Ten

by Shamini Flint

  The music is immensely loud – there are all sorts of instruments; sitars (an Indian guitar), dholaks (a two-sided drum) and trumpets. I am tempted to stick my fingers in my ears. It sounds like the travelling bands at football matches. Loud, tuneless and enthusiastic.

  The bride and groom are sitting on a raised pedestal that is gold and red. The priest is wearing a white sarong (a long piece of fabric wrapped around his waist) and not much else. He has smears of white dust on his chest and arms. (Dad says it’s burnt cow dung. I really, seriously hope he’s joking, but I fear not.) The priest has long hair tied in a topknot and he is muttering Sanskrit prayers over a small flame. Hardly anyone has any idea what he’s saying. The women are gossiping among themselves, the men are outside.

  Even the couple getting married have no idea what’s going on. Every time they’re supposed to do something, one of the older uncles translates the Sanskrit into Tamil and then another uncle translates the Tamil into English (the groom doesn’t even speak Tamil). I can’t help wondering what will happen when all these old uncles who have some idea what’s going on aren’t around anymore.

  Maybe if weddings are no longer possible my relatives will be less worried about who I’m going to marry.

  At last the music reaches a crescendo, everyone stands up, the groom ties a gold chain around his bride’s neck, uncooked rice is chucked at them (that bit is fun except it stings if you’re in the firing line of some old relative with rolls of fat on her throwing arm) and it’s all over.

  The journey home isn’t great. Mum and Dad are really ticked off at each other.

  Dad is complaining, ‘I can’t stand these family things.’

  ‘It was a wedding – we had to go.’

  ‘All they do is talk about what car to buy and the housing market.’

  ‘Maybe if we had some money like the rest of them it wouldn’t annoy you so much!’

  ‘And I wish they’d stop picking on Maya …’ continues Dad, flicking ash from his cigarette out of the car window.

  Mum doesn’t say anything. I hug my football to my chest. I wish they’d stop picking on me too.

  Dad quit aid work a few years back. He says he wasn’t helping anyone – it was all politics and he couldn’t stand it anymore and besides, with two children, he needed to think about earning some money.

  Since then he’s been running a whole lot of different businesses. He tried opening an Indian restaurant. That was doomed from the start – even I knew that. Who would go to an Indian restaurant owned by an Englishman? They’d be afraid of getting curried chips. (Mum says you really do get curried chips at Indian restaurants in England but I can hardly believe it.)

  Next he opened a hobby shop – one of those which sell those really expensive toys like Hornby railway sets and Scalectrix racing cars.

  Nobody in Kuantan has any money or time for hobbies.

  Rajiv and I still play with all the leftover stock in the garage. Both of us can construct a great Airfix WWII Spitfire – we’ve had so many model kits to practise with.

  Right now Dad’s running a flying club. He has two small Cessna aeroplanes – they have names (actually they’re radio call signs) – Victor Romeo and Uniform Romeo. He’s got a pilot’s licence and he does crop dusting and joy rides. Sometime he lets my brother or me hold the controls and pilot the plane. Mum would freak out if she knew, so we don’t tell her.

  It’s pretty special being part of the sky with your dad, even if he’s hopeless at business.

  It doesn’t bother me too much. But it’s one of the things Mum and Dad fight about. She says he’s irresponsible to keep risking the house on his stupid business ideas. She can’t stand not knowing if we’ll have money for school fees and food and stuff. She says it’s so embarrassing because the bank manager is one of our relatives so everyone knows we’re broke.

  It does get a bit hairy sometimes, our not always having enough money.

  Once, we were on the school run and got stuck at a traffic light.

  A huge man with a massive belly hanging over his trousers pulled up next to us on his motorbike and yanked open the door.

  We thought he was a robber – I started screaming – it turned out he was there to take back the Volvo because Dad hadn’t been paying for it every month like he was supposed to. Mum gave the man fifty dollars from her handbag and he went away.

  I was surprised.

  I thought Dad must surely owe them more than that if they were worried enough to try and take the car away at a traffic light in the middle of rush hour. Mum didn’t want to talk about it. Not to us anyway. Rajiv told me afterwards that Mum wasn’t paying for the car – she was just paying the man to go away.

  The yelling upstairs that night felt louder than a stadium full of excited Brazilians.

  ‘I’m going to England for a couple of weeks,’ says Dad.

  We all react differently.

  Mum says, ‘I hope you’re not chasing some other daft business idea.’

  Rajiv shouts, ‘But I have a hockey game next week – you’re supposed to come.’

  I say, ‘Can you get me some books?’

  Dad scowls at Mum. He ruffles Rajiv’s hair and says, ‘I’ll be there next time, son.’

  Then he looks at me, ‘Are you still reading? I thought it was all football practice nowadays!’

  I say impatiently, ‘Don’t be silly, Dad.’

  ‘At least she doesn’t always have her nose in a book anymore.’ This was Mum’s contribution.

  Dad says, ‘Make me a list and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Kuantan doesn’t have a bookshop. There is a shop which stocks a few kids’ books. But the owner, Mr Hamid, only buys in new titles when every single book has sold. About a year ago, he opened his book crate and discovered he’d ordered ten copies of Five Run Away Together by mistake. Three have been sold so far. I’m going to have to wait a long time before he brings in any new stuff.

  But when Dad goes to England – Christmas comes early.

  I make him a long list of books by copying out every single title from the back pages of other books. It doesn’t matter if I’ve never heard of the book or they have weird names like The Phantom Tollbooth or The Faraway Tree.

  Dad tells me that when he gets to London, he goes straight to a bookshop called Foyles on Charing Cross Road, where the books are piled high on every surface, and hands over the list.

  At Foyles, they always have everything.

  It must be the most amazing place in the whole world. Someday, I’m going to go there. Dad’s promised.

  Sometimes, it takes a while for Dad to deliver on a promise but I’m sure I’ll get to go to Foyles someday.

  Rajiv is still sulking. ‘You said you’d come to the game, Dad.’

  ‘I know, Rajiv. But this is the only time I can go.’

  I know what that means. Dad’s made a bit of money and needs to use it before someone takes it from him.

  Mum says, ‘I’ll come for the game.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ says Rajiv and storms out of the room.

  Dad sighs. Mum sighs.

  I know where this is going.

  I grab my football. I need to put in some extra hours of practice so I’ll have time to read when the books arrive.

  The next morning, I take my football to school. I decide against carrying it in under my arm – that would attract too much attention.

  I find a large paper bag and squeeze the ball in. The bag tears slightly along the seams.

  At break time, I go down to the play area, rip the bag to get the ball out, drop it on the ground and put one foot on it.

  I hope it looks like I know what I’m doing. I fold my arms to appear determined.

  ‘Anyone fancy a kick around?’ I ask, my heart thumping against my chest so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape.

  ‘But we don’t play football at this school,’ points out Susan, who is very good at netball. ‘Football is a boys’ game.’

  �
�There’s nothing to stop us having a game at break,’ I say urgently, looking at the other girls.

  Nurhayati, who is very rich and very beautiful, says, ‘I’m not playing a boys’ game.’ She tosses her head and walks away.

  Most of the other girls hurry after her. I’m not surprised. A lot of the girls follow Nurhayati’s lead. She is the most popular kid in our year. And her dad owns the biggest company in Kuantan – half the girls’ dads work for him.

  I swallow a sigh before it escapes. I feel like a coach whose two star players have run into each other in the pre-match warm up and injured themselves.

  It was always a long shot – persuading any of the girls to play with me. But I had hoped someone would.

  I sit down on the ball with my arms around my knees.

  A shadow falls over me and I turn to squint at the person getting in my sun.

  It’s Sok Mun. She says, ‘I’d like to try to play soccer.’

  I say automatically, ‘It’s football, not soccer,’ and then smile at her to show I’m not really fussed.

  I can hardly believe my luck – I have someone to pass the ball to now.

  Our first practice is not very successful.

  Sok Mun has no idea what to do. I don’t think she’s ever watched a game of football in her life. I kick the ball towards her.

  When the ball gets to her she screams and backs away. When I explain that she has to trap it or knock it back to me, she puts a foot on the ball and falls over.

  On our next attempt, she stubs her toe. The ball is hard so she really needs to use the side of her foot to kick it. ‘Otherwise,’ I explain, ‘you’re going to lose a toenail, Sok Mun.’

  Sok Mun makes a face to show how gross she thinks the idea of losing a toenail is. But you’ve got to give the girl credit. She sticks with it right through break.

  Batumalar is watching us from under a frangipani tree. She’s had another bad morning. She was late and her school shirt was crushed.

  Sister Pauline was sure that God preferred clothes that were well ironed so Batumalar got squats, lines and a smack on the hand with a ruler.

  I wave to her – inviting her to join us. I don’t really want her to – she’s a big girl and looks clumsy and I am afraid if I spend time with her, I might get picked on too. I know us minorities should stick together but I’m scared. I don’t want anyone to pick on me.

  Batumalar looks embarrassed to be caught watching and hurries away.

  I feel bad now for not having really wanted her to join Sok Mun and me. She doesn’t have any friends at all. She’s always alone at break time. Why am I such a coward? I feel like a penalty taker who refuses at the last minute to take the spot kick.

  I am not concentrating on the football. Sok Mun finally manages a side-footed, straight-to-me pass and the ball rolls between my legs.

  Typical of my luck – Nurhayati is walking past at just that moment. ‘You should turn professional, Maya,’ she sneers.

  I pretend not to hear her but I bet she can see that my ears and the back of my neck are as red as a Liverpool Football Club jersey.

  Argentina vs. West Germany.

  South American flair vs. plodding Europeans – that’s what the newspapers are calling it.

  It is not a difficult World Cup final in which to choose sides.

  I am desperately worried though. On paper, Argentina is head and shoulders the better team and they have the best player of this World Cup – Maradona.

  But the Germans always win.

  ‘They didn’t win World War I and World War II,’ points out Rajiv.

  ‘They haven’t lost anything since then.’

  ‘I might watch the game,’ remarks Rajiv.

  I throw him a grateful look.

  Dad is in England. Mum only ever wakes up if she can cheer for the team playing against England.

  And nobody should have to watch the World Cup final alone.

  Rajiv continues, ‘The Germans are going to need some support.’

  I stare at him. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ I say.

  He would.

  He is actually cheering for Germany. I can’t believe he’s my brother. There must have been a mix-up at the hospital. I remember that Rajiv has Grandad’s nose. All right, the mix-up must have been over me. I wonder where my real family is and whether they’re all sitting together in their replica sky-blue-and-white striped shirts supporting Argentina.

  I am lost in a daydream where my real parents don’t quarrel and my real brother doesn’t always support the other team.

  The game drags me back to the present. The Germans are marking Maradona well. He is struggling to get in the game but a defender, José Luis Brown, scores!

  1 – 0!

  I dance a jig around the room. Rajiv steals my half of the blanket. I don’t care. Maybe it will turn out all right in the end.

  Ten minutes into the second half, Valdano scores for Argentina.

  2 – 0.

  I can relax now. My brother is slumped on the sofa, looking bored. He really isn’t interested in football so if he’s not winding me up, he’s not having fun.

  He knows that not even the Germans are going to come back from two goals down.

  The Germans come back from two goals down.

  Rummenigge and Völler both score.

  2 – 2.

  I can’t believe it. There are only ten minutes left. There’s no way that Argentina would win a penalty shootout. Not against the Germans. Ask the English. Ask the French. Ask every single team that has been knocked out of football tournaments by the Germans on penalties.

  Rajiv is dancing around the room.

  But the Germans have got ahead of themselves. They know they’re unbeatable on penalties. They’re dreaming of a famous victory.

  They forget to watch Maradona.

  He picks up the ball and slides it through to Jorge Burruchaga. Burruchaga scores.

  3 – 2!

  The whistle blows.

  Even Rajiv is jumping up and down. What a final! What a World Cup!

  I hate it that Brazil got knocked out in the quarterfinals and my Zico will never win a World Cup medal – but there’s no denying that Maradona and Argentina deserve their win.

  Maradona is kissing the golden trophy. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

  I feel my eyes go all prickly. I rub them hard with my knuckles. There’ll be time enough for tears of happiness when I turn professional and win my own World Cup.

  Things are going well with the football.

  I have mastered a step-over. I put my right foot against the ball so it looks like I am going to kick it. Then I step over the ball with my left foot, like I’m going the other way. At the last moment, I flick the ball round the left of the defender with my right foot and run around his right side.

  At least, I think that’s what I do.

  I don’t have any defenders to play against but I get Mum to stand in the middle of the garden and go around her. She doesn’t try and take the ball off me or anything so I can do the whole trick in slow motion. I assume that I will speed up with practice.

  The ball rolls into the monsoon drain. By the time I have recovered it and turned around, Mum is weeding the roses. She has substituted herself on the field with a potted rose bush.

  I bet that never happened to Zico.

  The rose bush is a better defender than Mum though. One time, I get confused with my step-over and run straight into it. It’s covered in thorns. That really hurts!

  I bet that never happened to Zico either.

  At school, I’m making progress. Sok Mun has learnt to pass to me and also not to scream when she receives the ball. A few other girls hang around and watch us play too. One or two of them kick the ball back if it rolls to where they’re lurking.

  I come up with a cunning plan. I pretend to miskick the ball but I actually knock it in their direction quite often. In a while, almost without realising it – t
hey’re playing too.

  We are five now. Half a team, excluding the goalkeeper!

  Batumalar doesn’t watch us anymore. I have no idea where she is. I need to do something about her – but I have no idea what. What would Zico do in this situation?

  I decide I will look for her after football practice and persuade her to join the team. It is the right thing to do and kids in books always manage to do the right thing so I’ll try too. She might play well in goal. She looks strong with her square face and square shoulders.

  But Batumalar is nowhere to be found. I look for her in the canteen, by the frangipani trees, in the small playground with the climbing frame (which is supposed to be for the small kids but the big girls always sit on the top and gossip and scowl at anyone under twelve).

  There is no sign of her.

  In the end I give up. The bell will ring any second now for the end of break. In class, I know I will not approach Batumalar about football or anything else. I don’t have the guts to be her friend.

  That evening, Rajiv is still complaining that Dad will miss his hockey game.

  ‘He’s never missed one before,’ he grumbles.

  ‘But he’s busy in England, Rajiv. It’s not that big a deal.’

  ‘The other dads will be there – I’ll be the only kid without one. It’s the season final. I just can’t believe it.’

  Rajiv is actually quite a good hockey player. His team is playing in the interschool, under-16, Kuantan division final. If they win, Rajiv will get to take part in a big tournament in Kuala Lumpur with all the other schools that topped their divisions.

  I still think hockey is a stupid game.

  But at least Rajiv is doing the thing properly.

  I realise that the next step in my football career is to find a team to play against.

  We won’t be ready for a while but it is important to plan ahead.

  Dad is back.