Tender Earth

by Sita Brahmachari

  ‘Makes me think of Nana Josie,’ I say. ‘She used to live just down there!’

  ‘Yes? Mira talked of her many times when she came to India. So, Laila, what have you done to stop your parents allowing you freedom?’

  Mum and Dad must have been up half the night talking to him about me. No wonder they went into the front room and closed the door. There doesn’t seem much point in holding things back from Janu now, so I decide to tell him some things, like how much I miss Mira and Krish and how I feel like I’m losing Kez and I just want things to be like they were before.

  ‘Relationships can change over time, and that can be painful indeed.’ Janu looks into the distance.

  I tell him about the day of the Unfriendship Bench and Kez’s face when Dad carried her down the steps.

  ‘That must be humiliating for a young woman! She is strong-minded. That’s good. But maybe things will change. I’m thinking of my ma – she has her own unique way of looking at things. When I offer to buy her a wheelchair, she refuses – she thinks it is sometimes a privilege to be carried by someone you love . . .’

  ‘No, Kez really doesn’t ever want to be carried again!’ I say.

  ‘I wasn’t being literal, Laila! I’m speaking of a love that is not reduced because you accept help. That is not always weakness.’

  I really like Janu, but some of the things he says I don’t get.

  ‘Well, you should at least have a choice, shouldn’t you? There’s loads of places Kez can’t get to without asking for help . . . and why should she?’

  ‘True,’ Janu says, and turns to me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

  I keep thinking how hard it would have been for Kez to just decide to go on the Women’s March like I did the other day. She would have had to go by bus. The underground’s a nightmare for her. Maybe one day we’ll go on a march together.

  ‘Chalo! Let’s go,’ Janu says, standing up from the bench. ‘Have you made new friends at school?’

  I tell him about the other day with Pari. How I wished I hadn’t invited her over, because it was awkward.

  ‘She is proud, Laila. Who wants to be pitied?’

  ‘It wasn’t pity!’

  ‘But you don’t know how Pari lives, do you? You have to discover more about her before you can understand.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I say. We walk on in silence for a while.

  ‘Why don’t you join me barefoot walking? What does it matter what people think?’

  I take my trainers and socks off and we walk across the grass together. It actually does feel soft and fresh on my skin. My mind fills with the banner painting of Nana Josie, Hope and Simon walking barefoot together, and then Fliss’s little hands clinging on to the bamboo sticks with such determination that her knuckles turned white.

  Janu takes a photo of my feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m making a barefoot photo page! Everyone I walk with, everyone who donates, must post a photo of their bare feet on the blog. Shame I didn’t get that lady’s!’

  Once we’re on the pavement I have to pick my way around the rubbish and cigarette butts. Janu seems to see things before I do. He takes my arm and guides me along the pavement. On the bus on the way home he gets into conversation with a few other people on the top deck. He’s good at picking out the ones who’ll listen, but one or two don’t hang around when he mentions the charity. It doesn’t seem to bother him though. He talks Bengali to an Indian man on the seat behind us for ages. I can’t believe he actually gets him to take his shoes off. He takes a photo of the man’s bare feet before they part. The way he’s smiling and waving to Janu as he gets off the bus, you’d think they were best friends.

  ‘Original bus journey indeed!’ the man’s saying.

  Someone’s texted me.

  Sorry Laila, I won’t make it back, I don’t think. I’ve got to get a painting ready for the first-term exhibition. Your painting actually. Say hi to Janu. Hope he has a good time. Mira X

  I show Janu my phone. I don’t understand why Mira doesn’t speak to him herself. It feels really rude after how good his whole family were to us when we went to India.

  ‘A text only. Thanks for showing me.’

  He doesn’t say anything else about the message, but after I’ve shown it to him he sits quietly and looks out of the window.

  I’ve forgotten my keys so I clank the letter box.

  Dad answers the door and looks straight down at our filthy feet.

  ‘Is this barefoot thing catching?!’

  ‘Don’t forget those books today, Laila, or I’ll take them to the book bank. I can’t have them cluttering up the place any more. I wanted them out of here before Janu came,’ Mum says.

  She reminds me every day, and every day I forget. Maybe it’s because each time I look at the pile that I’ve dragged back into Mira’s room, I can’t help replaying the scene where Pari ran out on me – and even though she said she wanted them, just the thought of it takes me back to what I said.

  ‘Laila, I have to go into work now! If you don’t hurry you’ll get another late!’ Mum calls up the stairs.

  I grab a bagful of the newest-looking books from the pile. I don’t care if they’re heavy.

  When school’s over, Pari, Stella and me get on with our music homework. It’s easier when there’s just the three of us. We can take our pick of the keyboards and percussion instruments and the best thing is that we can actually hear what we’re doing.

  ‘It turns out I actually do like school,’ Stella jokes, ‘. . . when no one else is in it!’

  ‘Hello! We’re here!’ I wave at her.

  ‘Yes, but just the three of us. You know what I mean.’

  ‘You really do get stressed with the noise, don’t you?’ Pari says.

  Stella nods.

  ‘Me too!’

  ‘Can you imagine what it would be like if once in a while everyone took off their headphones and listened to the same happy, peaceful music . . . just for one journey,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, yes, let’s do that . . . it feels a bit grim if the whole composition stays with everyone all in their own heads. Anyway, I like fantasy!’ Pari laughs.

  I wish Pari and Stella could have been on the underground the day of the Women’s March, even though it was so noisy. It was a peaceful noise. That carriage was one of the friendliest places I’ve ever been with total strangers.

  We work on what Pari calls ‘our happy ending’. It only feels like we’ve been here for about half an hour when Mr Rivera comes in.

  ‘A-star for dedication! What’s this composition of yours called?’ he asks.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to guess, sir,’ Stella says. ‘Anyway, we’re still working on the end. We’ve got to sample all different kinds of music for the beginning too; we want to get the feeling like you’re moving from what’s playing on one person’s headphones to the next. Like everyone’s trapped in their own head.’

  ‘Intriguing! Let’s see what you’ve got so far.’ Sir listens like he’s actually really interested and not just doing his job.

  ‘You three should definitely work in a group again. This is great. I’ll be giving a commendation to each of you, and one for your tutor group too. But I’m afraid I’m shutting up shop now – it’s not officially a practice night.’

  Usually after we’ve rehearsed the piece, Stella and Pari head off for the tube together because they live quite close to each other, but today Stella has to go early ‘to help out at home’ and Pari needs to print something out in the library, so we go there together.

  ‘She’s like me,’ Pari says as we wave to Stella at the gate. ‘It’s not easy for her at home.’

  I want to ask Pari why it’s not easy for her or Stella, but I don’t know if she tells me these things because she wants me to ask her or not. So I don’t ask anything and we just walk side by side into the library.

  The Malala book’s on the Human Rights display shelf. I point it out t
o Pari as we head to the computers.

  ‘They’re good books, I know, but I can’t read that stuff. I need fiction.’

  Sometimes Pari says things like that and I always expect her to follow up with something else, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s hinting for me to give her some of Mira’s books.

  I’m just plucking up the courage to take them out of my bag, but then I change my mind. Giving them to her in the library feels like making too much of a big thing out of it. How can it be so difficult to give away some old books to a friend without making them feel bad?

  ‘Sorry, girls. We’ve got a meeting in the library tonight,’ Mr Coulson, the librarian, explains. ‘I’m afraid you can’t work in here.’

  ‘But I need to use the printer! It won’t take me long,’ Pari says.

  ‘Sorry, Pari. You’ll have to come in early tomorrow,’ Mr Coulson tells her.

  Pari looks at me. I know she won’t ask.

  ‘We could print it off at mine,’ I suggest.

  She hesitates. ‘Is Janu going to be there?’

  Maybe she’s a bit nervous about meeting him after everything I’ve told her about how different he is to anyone else I know.

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve hardly seen him. He goes off to work with Kez’s mum all day and he mostly doesn’t get back till late. We’ll have the place to ourselves!’

  Pari calls her mum and has a long conversation in Arabic with just a few scattered words in English: ‘Homework’ and ‘Library’ . . . Listening to Pari talk makes me feel as if I know her even less than before. I think she’s arguing with her mum. Then I know for sure because Pari hangs up while her mum’s still talking. At least it’s not just me!

  ‘Sorry, I can’t come. Mum needs my help tonight. She hasn’t been feeling very well so she couldn’t get out to the market. I need to go home. I’ll have to come in early, that’s all.’

  I wish I could picture Pari where she lives and I wish I could ask her more questions about her life. The way she talks sometimes makes me think that Pari has to help her mum as much as her mum helps Pari. I would so love to know what Pari’s room is like. I’d like to be able to picture her there. I walk her towards the tube, wondering if we’ll ever get to know each other any better. My shoulder aches so I keep transferring my bag from one side to the other.

  ‘Laila, I really want to invite you to where I live, but it’s nothing like your house! I don’t ask people back . . . usually,’ she says, as if that’s a good reason not to invite me.

  ‘I don’t care what it’s like.’

  ‘Actually . . . ever.’

  ‘What . . . ? You’ve never had anyone back after school . . . not even in primary?’

  Pari shakes her head.

  ‘I’ve never really wanted anyone to . . . before now . . . but I do want to invite you . . . I already asked my mum. She wants your home number, so she can speak to your mum and arrange for you to come over in half-term.’

  I feel so stupidly happy I could jump up and down and punch the air. I want to hug Pari, but I just smile and say, ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  ‘You don’t have to walk me all the way to the tube,’ she says ‘Your bag looks heavy! I’ll catch this bus.’ She sticks out her hand.

  This is the perfect time.

  ‘Oh – I forgot I brought these . . . if you still want them!’

  I take out the books right at the last minute and hand them to Pari as she steps through the closing doors. She sits down at a window seat and mimes, ‘Thank you!’

  As I walk home a text pings into my phone.

  You are my first ever best friend. P x

  I lie on the landing sofa staring up at the ceiling, wondering about Pari’s journey home and trying to imagine where she lives from the bits and pieces that she’s told me. I don’t know why I feel so happy that she’s asked me over to hers, but I do. I slip Nana’s chime out of the drawstring bag, rattle it and let the sound fill the air . . . and these thoughts come to me really clearly.

  I won’t really get to know Pari until I’ve seen where she lives. It matters that it’s not just me inviting her to mine. But she seems so worried about me going there, it’s making me a bit nervous now. It can’t be that bad where she lives, can it? Anyway, how can we be true friends unless we know more about each other?

  Maybe that’s the same with Kez . . . why it counts so much that I can only go around to hers now and she doesn’t feel comfortable any more to come back to mine.

  I hear the key turn in the front-door lock.

  ‘Mum?’ I call down.

  ‘It’s Janu!’

  He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, cleaning his feet with wipes he keeps in his backpack. I can’t believe he’s actually going through with this barefoot thing.

  ‘Hi, Landing Laila! That’s what I’ll call you.’ Janu laughs as he comes up the stairs and heads through to the bathroom to wash his feet properly. I suppose the wipes and the washing are his way of taking his shoes off at the front door.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says, coming out again and sitting next to me on my perch. He unpacks his iPad and opens his Barefoot Blogger site. ‘Let’s see if there are any more donations . . .’

  He reads out loud:

  ‘£10 from Heathrow Airport!’

  He laughs. ‘Well, she was as good as her word, I have to say!’

  I read the next one over his shoulder.

  I met you on Parliament Hill. I have been despondent about the world recently and meeting you and your little cousin gave me hope! £500 donated.

  With heart ’n’ sole!

  Lizzy Melrose

  ‘Ah! The Bhopal lady. She hasn’t forgotten. Thank you, Lizzy Melrose!’ Janu says ‘The kindness of strangers.’

  On behalf of the Tagorian Society. We have discussed at our board meeting and researched your project . . . we think it is fittingly poetic! Tagore himself would approve. £1,000 donated.

  Dilip Sen-Gupta

  ‘The man on the bus! I can’t believe it! So generous. I wonder who he is . . . I’ll look him up.’

  Janu flips over his iPad screen and leans back on Nana Josie’s sofa with his arms behind his head.

  ‘What’s happening in your world, Laila?’

  I’ve noticed from the teachers at school that people have questions they get into the habit of asking. A lot of the time they don’t really want your reply or to know what you really think . . . That’s why ‘fine’ does fine for most questions. But some people, like Mrs Latif and Janu, have a way of asking that actually gets you thinking. Janu seems to know how much I hate it when Mum and Dad always ask me about school.

  ‘You first,’ I say.

  ‘OK!’ He rubs his forehead for a moment while he thinks. ‘I would say . . . my perception of this city being so different to back home is wrong. Today I visited a place called Centrepoint with Hannah. Do you know it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well, it’s for homeless young people. Not unlike my refuges. Many of them seemed to be struggling in their minds. I can’t believe there is so much of this here too. I didn’t expect it!’

  I nod. ‘I had this thought that I won’t get to know Pari until I go to her home. And . . . I think Mum might be a bit nervous about me going . . . she’s so overprotective.’

  ‘She’s your ma!’

  ‘But she might not let . . . well, I was wondering . . . if Pari does invite me at the weekend could you take me over there?’

  ‘No problem.’ Janu nods and smoothes his hand over his head. ‘That is partly the reason why I came here, to see where you and Krish and Mira live.’

  The front door clicks open.

  ‘Hi, Laila! How was school?’ Mum calls up.

  ‘Fine!’ I call back.

  Janu’s grinning as he flips the cover of his iPad over and heads off to Krish’s room, leaving me alone to chat to Mum. He winks encouragingly at me as he goes.

  On Tuesday evening Pari’s mum telephones. I sit so close to Mum as she tal
ks to her that I don’t even have to guess the other side of the conversation.

  ‘No problem at all. Pari’s always very welcome. They seem to be becoming such good friends. Doing their homework too.’

  Mum’s talking strangely again, like she thinks that Pari’s mum will understand her better if she speaks that way. It sounds weird. I roll my eyes at Mum and she pokes me in the side to make me laugh. I lean into the phone to hear Pari’s mum better.

  ‘Return this welcome, yes? Saturday afternoon. Stay evening. Bring sleeping bag. I make a special meal for them. No problem.’

  Mum agrees, says her goodbyes and hangs up.

  ‘She sounds lovely! Isn’t it funny that her name’s Leyla?’ Mum says. ‘I’d like to meet her too. I’ll drive you over.’

  ‘No! Pari’s coming to pick me up. We’ve already sorted it. We’re going on the tube . . . we need to because we’ve got this music composition for homework. Anyway, it’s only a few stops.’

  ‘What’s the underground got to do with music?’

  ‘We’re composing something about a tube journey,’ I say.

  Mum looks at me a bit suspiciously.

  ‘What? It’s the truth!’

  ‘OK then, I can always take you on the underground,’ Mum continues.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘It’s not that!’

  ‘Then what? Pari takes the tube home alone every morning and night and she’s all right.’

  ‘We’ve discussed this before, Laila. She’s used to it and you’re not!’

  I shrug. ‘So as she’s coming to pick me up we’ll be fine then, won’t we?’

  ‘Laila, I’m your mum. I need to know that you’re safe.’

  ‘I know what this is about. Pari’s mum didn’t come over to ours and check us out before she came here.’

  I can feel myself start to boil over again. After all the time it’s taken Pari to trust me enough to invite me to her’s, the last thing I need is Mum deciding I can’t stay. I don’t know why so many conversations with Mum turn into arguments; they never used to when Mira and Krish were around.