big city and got lost on the underground, finally rising up in the lift to ground level at Covent Garden, where the graphics building was then located on Long Acre. The entrance of the college was deserted. At the top of the stairs, I was faced with four doors with no labels. I spun round, not knowing which one to knock, then a man came out of one. He had a stocky build, was wearing an eccentric floral shirt, and had the most amazing moustache that curled up at each end.

‘Yes, can I help?’ He bent forward, sticking one ear inches away from my face.

Perhaps he thinks I have a quiet voice, I thought. I spoke extra loud, asking if I could see a first-year tutor because I wanted to apply to come this summer. The man repeated word-for-word what the woman on the phone had told me.

‘But I’ve travelled three hours on the train.’ I persisted. ‘Can they not spare ten minutes, please?’