‘Get out here you Paki bitch.’
A hot and breathy voice is shouting in Anila’s ear. She looks around and the man she kicked just moments before is now looming over her. He grabs her neck by the skin and pulls her out from behind the overflowing bin. She tries to struggle free but he has a firm grip and before she can shout out for help he slams her face down onto the hard concrete below. All of a sudden Marcus is in front of her, he pulls the attacker off her and shoves him into the road. Anila’s head throbs but she is able to lift it just in time to see two police men stomping towards them. Marcus has disappeared into the crowd – she can just make him out ahead of her, mingled in with others of their group who are fighting off two burly men, laying into them with punches and kicks. A police officer pulls her up and a trickle of warm blood seeps down her forehead, dripping from her chin onto her tee-shirt.
‘Ow, watch out, you’re hurting me,’ she says as the police officer drags her roughly across the road. Again, she struggles to free herself but she is too weak and battered, and before she can muster any strength to release herself she is bundled into a waiting police van. Inside the van, Kash, Olive, Aazim, Marcus and others are squeezed into the tight space. Each of them is bruised or bleeding and no-one speaks. Through the tinted windows Anila watches as the police officers steer the skinheads back into line and the remaining Handsworth Youth members are shooed away with truncheons and shoves in the back. Meanwhile, a mixture of skinheads and their suited fellow-marchers circle the van, sneering at the occupants and raising one and two finger salutes. Anila puts her head on Marcus’s shoulder and closes her eyes.
At two o’clock that afternoon the sun begins to break through a thin mist of white cloud above the zig-zag houses on Church Street. Usha is cleaning the kitchen windows with a ragged Silver Jubilee tea-towel and a spray can of Windolene in preparation for the meeting later that afternoon. An abrupt knock at the door makes her drop her cloth. She edges open the front door – this is her second visit from the police in little over a year.
‘Mrs Agarwal, nothing to worry about but I’m afraid your daughter has managed to get herself into a bit of trouble,’ the police officer says.
Usha dries her hands on her thighs, removes her apron and grabs her handbag from the end of the banister. She follows the policeman out of the house. On the other side of the road Elsie Meeson stands with Marie O’Connell and they stare at Usha, nodding their heads in an ambiguous gesture as she steps into the waiting police car.
Anila leaves Thornhill Road Police station hand in hand with her mother. She looks around for other members of the Movement on the street and catches a glimpse of the back of Marcus’s head being pushed into an orange Cortina by a thunder-faced man who can only be his father. A frumpy woman sits in the front passenger seat staring stonily ahead. A few paces ahead of Anila and Usha, Kash Ram walks alongside a young woman in a purple tie-dye headscarf and a simple lilac salwar kameez. She is as slight as Kash except for the small, neat bump jutting out beneath her tunic. The couple walk with their arms interlocked. Anila takes a couple of seconds to absorb the scene in front of her. Kash looks across at her and nods in a matter-of fact way.
‘See you at the next meeting, sister,’ he says, just as he does after every meeting. His young wife turns briefly and glances at Anila. She tucks loose strands of glossy black hair into her casually worn chunni then turns away without a glimmer of expression. Anila grips her mother’s hand tightly.
Chapter 26
At five o’clock, Brenda and Usha stand side by side next to the living room window. They peer out from behind the net curtains into the street, craning their necks to see if anyone may be heading in the direction of the house from further up the road or beyond.
‘It’s like that time before you have a party and you start doubting your friends – whether they are real mates or not – thinking no one will come. Do you know what I mean, bab?’ Brenda says jovially.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Usha.
‘I remember at my twenty-first, waiting and watching the clock and thinking no-one liked me and then suddenly, after a couple of Babychams loads of people were in my mom’s kitchen dancing to Chubby Checker and having a ball. I don’t think I knew half of them.’
Usha looks at her friend blankly.
‘Brenda, I was married at nineteen,’ she says. ‘Indian girls didn’t go to these sorts of parties.’
‘Suppose not, bab.’
They watch as a woman that neither of them recognises tentatively approaches Usha’s front door. The woman hesitates before she knocks.
‘Here we go,’ says Brenda as Usha heads out the room to answer the door.
Five minutes later three more women, all strangers, congregate in the small hallway waiting to be shown where to go. They have arrived together and chit-chat amongst themselves, ignoring Usha.
‘This way please,’ Usha says, and points them through the nearest doorway into the living room where the first arrival stands awkwardly near the fireplace.
Bibi arrives next carrying a package of freshly cooked pakora wrapped in tin-foil. More women begin arriving soon after and of the half dozen or so new faces that have turned up most are white or black. Other than Usha’s own mother, the only other Asian person is a pleasant, squat woman with a moon-shaped face. She is dressed in a traditional beige-coloured Punjabi suit and introduces herself as Shilly. Usha tries to guess her age but finds it difficult, especially as her plump, reddened cheeks make her seem younger than she probably is. It takes Usha a few minutes to place her as the woman from Surjeet Singh’s General Stores, a shop on Lozells Road. As Shilly enters the living room, a couple of the other women nod in mutual recognition. Shilly stands next to Bibi and the two women exchange pleasantries in Punjabi.
Kamela and Kavi sit behind the banister at the top of the stairs watching the arrivals,
‘Who the hell are they all?’ Kamela whispers.
‘There’s that O’Connell one from across the road,’ says Kavi. ‘I didn’t think she’d come – she always seems to be looking down her nose at us, silly cow.’
‘Shush, Kavi, she’ll hear you.’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ says Kavi.
‘You have such a dirty gob, Kavi – you should learn to control it.’
‘Fuck off, Kamela. I speak how I want. Besides, you’re always swearing and that too. Anyway, it’s true, the O’Connells do look down on us. However low they are, we are lower to them so they can be all snooty with us. They are the scum for most people but we are their scum.’
The living room door is still ajar and Kavi and Kamela listen as Usha directs some of the guests towards the settee. Before they arrived she had tried to spruce the old settee up with a bright orange batik-print. The throw has retained the aroma of the Indian marketplace from which it originated, even after many years stored in a suitcase under Usha’s bed, and that slightly musky smell now permeates the room. Some of the women sniff to place the smell and rub their noses as if averting a sneeze.
Usha pokes her head out of the living room door and looks up towards the place where Kavi and Kamela sit concealed from view.
‘Come and make tea please you two. I know you are just there.’
The siblings drag themselves down the stairs.
‘Where is Anila?’ Usha asks in a soft voice when they reach the bottom step, ‘Is she okay?’ She directs the question to Kamela, who shrugs her shoulders and heads towards the kitchen. ‘And your father? Is he back yet? He went out hours ago.’ This time she addresses Kavi but he also shrugs and turns to follow Kamela down the hallway. Usha whispers after him, ‘Keep your eyes open for him, Kavi, please. He may have been in the pub again and I don’t want to be shamed with his drunkenness in front of these strangers.’ Kavi doesn’t respond. ‘Bring the biscuits too please,’ Usha calls after him a bit louder.
‘Blimey, she’s pushing the b
oat out isn’t she?’ Kavi announces, pointing at the two packets of Custard Creams and a packet of Ginger Nuts on the worktop.
‘Brenda bought the biscuits,’ says Kamela.
Upstairs in the attic bedroom, Anila lies on her bed flicking through the pages of the book Marcus gave her. Her face and shoulder throb with pain despite the aspirin and the bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea-towel given to her by Usha when they returned from the police station. She daren’t look in the mirror, knowing her face to be a bruised mess. She tries to focus on the words in the book but the print is too small and hurts her eyes. The descriptions of plasterers and carpenters bring to mind the men that work alongside her father at Hardiman’s. The book holds no interest for her and its sheer size is overwhelming. On the radio, Shalimar sing I Can Make You Feel Good and Anila tries hard to order the thoughts that race around her head.
In the kitchen, Kavi and Kamela are buoyed by the activity in the house and they chat in a way that has become a rarity amongst the family members.
‘So, do you know who any of them actually are? Except the obvious ones of course,’ Kavi asks, picking up their conversation from earlier.
‘Just people from round and about. Brenda probably bought them all a drink in the Royal Oak to get them here.’
‘Not people, just ladies Kamela. All, you know, mostly well… not Indians are they? There’s Bibi but she doesn’t even speak enough English to know what we’re on about never mind Brenda and the like. You know, I think Brenda is the only white grown-up that’s ever been in the house before and now look, there’s loads of them. And black ones too. And all ladies.’
‘Women, Kavi, not ladies. That’s like some Victorian shit, like Dickens or George Eliot or whatever. Old fashioned shit.’
‘Who? Okay, women then. But it’s all good isn’t it? I mean, seeing Mom all excited about having these ladies here and all those others coming here trying to do something,’ says Kavi.
‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you said it was all a waste of time before, to Anila.’
‘Yeah, but those lot she hangs around with are just full of it. They think they are some kind of revolutionaries or something but as far as I can see they just hang around that piss-smelly warehouse talking bollocks.’
‘Nina says they are part of something bigger – a youth movement across the country, you know like CND or the civil rights stuff in America but young people – young black people like us. She said there is another group like them in Bradford.’
‘We aren’t black, Kam, in case you hadn’t noticed. Last time I looked I was still “cup of tea” brown.’
‘Nina says we are, politically and that – black I mean. That group in Bradford is mostly Pakis and Bengalis and that but they call themselves Black. I don’t really get it but she says we have to define ourselves and not let the establishment do it for us.’
‘Bollocks! Calling ourselves a different colour and going on marches isn’t going to stop kids like us being treated like we don’t belong here and don’t deserve a future. And look at the state of Anila today – that isn’t what I thought would happen when I persuaded her to go this morning.’
‘You persuaded her?’
‘Yeah, well she didn’t need much persuading really. It’s just that she seems so miserable these days and then I realised that I kind of missed that enthusiasm that she’s had these last few months for her group. She’s been sort of positive when everything else has been so negative. But after she got smashed about today I don’t think it will do much good for kids like us – Indian kids and that. I mean the mommy-jis and daddy-jis aren’t going to let their Bimlas and Sanjays get involved now, are they?’
‘It’s not just about Indian kids, Kavi. That’s the whole point. Kids in London, or Bristol or Manchester, black, white or Indian, don’t have work or money or anything. Mrs Thatcher and her government are making sure of that. That’s why there’s all these riots and stuff. That’s what Nina says anyway. I suppose she knows better than we do now she goes go to an actual university! At least Anila is trying to change things. Getting beaten up is just a setback – she’ll get over it.’
‘What, like you did?’
‘Fuck off, Kavi.’
‘Well, they can’t change the fact that we are stuck here in Lozells, the arse-end of Handsworth which is the arse-end of Birmingham itself. We don’t have much of a chance to get out or be something better.‘
‘Nina has,’ says Kamela.
‘Maybe, but they are only going to let one or two Ninas into the universities before they find a way to shut those doors on us too. At least we’re not in India,’ continues Kavi after a pause, ‘I suppose we might have even less chance than fuck-all there.’
‘Bloody hell, Kavi, I thought I was finding it hard but you definitely need to sort yourself out. It’s not healthy being that negative about everything.’
Five minutes later, Kavi and Kamela are standing by the living room door with the tray of tea and biscuits. The conversation in the room is stilted – small talk about streets and schools. The siblings enter the room and hand out the refreshments. Four women sit like sardines on the settee, pushed up together so close it is hard for them to release their arms and hands to take the cups from the tray. A large white woman sits in the only armchair available and the remaining women stand around awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do with themselves.
Marie O’Connell is staring at a calendar above the mantelpiece: the image depicted is a scene of a pale blue adolescent Krishna reclining by a lake watching buxom, semi naked courtesans frolic in the water. Marie is transfixed by the image and does not avert her eyes even when she reaches out to take a cup from the tray in front of her. Next to Marie stands Violet Murray, a stout Jamaican woman about the same age as Usha and Brenda. Violet has a kind but tired face and she breaks the small talk by declaring a sense of purpose in her high pitched crystal-clear tone.
‘So, we is all here for a reason, Mrs Agarwal, shall we get on with it then?’ She pronounces Agarwal as though the A is preceded with an H so it sounds like ‘Hugarwal’. This amuses Usha and she smiles as she responds, nervously at first, looking towards Brenda for reassurance.
‘I am worried about my children. Not just my children, our children, all the children around here. They have nowhere to go and nothing to do and this isn’t good.’ Usha’s voice quivers as she speaks but the other women smack their teeth with tongues in agreement and she is encouraged to go on. ‘This is a generation of young people that is currently without hope and we need to change that or there will be problems in the future. Already we have seen riots in our streets and people say there will be more. The teenagers have nothing to look forward to and a government that is ignoring them. This is the problem we are seeing all around us – not just in Handsworth and Lozells but all over the country. Maybe we can at least do something to help our neighbourhood, a small thing maybe but something at least so there are no more riots here.’
Kamela takes a seat on the arm of the settee, transfixed by her own mother. Kavi hovers around the edges of the room like a curious fly.
‘I agree,’ says Marie, ‘but there are no jobs for any of us. My hubby has been on the dole for ten months now, and not for want of trying, mind, but plenty of us are in that boat, eh Mrs Agarwal?’ Usha feels shame at the thought of all these strangers knowing that Mukesh is without a job and hanging about the pubs spending what little money he has managed to cling on to from his severance pay on beer and cigarettes. Marie continues to speak: ‘So what the kiddies going to do when even the grown men don’t have jobs? It’s a crying shame the way this country is going.’ She stares at Usha as she speaks.
‘Well, that’s why we wanted to have a meeting,’ Brenda says, ‘to come up with a plan to busy the teenagers so they have a sense of purpose, especially the ones that have left school and have nothing to do.’
‘What are y
ou suggesting, ladies?’ Violet Murray says.
‘They should all join the bloody army,’ pipes up the large woman in the armchair. ‘At least that way they could learn a few manners. Send them to the Falklands, that’s what I say. They still need people out there to keep the Argies out. National Service is what they need, then they’ll be able to give a bit back to the country instead of waiting for it to be handed on a plate to them.’ She too addresses her comments directly to Usha.
Violet Murray sucks her teeth in response before speaking.
‘Sending our young men to fights wars in far off lands we haven’t even heard of, that don’t make any sense.’
‘If they are not prepared to fight for this country,’ the woman says, ‘then they shouldn’t be here, they should go back to where they belong!’
‘And where exactly do you think they should go? These young people were born in this country. We are part of the Commonwealth in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘No point falling out, ladies,’ Brenda says. ‘We are talking about all the kiddies, not just the black ones or the white ones. We are all here for the same reason – to think of solutions, not to scrap.’
‘Shame,’ says Kavi from the corner of the room, ‘I like a good lady-fight.’ Usha, Kamela and Brenda all turn to scowl at him and Kavi grins back at them cheekily.
Anila switches off her music and sits on the steps outside the attic room straining to hear what is going on downstairs. After a few minutes she heads down the first flight and takes a seat at the top of the main stairs where she can hear much better. The voices downstairs are all unfamiliar except those of Brenda and Usha and there is a charge in the air that she recognises as similar to the atmosphere of the first meetings at The Shoe. After a few moments, Anila is distracted from the excited tones emanating from the women by a commotion in the kitchen – a clatter of something hitting the floor. She slips down the stairs and hallway, catching Kavi’s eye in the opening of the living room doorway.
The Handsworth Times Page 17