by Ayisha Malik
Surely not . . . But his silence . . . No, that just can’t be right. I’m imagining things. He opened his mouth a little, but no words came out. Then he tried again. Something crept up on me one silent second at a time. Another silent second, and another. Then it snowballed until the truth almost bowled me over. What??
I had no idea what to do. What the . . . I’ve not punctured a tiny hole in his veneer – I’ve exposed everything completely. A rush of sympathy gushed forth. He wasn’t going to be able to salvage this. Despite my state of incomprehension, I knew what I had to do. I had to pretend.
‘Waiting for some friends?’ I said.
‘What? Yes. Exactly.’
‘Christmas mania.’ I rolled my eyes in exaggeration. ‘Apparently I look like a Christmas tree. But one tries to fit in.’
The flicker of a smile. But argh! Why did I mention fitting in??
Silence. I smiled, ignoring the flashing lights and Lady Gaga, playing inside. ‘I’ll leave you to it, I’m sure your friends will be here any minute.’
His sigh of relief perhaps wasn’t meant to be so obvious. But it was.
I realised I’d probably never see him again. It felt sad, but for reasons I’d never imagined. I can’t believe it.
‘Look after yourself.’ I paused. ‘You’ll be OK?’
He pretended not to know what I was talking about. I smiled and as I went to walk away he called out, ‘Sofia.’
I turned around. He stood isolated in the middle, cast in the shadow of flashing lights.
‘I really do love going to the mosque with my dad.’
In that moment he looked so beautiful and so sad, I wanted to take him home and make him a cup of tea. But I couldn’t. He won’t ever want to see me again. I smiled and nodded. ‘Never doubted it.’
Saturday 17 December
3 p.m. Found it hard to concentrate on writing. I called Naim and ended up telling him what happened last night. He burst out laughing as I waited on the other end of the line, quite frankly, annoyed.
‘Naim, it’s not funny. Can you imagine how he must feel? And what if he got married? Poor girl.’
‘Sorry, sorry. You’re right. That’s tough . . . But of all the people to bump into it had to be you.’
This brought on another bout of laughter. I was going to put the phone down, but he managed to get his breath back.
‘OK, no, it’s not funny. I shouldn’t have laughed, and yeah, I do feel for him. But man . . . only you, Sofe. Only you.’
Sunday 18 December
10.20 a.m. I walked past Maria’s room, minding my own business thank you, when I heard, ‘What do you mean they think the ice sculpture’s excessive?’ A drawer, or similar, was slammed shut. ‘But you said it was fine, so now it’s not fine because they say so?’
Of all the things that happen in the world, my family choose an ice sculpture as the one object of incessant discussion.
‘Of course they’re gonna pay for it. We’re halving it, that’s what we agreed.’
Mum, having ears like a hawk, came out of nowhere and nodded towards Maria’s room. I briefly wondered whether she had magical powers.
‘But it’s already been ordered. No, I can’t cancel it!’
‘What cancelling?’ Before I could say anything, Mum pushed past me into Maria’s room, demanding to know.
Dad joined me outside as he scratched his head.
‘You girls,’ he said. ‘God has given you everything and you want more, more, more.’
‘Baba, if we all lived in contentment you’d never have immigrated. And look at your wonderful life.’ I spread my arms out as we heard Mum’s raised voice.
Dad looked at me over his glasses. ‘Always an answer for everything.’
‘Maria,’ we heard Mum say, ‘don’t be ridicklus. What if it becomes all water, water, anyway?’
Dad took off his slippers and threw them down the stairs. ‘Mehnaz,’ he called out. ‘Where are my slippers?’
Mum came out and looked at his bare feet. ‘Tst. This is how you’ll get cold. I’ll find them. You talk to our daughter.’ With which Dad rolled up his sleeves and entered Maria’s room.
Friday 23 December
10 a.m. Argh! I still only have some flimsy opening pages, which I’ve not been able to turn into anything substantial . . . i.e. a first chapter. I had to pre-empt Brammers’ nagging by confessing my complete lack of professionalism.
‘Right. Well, meeting a deadline is necessary, Sofia.’
Unfortunately using your sister’s wedding as an excuse isn’t quite good enough. If Brammers were brown she’d understand. Who said cultural divides don’t inhibit understanding?
11.55 p.m. Subsequent to the ice sculpture debacle, Tahir called saying there’d been a problem with his cousin photographer. I was Whatsapping Hannah, who’d had a dream that she fell into a well, but then someone pumped her with air and she floated out, except once she started floating she didn’t stop. Is her marriage to Zulfi a mistake? Will she be adrift for ever because of him? And why isn’t she preggers yet?
What does a person say to that?
Anyway, turns out cousin photographer’s been arrested on charges of terrorism!
‘You hired a terrorist to photograph our wedding?’ exclaimed Maria.
‘Maars! He’s not a terrorist, the police are being racist.’
‘So what, they’re not going to let him out until when?’
I put the phone down and said it might be a while – the guy might be wearing an orange onesie soon! Tahir tried to explain about South London’s new detainee and his innocence etc. but Maria looked as if he’d just told her there was a tornado coming and she only had three minutes to gather all the favour boxes.
‘It’s just like Tahir to do something like this,’ she said. Apparently he’s to blame for anti-terrorist laws. Honestly, where was the perspective? Apparently weddings also trump socio-political issues – which convinces me that if there were less focus on weddings there’d probably be fewer problems in the world. Maria pointed out that he might actually be a terrorist (in which case, excellent work, Scotland Yard), but when she told me which cousin had been arrested, I was like, ‘What? Khalid bhai? The one who fundraises for charities in his spare time?’ Maria looked a little embarrassed, and my heart sank.
‘It’s not about him, it’s about Tahir,’ said Maars.
Well, exactly. That’s the problem – skewed focus. Then I heard Mum shouting at Dad for having a cigarette so I had to go into the conservatory and settle that dispute.
By the time I’d come into the living room, Maria had gone, leaving a message saying that she told Tahir he can forget the wedding. Her car keys were gone. I tried calling her but it was going straight to voicemail. I was only gone five minutes.
‘Did you know Tahir had fundamentalist cousin?’ said Mum, ignoring the curls of smoke emanating from Dad’s mouth. ‘If his cousin is one then what is he?’
Dad looked at Mum. ‘Mehnaz – his cousin gets arrested so he is also like that? And we don’t know the story.’
‘Haan,’ replied Mum. ‘But look at you. Bad habits run in families.’ Of course – perfectly normal for a wedding conversation to move from bickering over an ice sculpture to playing a guessing game of who’s a fundo.
Dad got his car keys and before Mum could ask where he was going he’d shot out of the house. Five minutes later there was banging at the door and when I opened it Chachu stumbled into the hallway. He looked startled to see me as Mum came rushing out. What was wrong with him and why couldn’t he walk straight? And then he opened his mouth and I smelled it.
Since when did my dad’s brother drink? He raised his arms and exclaimed, ‘Hai my sister. You are so lucky. Look at your daughters . . . my son doesn’t even know he has a father.’
Of course we’re all geniuses when collecting pieces of puzzles based on hindsight – the going missing, the coming back late, the secrecy with which my parents would go about as
if it was utterly normal for Chachu to come home at two o’clock in the morning. Makes me wonder – anything else I might’ve missed in life?
‘Call your baba and tell him to come home,’ said Mum.
Baba, it turns out, is at Tahir’s cousin’s house where the mum is crying and the dad is saying it is all Allah’s will. How awful. Before I could add that his brother was pissed and that he should be careful of the slippery roads, he’d hung up.
I knew Chachu liked to have a cry about his son as often as the fancy took him, but I didn’t know he liked that cry to be accompanied by a bottle of vodka. My phone rang and it was Maria. She’d pulled up to speak to Tahir, but now her car wasn’t starting.
‘Dad’s taken his car and gone to T’s cousin’s house,’ I said.
‘Why’s he gone there?’
‘Because no one else was giving a shit that a poor guy has just been arrested for no reason?’
She paused. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
I kept calling Dad but he wasn’t picking up, so the next best thing was for me to call a taxi.
Before I knew it, Mum had walked out of the house in her shalwar kameez and shawl and was knocking on Conall’s door. She proceeded to tell him about my stranded sister, managing to relate the story of my drunken uncle and Tahir’s newly arrested cousin. (And yes, she told him under what charges.) What must Conall think? I preferred it when he thought we were just a bunch of mad ’Stanis. I wished I had a St George’s flag to wear as a hijab – just so, you know, he knows we’re not that type of people. But, honestly, the constant need to have to prove oneself is exhausting.
‘Colin . . .’
‘Conall, Mum.’ I crossed my hands under my arms.
‘Yes, wohi. Very sorry, but very kind of you if Sofia could use your car?’
He looked at me and then at Mum.
‘She’s not insured.’
‘Oh, doesn’t matter about that. She only had two minor accidents this year.’
‘Conall, really, it’s fine – I’m calling a taxi.’
He went back into the house and emerged thirty seconds later with his coat on and keys in hand.
‘You won’t get a taxi in this weather. Tell me where she is and I’ll take you.’
He spent the journey practically silent. I kept trying to think of interesting things to say. What can you say to a silent stranger? Ended up talking about the weather and how much I hate snow, then how much I like the smell of cars, which led to my love for the smell of petrol, and isn’t it weird that nothing tastes as good as it smells.
‘Not that I’ve tasted petrol. Obviously. Just as well – it’d be as disappointing as what you get at the bakery. Don’t you find that bakeries . . .’
‘Do you always talk this much?’ he asked.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
‘But you see that’s how you get to know people – by talking,’ I added.
He doesn’t seem to like me very much. Why? Why doesn’t he like me? Am I not friendly enough? Is he like this with everyone? Is it my scarf?
‘Which way from here?’ he asked.
‘Oh. I don’t know.’ I looked out of the window. What was I looking for, one might ask: a sign that says ‘Maria is here’?
He sighed. ‘Do you want to phone your sister and ask the exact location?’
‘Ah, yes. Good idea.’ I glanced at him, his elbow casually resting on the window frame. What a stony expression he has. Can’t make out if he’s pissed off or bored. According to Naim, a person can tell exactly what I’m thinking by the look on my face. I think that’s rather thoughtful of me. I wished Conall would pay the same courtesy. You know, after he’d finished with the current one.
We found Maria, who spent most of the journey home staring out of the window.
‘What will people say?’ she said.
About the ice sculpture or MI5’s newest hostage? She shifted to the middle of the backseat and leaned forward, placing her hands on either headrest.
‘Have I been unreasonable?’ she asked.
She lowered her head and I looked over at Conall, who’d been silent the entire time. I wished we could’ve had this convo when we got home.
‘Just a bit. A sorry might be useful,’ I said.
That head shot up pretty quickly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes. That magic word that shows remorse for having acted like a dickhead.’
‘But he . . .’
‘Just sorry, Maars. That’s all. That’s his poor cousin.’
Conall had pulled into our street. As we got out of the car, he fiddled with the lock and then turned around.
‘You know, if you don’t find a photographer, I’m free.’
‘You’re a photographer? You’d really do that?’ Maria seemed so relieved I thought she might hug him.
He looked a bit confused. ‘Yeah, ’course, it’s fine.’
We all walked to our respective doors, and Maria thanked him as she went inside. I gave him the friendliest smile I could muster in the hope that he’d repay the favour. He just nodded and walked into his home. Shame.
Saturday 24 December
11 a.m. I’ve been in Chachu’s room for half an hour. You’d think a grown man could look after himself. But he didn’t look so grown-up to me. I just sat with him. Sometimes a person just needs someone to sit with them.
2 p.m. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
What was Naim’s problem?
‘Excuse me. Busy with wedding madness. Obviously.’
I left out the part about the drunk uncle.
‘Hey, if you can’t talk, fine, but get back to me so I don’t think you’re lying in a gutter somewhere.’
Yes, I’m sure he was very concerned whilst he was making new friends on FB!
‘The only thing in the gutter is your mouth, and mind for that matter.’
‘Sofe, how are you ever going to get married if you’re too busy being distracted by other people’s weddings? Think about it – you’ll never get laid.’
Hmph. ‘You’re such a prick.’
‘Now whose mouth’s in the gutter?’
‘I don’t consider “prick” a swear word. For most people it’s just a state of being.’
I thought he might suggest meeting. I waited, and retorted and did what we’ve been doing for really what feels like for ever. But, alas, he was out and so he had to go, and I, as a result, had to stay. Here.
2.04 p.m. I’ve just looked at his Facebook and OMG, why has he been checked in with new well-endowed FB friend at BFI? He was just on the phone to me!
3.45 p.m. Wonder what film they’re watching. Or maybe they’re having a cosy lunch. I mean, honestly, Southbank at Christmas . . .
5 p.m. I went downstairs instead of moping around in my bedroom. All kinds of questions were flitting around in my mind about the meaning of this Southbank episode. Dad was on the phone to Bobby, and I managed to convince Chachu, to be, you know, more open-minded about seeing his son. Before either father or son could change their mind, Dad said he was bringing Chachu over to Bobby’s. Thanks to God. Bobby and Baby can’t go through life having such ridiculous names and ignoring Chachu. Hurrah!
So they all scampered off, with Mum exclaiming that they can’t take long because she has Christmas lunch to prepare for tomorrow. (Just because we don’t celebrate it doesn’t mean we can’t partake in national day of stuffing ourselves with turkey.)
It’s a Christmas miracle!
Except I don’t believe in those. Obviously. Although general miracles are fine.
10.55 p.m. Maria came into my room and looked out of my bedroom window. I was trying to write and missed what was essentially a snowstorm. Tufts of white swirled and blurred in swathes. Already the ground was covered and the sky was this dense greyish brown, which made it look ever so slightly like the world was about to end.
‘Mum and Dad just called. They’re going to stay at Bo
bby’s,’ said Maria.
Typical. You don’t speak to a family member for years and then you decide to set up camp in their house.
‘I said sorry to Tahir,’ said Maria.
‘Did you die a little inside?’ I know what it takes for Maria to say sorry.
She smiled. ‘I wanted to tell him about Chachu’s drama, but if he knew we had a drunkard for an uncle the wedding would definitely be off,’ she said.
‘That’s healthy. And Chachu’s not a drunkard.’ I said. ‘He has problems.’
‘I know that, but you can’t tell the person you’re marrying everything.’
She looked outside again and the snow was now falling thickly, but without chaos. I always thought that’s why people got married – to tell them things. Well, most things, at least.
‘There are some things you have to be careful about,’ she added. ‘It’s hard to accept a person, warts and all. Think you should put that in your book somewhere.’
Note for book: No one falls in love any more. (Bit sad? Tough. That’s life.)
11.57 p.m. Erm . . . Naim called so I asked what he’d been up to. He said he’d just been to see a film with a friend. It occurred to me that I must also be one of these friends and wanted to put the phone down, but as soon as I said I had to go he said, ‘Where do you have to go on Christmas Eve, close to midnight? You an Elf?’
I told him Mum, Dad and Chachu were at B&B’s. Chat, chat, chat, blah blah, blah, and he said, ‘I should pop over for a cup of tea then.’
Ha! As if he was going to drive all the way from Slough to South London in this snow in the middle of the night. So I was all, ‘I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I?’
He’s going to be here in forty-five minutes.
Bollocks.
2.54 a.m. I’m not entirely sure that bringing tea and biscuits to a man parked outside my house would impress my dad. It’s obviously fine to meet a man of my own accord, but not in the middle of the night, in a car. ’Stani parents are so suspicious – they think the moment you’re alone with a member of the opposite sex you’ll end up having sex. How was I supposed to know he’d actually do as he said? Who drives all that way in the snow for a cup of tea?