Bindi Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  I pulled a face at Geena and Jazz.

  “Oh, I don't think so.” Auntie glanced at us, as if she was looking for our support. “We're all modern, liberated women here. I'm sure my brother will back any decision we make.”

  “Absolutely, Auntie,” Geena said firmly. Jazz and I nodded.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal beamed. “Well, here we go.” She opened up the file, and pulled out a photo. “What kind of age range are we looking at? I suppose you don't want anyone too old?”

  “I'm not sure.” Auntie stroked her chin. “What do you think, Geena?”

  “Well, up to fifty would be all right,” Geena replied. She winked at us. I knew what she was thinking. We needed the widest possible range of husbands to choose from to make sure we found someone.

  Auntie raised her eyebrows. She looked a bit shocked, but all she said was “Well, if you're sure …”

  “Here's one.” Mrs. Dhaliwal passed the photo to Auntie. “Jagdev Singh. What do you think?”

  Auntie looked at the photo without comment, then passed it to Geena.

  “What's that big lump on the end of his nose?” Geena asked.

  I took a look.

  “That is his nose,” I said. The poor man was hideous.

  Jazz looked at the photo and shrieked with laughter, then had to turn it into a cough.

  “He's got a very good job,” Mrs. Dhaliwal said huffily. “He's an accountant.”

  “Yes, I'm sure he's very good at sniffing out tax scams,” Geena said solemnly. I don't know how she managed to keep a straight face.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal took out another photo, and handed it to Auntie. “What about this one?”

  “Yes, well …” Auntie didn't look impressed. “He's rather large, isn't he?”

  That was an understatement. This guy was huge.

  “Who ate all the samosas?” Jazz whispered in my ear. We both nearly burst, trying not to laugh.

  “What do you think, Geena?” Auntie asked.

  “Well, if you want my honest opinion, Auntie”— I could tell that Geena was starting to enjoy herself— “I really think that personality is much more important than looks.”

  “Very true.” Auntie nodded. “So he's a possibility then?”

  Geena smiled. “Oh, definitely.”

  “Now here's a good one,” Mrs. Dhaliwal said proudly. “He works at the BBC.”

  She forgot to mention that he also had no hair on his head, but a lot growing out of his nose. By this time Jazz was in such hysterics, she had to dash to the loo. I was only just managing to hold myself together by biting the inside of my mouth really hard. But Geena was going great guns.

  “He's got a kind face,” she remarked.

  “Oh, do you think so?” Auntie said doubtfully.

  “Personality, not looks, remember, Auntie,” Geena reminded her briskly.

  Over the next hour, we saw it all. Acne, warts, jug-ears, strange shapes and sizes. I was beginning to wonder if Mrs. Dhaliwal had any normal-looking people in her file.

  “Well, we have a few possibilities here,” Auntie announced, sifting through the photographs again.

  “If you're desperate,” I whispered in Jazz's ear. That set the two of us off again.

  “I'll have to speak to Geena's father first, before we can go any further,” Auntie went on. “Then we can meet the young man's family and discuss arrangements for the wedding. Of course, we'll have to wait until Geena's sixteen.”

  Jazz and I stopped laughing.

  “Excuse me?” Geena said faintly.

  Auntie looked surprised. “Well, you can't get married before you're sixteen, dear. That's the law here.”

  “Who said anything about me getting married?” Geena snarled.

  Auntie raised her eyebrows. “Well, isn't that what all this is about?”

  “No,” Geena said through her teeth. “I'm not getting married.”

  “Oh.” Auntie looked puzzled. I couldn't tell if it was genuine, or if she was faking it. “I thought that was why we were doing all this.”

  “No, of course it isn't—” Geena began furiously. I shot her a warning look, and she shut up. I wasn't sure if Auntie was on to us, or if she'd made a genuine mistake. We didn't want to give the game away.

  “Well, I'm glad we got that sorted out.” Auntie picked up our empty cups. “More tea, anyone?”

  And she went out.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal started packing the photos away, looking faintly disgruntled. I had to do something, and fast.

  “Did Auntie say anything about looking for a husband herself?” I asked hopefully.

  “Don't be silly, Amber.” Mrs. Dhaliwal wagged her finger at me. “How can your auntie get married? She has to look after the three of you. She hasn't got time for a husband at the moment.”

  So Auntie had even got Mrs. Dhaliwal on her side. But I wasn't going to give up. One way or another, we'd just have to find her a husband ourselves. And soon.

  “Look, anyone will do,” Geena said. “Come on, you must know someone.”

  Chelsea looked doubtful. “Well, there's our neighbor,” she said. “He lives on his own. But he's got a wooden leg.”

  “We're not fussy,” Jazz chimed in.

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  Chelsea screwed up her nose. “About sixty?” she guessed.

  “That's too old,” Geena grumbled, tapping her fingers impatiently on her clipboard. “Don't you know anyone else?”

  Chelsea shook her head and escaped across the playground, a look of relief on her face. I glanced round to see where Sharelle had got to. She was sidling off behind the bike sheds.

  “What about your uncle Mac, Sharelle?” I reminded her. “You said he wasn't married.”

  “Yeah, but he likes living on his own,” Sharelle said apologetically. “And he's a bit strange. He collects bus tickets and files them. Anyway, he's not Indian.”

  “At the moment we'd consider a little green man from Mars,” snapped Geena. “Anyone else?”

  Sharelle looked blank.

  “Oh, this is hopeless,” I said. The campaign to find Auntie a husband had got off to a standing start.

  “Hey, you.” Geena collared Ragbir Singh from Year 7. “Do you know anyone who wants to get married?”

  Ragbir backed away across the playground, giggling nervously.

  “Not to me, you fool,” Geena snapped.

  Ragbir giggled even harder. He took to his heels and vanished behind the canteen.

  “Now it's going to be all round the school that Geena's looking for a husband,” Jazz remarked, trying not to sound gleeful but not trying very hard.

  Geena gave us both a penetrating look. “Well, I hope you'll put paid to that particular rumor if you hear it flying about.”

  “Of course,” I said. “After all, aren't you promised to Jagdev Singh the nosy accountant?”

  Jazz and I collapsed in hysterics. Geena glared and waved the clipboard at us threateningly.

  “Look, here's Kim,” Jazz gulped through her giggles.

  “Oops,” I said. “We forgot to wait for her this morning.”

  “You forgot to wait for me this morning,” Kim complained, heaving her rucksack across the playground. She had a large plaster on her right hand, which I deliberately didn't comment on. I didn't want to be bored to death for the next fifteen minutes.

  “Sorry,” I said. “We had something important to do.”

  “We're trying to find a husband for Auntie,” Geena explained briskly. “Do you know anyone?”

  Kim looked glum. “You could have Gary, if you like.”

  “Gary?” I had to think for a minute to work out who she meant. “Oh, your mum's boyfriend.”

  Kim's eyes shadowed. “I wouldn't mind getting rid of him,” she muttered.

  I didn't ask what she meant because I didn't want to know. I had my own problems. And Kim was just so good at making a drama out of nothing.

  “Make sure you ask everyone in your classes about husbands,” Geena order
ed as the bell went.

  “Yes, mein Führer.” Jazz goose-stepped into the Year 7 cloakroom.

  “Geena,” Sarika Sharma called, “someone says you're looking for a husband. Is that true?”

  “Oh God,” Geena moaned.

  An interested crowd began to gather, and some of the boys started making very rude jokes, which I couldn't possibly repeat. They were funny, though.

  “Of course she's not looking for a husband,” I said. “She's already promised to Jagdev Singh.”

  An enraged Geena made a run at me, and I disappeared, laughing, round the corner toward our classroom. Kim trailed along behind me, her eyes like saucers.

  “Is Geena really getting married?” she asked.

  “Kim, keep up, for God's sake,” I snapped. “Of course she isn't.”

  “Oh.” Kim looked vaguely disappointed. Then she winced as something hit her on the back of the head. “Help!”

  I bent down and retrieved a woolly hat that had been balled up and used as a weapon. A few meters behind us George Botley was grinning like a maniac.

  “Ignore him,” I said, dropping the hat into a nearby litter bin. It landed very satisfactorily on a half-eaten ice cream.

  I sized up the rest of our class as we went into the room. I had to decide which ones I'd ask about husbands for Auntie. There were some whose relatives you definitely wouldn't want swimming in your gene pool. That was one of the reasons why I wasn't asking George Botley.

  “Hurry up, Eight A.” Mr. Arora swept through the classroom door like a whirlwind, his arms full, dropping books and folders as he went. He was looking pale and tetchy, as all the teachers were, and he was getting paler and tetchier every day as the inspectors' visit approached. “I expected you all to be sitting down five minutes ago. Get your books out. Who left that chewing gum on the bookcase?”

  We all rushed smartly to our seats, even people like Darren Bell who thought they were hard (and actually were hard). In the mood Sleeping Beauty was in, you could get sent straight to Mr. Grimwade for putting a foot wrong. And the mood Mr. Grimwade was in, you could end up painting the outside of the school or repairing the roof.

  Mr. Arora chucked his books and files down on the desk and grimly attacked the register. “George Botley.”

  “Here, sir,” Botley called. He followed up with a loud burp, which made the lowlifes in the class snigger.

  “Ambajit Dhillon.”

  “Here, sir,” I called. And then, absolutely from nowhere, I got this blinding idea.

  The solution to our problem was sitting straight in front of me.

  I grabbed my rough book and scrawled, Mr. Arora! on a clean page. Then I pushed it across to Kim.

  She looked at it blankly and wrote, What about him?

  I've found Auntie a husband, I scribbled triumphantly. Mr. Arora! What do you think?

  Kim looked nervous. I think I'm having a panic attack.

  “Line up for assembly, please,” Mr. Arora called as the bell rang. “And Botley, don't stand behind Amina

  Khosla. It took us ten minutes to untie her plaits yesterday morning.”

  “You're not serious?” Kim gasped, as we put our books away. “Mr. Arora?”

  “Why not?” I replied. “He's perfect in every way.”

  “But you don't know if he's married already” Kim said. “And there's no way you can possibly find out.”

  I was amused. “That's what you think.” I went over to Mr. Arora, who was standing by the door on Botleywatch. “Sir, can I ask you something?”

  Mr. Arora nodded. “Of course, Amber.”

  “Are you married, sir?” So it was a bit cheeky, but I reckoned I was enough of a favorite to get away with it.

  Mr. Arora's handsome face crinkled into a smile. “No, I'm not, Amber,” he replied. “Why? Are you offering?”

  The rest of the class sniggered and I blushed daintily. George Botley even looked jealous, the fool.

  “I'd never have had the nerve to do that,” Kim said weakly as I joined her at the back of the line. “I'd have dropped down dead. I'd have shriveled up and died. I'd have—”

  “Yes, well,” I said victoriously. “Now we know.”

  “Mr. Arora?” Geena shrieked. “You've got to be joking!”

  “Why?” I asked. Jazz was pulling faces too. I'd rushed to tell them my idea at break time, and this was the annoying result.

  “Because he's gorgeous, that's why,” Geena groaned. “He's a boy babe. He's much too good for Auntie.”

  “Anyway, isn't he younger than she is?” Jazz asked.

  I scowled. “Only a couple of years, I think.”

  “He'd never fancy her,” Geena scoffed.

  “Why not?” I argued.

  “I suppose she is quite pretty,” Jazz said grudgingly.

  “Whoever marries Auntie is going to be our uncle,” I reminded them. “Do you really want someone with a wooden leg or a sad specimen who collects bus tickets?”

  Geena nodded. “That's true.”

  “Can you imagine how jealous all the girls would be if Mr. Arora was our uncle?” Jazz added, beginning to warm to the idea. “We could sell photos of him and locks of his hair and stuff.”

  Geena and I did not reply.

  “Oh, all right,” Jazz muttered. “It was just an idea.”

  “Right,” I said. “We're going to have to do our best to get them together.”

  “And how exactly are we going to do that?” Jazz asked.

  Geena looked encouragingly at me. “Yes, Amber, how?”

  That was a question, all right. I had absolutely no idea. “Why do you always expect me to come up with all the answers?” I blustered.

  Jazz turned to Geena. “She's got absolutely no idea,” she said in disgust.

  “Oh, really, Amber!” Geena snapped. “You'll have to do better than this.”

  I gritted my teeth. “When's the next parents' evening?”

  “When we get our reports,” Jazz replied.

  That was at least five months away. Five months of Auntie interfering and making us cook and stopping Dad from buying us stuff and sending us to bed early. No human being alive could be expected to put up with that.

  “All right,” I muttered. “I'll think about it.” I eye-balled my sisters sternly. “We'll all think about it. There must be a way.”

  Brave words. They haunted me for the rest of the day. It was all I could think of. Luckily, we had the student teacher, Mademoiselle Véronique, for double French after break, and she was too busy trying to stop George Botley looking up rude words in the dictionary to notice that I didn't do much work. At lunchtime I met Geena and Jazz in the drama studio to paint backdrops for the special assembly. Geena's best idea was this: we wait until Mr. Arora is on break duty, then Geena pretends to be ill and faints. A phone call brings Auntie rushing to the school, and she and Mr. Arora meet for the first time.

  I accused Geena of hoping that Mr. Arora would pick her up and carry her in his strong arms to the school office. Geena said, what was wrong with that? I then added that it was a much better idea if I fainted, as I was in his class and had plenty of time to choose my moment. But Geena was hovering menacingly over me with a paintbrush, so I decided to let her have her way—this time.

  Nothing had come to me by the end of the day, but I wasn't giving up. Not when we walked out of school at four o'clock and saw Dad waiting outside in the car.

  “Look, your dad's here,” said Kim, the queen of stating the obvious. She was trailing along with us, determined not to be left behind.

  Geena looked twitchy. “Why? What for?”

  “It'll be something to do with Hitler in a sari,” I muttered. “You can bet your bottom dollar.”

  “I can't cope with Dad turning up unexpectedly all the time,” Jazz said in an agitated voice. “I'm not used to it.”

  Dad was fidgeting in the driver's seat. He looked massively uncomfortable. “Hi, girls,” he said awkwardly. We looked at him with raised eyebrows and h
e cleared his throat. “Er—your auntie called me at work and asked me to pick you up,” he stammered. “She wants us to have a nice family dinner tonight.”

  Geena snorted in disgust. “Dad, do you actually like her interfering all the time?” she demanded, a bit recklessly.

  Dad tried to look stern and failed badly. “She's just trying to help, that's all,” he said lamely. “Oh, and you're to bring any of your friends who want to come.”

  Geena, Jazz and I immediately glanced over our shoulders to check that none of our mates had overheard.

  “Thanks, I'd love to,” Kim said in a pleased voice.

  “No,” I said. “You don't want to do that.”

  “Oh, I do,” Kim assured me.

  “Kim.” I said her name so savagely, every letter was one beat long. “You don't really want to come, do you?”

  “Yes, please,” Kim said cheerfully.

  “I'll talk to you later,” I said under my breath as we got into the car.

  Kim sagged, looking a bit worried, but it didn't stop her getting in too.

  As Dad drove home, I daydreamed in the back of the car. A wedding. Auntie in red and gold with rows of tinkling bangles on her wrists, hands patterned with henna. Mr. Arora in a white suit and a dashing pink turban. Singing and dancing and feasting. And then the bride leaves home and I get my bedroom back and everything goes on exactly as it did before she arrived… .

  “What happened to Ma Macey?” Geena asked, as we drew up outside our house.

  We peered out of the car windows. There was a trowel, some clippers, a pair of gardening gloves and a black bag half full of weeds in her front garden. But there was no sign of the other old bag.

  “Maybe the paperboy murdered her and buried her in her own front garden,” I suggested.

  “She'll probably rise again and haunt us forever,” Jazz added. She put her hands out in front of her and intoned in a zombielike voice, “Why don't you all go back to where you came from?”

  “Girls,” Dad said halfheartedly.

  Geena unlocked the front door. We heard voices as she swung it open.

  “No,” Geena whispered, her eyes out on stalks. “Not even Auntie would go that far.”

  “She wouldn't,” I breathed.