Here I Stand

by Amnesty International UK

  Today is Dad’s deathday. That’s what I call it. Tomorrow will be parents’ evening. Or, in my case, no-parents evening. I wonder what Dad would think of his “princess” if he could see me now? I leave a note by Mum’s bed. Since Dad died I’ve stopped practising writing in Urdu, but somehow it seems important to try to do it now. I’ve almost forgotten how.

  Sorry I got angry with you. Thinking of Dad today. Thinking of you, too.

  Love you, Mum.

  Niya XXX

  Sometimes there just aren’t the words in either language to say the things I need to.

  Mum’s wrapped herself tightly in a shawl like a baby. A photo of her and Dad on their wedding day is resting on her chest. I’ve got that panicky feeling I had in the lift again, like a thousand moths are gathering in my stomach and rising up to my throat. I can’t be ill. I’m never ill. I look on Mum’s bedside table to check if she’s taken her tablets. The seals of two of the little silver compartments are broken. At least she’ll sleep peacefully now.

  As I leave I check the front door is properly closed. I just wish the chain was on; sometimes I think if Mum was really sound asleep she wouldn’t hear if someone tried to break in. My hands hover over the keyhole. Would it be safer to lock her in? But what if there was a fire? Maybe I could call in to Mrs Asir and ask her to pop by, but then Mum would only get angry with me.

  Inside the lift I look up at the numbers. 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 … I wish that Dad was still alive … 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

  My breath’s a tight fist in my chest. I’m going to have to toughen up to get through today.

  Two lessons gone, four to go.

  I’m sitting in English and Miss Rose is going on about some poem, but I just stare out of the window. A robin lands on the sill. It hops along and then peers in as if it has a message for me. I wonder if it’s hungry. Friendliest sweet-songed birds. Sometimes Dad’s voice just comes to me like that, as if he’s in the room with me.

  The robin flies away in the direction of our flat, its little red breast brightening the wintery sky. If only I had a pair of binoculars I’d almost be able to see Mum from here. Our flat is only a few streets away. The block’s in a dip and school’s on a hill, so it feels like there’s not that much space between Mum and me. I often imagine that I could just fly out of the window, check in on Mum and then soar back into the classroom and no one would even notice I’d left the room.

  I slip my phone under the table to check that she hasn’t texted.

  “So, Niya. What do you think the refrain means?” Miss Rose asks.

  My head jolts as I scan over the lines of the poem.

  “It’s about missing someone,” Sarah whispers.

  “Missing someone,” I echo.

  Miss Rose nods, but looks from Sarah to me as if she’s not convinced it’s my answer. But she should be because if anyone here knows how it feels to miss someone, to wish and dream every minute of every day that their heart had never stopped beating, today of all days, it’s me.

  “Thanks!” I whisper to Sarah.

  She shrugs. When she helps me like this I know that I’d only have to say the word and Sarah and I would be best friends again. I don’t blame her for going and joining Zena, Rachel and Jodie in a cosy little foursome, even though we used to laugh at the way they strutted around like they owned the place. Maybe, if you find yourself alone, it’s better to be with them than against them.

  We’re supposed to be writing a poem about missing someone, but my page is empty.

  I yawn all gape-mouthed and Miss Rose frowns at me and the pen that’s still lying on my desk. I think about at least pretending to write, but I can’t even be bothered to do that. It’s not like I would write anything true anyway. I have never felt this tired before. When Mum sleeps all morning she’s awake half of the night wandering around, mumbling phrases from her Learn English tape … and then I can’t sleep for listening to her voice through the wall. Last night was even worse than usual because she was talking to Dad’s photo and crying.

  “You can finish the poems off for homework. Can I have a word, Niya?” Miss Rose interrupts my thoughts. She waits for everyone to file out of class and I know what’s coming. “You were off sick again yesterday. Are you feeling all right?”

  I nod. “I had to go to the doctor’s.” Well, it’s not a lie, is it?

  I throw in something about stomach ache and period pains, hoping she won’t ask any more questions. That’s not really a lie either because my stomach feels tight and all coiled up most of the time.

  “Can I see your work from today?” Miss Rose asks, ignoring my various excuses.

  I just stare at her.

  “Your poem, Niya?” she prompts.

  I feel around in my bag a bit lamely, stalling for time.

  She sighs and seems to give up. “Just make sure it’s completed for next lesson.” She bites her lip as if wondering how best to deal with me. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your work. Your homework’s late again and I know I’m not the only one chasing you. I did give you a final warning last time, Niya, to catch up on everything before parents’ evening. I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a detention this time.”

  “I can’t today!” I look down at my hands. They are shaking uncontrollably and I clasp them together behind my back.

  Miss Rose tucks her fine hair behind her ear, turns away from me and finishes tidying away her things.

  “No buts! It’s not personal, Niya. I can’t make exceptions. Perhaps next time you’ll heed my warning and get work in on time. It’ll be GCSE year before you know it and you can’t afford to let your grades slip any further. I’ll see you here after school.”

  I’m glad I threw the parents’ evening letter away. Seeing me in trouble at school would send Mum right over the edge.

  In the lunch hall I get my tray as quickly as possible, trying not to draw attention to myself, and sit down. Further up the bench, Sarah’s with Zena, Rachel and Jodie. They’re all being really loud, apart from Sarah. This is how they are. Wherever they go they make sure everyone knows they’ve arrived. Sarah looks a bit embarrassed by all the noise they’re making and glances at me sideways as if she wishes that I would call out and ask her to sit next to me, but I’ve already surrounded myself with a wall of books.

  I have too much work to catch up on, homework and classwork. I feel like a hamster going round and round on a wheel and never really getting anywhere. Sarah has a hamster. She called her Mango because I said she was sweet and just the same size as the fruit. I remember the day I went with Sarah’s mum and dad to get her. It was exactly two weeks before Dad died. So Mango must be two years and two weeks old. I wonder if Mango’s still alive. How long do hamsters live, anyway?

  I check my phone again. No messages. I don’t want to call Mum just in case she’s still sleeping peacefully. I take out the blank piece of card that I’m supposed to write the poem for Miss Rose on, pick up my pen and these words pour out:

  Today is my dad’s deathday

  My dad,

  with his big laugh,

  with his round belly … too round.

  My dad,

  who used to smooth my hair and call me his princess,

  pick me up and twirl me even when I was too tall to be twirled.

  My dad,

  who two years ago today

  walked up the stairs

  because the lift was broken

  climbed up and up and up

  heart racing too fast until it

  stopped.

  My dad,

  falling,

  falling,

  falling

  down cold concrete steps.

  My dad,

  whose deathday’s today.

  Only the lift is mended.

  Zena and Rachel pass where I’m sitting, so I hunch forward and cover up my poem with a list of French vocab. I have no idea what half the words mean. To think I used to be the best in the class at French. I look
up a word in my dictionary.

  dehors (pronounced day ore) = outside

  That’s how I feel – on the outside of everything.

  When the bell rings I slip the poem and vocab into my pocket, pack my bag and go to clear away my tray. Sarah, Zena, Rachel and Jodie are ahead of me so I hang back a little.

  Mrs Alim steps in between us to collect some trays.

  “Hurry up! On your way now, girls!” she says to the others, ushering them out.

  “What?” Zena bristles. “I thought we were supposed to clear away our rubbish!”

  Sarah hovers in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. Mrs Alim takes my tray and starts telling me in Urdu about a vacancy for a lunchtime assistant she thinks my mum could apply for. Mr Alim was a good friend of my dad’s, and Mrs Alim’s always looking out for me and Mum. Perhaps she knows what today is, although maybe not because she doesn’t say anything. I wish she would stop talking to me in Urdu. It makes me feel like everyone’s listening. I wish she would stop asking about my mum and being nice to me. I feel like my chest is about to explode. I just want to disappear.

  Outside the lunch hall Sarah hangs back from the others, waiting for me.

  “How’s Mango?” I ask, because it’s the first thing that pops into my head.

  She looks a bit taken aback, but then smiles. “Fine. Why don’t you come over and see her?”

  I can’t think of what to say to that, but I find my hand plunging into my pocket and two pieces of paper fly out … a poem and a list of French words. The words that mean nothing to me flutter to the floor and Sarah picks them up; the words I realize now I want her to read are carried across the courtyard on an icy breeze. Zena reaches down to pick up my poem. I shove past Sarah, run at Zena and push her so hard that she falls sideways and lands awkwardly, scraping her hands and arm. A tiny smudge of blood smears my words. I grab my poem and rip it into shreds. What was I even thinking of?

  I can hear Zena and the others screaming at me, but it’s as if there’s a screen between us and their voices can’t get to me. Maybe this is why Mum pretends not to understand English – to shield herself from what’s going on. I stare at Zena’s grazed hand and bruised arm. That’s how I feel – like one angry purple bruise. Miss Rose appears and I watch her mouth moving for a long time before I can tune in to her words.

  “Well, Niya, don’t you have anything to say for yourself? I’m calling home about your detention later anyway, so I’m afraid this is just another thing to add.”

  Good luck with that, I think, because I know Mum won’t answer the phone to a teacher.

  “I can’t do the detention today,” I tell her, and walk away as if I don’t care one way or the other what she does.

  “Right, you’ve pushed things too far now. You leave me no choice. Tomorrow you’ll be spending the whole day in internal exclusion. Come on, Zena, let’s get this hand cleaned up.” Miss Rose casts me a look as if she can’t quite believe that it’s me who’s caused all this trouble.

  Sarah bends down and starts picking up the pieces of my poem.

  “Don’t bother. It’s too late,” I tell her.

  She stops and stares at me as if she doesn’t know who I am any more.

  Tomorrow, that’s a whole day away. For now all I can think of is getting through the afternoon and then running home to Mum.

  I sit as quietly as I can all afternoon, trying to slip under everyone’s radar. In maths I get this weird thought that maybe I have actually disappeared and become a great big nothing. It’s hard to imagine nothing – zero – but it’s what I try to make myself into when I walk straight past Miss Rose’s room and feel her watching me.

  On my way home Mr Asir is standing outside his shop, waiting for me as I walk up the road. He holds a gift box in his hand, decorated in golden swirly patterns.

  “Some little sweets,” he says, handing them to me. “We haven’t forgotten. Please accept our respects, from your community.”

  My eyes fill up. I quickly take the box from him, mumble my thank yous and head for the entrance to Tower View. I wonder what it would be like now if Mum had accepted everyone’s friendship and offers of help after Dad died. I wonder what would have happened today if Sarah could have read my poem.

  LIFT TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER. MAINTENANCE WORK IN PROGRESS, a sign says. APOLOGIES FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

  What is this, some kind of sick joke?

  I start the long walk up to the fourteenth floor and with every step my legs and chest feel heavier and heavier … 115, 116, 117… On which step did my dad’s heart falter, on which of these hard concrete steps did he fall?

  As I reach our floor the rich scent of spices wafts down the corridor – the smell that used to greet me every day after school.

  I open the door to find Mum fully dressed with her hair in a neat ponytail. The table is covered with pots and pans. I place the box of sweets beside them.

  “From Mr and Mrs Asir … they say that the community is thinking of us today. Mrs Alim, too, at school, sent her best wishes. She says there might be work for you.”

  Mum nods and places her hand on my cheek.

  “Hungry?” she asks.

  I shake my head then run through to my bedroom so she doesn’t see me welling up.

  Mum follows me. She has tidied my room and emptied my bin and I see it straight away – the letter about parents’ evening has been smoothed out and placed on my bedside table.

  “I find this.” She holds it up to show me.

  I shrug. “It’s not that important…”

  Mum nods slowly as if she’s trying to take in what I’m saying. “I have been thinking to come. You are right. It’s time that you stop translating for me.” She speaks this slowly in English.

  What am I supposed to say to that? Now, when I’m in all this trouble for the first time! I glance out into the hallway, where the message light is flashing on the phone. “Any messages?” I ask, trying to sound as innocent as I can.

  “I haven’t listened, too busy cooking.”

  “It’s fine, Mum, about parents’ evening. I don’t need you to come. Anyway, it’s icy outside and I don’t want you to fall. I’ll explain about your hip to the teachers and bring back the reports myself,” I say, walking back through to the kitchen to escape the look on her face.

  “No, beta. I want to go!”

  Great, I think. She’s going to love hearing about the fight and the internal exclusion. How’s that going to make her feel?

  “Niya, bayttoe.” I do as she says and sit down. She picks up the box of sweets, takes out a creamy triangle with pistachio nuts on the top, holds my chin and places the sweet in my mouth. I have no choice but to eat.

  Then she takes another, places it in her own mouth and stands up. She hardly ever speaks more than a few random words in English to me, so I’m not expecting what she says next.

  “I am so proud of you. The best thing I can do for you, for your father, is try to be stronger.” She takes another sweet and places it in her mouth. “Best thing I can do for me, too.” She savours the sweet before swallowing. “There are very kind people.” She nods at the gift box.

  I feel like screaming, crying and punching something all at the same time … and like hugging Mum because she’s got this look on her face as if she’s on a mission and I just feel so proud of her for making this mammoth effort for me. Any other parents’ evening it would have been fine, but now, just as she’s trying to get herself together, I’m going to let her down.

  It’s two o’clock in the morning. I’m lying in bed listening to Mum rehearsing her pronunciation, and instead of annoying me it makes my heart swell with love… I know she’s trying to do what I asked her and not rely on me to be her voice. It takes her a long while to get her mouth around the word “curriculum”, but eventually she manages it without stumbling.

  How is Niya doing with the maths curriculum?

  How is she doing in history curriculum?

  How is she doing in th
e English curriculum?

  Internal exclusion is a plain white room where you have to go to do your work on your own. There is a folder on the desk, of worksheets from all the lessons I am missing. In internal exclusion you’re supposed to use the time to be quiet and think about the behaviour that’s caused you to be separated from other people in the first place. It could be not doing your work, disrupting a class or getting into a fight. There is a glass window so that the secretary can keep an eye on me. I feel like a fish in a bowl – but not moving. A dead fish.

  At lunchtime the secretary brings me a sandwich and a drink. I don’t think she’s supposed to be chatty, but she stays and talks to me for a few minutes. She asks me what I did to be here. I tell her I got into an argument.

  “Next time take a deep breath before you react,” she advises.

  After I’ve finished, she picks up the tray and winks at me in a way that makes me think that, if it was up to her, she’d let me off and send me back to class. There is a toilet attached to the room so you don’t need to leave. Through the glass screen I can see the hours tick by as the digits on the clock change and change, and now I know how Mum must feel every day … just waiting for me. I try not to think about going home to pick Mum up for parents’ evening tonight. With a bit of luck the lift will still be out of order. There is no way Mum could make it down all those stairs, even without her bad hip. But what if there was a fire?

  I can’t concentrate on my work. For a few moments I let myself think about nothing at all. Some people might feel claustrophobic being in internal exclusion, but in a way it’s kind of relaxing.

  Typical! The lift’s been fixed.

  I can hear music through our front door. There hasn’t been any of this kind of music in our flat for two years. This was Mum and Dad’s favourite – Abida Parveen singing one of her ghazals. What is the matter with me? I should be happy that Mum is listening to this song, but hearing it again makes me feel dizzy. I stand for a while and watch her body sway as she closes her eyes and feels the music – it’s as if it’s charging her up. Why do I feel the exact opposite?