Her voice trailed off as a look of understanding crept slowly across her face. Suddenly she collapsed in a fit of giggles. “You . . . You . . .” She clutched her belly. “Ah, my stomach hurts! You thought we were having an earthquake when I tripped over your bag!”
I stood there, humiliated, while the girl’s melodrama continued.
Finally she stopped laughing. “Hey, I’m Zelda,” she said, wiping away her tears on her shirtsleeve.
“Miriam,” I mumbled.
“Cool name!” She perched on the edge of my table. “I hate mine. I’d love to be Colette or Ruth or Miriam. But no, my parents had to call me Zelda Sheetal Patel. What were they thinking?”
I found myself grinning, and for the first time in so long, the snake that lived inside of me loosened its grip.
“So who’s your teacher?” she asked, lunging across the table in readiness for me to divulge top-secret information.
“Miss Sooty,” I obliged in a thick whisper.
“You mean Miss Snooty!” she exclaimed, recklessly announcing the news to the rest of the library. “Poor you!”
“Shhh,” hissed the library monitor.
Zelda rolled her eyes and gave me a knowing look.
The bell rang, announcing the start of afternoon classes.
I panicked. I didn’t want this to end. I was entranced by the girl, who oozed happiness.
“Hey, wanna come over to my house later?” she asked.
It took a few moments for me to grasp what she’d so casually said. I was being invited over to play. “I . . . I . . . I have to let Michael know if I’m going to be late. I can’t. I mean . . .” How could I not accept?
“Who’s Michael?” she asked.
“Uh, he looks after me.”
Her eyebrows peaked. “A guy nanny? Weird. Well, maybe tomorrow, then.”
“Yes. Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”
“Okay. Meet you under the crab apple tree after school.”
And with that she was gone.
“Yes. Tomorrow,” I said, my voice trailing after her.
I stood fixed to the floor, holding on to the sweetness for as long as it lingered. The swing door swished back and forth, back and forth, my mind swinging with it. Then the library was quiet and I was late for class.
The next day, school refused to end, stretching interminably over long division and health, religious education and French. I struggled to focus, and Miss Sooty told me off several times for daydreaming.
Finally the bell announcing the end of the school day started to ring. I shot out of class and into the weak afternoon light, arriving at the crab apple tree before any of my classmates had even reached the top of the stairs.
Throwing my bag down, I hopped onto the wall to scan the faces of the kids emerging from the redbrick building. I was looking for long black plaits and gleaming white teeth. I was listening for laughter. With time, the stream of navy uniforms thinned to a trickle, and after about twenty minutes, it dried up altogether.
By 4:40 P.M. the last of the cars had pulled away from the school gates and the last of the kids on bikes were heading down the road. A small band of boys remained, kicking a soccer ball around on the hopscotch court, while a gangly girl with pink hair stood in an alcove practicing her violin.
I bent down to pick up my bag.
“Miriam!”
I swung around.
“Miriam, wait!”
Zelda was leaping down the stairs two steps at a time, her plaits swinging crazily from side to side, her pencil case threatening to topple out of her bag.
“Sorry, but that beastly Mr. Turnbull kept me in for talking during the French test. Silly old codger! I bet he looks like a constipated camel when he sits on the loo.”
I giggled at the thought of Mr. Turnbull on the toilet.
“C’mon, let’s get home for tea. I’m starving!”
She slipped her arm through mine. It was soft and warm. Then we were off, half running and half skipping down the street. My chest was burning by the time we stopped.
“Tada,” Zelda said, blowing an imaginary trumpet. “My humble home.”
We were standing at the top of a very long driveway. At the bottom crouched a scarred block of apartments—six blue doors opening onto six concrete pads, each with its own twist of washing line. The adjacent section stood vacant, the plot of frost-dead grass home to a couple of conked-out cars, an overflowing rubbish skip, and a dilapidated basketball hoop. I smiled. I felt so happy.
We ran down the drive and stopped outside the first apartment. The front door was open and I found myself peering into a bright white kitchen with blue windmill motifs ringing the room. Jangling music and a delicious aroma of seared meat and sweet spices wafted out.
“Hiya!” Zelda cried, pulling me in after her.
At the stove stood a tall Indian woman dressed in a flowing red dress. “At last,” she said, swinging around. “Why so late?”
Her face was heavily made up and she wore dangly gold earrings, which sounded like wind chimes whenever she shook her head. Her black hair had been bundled into a thick roll and fixed with the stab of a shiny tortoiseshell pin to the top of her head. A radio with a bent coat hanger for an antenna was balancing on the edge of the shelf above her. Its volume had been turned right up.
“Mr. Turnbull gave me a detention.”
Two teens—a slender, full-lipped girl and a boy with slicked-back hair and pimply skin—were seated at a table in the middle of the room. On hearing about Zelda’s latest drama, the boy, who was slouching over a bowl of curry, sniggered. The girl opposite rolled her eyes—eyes as startlingly green as glowworms in the night. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful before.
“Detention!” Zelda’s mother exclaimed, taking her apron off as though readying for a fight. “Why? What did you do this time, Zelda?”
Ignoring the question, Zelda stood aside, blowing my cover. “Mum, this is my friend Miriam.”
My friend. The words were as sweet as jam.
Her mother’s face softened. “Mir-iam. What a lovely name.” She flicked the boy across the back of the head. “Get off the chair, Naresh. Let Miriam sit down.”
He ducked before she could wreak any more damage to his Brylcreemed waves, and reluctantly gave up his seat.
“You look as if you could do with a bit of fattening up!” Mrs. Patel said, looking me up and down.
“Muuumm,” Zelda groaned.
“Shush, Zelda. Now what would you like, Miriam? A samosa? Some chicken curry? I have this lovely almond cake.”
“A piece of almond cake, please . . . Thank you,” I stuttered, though I’d never tasted anything almond before.
“Me too, Mum. And can we have a hot chocolate?” Zelda said, flinging her bag into the corner and pulling up a chair. “With marshmallows.”
Zelda’s sister paused from brushing her long mane and eyed her sister menacingly from under her gleaming sheet of black hair. “Don’t throw your bag down like that. How many times do I have to tell you? And did you borrow my gold bangles? I can’t find them anywhere.”
“I put them back,” Zelda blurted out defensively.
“You did not.”
“Did.”
“Zelda! Mum . . . can you talk to Zelda?”
The phone rang, abruptly stalling the dispute. Zelda’s mother picked up the receiver. “Patels, hello!”
A sound of whimpering came from the sofa and I turned to see a chubby baby lying tucked between two cushions.
“Come here, babs,” Zelda’s sister said, sweeping the infant into her arms and signaling for Zelda to turn down the radio.
The inviting aroma that had greeted us on our arrival started to take on a burned note. I was wondering whether to say something when Mrs. Patel interrupted her phone conversation to remove the
pot from the stove.
As I stood wallowing in this wonderful chaos, the back door burst open. There was a rush of cool air and the musky scent of cologne, then a short Indian man waddled in. He placed his briefcase on the table, loosened his tie, and headed over to Zelda’s mother, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. I could tell right away who he was. He had Zelda’s eyes.
Mr. Patel had a round baby face, with shiny brown skin. Across the bridge of his nose was a splatter of small black spots, which looked like fly droppings, and on his chin sat a large knobbly mole. He was balding, but had trained and plastered some long strands of hair over the bare bit.
Mrs. Patel placed her hand over the receiver, muttered something about burned curry and school detentions, then resumed her telephone conversation.
Mr. Patel still hadn’t acknowledged anyone else in the room when he poured himself a cup of chai from the teapot on the stove, added one . . . two . . . three spoonfuls of sugar, before sinking down onto the sofa. Only then did he seem to notice the rest of us in the room.
Zelda piped up. “Dad, this is my new friend, Miriam.”
“Oh ho! Good afternoon,” he said, heaving himself off the sofa.
He stretched out his hand and shook mine vigorously. “Delighted to meet you, Miriam.” His voice was as deep and smooth as my hot chocolate.
“And how is my little Jewel of India?” he said, turning to Zelda and pulling her in to him.
Zelda’s mother broke off her telephone conversation. “She got a detention from Mr. Turnbull, Sanjit.”
“Just because I asked Sophia if her tadpoles had turned into frogs yet,” Zelda said, pouting. “During a French test,” she added, quietly.
Sanjit raised his eyebrows, showing just enough disapproval to satisfy Zelda’s mother.
“And my baby, Navin?” he asked, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
The baby on Zelda’s sister’s hip stopped whimpering and started to gurgle with excitement as his father reached for him.
Seeing Mrs. Patel was still on the phone, Zelda sorted out the rest of our afternoon tea. The almond cake was the best—buttery, crumbly, and drizzled with a sharp lemon icing, which made the insides of my cheeks tingle. I had two slices. It was now officially my favorite treat.
After tea we escaped outside. There was already a group of kids playing basketball in the adjacent lot.
Zelda headed toward them. I didn’t follow.
She turned. “You coming?”
“No, you go, I’ll just watch from here.”
“C’mon, don’t be a stick in the mud!”
I couldn’t move. I was trapped between a strangling fear of the other kids and the dread of losing my new and only friend.
“Hey, Zel,” someone cried. “Coming to play?” The others had spotted us. “We so need you. Zane is grinding us into the ground!”
Zelda grabbed my hand and hauled me after her. “Sure thing. There are two of us and we mean business!”
Next thing we were in among the others, so close I could feel their heat. There were dark faces and light, brown bodies and white—and no one I recognized from school.
“Hey, everyone, this is Miriam.”
“Hiya!” “Hi there.” “Hello.” Grins and smiles and friendly faces.
Blood started thumping in my ears. The ball was tossed to me. My hands opened like a robot’s and I caught it. It was heavier than I’d imagined, and warm from someone else’s touch. I ran my fingers along the dents of dark brown stitching and over the soft bulges of leather. Then I threw. Where, or to whom, I don’t know, but that first throw was as exhilarating as rolling down a hillside curled up in the rim of an old car tire. I remembered doing that once, somewhere . . . or perhaps it was in a dream.
Instantly the game was back on, with kids running and hurling, catching and slam-dunking, and I was a part of it. I was so happy, I didn’t want the afternoon to end, but it did. As evening wrapped itself around us, and mothers called their children indoors, Zelda walked with me to the end of her road.
“See ya tomorrow,” she sang, as we parted ways.
“Yes, tomorrow.”
I walked backward, waving, until I had to turn the next corner.
Michael and Rita were both home by the time I got back—Michael in his study on a business call and Rita in the lounge sipping a sherry and reading a medical journal.
“Hi, Rita,” I said, bouncing into the room.
She glanced up. “How was school?”
“It was so much fun. I—”
“Good,” she said absently.
I hovered, bursting to talk. I wanted to let the happiness of the afternoon pour out. I wanted to tell Rita about my new friends, about my best friend. I wanted to tell her about basketball and sweet almond cake, Mrs. Patel’s kitchen and—
“I’m tired tonight,” she said. “I think we’ll just heat a tin of soup for supper, hey?”
I nodded, the fullness of the afternoon quickly collapsing.
“Why don’t you hop in the shower before dinner.”
And with that, darkness folded itself over my day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1967
Miriam
“Make a wish, Miriam,” Mrs. Patel said, handing me a knife.
I held it over the tall pink cake, a number thirteen marked out in red glacé cherries and silver balls.
“Hurry up, slowcoach,” Zelda teased. “How long is that wish of yours? It’ll double as a Christmas cake if you take much longer!”
I laughed and sank the knife into the sponge. Almond cream bulged from the sides.
“Thank you for making my favorite cake, Mrs. Patel,” I said, handing her the first piece.
She dipped her head in acknowledgment, then passed the plate on to Mr. Patel. “Too much for me.”
We ate cake, sipped copious cups of iced tea, and shared riddles long into the afternoon. It was the best birthday ever.
Zelda and I were at different schools now—her parents choosing an all-girls senior school in a somewhat futile bid to limit the distractions. As a result Zelda and I didn’t see as much of each other as we once did, though I still visited frequently. And even if Zelda wasn’t home, I often ended up chatting to Mrs. Patel for hours on end. She was a remarkable woman—a lighthouse in the fog that always seemed to surround me. All my insecurities magically evaporated whenever I was around her. Zelda was so lucky to have her as her mum.
“Miriam, I think it’s time to officially make you an honorary member of our family,” Mrs. Patel said, sweeping cake crumbs into her hand. “Remember the first time you visited? So shy and quiet.”
“And look at her now,” teased Mr. Patel. “Thirteen years old and nearly as cheeky as our Zelda.”
I giggled.
“Doing something special tonight with the family?” he asked cautiously.
I looked down. “Rita and Michael might be taking me out for dinner. I’m not sure.”
He flashed a brief smile, cut himself another slice of cake, then opened out the classifieds section of the newspaper.
I’d seen Mr. Patel do this so many times before, scanning the pages and circling advertisements with a red pen.
“Mr. Patel,” I pried, “every afternoon you page through the classifieds. What are you looking for?”
“Well may you ask,” Mrs. Patel interjected, skewing her eyebrows.
“May I answer?” he protested. “Women!” He shook his head, then hoisted Navin onto his lap just in time to stop the wee boy from picking another cherry off the cake.
“Since your brother Naresh is no longer living at home, I’m relying on your support, young man.” He tapped his small son’s chest with his forefinger. “This house is steeped in estrogen. We have to stick together.”
The little boy struggled to get off his father’s lap.
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“Now, if I can answer Miriam’s question,” Mr. Patel said slowly, throwing a mock scowl at his wife in anticipation of another interruption. “I trained as a mechanical engineer in India, and Rahini as a midwife. We came to this country eleven years ago, looking for a better life and greater opportunities for our children. We hoped to find jobs in our respective professions.” His face darkened. “Sadly, this was not to be.”
He moved over to his wife. “Out of necessity I became a taxi driver and my dearest Rahini . . . Well, you’ve done everything from being a janitor to working in a Launderette, haven’t you?”
She shrugged in resignation.
“Just so long as you could be home by the time the kids got out of school.” He held out a hand to her.
“But . . .” I was perplexed. “But why can’t—”
“Sanjit still applies for jobs eleven years later,” Mrs. Patel interrupted, her voice tremulous. “And with each rejection, another little piece of him dies.”
“It’s so unfair, Dad.” Zelda sulked. “Just because you’re—”
“What are you complaining about, young lady?” Mr. Patel said, swinging around. “Do you have a roof over your head? Go to the very best of schools? Is this home always filled with friends and the ever-comforting aroma of your mother’s cooking? Hm?”
Mrs. Patel smiled.
“No guest visits without receiving a good dose of your mother’s hospitality and a dash of Indian philosophy too. Am I right?”
“Okay, okay, Dad! Don’t get carried away,” Zelda protested. “This is Miriam’s birthday. Remember? Time to get out of here,” she cried, grabbing my arm.
I excused myself and we set off on our bikes for Curls department store.
There, Zelda treated me to my first ever manicure. She couldn’t have one, though, because she’d chewed all her fingernails right down to the quick, and the manicurist said there was nothing she could do about that. My hands didn’t look as if they belonged to me by the time the woman with mauve hair was done. I felt like a proper English lady. And afterward, even though I was still full from afternoon tea, we shared a double-thick lime milk shake, before heading our separate ways home.
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