‘Mira – three things: Dad, straw and the camel’s back! He’ll flip . . . don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Krish laughs as he runs up the stairs.
I watch the whole leaving drama from the landing. Krish joking around, trying to lighten everyone’s mood. Mum fretting over one last ‘don’t forget’ item that Mira or Krish just might not survive without. And Dad giving his usual lecture: ‘You’ll have to leave some of this at home, Mira. This is a car not a Tardis! It’ll never all fit in.’
It’s always the same script. And then, in the end – miracle of miracles – everything does fit in. I think Dad likes to prove himself wrong with his excellent packing!
This scuffle, shuffle, huffing, moaning, forgetting stuff and going back for it is what I’ve always loved most about us going away together. This is how I remember the start of every one of our family holidays. Except this time it doesn’t feel like the beginning of an adventure, or even a holiday . . . not for me, anyway.
Mira staggers down the steps carrying her easel. What special thing will I take with me when I leave home? I don’t think I’ve got anything that means as much to me as that easel does to Mira. She told me once that the paintings she does on it are always her best. Like the easel has special powers, like there’s something of Nana Josie in it that inspires her. I definitely don’t have anything like that.
Mira rests the easel against the wall for a minute while she pauses on the stairs to get her breath back.
‘Give it here then – but don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Krish takes the easel and carries it the rest of the way to the car.
‘No way – that’ll have to be for the next journey up!’ Dad’s definitely getting shoutier.
‘But, Dad, I can’t paint without it.’
Mira’s standing on the pavement hugging the easel, as if she’s about to go into battle and this is her only shield. Even I know there’s no point in Dad arguing – that easel is the last thing in the world Mira’s going to leave behind.
‘I could wedge it, I suppose, but it’s not exactly health and safety! Whoever’s sitting in the front will need to get in and out from the driver’s side.’
‘We won’t have to stop that often. Laila’s not going to be with us puking all the way!’
Thanks, Mira!
‘To be honest, this is an extra hassle I could do without,’ Dad complains.
Mira’s mouth is set in a pout.
‘I’ll sit in the front then,’ Krish says, jumping in.
‘Krish! Get out! I’m in the front!’ Mira shouts.
I walk down the stairs and sit on the bottom step to get a better view. This doesn’t feel right, watching Mira and Krish jostle for their place in the car. Until now I’ve always been the one right in the middle of all the family squabbles. You wouldn’t think that this packing-the-car chaos and the same old argument over who gets the front seat would be something that anyone could miss, but I will!
After ‘a quiet word’ from Mum, Dad scowls at the car boot for a while as if he’s struggling to work out a crossword puzzle. He sighs loud enough for everyone to hear him, opens the boot and, bag by bag, takes everything out again. He collapses the back seat and slides the easel right the way down the side of the car past Krish’s shoulder.
‘We’ll probably get pulled over,’ Dad complains. ‘What if we have an emergency stop? Its legs will be straight through the front window.’
‘I’ll hold on to it,’ Krish says.
‘Dad, tell Krish he needs to get out!’
I can’t believe that Mira’s still going on about sitting in the front.
‘I don’t see why I should be crammed into the back with all your junk,’ Krish argues. ‘You can sit in the front from Nana Kath’s to Glasgow.’
Each time Dad forces something else into the boot, the easel shunts closer towards the front windscreen. Dad gives it a hard shove and finally slams the boot shut.
‘Ow! That scraped my shoulder!’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have bogarted the front seat then!’ Mira wades in.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, you two, grow up!’ Dad snaps.
There’s someone coming down the street in a navy-blue business suit, wheeling a suitcase. Please don’t let it be . . . It’s Kez’s mum, probably on her way to the airport. Why did she have to choose this moment to walk by?
‘Is that Hannah?’ Mum whispers, and disappears back inside the house.
Kez’s mum inspects our bulging car like it’s an exhibit in that museum of weird and curious things she took me and Kez to once.
‘Have a comfortable journey!’ she says wryly.
‘Thanks, Hannah! Fancy trading places?’ Dad jokes.
‘On this occasion, I think I’ll decline!’ Kez’s mum flicks back our car’s wing mirror. ‘You’ll definitely be needing your mirrors . . .’ Then she spots me sitting on the steps. ‘Oh, hello, Laila. We haven’t seen you for ages. We were just saying the other day, when the coast’s clear –’ she nods towards our car – ‘you should come on over.’
‘Thanks.’
I’ve never witnessed a scene like this outside Kez’s, but I suppose she doesn’t have brothers and sisters to argue about everything, even though she wishes she did.
Kez’s mum pauses by the tree to read the sign that Ed’s posted up.
Corn Snake found
Call Ed: 0653351511
‘No more reptiles turned up in your house then, Sam?’ She laughs.
‘None that I know of!’ Dad shakes his head.
‘That’s a relief.’
Hannah peers into the car and taps on the window ‘Good luck, you two!’
When she’s gone Dad leans into the front seat and starts the engine. It’s his signal for the countdown. Just at the last moment Mira jumps back out of the car. I move aside on the step because I think she must have forgotten something else in her room, but instead she grabs me under my arms and pulls me up into a hug. I make my legs heavy and hold on to the banister so she can’t actually lift me off the ground. I know I’m light but I wish people would get out of the habit of whisking me up. I can feel the tears on Mira’s cheek as she squeezes me so tightly that my sides hurt. Then she turns around, runs back down the front steps, hugs Mum again and gets back in the car. Krish winds the window down as far as the easel will let him and peeps his head out as if he’s a prisoner or something. He sticks his hand through the window and mouths, ‘Help!’
Mum’s throat makes a strange sound somewhere between a laugh, a cry and a choke. She’s leaning her back against the garden wall as if she needs it to hold her up.
‘See you, Lai Lai – I’ll be back to annoy you for a weekend before Christmas!’ Krish shouts.
I stick my tongue out at him.
‘See you in a couple of days. I’ll call!’ Dad has to shout over the noise of the engine. It sounds a bit cranky.
I walk past Mum and head back up the stairs to my landing perch, picturing Krish laying odds on how long it will take before Dad has to turn back for some last forgotten thing.
Mum stands for a while on the pavement, then turns towards the house, climbs the front steps and closes the door behind her.
I inch to the back of my perch, curling my feet up under me.
‘You all right up there, Lai . . . la?’ Mum’s voice sounds weak. She coughs and tries again. ‘You know what – I think I’ll have a cup of tea,’ she says, as if that’s a revolutionary idea. Then she stops and looks up. ‘Do you fancy one, Laila?’
Now this is a revolutionary idea! It’s the first time she’s got my actual name right without hesitating, and it’s the first time anyone in this family has ever thought to ask me if I want a cup of tea.
‘Yes, please, Mum!’
‘Do you have milk and sugar?’ she asks.
‘Um . . . yes!’ I call down. But I don’t know. Do I have milk and sugar?
Mum’s got it into her head to start cleaning the kitchen shelves.
‘Why are you doing that
?’
‘I do clean from time to time, you know!’ she tells me, but I’ve hardly ever seen anything move off those shelves. And from the amount of dust Mum’s whipping up, it looks like a very long time since anyone’s even dusted them.
I’m on the computer, flitting about on YouTube. I take a sip of tea. I’m not sure I like the taste it leaves on my tongue.
‘How do you like it?’ Mum asks.
‘A bit sweet.’
‘Sweet enough as you are?’
I pull a face at her that’s the opposite of sweet.
‘I think that’s enough computer time now,’ Mum says as she finishes clearing a shelf.
‘I’m watching Priya’s new music video. She’s done the choreography on it. It’s got loads of comments. Want to see?’
‘What a talented family we’ve got!’ Mum says, and comes over and reads the title over my shoulder: ‘Holi-Spring!’
I press PLAY and we watch the dancers in their bright silk clothes padding out rhythms with their feet on a huge drum. It looks like they’re outside Janu’s House of Garlands refuge in Kolkata . . . Now one of the dancers breaks through the skin and there’s this slow-motion fall to another drum and the dancers are suddenly on a New York street, moving to a dub-step beat. Then all the dancers start throwing powder in rainbow colours. Powder reds, blues, yellows and greens fly from the hands of the children in Kolkata on to the faces of the New York dancers. It’s funny and beautiful. Then the two streets and all the dancers sort of merge together and they’re doing a dance that’s a sort of fusion of everything – just a mass of colours moving.
‘Stunning! When I was growing up I used to have to imagine your Aunt Anjali dancing – I never actually got to see her perform till I went to India. She must be so proud of Priya and Janu . . . they’re proper trailblazers in their different ways, aren’t they?’ Mum says.
Trail-blazers . . . what does that mean? That they’re bright flames . . . brave, I suppose.
‘Laila, I really think you’ve had enough screen time, don’t you?’
I do a huge uncontrollable sneeze and say, ‘I think you’ve had enough cleaning time, don’t you?’
‘Laila, why are you itching?’ Mum takes hold of my hand, turns it over and inspects the crook of my arm.
‘Probably all the dust you’re making!’
It does look a bit red and raw.
‘Your skin’s really dry just there. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. You haven’t had it that badly since you were a baby!’
‘It’s nothing,’ I mumble, and go to Skype Kez.
‘How could we let it get this dusty?’ Mum tuts. ‘I’m not having you getting eczema again. This house is going to look worse before it looks better, but I think it’s time we had a proper spring clean.’
‘It’s autumn!’
‘Autumn clean then!’
Now Mum decides that one shelf at a time won’t do, so she’s taking everything off and making a pile in the middle of the room.
I press Kez’s photo ID on Skype, listen to the dialling sound for a few seconds and then her face appears. I lean in to get a closer look.
Me: Have you dyed your hair?
Kez: Yep! Like it?
Me: Yeah, looks good on you.
Kez: Have Krish and Mira gone then?
Me: Yes.
Kez: You OK?
Me: It feels weird here! I saw your mum. She said to come and see you. You free?
Kez: Sorry, Laila, I’ve got Saturday School.
Me: How long for?
Kez: Pretty much all day.
Me: I thought it was just in the morning?
Kez: There’s loads of preparation to do for my bat mitzvah. They’re putting on extra classes at shul for us now.
Me: Tomorrow then?
Kez: We’ve got family over.
Me: After the first day at school?
Kez: Mum thinks Sundays will be the easiest for us to meet up – till after my bat mitzvah anyway. She’s worried I’m going to get too tired with Saturday school, physio and everything.
Me: Are you tired?
Kez: A bit. Got a few more tremors than normal. Nerves don’t help.
Me: About school?
Kez: Yeah! It’ll be all right though; once I find my way around . . . get to know where the lifts are and everything.
Me: We can go around together, if you want?
Kez: You don’t know where you’re going either. Anyway, we might not be in the same tutor group.
Me: Yeah, we are. Seven Dials. Didn’t you get the letter? I like the name . . . Like in Covent Garden. All the tutor-group names are based on things to do with seven, apparently. Krish told me the tutors choose the names, so you can kind of see how interesting they are before you meet them . . . or not!
I watch Kez’s face. She tips her head forward so her bright red curls fall across her face and I can’t read her expression.
Kez: It doesn’t always happen, getting in the same tutor group.
Me: Yeah, but we will definitely be together, won’t we? That transition woman said she thought—
Kez: She said friends can’t always be together.
Me: But we will.
Kez: I’m in Seven Oaks . . . apparently.
Me: You can’t be – they must have made a mistake. Kez: I don’t think so, Lai Lai! It’s not that bad. We’ll see each other all the time—
I start to cough uncontrollably. I’m trying my hardest to stop so I take a glug of tea, but that makes it worse and now I’m spluttering all over the screen. I wish I could get a hold of myself. Mum brings me some water and eventually the coughing stops.
Me: I’m only choking because Mum’s gone on a cleaning frenzy. There’s dust everywhere! Sorry, Kez, I’ve got to go!
Kez: Lai Lai . . .
Me: See you Monday!
I break the connection.
I stare at Kez’s text for a while as the dust floats through the air around me.
Are you pissed off with me about something, Lai Lai?
No, should I be?
You shouldn’t, but I feel like you are x
I am.
There are too many things floating around that no one’s talking about . . . Not just dust either. Why isn’t Kez kicking up a stink about us not being in the same tutor group? If anyone can fight for something they really want, Kez can . . . unless . . .
I start to cough again, and scratch at my arm. Mum’s abandoned the shelf mess on the floor in the middle of the room. It looks like a junk heap.
‘Mum!’ I call out for her and I’m halfway up the stairs when the letter box opens and an envelope slides through. I run back down and pick it up. It’s addressed to Mira. The writing’s all swirly, kind of old-fashioned.
I’ll take it up to Mira, I think, and then I remember she’s not here. I suppose Mum’ll post it on to her. I drop it on my perch.
‘Mum!’ I call again.
‘In here!’
I find her in Krish’s room, picking up clothes he’s left strewn around and hanging them back in his wardrobe. She pushes the door further open so I can see even less of her face. I think she’s trying to hide her tears from me.
‘Mira and Krish are coming back you know, Mum.’
‘I know I’m being over the top!’ Mum says from behind the wardrobe door, where she stays sorting clothes for much longer than she needs to. Eventually she blows her nose and comes to sit next to me on Krish’s bed. She wraps her arms around my shoulders too tightly. Her eyes look pink and sore. She picks up my arm and turns it over. ‘Laila, you’ve got to stop scratching this or you’ll make it bleed.’
‘I’ll stop scratching if you stop cleaning and crying!’ I say.
At least this makes her laugh.
‘Deal! I don’t know what’s got into me really.’
‘I’ll help you put the things back on the shelves if you want.’
‘That’s sweet of you. You know me; I’ll feel better after a good cry – but I wish I�
�d never started on those shelves downstairs.’
I scan Krish’s bedroom. At least Mum hasn’t tidied everything up . . . yet. Krish’s things are all still here. His Tottenham posters, his festival programmes, Grandad Kit’s beret with medals . . . and that funny painting that Nana Josie did of Grandad Kit eating fish and chips where the fish on the plate is actually eating the chips! All waiting for Krish to come bowling back in. Even though it looks stupidly tidy in here, it doesn’t feel so final, him going away – he’s only gone to stay at Nana Kath’s after all.
‘I’m going to get changed,’ I tell Mum, and walk through to Mira’s room, where all my clothes are now stacked up in her wardrobe. Mira’s bedroom feels different. I can’t get my head around this being my room. I scan the patchwork of empty frames where Mira’s photos, pictures and posters used to be. It’s so empty in here.
‘How about we decorate! You can choose the colour – within reason!’ Mum’s remembering the time Krish wanted to paint the whole room black with light-up stars on the ceiling. ‘What do you fancy?’ Her voice is all high and broken, like she’s forcing herself to talk. ‘Any ideas?’
I shrug. ‘When will Dad be back?’
‘Monday afternoon. He’ll be here by the time you get home from school.’ Mum sighs. ‘It’s quite a drive to Glasgow and he’s got to drop Krish off in the Lake District with Nana first. That’s a long drive, and then I suppose it’ll take a bit of time to settle Mira in. He’s booked into a hotel for tonight, then he’ll break the journey and see Mum and Krish on the way back.’
‘Didn’t you want to go too? See where Mira’s living?’ I ask. ‘I could have stayed over with Kez.’
Though I wonder. Last summer there were only two weeks when we didn’t see each other. This summer we’ve only seen each other for two days. She’s always got something else on. So, thinking about it, I don’t know if it actually would have been possible for me to stay with her . . . Seems like every time I ask, she’s busy.
‘I can’t miss your first day of secondary! No, I’ll visit Mira soon; find out how she’s settling in. Anyway, I don’t think they could have squeezed me in that car! And you know what Mira and I are like – maybe best not to get too emotional!’ Mum smiles.
Tender Earth Page 3