Tender Earth

by Sita Brahmachari

  I can’t even explain to myself the feeling it’s left me with . . . like something’s building inside me.

  ‘Laila, have you seen my laptop?’ Dad calls up the stairs.

  ‘Sorry! I borrowed it last night,’ I say, bringing it down to him.

  ‘Then it’s no wonder you couldn’t sleep. You know the rules about screens after eight o’clock.’

  I ignore him and open the fridge door to find a half-mangled chicken sitting on a plate. I want to heave.

  ‘What should I make you and your friend to eat tonight? What’s her name again? Are you still veggie?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Her name’s Pari. Why wouldn’t I be? Are you still vegetarian?’ I point to the slogan on the fridge door. ‘And Pari’s vegetarian too.’

  ‘Ah . . . that explains it!’ Dad chips in.

  ‘What? I do have a mind of my own, you know, Dad!’

  ‘Yep, receiving loud and clear! I seem to remember Krish going vegetarian except for bacon sandwiches and chicken . . .’

  ‘Well, Mira’s a proper vegetarian, and she’s stuck to it,’ I argue.

  ‘That’s true,’ Dad admits. ‘I blame you, Uma, for indoctrinating the girls!’

  Mum pulls a face at Dad.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Mum!’ I scowl.

  I actually really do miss bacon and chicken, but there’s no way I’m going to tell Mum or Dad that. It’s so annoying that they think I can’t make up my mind to do something and then stick to it.

  Mum starts chopping onions and garlic. She’s been doing this nearly every morning since she started work. She’s got this new pot that she plugs in at breakfast time and it cooks slowly all day. She loves it because she’s discovered a way of cooking that doesn’t set the fire alarm off! I like it too, because when I come in from school really hungry, the smell hits you as you walk in, and even if no one’s in, it smells like home – especially now it’s getting dark and cold. Mum’s not really the best cook in the world, but the things she makes in this slow cooker are always delicious. But right now, the smell of dinner cooking is putting me off eating anything. It’s like setting the day off in the wrong order. Garlic and onions for breakfast. Puke!

  ‘You and Pari can help yourselves when you come in. I’ll be back after my meeting. Vegetable casserole tonight, and you can warm some pitta breads, grate a bit of cheese if you want. There’s some yogurts for afters. Will that be OK?’

  ‘Can’t we just have pizza or something easy? She might not like casserole.’

  Mum ignores me and carries on chopping.

  Dad turns on the laptop, shakes his head and taps the recorded time that I turned the computer off. I wish he wasn’t so on top of all this stuff. I know he’s always checking my browsing history.

  ‘2.56 a.m!’

  I can’t believe it! I only started reading after that. No wonder I feel so tired. I can’t have slept for more than two hours.

  ‘Nearly 3 a.m! No wonder you’re so bad-tempered, Laila. Take a look at this, Uma . . .’ Dad presses a link to the video I was watching last night about Simon’s last march against climate change.

  ‘How are you going to get to sleep with all that whirring through your brain? You can’t function like this, Laila. And being on a screen watching anything before you go to bed is not going to help. From now on you’re not allowed the laptop in your room at all.’

  ‘My eczema’s keeping me awake,’ I say.

  Mum turns my arms over. They’re all red. In the bit of time I did sleep I must have been scratching away.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing those gloves I gave you? We’ll have to go to the doctor.’

  Mum switches off the clip of the march and leans in to whisper in Dad’s ear. Maybe I have got supersonic hearing like Krish always says, because I can hear every word she says.

  ‘We’ve been here before, Sam.’

  Mum sits down next to me at the table. There’s no escaping now.

  ‘Where did you say your friend was from?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Her mum’s from Iraq, I think.’

  Dad taps the top of the computer. ‘And what about her dad?’ he asks.

  ‘How would I know? I’m not bringing Pari back if you’re going to get all up in her face.’

  ‘We’re looking forward to meeting her,’ Mum says, placing what I think is supposed to be a calming hand on my shoulder.

  I just wish they wouldn’t ask me so many questions.

  ‘I’ll be back by five. Help yourself to the casserole. Now try to eat some toast, Laila.’

  ‘Not hungry!’ I get up from the table and stomp up the stairs.

  ‘Get up in her face?! Oh hell. Second’s out; round three . . . !’ I hear Dad say.

  I wait on the top step to see if there’s anything else . . .

  ‘She’s reminding me of Mum more and more every day . . . and it’s not just a passing resemblance.’

  I turn and look at the black-and-white photo of Nana Josie smiling out at me.

  ‘Ever since she found that chime!’

  ‘Don’t let her hear you saying that, Uma! She’ll never sleep!’

  ‘Come on, team!’ Miss Green shouts. ‘Put a bit of effort in!’

  My legs won’t work today. They’re all achy and heavy and I feel a bit like I could fall over. Pari wins the trials easily.

  ‘Great run, Pari,’ Miss Green shouts.

  I wanted it to be me and Pari up front, just like last time, so we could go through to the finals together.

  ‘What happened, Laila? You OK?’ Miss Green asks.

  ‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ I explain.

  ‘Well, we all have off days,’ she says, and carries on with the others back to the changing rooms.

  When Pari gets her breath back she comes and sits next to me on the bench. She’s brought a special bag and folded all her uniform up in it so there’s no chance of it getting trampled again. She doesn’t say anything but keeps looking at me and checking to see if I’m OK.

  At the end of afternoon registration Mrs Latif calls me over to her desk.

  ‘Laila, I’ve had a few reports from teachers today about how tired you look and Miss Green told me that you weren’t on form in PE. Are you unwell? Is something bothering you?’ Mrs Latif looks down at my arm and I suddenly realize I’m scratching again.

  I shake my head.

  A spot of blood in the crook of my arm seeps through the white cotton of my shirt.

  ‘What’s that?’ Miss Latif asks.

  ‘Oh, it’s just eczema . . .’

  ‘Can I see?’

  I unbutton my cuff and show her my arm. A crack’s opened up in the skin and it’s bleeding and weeping.

  ‘Ooooh, that is nasty. Do your parents know about this?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s got worse. I forgot to wear my gloves last night. Mum’s making me an appointment at the doctor’s.’

  ‘Is this the reason you couldn’t sleep?’ she asks, letting go of my arm.

  I nod.

  ‘Well, if there’s anything worrying you at school just let me know. Make sure you have a restful weekend at home.’

  ‘What did she want?’ Pari asks when I get back to our desk.

  ‘Thinks I look tired!’

  ‘You do!’ Pari says. ‘Sure you’re still feeling up to me coming over to yours later?’

  ‘Yeah!’ I say.

  ‘I need to use the computer first though. I’ve got to get that history homework done. Can you give me your address and I’ll come over as soon as I’ve finished.’

  ‘You can do the homework at mine,’ I suggest.

  ‘Sure?’ she asks, like doing her homework is more important than coming to mine.

  ‘Sure!’

  But I do think it’s a bit weird because there is no way I would ever normally do my homework on a Friday night. Afterwards, in the middle of Maths, I start to wish I had told Pari to come over later, because now I’ve got this nagging worry about us bumpin
g into Kez on the way out of school – which is stupid because we’ve said we’re going to be honest with each other. I don’t even know why I keep feeling like this – why shouldn’t I have Pari back to mine? Kez knows so many people I don’t, but still. If she sees me going home with Pari I know I’ll feel terrible, like I’m replacing her or something.

  I walk out of the school gates with Pari, silently chanting as I pass the Unfriendship Bench . . . ‘Please don’t let us bump into Kez. Please don’t let us . . .’ If I’m looking for her I never see her.

  ‘Hi, Laila! How’s it going?’ Kez comes up parallel to me and touches my arm.

  I jump. ‘Fine!’

  ‘Hi, Pari.’ Kez smiles at her. ‘Going to the tube? I’m off that way! We can go together if you want?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m going back to Laila’s.’ Pari’s voice sounds a bit weak, like she gets it too that this feels awkward.

  I can hardly meet Kez’s eyes.

  ‘That’s great!’ Kez’s voice is a bit too shrill for me to believe her. ‘OK then. I’ve got to go now anyway . . . Have fun!’

  There’s the tiniest pause before Kez turns and heads for home, and in that pause I know that seeing me and Pari together has made her feel all mixed up too.

  ‘Sure you still want me to come back?’ Pari asks as we cross the road. I’ve been so busy thinking about Kez that I realize I haven’t said a word to Pari.

  ‘Course!’ I feel around in the bottom of my bag for my keys and we head up the path.

  Pari runs her fingers over the stained-glass windows, following the patterns on our front door.

  ‘Is this safe? Couldn’t someone break it?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ I ask.

  ‘No reason!’ Pari shrugs.

  I look at her and then back at our door for a moment before I open it, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked her round. This is nothing like when Kez used to come back and we could easily guess everything that was on each other’s mind.

  It’s too late now though.

  ‘Dump your things over there,’ I say, pointing to the pile of shoes and bags spilling out of a rack stacked to bursting under the stairs.

  Pari places her backpack and coat neatly in the corner and goes to take off her shoes.

  ‘No need . . . unless you want to!’

  She carries on unlacing her shoes, then squeezes them into a gap on the shoe rack.

  ‘How many flats . . . ?’ Pari looks up the staircase to the skylight in the hallway that leads to Mum and Dad’s room in the loft. ‘I mean, how many people live here?’

  I never ever used to feel embarrassed when Kez came over . . . well, only about the mess, but having Pari here’s making me look at everything in our house as if I’m seeing it for the first time. At a guess I would say there are about forty pairs of shoes, trainers, boots, slippers and wellies under the stairs. Some are Mira’s and Krish’s old ones, some are Mum’s and Dad’s – there’s even a pair of Grandad Bimal’s shiny black work shoes that Mum keeps because she likes to see them every time she comes in.

  ‘Five of us . . . usually – but my brother and sister are away at college.’

  ‘I know where to come if I need shoes!’ Pari jokes.

  I open the door into the kitchen and am hit by the smell of Mum’s casserole.

  As Pari stands up, her stomach makes a growling noise.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ She laughs. ‘Sorry but something smells really good in here.’

  ‘I told Mum we could have a pizza, but she wanted to cook for you.’

  We go through to the kitchen and I take the lid off the slow cooker. Steam sweats my face.

  ‘I’m always having pizza. This smells great!’

  ‘Mum leaves the food ready because she’s sometimes not back till later,’ I explain.

  ‘Does she do night shifts then? My mum used to work those,’ Pari says.

  ‘No, I mean she’ll be back in about an hour,’ I say.

  Pari is scanning our kitchen, peering around the shelves and through the doorway. I can see from her expression that our house, with its mess, grubby walls, and its fraying old carpet is more like a palace in her eyes.

  ‘You should see Kez’s place!’ I say. ‘It’s really . . . modern. They’ve made it so Kez can get around anywhere in it.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Pari says.

  I get the feeling she’s only half-listening.

  Every single thing that comes out of my mouth sounds wrong. It was better when we were at school. We’re more the same at school.

  ‘This fridge is the scene of animal torture . . .’ Pari reads out my fridge-magnet sign. ‘Who wrote that?’

  ‘I did!’

  I tell her about becoming a vegetarian because of reading how animals are slaughtered in Nana Josie’s Protest Book, and how no one needs to eat meat because it’s really expensive to produce and it’s a waste of the world’s resources. ‘I didn’t realize cows cause so much pollution with their wind,’ I say, pointing to my backside.

  Pari laughs and her stomach starts rumbling again.

  ‘We can eat now if you want.’

  ‘I think I better had.’

  So I take two bowls out of the cupboard and ladle some of the vegetables in.

  I grab cheese, a grater and some bread and carry them through to the table.

  ‘I’ll just wash my hands,’ Pari says, and picks up the soap by the sink.

  I grate some cheese into both bowls.

  After what seems like ages Pari comes to the table. She picks up her spoon and eats mouthful after mouthful of casserole without saying a word. Occasionally she looks up and smiles, but then carries on eating until her bowl is completely empty.

  ‘Your mum’s a good cook!’ she says, leaning back in her chair.

  ‘Tell her that! She’ll be your friend forever!’

  We clear up the dishes and Pari points to the magnets on the fridge again.

  ‘You know, you shouldn’t make those sorts of jokes.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll show you the pictures of what they do to animals. It’s disgusting how they’re treated, crammed into trucks so they can hardly breathe . . . it is torture.’

  Pari nods, but she’s got this expression in her eyes that’s half annoyed with me. ‘We don’t eat meat either, but it’s disgusting how people are treated too.’

  ‘I’m not saying it isn’t . . .’ My voice trails off.

  I don’t really know what to say to Pari. It felt like we were getting closer at school, but now she’s come home we seem further apart.

  ‘Should we do our homework then? Get it out of the way?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll go and get Dad’s laptop. You can use that computer over there if you want,’ I tell her.

  She walks over to the table and sits down.

  Why study history? is the theme of our homework.

  ‘If the history teacher doesn’t know why we should learn about history, I don’t see how we’re supposed to!’ Pari laughs.

  I think she’s trying to lighten the mood.

  We’ve been told to answer the question by drawing a mind map. You have to write loads of words and pictures in thought bubbles on a page like a brainstorm, and then, when we get back to class, we have to talk about it.

  We look through the websites it tells us to visit to help us make our mind map. Then after that we have to come up with a symbol that means something to us about history.

  I can’t think of one, but I make a list of reasons I think we should study history, while Pari writes on the computer.

  Mine’s just a summary of what I’ve read on the websites. It’s pretty boring. I don’t think I’ve got more than I would have come up with if I hadn’t looked anything up.

  To learn lessons from the past

  To learn about ordinary people and great leaders

  To learn how old and modern problems have happened

  To learn lessons from history


  To learn why people behaved the way they did in different times

  To learn about our ancestors.

  Then we have to write about moments in history we’ve heard about that have affected our own family. I write:

  Holocaust

  Indian Independence

  World War One

  World War Two

  Women’s March

  I want to write something about reading Malala’s book because that has really affected me, but I don’t think that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to put.

  I’m sure there are loads of others, but I can’t really think of anything big to write about after that. But then I get to wondering how long something has to be in the past to be history. Is it yesterday . . . or does it have to be properly in the past? Nana Josie’s my family, and even if the stuff she wrote about in her Protest Book is not that old, it’s still history.

  Pari’s eyeing the art materials Mum’s tidied away into pots by the computer table.

  ‘Mind if I use some of these?’ she asks.

  She sits down next to me at the table and starts doodling with them.

  ‘What’s yours going to be?’ she asks me.

  ‘A banner.’ I think about telling Pari about the Women’s March, but I’m not sure I know her well enough yet. She might think I’m a bit strange, just going off like that on my own.

  ‘Good idea,’ Pari says – but I get the feeling she’s so enjoying trying out the coloured Sharpies and watercolour pencils that she’s just being polite to keep the conversation going so she can use them for a bit longer. ‘What’s it going to say, your banner?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. Want me to print out your worksheet?’

  ‘Thanks!’

  She takes her time to write her name in an italic Sharpie pen at the bottom of the page, doing big swirly Ps.

  Without looking up at me she says, ‘Sorry if I’m not being much fun. I don’t have a computer – or any of these colours – at home, you see.’