You're Not Proper (12 page)

‘I left my pencil case in my locker, Mr Mayflower,' I said.

‘Very good. Very good. Chop chop, now. Go get it.' Mr Mayflower said. ‘And you can carry on chatting at break.'

‘Yes,
Karen
, I'll see you at break,' Shamshad said, running towards her class, the echo of her feet fading down the corridor.

I didn't pay any attention to Mr Mayflower's lesson. He didn't notice these things. He just looked out from his thick glasses, brushed his wild hair off his head when it fell forward and carried on with whatever he was going to do. I tried not to think about the coming break by thinking about the stories that went around about Mr Mayflower. You could make any excuse to him and he would believe you. He was a legend in our school for being the dopiest of teachers. Mr Mayflower couldn't stop break from coming round. I had only told Laila, and she had promised not to say a word to anyone.

‘I didn't say a word to anyone,' Laila said when I saw her at break. She was carrying a plastic bag in her hand. Then she smirked, ‘Except for mentioning it on my Facebook wall…'

‘How could you, Laila?' I protested, looking round for Shamshad. ‘Don't worry about her for a bit,' Laila said, ‘her and Jake have gone to Mrs Seaver'. Mrs Seaver is the Head. I was about to ask why when Laila grabbed my hand and led me towards a covered area, and said, ‘That's why.'

Someone had written:
Shamshad fancies Jake. ‘
Ouch,' I said.

Laila laughed, ‘Sorry, cross my heart and hope to die.' ‘Cow!' I swore.

‘Moo,' Laila said.

‘Come on, are you going to help me give ‘em out?' Laila asked. ‘Just me and you, Laila,' I asked.

‘There's a few others,' Laila said. ‘Are we allowed?'

‘No one will know who did it,' Laila said, ‘We'll do it quickly.'

‘Well, nothing much's going right for me,' I said. ‘Besides, you're really good at keeping secrets.'

Putting some leaflets into my hand, Laila said, ‘Moo.'

Past the covered area, our school grounds are dotted with trees, which go all the way down towards a farm, where cows often sit, staring at us, chewing their cud. Kids from West Boarhead hang out under the birches, and the East Boarhead lot at the opposite end, by the poplars. We had hardly given any leaflets out when Donna, Chloe and Megan came towards us. Jake was a few steps behind them, coming from the direction of the covered area. He was talking to Shamshad. Behind Jake, kids from West Boarhead were standing around close to each other. Fluff from the birch tree was blowing in the wind like snowballs.

I was handing leaflets to some Muslim boys from Year 8, when Donna came up to me, grabbed the leaflets out of my hand and swore. I tried to snatch the leaflets back; she pushed me in the chest. I steadied myself. Donna's chubby cheeks were red. Wiping her blond hair off her face, she stared at me with raging eyes and said, ‘Showing your colours, eh.'

‘Get lost, Donna,' I said putting my arm around Laila, ‘Just go away.' The crucifix drawn on my forehead began to sting.

Girls and boys from West Boarhead ran down towards us.

Chloe pointed at us with her index finger and then rubbed it across her neck as if it was a knife hissing, ‘Talibans.'

Donna crumpled the leaflets she had taken from me, threw them to the ground and turned towards Laila saying, ‘You should be supporting our lads in Afghan.'

Laila's face reddened. She said, ‘British soldiers went to my granddad's house in our village in Kandahar. Shot him in front of everyone. One of them put his boot on my granddad's head and had his photo taken. Did he come to Boarhead and bomb it?'

‘If you don't like it here, why don't you…'

Muslim boys and girls from East Boarhead had come round as well. Laila and I were between two heaving lines.

‘Terrorists,' someone shouted, from the East Boarhead line.

‘Up yours, Osama,' Megan pointed to a turbaned Sikh from Year 8. Donna turned around and shouted over to Jake, who was still talking to Shamshad, ‘Jake, come here, right now.' Jake ran over. Shamshad went back into school.

Above us, the wind stopped. The air filled with a seething anger. Some boys pushed each other, swearing. I looked at the West Boarhead line. It was thicker than ours, and getting bigger. Jake came and stood next to Donna. She pointed her fat finger at our line, and shouted, ‘If you lot don't like it here, go back to Shariaistatan or wherever you come from.' The angry silence from above came down and engulfed us. Donna's eyes filled with tears and she said in broken words, ‘My Dex is out there in Afghanistan, getting shot at by youse lot. And some of you know Dex, don't you?' She held Jake's hand, pointed to me and said, ‘And you know him well don't you? I don't know if he's alive or dead now, do I?'

There was a gasp from the western line. Jake said, ‘Our Dex is missing. They think he might be dead or captured and taken to Pakistan…'

Donna's eyes narrowed. She pointed at me and said, ‘And if something happens to Dex, I'll have one of you.'

Jake shook his head, ‘I didn't want our kid to join and I didn't want him to go.'

‘What've you become?' Donna stepped away from Jake, looked him in the face and shouted, ‘He's your brother and was just doing his job…' ‘Doing what?' Jake interrupted.

Donna gritted her teeth.

Megan put her arm in Donna's, spat at Jake and, ‘You Paki-loving traitor.'

‘Donna, I love our Dex and you know that and I know you love him…' ‘He should be with you here, Donna,' Laila said.

‘He should,' Donna cried. ‘But he might be dead.' ‘He's alive, I know he is,' Jake said.

The Head came charging up towards us with an army of teachers behind her. Everyone scampered.

I followed Laila and we went down past the poplars, and hid behind a bush. A large brown and white cow was sitting a few feet away from us on the other side of our grounds, staring at us with its big eyes.

After getting my breath back, I said to Laila, ‘I'm sorry about your granddad. I didn't know.'

‘How would you?' she said, pulling out a blade of grass. Putting it in her mouth, she whispered, ‘It was my
dada
, me granddad. My Dad couldn't even get to his funeral.'

I pressed on her hand, and asked, ‘When?''

‘Exactly thirteen months and four days ago,' she said, spitting on the ground.

We sat in silence for a while. Laila had picked up a twig and was digging into the ground with it. I looked into the vacant eyes of the cow. A small bird had perched itself on the cows head. The cow carried on chewing. A fly buzzed above it. It flicked its tail. The fly continued to buzz. The cow shook its head and the bird flew off.

Even though I was feeling calm on the outside, inside I was really, really mad. I was mad at Shamshad for tormenting me. I was mad at myself for not standing up for myself. Laila had just stood up to that nut case. Why couldn't I? I was really angry with Mum for taking me to church. And my Dad, I thought, ‘How could you be you?' And I was angry for Laila.

Just when I was thinking of her, she said, ‘He was going to give water to a dying soldier, someone who had come from so far away and who had caused so much suffering to his village. He was going to give one of them water, and they killed him and took photographs.'

I didn't say anything. I searched for the right words, but all I could find was rage.

‘That's what my Dad said happened,' Laila said. ‘He doesn't say much any more, my Dad. He wants to go home, but there's no one there now. They brought bulldozers and flattened the village, they did. And everyone just went somewhere else. Some of us now live in Pakistan. That's what my Dad said they did.'

We walked silently back to our classroom. I took the bag with the leaflets from Laila and hid it under my jacket. After shoving the plastic bag into my locker, I went to my classroom and floated through English.

The whole school was called in for a special assembly that afternoon. Our assembly hall was a long, tall building. All along the wall were engraved names of past Heads and Head Boys and Girls. When empty, it echoed each time you took a step. Your voice, even in whispers, bounced around the room. The Head, a police officer and Mr Mayflower were sitting on the stage. Everyone filed in and sat down, class by class, looking stiffly towards the front. Nobody spoke as they entered. The teachers sat on the sides. Year 9s and 10s stood behind the teachers at the ends of the rows of chairs.

Mrs Seaver stood up and tapped on the microphone, three times. The noise from her fingers subdued the echoes. ‘I think you know why you are here. I have a few words to say to you. As always in my assemblies, if you have a question to ask, you may do so. If you have something important to say, which we should all hear, you may say it. But first, we have a special guest here.' She nodded towards the police officer and continued, ‘Chief Constable Sharon Brittle has come here, and has a few words to say to you.'

Mrs Seaver moved back from the microphone stand and gave it to the Chief Constable, who placed a folder in front of her, and said, ‘I won't take up too much of your time, school, I know you have a lot of learning to do and are eager to get back to your classes.' She paused. A giggle rippled through the assembly. She continued, ‘Yes, that's how I felt when I was sitting where you are now.' The ripple rose a bit louder. Even Mrs Seaver smiled. The Chief Constable continued, ‘I am not here to teach you. Nor to preach to you. I am here to tell you simply about the law. All this week, I have been going to schools across the northwest, giving the same message. In this country, we have laws; it is my job to enforce them. In many schools, troublemakers from outside, with obvious support from inside, have been giving leaflets out about the Prime Minister's visit to Manchester. I know emotions are running very high about the war, especially around West and East Boarhead, from where many soldiers have gone to fight. They are doing their jobs. Whether they like it or not. I am doing mine. Whether I like or not. You are doing yours.' She paused, and said with a smile, ‘And I know you like it.' Everyone laughed. When the laughter subsided, she said, holding one of the leaflets we were handing out in the playground, ‘We are lucky to live in a country that enjoys freedom of speech. Some of you have seen this. Some of you have been giving this out in this school. My job is to tell you that any child not at school during the forthcoming protests about the PM, and without a valid note from their school or their parents, will be treated as a lawbreaker, and will be dealt with accordingly.'

Someone clapped. I looked around. All the teachers were clapping. As were most students from East Boarhead. I raised my hands involuntarily, but stopped before I clapped. I looked over at Shamshad. She was sitting with her fists clenched.

‘Let me read you a sentence from this leaflet,' the Chief Constable said, looking down at the leaflet, “Stop the Crusade of the Western Armies.”' She cleared her throat, looked across at us, and said, ‘You are young and cannot understand the subliminal message embedded in this sentence. It is the soft edge of terrorism. It is the breeding ground of extremism, and we don't want any more 7/7s. This is where it hides. It is ideas like this from which it grows. At the back of the room, as Mrs Seaver said, I have left some literature that will help you to identify extremism. For those of you who want to make your point to the Prime Minister, let me assure you that when I meet him in Manchester, I will let him know the strength of feelings about the government's policies. And, finally, I want to warn you again. Anyone breaking the law will be held accountable.' She turned to Mrs Seaver and thanked her, and then walked off the stage. Her footsteps echoed all round the hall as she walked down the centre and out of the back.

When the police officer had left, Mrs Seaver said, ‘In all my years, I have never called an assembly like this.' She stopped and looked down at us. Her gaze cut through the fading echoes of her cold voice. Someone coughed. Mrs Seaver continued, ‘We have children from 85 countries in this school. We have 15 languages. Yes, this is a Christian school. We pride ourselves on this. There are many of you who are Muslims in our school and we welcome you. We celebrate Eid. And there are Hindus and Sikhs. And we celebrate Diwali and Vaisakhi. We try our best to accommodate everyone's faith here. We do this because we
are
a Christian School. And Christ taught us to love. To love each other. To love peace. And even on the Cross, he forgave. That is what we have tried to teach all of you in this school.' She paused and looked down towards us. I felt she was looking at me. Mrs Seaver continued, her voice softened, ‘Now children, it is good to have different opinions, but we want to be able to discuss these in a healthy atmosphere. It makes all of us stronger. Especially in the spirit of Christ. It is not about West and East. I want us all to be one happy family. Now, as always, I believe when passions are high we should let them vent. Those of you who feel they have an important question to raise or something to say, why don't you say it right now?' she stopped.

The assembly sank into a deep silence. I looked across at Laila. She was crying. I don't know why I did it, but I stuck my hand up. Mrs Seaver raised her head back, as though startled. She thought for a moment, and said, ‘Yes, Karen, isn't it?'

‘It's Kiran, Mrs Seaver,' I said. A few people laughed. Shamshad coughed.

‘Stand up,' Mrs Seaver ordered.

My legs turned to jelly. Sweat tricked down my spine. Holding on to the chair in front of me, I pushed myself up.

‘The Romans were westerners, yeah, Mrs Seaver? And did Jesus not stand up to them?'

From the corner of my eye, I saw Laila clap. A few others from East Boarhead joined in. I saw Jake. He clapped, and then suddenly stopped.

I was trembling. Sweat poured down my face. My shirt was stuck to my back. The echoes had run away. Everyone was staring at me.