‘Bad news about Kavi,’ she says. ‘He has been caught shoplifting in Lavery’s Newsagents down on Gerrard Street. Frank Lavery is a friend,’ she continues, ‘and he knows Usha because yous used to have a paper and that, and he knows all about what happened to Billy because, well, it was all over the Handsworth Times, so he didn’t call the police. Not this time at least.’
‘What was he nicking?’ asks Anila.
‘Does it matter, bab? Sweets, Coke that sort of stuff. Where’s your mom, anyhow?’
Before Anila can answer, Brenda launches into a spiel about how Usha is worn out by Kavi and by the rest of them too.
‘Yous all need to think about your poor mom sometimes. A mom never gets over a kid. A year might have passed and you all might have moved on but it has only got worse for her. You lot should all be a bit more considerate instead of giving her more stuff to worry herself about.’
‘Moved on?’ Anila repeats. ‘Really, Brenda? Is that what you think the rest of us have done?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, bab. I’m just looking out for your mom, that’s all. I know yous are good kids really but it’s been over a year now and she hasn’t gotten over it yet. It’s all she talks about still, you know? It’s all she really thinks about, besides worrying about your Kavi and you girls. Tell her about the shoplifting, I told Frank I would do, but play it down a bit if you want, bab.’
‘Who is on the telephone?’ Usha shouts from the kitchen.
‘Wrong number, Mom,’ Anila replies, as she replaces the receiver.
In the living room, Kamela is watching a Scottish soap opera about country people. Mountains, lochs, wiggly roads that lead to rustic homesteads and accents Anila can barely understand.
‘They should have subtitles for this shit,’ Kamela says, as if she has read her sister’s mind. Anila ignores her. Across the room, Mukesh is slumped in the armchair dozing and snorting in his sleep. Anila glances at him and then leaves the living room and heads for the attic where Nina is laid out across the bed under the open skylight writing a letter to Imran on a torn-out piece of foolscap. She looks up.
‘I need to get back to uni – it is so fucking oppressive here and we aren’t even halfway through the holidays yet,’ Nina says as Anila enters.
‘You just wanna get back to your boyfriend,’ Anila replies resentfully. ‘Escape from reality, from the fact that Billy is still dead and everything is still falling apart here.’
‘So what if I do? Wouldn’t you feel exactly the same if you were in my position? I don’t know how you and Kam stand it. There is a whole world out there. Not just this shitty depressing little street with its poor people and its issues.’
Anila shrugs her shoulders.
The next day there is another planning meeting at The Shoe, the third in less than a fortnight. Anila has attended them all and is now part of the inner circle that is in charge of making plans and deciding how they will be executed. As she prepares to leave the house, she buttons up her oversized shirt over a khaki vest. Her jeans have been narrowed down the wide legs using Usha’s old Singer sewing machine. The seams are wonky but Anila is pleased with the drainpipe effect. She rubs a little Vaseline onto her lips and the rest into her palms before using it to spike up her hair. She checks herself in the narrow wall-mirror, adjusts the seams of her jeans and heads down the stairs to find the old hockey boots she now wears daily.
‘Where are you going, beti?’ Mukesh asks as Anila sits on the bottom step tying up her laces. Their conversations are strained, never having recovered from the slap incident months before.
‘A meeting, Dad,’ she says without looking up.
‘Meetings? What kind of young girl goes to meetings? What are these meetings you go to all the time?’
Anila licks her fingers and rubs the frayed end of the lace. Mukesh carries on speaking.
‘Who goes to these meetings? Amrit tells me they are run by Jamaicans, Muslims, Communists and low-caste people. Is this true, Anila?’
Anila rolls her eyes. An article in the Handsworth Times last week had said Kash was an outsider, an agitator, a troublemaker not from Handsworth, stirring up the young people in the area, but she knows he has lived in Handsworth for as long as she has existed.
‘We aren’t interested in where people are from, Dad, or what religion they are. This is about the situation here – police harassment, politics, the racism and that,’ Anila replies, still tying her laces.
‘More bloody politics. Politics at the factory and now politics here too. Politics is no use to people like us, Anila. We don’t matter to the politicians. Concentrate on your studies instead and stop hanging around with these trouble-makers, Paki bastards and low caste dogs. They are peasants – uncivilised – not like us proper Indians.’
‘God, Dad, you are worse than the National Front when you say stuff like that. We are all Pakis to some people you know? The NF don’t care where we come from, they only care what colour we are – we’re all the same to them.’ She takes a breath and continues, ‘Do you think skinheads can tell who is a Muslim, Sikh or Hindu? Or what caste people are? Do you think they care? You are worse than them, calling people low caste and that – it’s embarrassing. We are trying to change things and then my own dad says the most ignorant things. We are all brothers and sisters here – Muslim or Hindu, black, white, low or high bloody caste. Do you think we still give a shit about that stuff? Honestly!’
‘Don’t you say that, Anila. This isn’t your racism, it is my… our culture. Do you know nothing about our history?’
‘Of course I do, I’ve read Midnight’s Children at school – it’s all about Indian history and that, partition and stuff. History doesn’t explain why you hate people from less than fifty miles from where you were born yourself – it’s all divide and rule – you lot just fell for it, just like the British wanted you to. It’s just daft, mixed-up shit – you don’t even know what you think.’
Mukesh gawps at his daughter.
‘Bloody story books aren’t history, or the rubbish they teach you at these English schools. I don’t want you mixing with these Jamaican jungle-men or these Bangla and Paki hooligans Anila, do you hear me?’
‘Junglemen? Pakis? What are you talking about? Sometimes its like you are the most racist person I actually know. It’s like you are saying I don’t want you hanging around with those weirdos from Dudley or Wolverhampton. Handsworth is my culture, Dad, not some far-off distant imaginary homeland. And you need to realise that this is your community too – black, brown, Sikh, Muslim whatever. Anyhow, you can’t actually stop me seeing them. I’m not doing anything wrong – just trying to make things better. You chose this life for us so you better just accept it.’
‘Okay, Anila, you think you are very intelligent but at least let me give you this advice – you are a young lady and these are mostly men you are spending time with. It doesn’t look respectable and yes, on this thing I can agree – all these men are the same, whatever their colour, don’t be fooled by thinking they want you at these meetings for your great intellect. I know what men are like and it is not what you think.’
‘Bloody hell, Dad,’ Anila sighs, ‘I can look after myself. See you later.’ She slams the door as she leaves.
The Shoe is empty when Anila arrives. She fumbles in her pocket for her key, lets herself in and leaves the door slightly ajar. The cavernous atrium is dark except for a sliver of light from the gap in the doorway and it takes Anila a few moments to adjust her eyes. She opens her duffle-bag and removes the folded register of members and the donations tin. She places these on the table near the front door. The silence in The Shoe is marred by the white noise of traffic and the faint sounds of Bhangra music from cars whizzing by. The echoey interior has the eerie quality of abandonment; a once busy hive of activity, now a mostly empty shell of what once was.
‘You alone?’
A voice in the darkness behind her makes her jump. It is Kash. As he moves closer towards her, her legs begin to shake. She holds on to the edge of the unstable table.
‘You’re early Anila. That is what I like about you, you are committed. Reliable.’ He is right beside her now and she can feel the warmth of his breath across her cheek. ‘You understand the cause Anila, and what you need to do. I like that.’ He strokes her hair and his hand slides down her cheek and stops just above her breast where it stays for a moment, awkwardly positioned. Kash is staring straight into her eyes now and Anila can feel the blood rush to her face. The burning sensation in her cheeks travels throughout her body which stiffens as his fingers caress the top of her breast. He smirks as his hand moves down her body, travelling towards her hips and to the zip of her jeans. Suddenly, there is a noise at the door. Kash steps away from Anila. ‘Wait for me after the end of the meeting,’ he whispers. He is still close enough for her to feel his breath on her face.
Before Anila can focus her attention back to the imminent meeting, a small group of men and women bustle in through the door; their voices are loud with banter. Kash greets them from the shadows and they immediately fall into a reverential silence when they become aware of his presence. Anila is shaken, unsure of the feelings careering through her body except a terrible embarrassment – what if these people saw how close to her Kash was standing just seconds before? She tries hard to compose herself and the heat in her body slowly begins to settle and ebb away. Without looking up she holds out the tin towards the queue forming in front of her. Aazim is the first person in the line and he mumbles a greeting and pushes a handful of coppers towards her. She continues to look downwards, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. The last of the queue to reach her is Olive.
‘What you playing at, Anila?’ She says under her breath.
‘What do you mean, Olive?’ Anila replies.
‘Just saying like, we can all see you have a crush on him. Be careful, Anila, some blokes aren’t what they seem. I’ve heard things that you wouldn’t want to know.’
‘What things? Actually, don’t bother, Olive. I’m not interested in gossip.’
‘I’m just saying, Anila, be careful. He’s older than us. More experienced and that.’
Anila feels heat flush across her face again. From across the room, Kash catches her eye but she turns away quickly, looking around to check if anyone has noticed. Olive is busy in a whispered conversation with Marcus and another girl across the room. Anila feels compelled to slip out of the room but before she has time to do so Kash bangs on a table and the babbling crowd fall into a hush. As he begins to speak, Anila attempts to assess how she will move unnoticed to the exit. She edges a few paces towards it but an elbow nudges her in the ribs.
‘Shush can’t you? We are trying to listen,’ an unfamiliar voice says.
Others turn to look at what is causing the disturbance and Anila stands rigid, staring towards Kash until the others lose interest and return to looking at him. Twenty minutes later Kash concludes his speech in a rallying battle cry, the type he is becoming renowned for amongst the groups of young people that attend the meetings. An enthusiastic applause erupts around the room and Anila takes the opportunity to head towards the door and leave. Outside, two young men sit in a Datsun Estate with all four windows open wide. They gawp at Anila as she exits The Shoe and the driver shouts something suggestive in Punjabi towards her; both men giggle like schoolboys. Their words are only vaguely audible over the loud Bhangra music of Apna Sangeet which blares out from a ghetto blaster balanced on the passenger’s knees.
Chapter 22
Brenda and Usha sit huddled around the table in Usha’s kitchen, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of stewed tea. It is a dull Wednesday morning, unusually cold for the time of year but there is no distinction between the days or even the seasons for Usha – each one merges into the other as she tries to maintain a semblance of domesticity. Brenda stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table and, as she crushes it into the tin, a barely perceptible cloud of ash scatters and rests on the table top. Usha gets up, grabs the damp dishcloth from the sink caddy and cleans the table, then rinses and squeezes out the cloth and returns it to drip-dry over the tap. Brenda watches her friend as she moves swiftly from table to sink and back again. Before Usha has properly settled into her seat, Brenda has stuck another fag between her lips and she rummages through her bag for her matches. Eventually, Usha speaks.
‘I feel like part of me died with Billy.’
Brenda looks up from her bag, alarmed. Just a moment or two earlier the women were speaking of the change in weather, curtain fabric and the rising prices of textiles. Usha sees the pity in Brenda’s face – it is the same forced softness that she encounters each time she walks down the street to the small parade of shops on Hunters Road to buy milk or bread or just to break the monotony of grief, or when she ventures further to Lozells Road or even, on rare occasions, to Soho Road for the more exotic vegetables and spices that aren’t stocked in the smaller more local concerns. Usha recognises that the way Brenda looks upon her is as if she is a child that has lost her favourite toy or scraped her knee in some misdemeanour or other. I don’t need your pity, I just need my son back are the words that form in Usha’s mind. They are words not meant to be spoken, not meant to upset the very people whose concern keeps her wrapped in a blanket, protected from the real world of harsh, unfamiliar stares of the strangers who populated her life before the death of Billy.
‘What do you mean, bab?’ Brenda says.
‘Like everything around me is carrying on but I am standing still, unable to move,’ Usha replies. The words sound clunky, even to herself, as she tries to articulate feelings that she cannot fathom.
‘Oh, bab, time is a great healer as they say,’ Brenda replies.
Usha smiles weakly; she knows her friend is well-meaning but she also knows that Brenda will not understand how the crushing weight of losing Billy bears down on her every moment of every day, so that even the simplest daily routine – brushing her teeth, making a cup of tea, opening the post – is like wading through a quagmire after prolonged rain.
‘I am not sure I believe it, Brenda,’ she says. ‘The family is falling down around me and I can’t do anything about it. Kavi is missing school all the time, Nina never phones or writes when she is away – she hardly comes home and I have no idea what her life is when she is away. Anila is getting too involved with these radical people – I am worried they will lead her the wrong way. Have you seen what she has done to her hair?’
‘Aww, it’s not so bad, Usha, at least she hasn’t dyed it green or orange or some other dreadful colour.’
Usha shrugs her shoulders.
‘Kamela is still scared to go out even though the thing with those horrible girls was months ago now, and as for Mukesh…’
‘Eugene knows that Bedford one from the factory, you know?’ Brenda says. ‘They go to the same pub… he could have a word?’
‘Oh Brenda, he won’t even get out of bed some days except to get a drink – I don’t know if he can ever go back to work. Sometimes I don’t blame him, I wish I could just go to bed and pull the covers over my head rather than face the world, but I am a mother and the children at least need to know that there will be dinner made and tidying up done. They need this routine, it is all we have got that is stable and a mother has no choice but to provide it.‘
Brenda nods, sucking deeply on the cigarette tucked between her fingers.
‘How are you coping with nowt coming in? How long has it been? Long enough I expect.’
Usha puts her face in her hands and rubs her eyes. Money is not an issue she was brought up to discuss with outsiders, however close they are. The fact that she had to borrow money from her parents or that the men at the factory had a whip around is a dark secret. She accepted both without choice and felt grateful that it was Jo
hnny who had delivered the money from the men and not Amrit or one of the other men from the community – although they all would have known of course. It wasn’t a lot of money, the men didn’t have a lot to give, but it was enough to stock up on tins and dried goods. When she told Mukesh about the money he demanded she hand it over.
‘It is from my friends for me, a gift to wish me well as I recover from this injustice forced on me by that Bedford bastard.’
When he said this, Usha considered slapping him or shaking him until he became the man she used to know – the patriarch, the breadwinner, the person who took control so she could get on with being a mother and a wife, as was expected of her. Instead she threw the few remaining notes at him before leaving the bedroom, restraining her words and her actions to silence and door slamming.
‘They think we are charity cases like these Ugandans and Cambodians?’ Usha had heard him shout after she left the room, and she had to stop herself from returning and shouting something unforgivable back at him.
Two weeks later, Usha had to go back to her mother and father to ask for money to feed the children.
‘We will pay you back – it is just a loan until Mukesh is back at work,’ she had insisted as her father handed her an envelope containing five £10 notes. It was already in his pocket before she had even arrived to ask, and she knew he would have been to the bank to withdraw such a large amount from their meagre savings in anticipation of this moment. She was unable to hide the swell of emotion that arrived with her gratitude and when her father had hugged her and called her his precious puttari she hadn’t been able to stop the tears from cascading down her face. Bibi phones her daily now to check they are okay, and most weekends both her mother and father walk through Handsworth Park towards Lozells with a bag of Indian vegetables and Tupperware containers of cooked food and freshly made chutneys. Usha doesn’t tell Brenda this.
The Handsworth Times Page 13