‘I don’t mind! My parents are going to love you! I’ll be the first person in this family ever to do their homework on a Friday night! It’ll be like a Levenson Revolution!’
Pari laughs.
I type my name on my work, press PRINT and watch it inching out of the printer. Page one falls to the floor and page two starts to emerge.
‘You’ve done loads more than me!’
‘Mostly stuff from my nana’s Protest Book. I’ll show you when we go upstairs.’
‘Does she live here then?’ Pari asks.
‘Oh, no, she died a long time ago.’
Pari gives me this strange look.
‘Right! So, it’s not really your stuff then?’
‘It’s my family stuff . . . mostly.’
Pari looks a bit doubtful.
‘Do you think I’ve done it wrong?’ I ask her.
She holds out her homework to me.
‘I don’t know. This is what I put.’
I read through Pari’s list. It does seem different to mine. More personal.
Stop war
Stop religious hatred
Stop torture
Make people understand each other better
Iran/Iraq War
9/11
Terrorist attacks anywhere, everywhere
Refugee status
Syria
I feel a bit stupid. Like my list is homework and her’s is actually her life. I get that if you’re involved in things it feels different. I have a picture of myself holding Nana’s banner, walking with Jackie and little Fliss. I don’t think I’ll ever forget my first march, just like Nana said she always remembered hers. Maybe that’s the difference between mine and Pari’s lists. Everything she’s written seems to be more personal.
‘Can I use these before we go up? Do you mind?’ Pari asks, opening the box of charcoals I got last Christmas from Mira. ‘The other colours aren’t right for what I want to do,’ she explains.
She draws a man’s face on one side of the page and then folds the paper over so it prints an identical fainter version on the other side. She completely smudges out that side so it’s like a shadow of a person. You can just work out that it was once a face.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s what happens when half of who you are gets wiped out,’ she says, without looking up.
I want to ask her more, but she looks at me and folds the paper over to cover up the face of the shadow man. Now she’s doing that little smile that’s not really a smile at all. It says, ‘Don’t ask. I can’t say.’
‘Can I see your room?’ she asks.
As we walk up the stairs Pari pauses to look at all the photos on the landing.
‘What’s this room?’
‘The landing.’
Pari looks blankly back at me.
‘It’s a passing-through place,’ I explain.
‘But there’s a seat . . . like it’s a waiting room.’
Maybe Pari’s right. It is a kind of waiting room. The problem is I’m not sure what it is I’m waiting for.
‘That was my old room –’ I point to the door ahead – ‘and this is my sister Mira’s room,’ I say, opening the door. ‘It’s supposed to be mine but I haven’t moved in properly yet.’
‘I would love to have a sister,’ she says, walking over to the window and looking out at the garden below. She scans all the empty ghost frames around the room. ‘Is this whole bedroom going to be for you? You won’t share it with anyone?’ she asks.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this uncomfortable before. I shake my head, rummage under the bed and pull the Protest Book out of the Banner Bag . . . I think about showing her Nana’s banner, but I’m not sure about anything now she’s here, so I fiddle around trying to close one of the catches while I try to work out why this tension seems to be growing between us, not getting less.
‘This is the book I was telling you about.’
I carry it out to the landing and we sit down on the sofa and look through it together.
‘I see why you wrote so much for homework now!’ she says, carefully turning the pages till she gets to the end. She pauses for a long time on the final page. It’s Nana and Simon’s last march that they went on together, where they’re holding a banner that says:
NO BOMBING IRAQ
NOT IN OUR NAMES
‘That was the last protest my nana went on before she died,’ I explain.
Pari stares into the picture. Nana Josie hardly looks strong enough to hold up the banner.
‘Was she ill?’ Pari asks.
‘She was dying, but she was determined to go on that march.’
‘She must have really understood,’ Pari says, passing the Protest Book back to me.
When I watch the news it never feels like the world is all connected up like this. Nana Josie and Simon marched against a war that was happening to Pari’s family.
I take the chime out of the cushion cover and hand it to Pari.
‘My nana gave me this before she died. It was hers when she was a baby,’ I tell her.
She rings the chime and puts her head on one side to listen. ‘It sounds like someone crying,’ she says.
I feel a bit shivery and light-headed. It’s Mira and Mum who have all these spooky ideas about stuff, not me . . . but I suppose that is what I’ve been feeling and not put into words. Sometimes it does feel like the chime is Nana Josie’s voice, crying, laughing, calling to me, spurring me on . . .
Pari hands it back to me. ‘You’re so lucky to have all this,’ she says, gesturing around the landing.
She stands on her tiptoes to look at the books on the high shelves.
‘I didn’t know people had this many books in their houses. This is more like a library!’ Pari says, looking closer at some of the leather books in the cabinet.
‘My dad loves books, especially old ones with illustrations in . . . and maps,’ I explain as she looks at the enormous old atlases.
‘You want to take some of those ones?’ I ask her, looking at the pile of Mira’s old books I’ve stacked up on the landing. ‘I was going to give them to charity.’
Pari’s face turns all stony. It’s not hard to read what she’s thinking now. I would do anything not to have said that. I wish I could grab it out of the air and stuff it back inside my stupid mouth.
Pari jumps up.
‘I’ve got to go now.’
She’s already halfway down the stairs when I see Mum’s shadow through the glass.
‘Hi, girls!’ she calls as she opens the door.
‘Hi, Mum! Pari’s going now,’ I say.
‘Oh! That’s a shame. So early?’
‘I’ve got to take the tube back to Finsbury Park, Mrs Levenson. But thank you for the food – it was delicious.’
‘It’s nearly dark! If you can wait a few minutes, I can give you a lift,’ Mum offers.
But Pari’s already heading down the steps. She doesn’t even turn back and wave.
‘She seems like a lovely girl, very polite! Good job I didn’t make pizza then!’ Mum says, lifting the lid of the cooking pan. ‘You two made a good dent in this!’ She takes a spoonful. ‘Not bad, is it?’
I know Mum’s only fishing for a conversation. I don’t reply, so she casts again.
‘What did she think of your room?’
‘How would I know?’ I can hardly speak with embarrassment as I replay Pari’s visit over and over. I’ve got this pain behind my eyes. I wish I’d never invited her. From the minute Pari walked in the door when her stomach started rumbling, it was like I got this hollow feeling in my stomach that I don’t even know what to do with.
‘I just thought . . . she’s the first friend you’ve shown it to . . .’
‘We didn’t hang out in there! We sat here mostly and on my perch. I’m going up now!’ I say, and start to climb the stairs.
‘Hang on a minute, Laila, we’re talking!’ Mum follows after me. ‘So what did you do together then
?’
‘Nothing much! Ate, talked a bit, did some homework.’
‘On a Friday night? She can come again!’ Mum jokes.
‘She hasn’t got a computer at home. Not everyone has all this!’ I snap, pointing at the landing bookshelves.
Mum massages her forehead and sits down next to me. I think she must have a headache too.
‘Laila, we had a call from your tutor at school. She was talking about you looking tired and she’d noticed you scratching at your eczema. She also told me you were late one morning. You didn’t say. What was that about?’
I shrug like I can’t even remember being late. ‘Oh yeah! Forgot my keys.’
‘You’d feel a lot better, more on top of things, if you could just sleep properly.’
‘Probably.’
Mum sighs and gets up. As soon as she’s gone downstairs I feel bad. It’s not her fault it went badly with Pari. I feel so on my own sitting here. No Mira or Krish arguing, no one blasting the house with music, no one trying to pick me up . . . I want to call out to Mum and ask her if she’ll lie next to me till I go to sleep, like she used to when I was little.
My phone pings.
Thanks for tonight. Sorry I ran out on you. Will you keep the books for me, please? I really want them. Left my homework on your table. Can you bring it in on Monday? PX
I feel this glow of relief spread through me.
I text Pari back.
Glad you’re OK. Will keep books for
you and bring homework in. Laila X
Mum comes up to bed. I don’t even bother to hide that I’m sleeping on the landing. She bends down and kisses me on the forehead.
‘When’s Dad back?’ I ask.
‘Late, I think. He’s at a work-do. He’ll try not to disturb you.’ Mum looks towards Mira’s room but doesn’t start on me about sleeping in there tonight.
‘Love you, Laila.’
‘Love you, Mum,’ I whisper.
‘I’ll take those off to the book bank tomorrow,’ she says.
‘No, don’t!’
‘Don’t what?’ Mum asks.
‘Take them. I’ve changed my mind. I’m keeping them!’
‘Oh, Laila!’ Mum lets one of the paperbacks drop on to the pile, making it topple. ‘If you’re keeping them, can you at least get them back on the shelves in your room, please?’ She bends down and picks up the books she’s knocked off the stack. ‘I thought we could go tomorrow and get that new uniform for you at last.’
‘Changed my mind about that too. I don’t want one any more. There’s no point.’
Mum wrinkles her forehead into three deep furrow lines and carries on up to her room. I wish I could explain it all to her so she doesn’t think I’m trying to be difficult. It’s just that things keep changing. If I had a brand-new uniform now it would feel so wrong.
Dad isn’t that quiet when he comes in. I’ve still got the light on and he sees that I’m awake.
‘I am definitely not going to ask you how it went with your friend!’
‘Good! Because I’m definitely not going to tell you!’
Dad kisses me on the forehead. ‘We won’t talk tomorrow, OK?’
‘I look forward to that!’
I don’t sleep for one single moment, as I pick over every minute of Pari’s visit, wishing I could put the whole thing on rewind. I should never have invited her in the first place. I scratch and scratch at the crook of my elbow. I don’t care if I make it bleed.
Dad’s making eggy-bread in the kitchen while Mum casts her line again.
‘I was just thinking how independent Pari is, travelling on the tube like that!’
‘Not everyone mollycoddles their children like you do,’ I say.
‘Mollycoddles?’ Mum laughs. ‘I haven’t heard that phrase in years . . . where did you hear it from?’
‘Don’t know – think I read it somewhere.’
‘Well, I know I wouldn’t be happy with you taking the bus and the tube on your own, especially with the nights drawing in.’
‘Well, Pari still has to go to school in winter!’
‘I wouldn’t like it either,’ Dad chips in, bringing me through my eggy-bread. ‘Here you go – not quite like the old fry-up days, but not bad.’ He smiles and places his own plate on the table.
‘And how’s Pari supposed to get to and from school? Are you going to give her a lift every day and night?’
Mum ignores me. ‘It’s just a shame I didn’t get to talk to her.’ She tuts at the mess of paper and pens strewn over the table.
‘I couldn’t face this lot last night. I don’t mind you having friends over as long as you clear up afterwards!’
I jump up but it’s too late – Mum’s already got hold of Pari’s charcoal drawing.
‘Did your friend do this?’ she asks. She’s frowning at Pari’s drawing like she’s committed a crime or something.
‘Yeah, she forgot it.’ I take the page from Mum. ‘It’s for History. I’m taking it in for her on Monday.’
Mum switches the radio on and there’s something on the news about a bomb going off in a city somewhere. She switches it off again fast, like she used to switch TV channels when ‘inappropriate’ programmes came on when I was little.
‘Why did you do that? Don’t you want me to know about what’s actually going on in the world?’
‘Oh, Laila, I’m shattered. I couldn’t sleep at all last night. You must be exhausted too. It’s a big day tomorrow with Janu arriving. Let’s hunker down and have a cosy day.’
‘I don’t have much choice if I’m grounded,’ I mumble.
‘Maybe we’ll see if we can get hold of Mira and Krish on the phone later.’
‘That sounds good,’ Dad says through a yawn. ‘It was a bit of a late one for me too! Let’s have a look at your homework then.’
‘Can I have Pari’s homework, please, Mum?’ I hold my hand out and she passes it back to me.
‘It would be good to talk about this,’ she says.
‘I wish everyone would stop talking about Pari. She’s in my tutor group and she’s my friend, that’s all. Here! Have a good read through this too if you want to know everything!’ I slam all our homework down on the table and run into the hallway.
‘Come on, Laila, stay down here for a bit!’ Dad reaches through the banisters for my hand. ‘We only want to chat.’ He lifts up my homework. ‘This is interesting – family connections to history. I don’t remember Krish and Mira doing this. I could tell you a few stories . . .’
I pull my hand away, walk up the stairs and close Mira’s door. I lie on her bed playing my sad empty picture-frames game, except this time instead of trying to remember what pictures Mira used to have on the wall, I start to fill up the blanks with my own . . . of Kez, Pari, Bubbe, Simon, Hope and Nana Josie.
About half an hour later there’s a knock. Dad pushes open the door and peers around.
‘Can I come in?’ He does his funny hunched-shouldered, head-bowed walk, the one he always does when he wants to make up. He’s carrying the CD player.
I half smile at him and he straightens up as if me not being angry with him any more has made everything in the world right again. He hands me back my homework.
‘I thought you might like to hear something. Glad I didn’t throw this old player out now!’
I shift over on the bed.
‘I’ve dug around and found a few vintage items,’ he says, plugging it in. ‘I had your grandad’s recording transferred to a CD after your Nana Josie’s funeral. Felt right to put them together . . . but I’ve never played them since.’
Dad presses PLAY and comes to sit next to me on Mira’s bed.
‘When I was about your age I had this microphone recorder kit for my birthday. I got it into my head I was going to be a reporter or something. The recording’s a bit crackly, but—’
A boy’s bright little voice cuts through the interference.
‘Dad, can you tell me two things you’ve done th
at you think are important?’
‘Is that you?’ I mouth at Dad as if Grandad Kit is in the room and I’m interrupting them.
Dad nods.
‘Mmm, good question!’
That’s Grandad Kit’s voice. He sounds a bit like Dad now.
Grandad’s talking about something called ‘The Battle of Cable Street’ in the East End of London, when people stood up against someone called ‘Mosley’. He’s talking about how he and his friends could see the evil that Hitler was doing and how they had felt that they needed to do something to fight the rise of fascism here too. He talks about putting on anti-fascist concerts and plays, and about his political cartoons.
Now Grandad Kit is talking about how he gave up smoking and used the money to start his book business. He sounds like he’s really enjoying telling this story. It’s just getting going when the tape cuts out.
‘That’s all there is of Grandad’s voice. I know – it’s a shame. I think my batteries must have run out!’ Dad sighs.
‘You sound so sweet and Grandad sounds funny!’
‘He was a one-off. Laila, I know you find it hard to believe, but Mum and I were once your age, asking some of the same questions you’re asking . . .’
I rest my head on Dad’s shoulder. The voice has changed on the tape now, and the recording is clear. Nana Josie’s voice sounds all smooth, almost like a professional reporter.
‘Your Nana Josie . . . Mum,’ Dad whispers.
It seems like she’s being interviewed for radio about being in the hospice. I feel Dad’s chest heave up and down and he reaches out for my hand as he listens to her talking about her life. The strangest thing is I feel like I already know what her voice sounds like, even though I’ve never actually heard her speak.
‘She sounds really happy, even though she was ill . . . like she’d had a good life,’ I say.
‘She was, Laila – and seeing you born was one of the reasons she was so happy.’
‘Have Mira and Krish heard this?’ I ask.
‘The interview with Nana? Yes, at her funeral. I haven’t played anyone the one with me interviewing Dad. I should though. Krish never met Dad either.’
Tender Earth Page 17