Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked Mama in Urdu.

  ‘Not really,’ said my mother in Urdu. ‘She wants me to let Azra go on a school camp. Three days away from home!’

  Auntie Shakeela clucked her tongue.

  Mama said to her, ‘What would Qasim say? Or Zarar? What should I do?’

  Auntie shrugged. ‘Is Frizzy Hair going?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mama replied. ‘And there’s halal food, probably.’

  ‘When?’ asked Auntie.

  ‘In three weeks.’

  Auntie held up her hands, in a kind of surrender. ‘They’ll probably be home before then, and they can pull her out if they want. If they’re not, it doesn’t matter. They don’t even need to know. Besides, I don’t like these government visits. Make me nervous. Next thing, they’ll bring the police.’

  Mrs Kaminski watched as they spoke. When it seemed they were done, she pulled out from her handbag the permission note and a pen.

  ‘So, if you could please sign here, Mrs Ajmal?’

  Mama looked at Auntie, and then at me. I could tell she was annoyed. I would get an earful later. Then she shook her head.

  ‘All right then,’ she said reluctantly, in English, ‘if this is what you really want.’ Then she added to me, in Urdu, ‘But don’t ever tell your uncle.’

  She patted her hands on her apron, sending up another puff of orange dust. Then she took the pen and signed.

  I knew when she got home that night, I’d be in trouble. So I cleaned up the flat and cooked chicken jalfrezi and rice. I would’ve tried chapatis as well, but I knew if I stuffed them up, Mama would make a thing of it, and I didn’t want to go there today. I already knew I would have to suck up big time.

  She was back just before six, when the food was nearly done.

  ‘Dinner’s almost ready, Mama.’

  She didn’t say anything as she went down the hall to her and Baba’s bedroom. I stirred the pan. When she came back into the kitchen, she put on the kettle and turned to me.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that again,’ she said. ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’

  I swallowed. ‘No, Mama, of course not.’

  ‘Then don’t assume we don’t care about what you want. We have our own reasons, and your best interests at heart. You know it’s a difficult time right now, with Baba away, and I could do without you running off for a few days. But it’s done now. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ I said, looking into the saucepan and stirring some more.

  ‘And, for my trouble, you can mind Soraya every day of the holidays, except when you’re away.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ I said meekly. It was worth it.

  ‘And you can do all the cooking and cleaning until Baba’s home.’

  ‘Sure.’ It was still worth it.

  The kettle boiled and she poured water into the teapot.

  ‘Shall we eat now?’ she said. ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s ready,’ I said, trying hard not to grin.

  XII

  Suspension

  the state in which particles of a solid are mixed in with a fluid but are not dissolved

  After our final chem prac for the term, Mrs Kaminski called the three of us over.

  ‘Looking forward to the chemistry camp?’ she asked, smiling. ‘I know I am!’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Vanessa. ‘You bet.’

  ‘I spoke to Mr Jefferson earlier, and we thought we should have at least one practice beforehand. That’s if you’re interested?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Bassima, ‘good idea.’ I knew she’d go for anything that meant more time with Tom.

  ‘When?’ asked Vanessa. ‘I’ve got a couple of study days at the University of Sydney.’

  ‘Keen!’ said Bassima. ‘Year Twelve doesn’t start until October.’

  ‘I know,’ said Vanessa. ‘Tell my mother that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Kaminski, ‘we’re looking at a session next Wednesday, a week before camp. All right, Azra?’

  I stared past a Bunsen burner, wondering how I could get rid of Soraya for the day.

  ‘Sure!’ I said, lifting my gaze. ‘Sounds fine. Here again?’

  Mrs Kaminski shook her head. ‘Actually, no. We’ll do the prac session in the boys school science block. Ten till three. Any problems, or you need a lift, here’s my mobile number.’

  She wrote her number three times on a sheet of paper, and tore it into strips with a ruler. ‘Memorise the numbers before you eat it. Extra cellulose,’ she said. ‘Any of you seen Get Smart?’

  We shook our heads. What was she talking about?

  ‘Never mind, I must be old,’ she said, handing each of us a strip. ‘Meet me at the front gate of the boys school with your lab gear, and sensible shoes. And, Bassima,’ she added, ‘no fancy manicures, okay?’

  Bassima rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, miss. But if I never get married, it’ll be your fault.’

  Mrs Kaminski raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll take full responsibility.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs K,’ I said, ‘see you next Wednesday—or I’ll call you on zinc, tin, mendelevium, lead.’

  ‘What?’ said Bassima, crinkling her nose.

  Mrs Kaminski squinted. Then grinned. ‘Very nice, Azra,’ she said. ‘Zero, then the atomic numbers. Thirty, fifty, a hundred and one, eighty-two. Might use that myself!’

  ‘Huh?’ said Vanessa, looking worried.

  ‘It’s the phone number,’ I said. ‘Mrs K’s. Zero plus the atomic numbers.’

  She looked even more worried. Like she should have thought of it first. She probably thought she did need all that extra tutoring, but maybe it left no spare room in her brain.

  ‘Come on, geek!’ said Bassima, swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Let’s get outta here. It’s nearly holidays. Time for rubbish in your head, not the periodic table.’

  I practically skipped out of the lab behind her, with that lightheaded end-of-term feeling. But it had never felt more expansive and weightless, like hydrogen itself. Light and floaty. And very, very flammable.

  While I washed up after dinner, Mama put Soraya to bed. Rashid hadn’t come home. Again.

  Mama came into the kitchen and sighed loudly.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked. For once, I felt beyond sighing. Most things seemed to be going my way, for a change.

  ‘Uncle rang the shop today,’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  She flapped a tea towel over the rail on the oven door. ‘Not good. Grandma Ajmal is still in hospital. A problem with her heart. Some days, she’s good. And then she gets worse. Everyone rushes into the hospital to say goodbye. And then she gets better.’

  I swirled the dish mop across a plate. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked, piling up cups on the draining board.

  ‘It means they don’t know what to do. The six of them are all waiting around, Uncle and Baba, and Uncle Karim and Auntie Ghazala from England. And Mukhtar from Saudi Arabia. At least Auntie Fatima still lives in Lahore, so they’ve somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Sounds boring,’ I said, ‘and crowded. What do the doctors say?’

  ‘They’re not sure if they should operate or not. Whether she’s strong enough.’

  She lay down on the divan. ‘I wish she’d just do one thing or the other, and everyone could go home.’

  I smiled. Mama wished her mother-in-law dead. Or recovered. Anything that would release her hold on Baba.

  ‘It’s too busy at the shop with all the new deliveries; we don’t know where to put them. Some of the boxes are really heavy. And the hours! Every day! It’s too much.’

  ‘What about Omar and Javid?’ I asked, pulling off the rubber gloves by the fingertips.

  ‘Javid comes in when he can, so I shouldn’t complain,’ she said. It was still uni holidays for a few more weeks, but that didn’t mean Omar came in to help much. Too busy with his car.

  I didn’t want to help at the shop either, but I felt I should offer. Especially now Mama had
let me go to camp. ‘Do you want me to come and help over the holidays?’ I hoped she’d say no.

  She breathed out loudly. ‘Thanks, Azra, but I don’t think so. It’s better if you mind Soraya and manage here. If you’re at the shop all day, I’ve got even more work when I get home!’

  That was fine by me. With Mama and Auntie at the shop, Baba away and Rashid out so much, for the first time in my life I could do pretty much what I wanted. As long as I looked after Soraya.

  Which was only going to be a problem for next Wednesday’s practice session, but I knew better than to mention another school activity to Mama. She’d told me not to discuss it again. So I wouldn’t. I would sort it out without bothering her.

  This holiday freedom was a fragile, precious thing I would need to handle gently. With tongs and safety goggles. And protective footwear. And keeping my mouth closed whenever necessary.

  The first morning of the holidays, I lay in bed, watching clouds slink across the sky. I heard Mama’s keys jingle, and the front door clunk shut. Her footsteps slapped down the stairs.

  I stretched in my warm bed. Soraya was asleep, her face towards the wall. We could stay in bed all day, if we wanted. Then my phone buzzed from the floor.

  What you doing today? The mall with me? B x

  I’d never been to the mall just with a friend. I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed if I asked. But did anyone need to know?

  Sure but have Soraya too. When?

  My phone buzzed again.

  Come to mine. Lift to shops. Soon!

  Soraya snuffled.

  Soraya still asleep. 11 okay?

  I got up, leaving the bedroom door open, and made breakfast noisily, hoping to wake her up.

  It wasn’t long before she came into the living room, hugging her stuffed rabbit.

  ‘Hey, Soraya,’ I said. ‘Want breakfast?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Not even toast with peanut butter?’

  She hugged her rabbit and twisted her whole body in a no way motion.

  ‘Toast with honey?’

  She looked at the ceiling, then nodded.

  I poured hot water into the teapot, and toasted bread under the grill.

  ‘No black bits,’ instructed Soraya.

  ‘Here you go,’ I said, handing her a plate with four isosceles triangles, honey dripping off the edges. ‘I cut off the crusts.’

  ‘Yay!’ said Soraya. She balanced the plate on her lap and propped up the fluffy rabbit with a cushion.

  ‘We’re going shopping today,’ I said.

  ‘Shopping?’ said Soraya. ‘I hate shopping.’

  ‘Not the supermarket,’ I said. ‘Shopping at the mall. Fun shopping.’

  Soraya looked unconvinced. ‘Fun shopping?’

  ‘Yeah. Shops with things you like.’

  She pressed a finger into her cheek and tilted her head. ‘Like baby animals and strawberry smell pencils?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, toast crumbs falling from her lap. ‘I’m coming.’

  By midmorning we left the flat, Soraya in a purple sweater with a sequinned fairy on the front. I’d plaited her hair into neat braids behind each ear, and pulled mine high into a long ponytail. My earrings swung with silver daisies that reminded me of lithium atoms.

  As we turned down the street, the neighbour’s dog threw itself at the gate, rattling the hinges, and barking furiously.

  I jumped, and Soraya wailed and pulled away from my hand. She ran two houses ahead, her hands over her ears, and stamped her feet.

  ‘I hate that dog!’ she shouted. ‘I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!’

  By the time we got to the station, she’d settled down. But I didn’t think I’d be able to walk past that house again. It was too much. Too upsetting for her, and for me. What was with that dog? What had made it so mad?

  We caught the train to Yagoona, and walked past a mix of old homes with weedy gardens, and two-storey brick houses with balconies and pebble driveways.

  On the tree outside Bassima’s house, a fat kookaburra called, its throat wobbling. That meant rain was coming. Mama always said it was a bird with the voice of a wild monkey.

  I unlatched the gate and stepped inside the high brick fence. At the doorbell, a frantic yapping started at the back of the house and grew louder and louder, paws scuffling on tiles. Soraya squeezed my hand.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s only their little dog. Same size as your fluffy bunny.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Al-Khwarizmi! Stop that!’ said Bassima’s voice, coming closer.

  When Bassima opened the door, she held a white Scottish terrier under her arm.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Don’t mind Al-Khwarizmi, he’s all talk. Soraya, come in; he thinks he’s a guard dog. So not!’ She shook her face close to the dog’s.

  Bassima had her hair out—a rich brown with loose curls. She led us down the corridor to the living area, overlooking the garden. Traditional rugs in red and blue hung from the walls.

  ‘I like your sparkle pants,’ said Soraya.

  Bassima’s tight jeans were stitched with diamantés on the pockets and seams. They matched the strands of diamanté in her earrings.

  She laughed. ‘Can never have too much bling!’

  In the kitchen, Mrs Hussain sat on a high stool, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. In English.

  ‘Hello, Azra,’ she said, coming over to take both my hands in hers. ‘Nice to see you. And this must be Soraya!’

  Soraya shrank into my side.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee, or fruit juice, perhaps?’

  Soraya nodded, looking up at me.

  ‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘Juice would be great.’

  Mrs Hussain was tall like Bassima, with large brown eyes and grey wavy hair. She wore a long straight skirt and a woollen jacket. She was a primary school teacher, so she was on holidays like us.

  ‘Coffee for me, Mum!’ called a young woman lying on a sofa.

  Bassima turned to me. ‘Remember Alesha?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Hi, Azra,’ she said, waving her arm loosely.

  Alesha was also tall, with thick dark hair. She wore a tight chocolate-brown sweater, and big gold hoop earrings.

  ‘This is Soraya,’ said Bassima to her sister. She turned to me. ‘Alesha’s driving us to the mall.’

  The dog squirmed in Bassima’s arms. ‘All right, Al-Khwarizmi. You can get down now. But only if you behave.’

  He immediately trotted up to Soraya. She clung to me.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘He’s nothing like that dog near our place. Come on, over here.’

  I took her by the hand to a long leather sofa under the window. When we sat down, the dog jumped up next to Soraya. She flinched and squealed, flinging up her hands.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bassima. ‘He just wants to be your friend. Like this.’ She leaned over and stroked his thick white fur. He put his head down and pulled his ears back. ‘See. He likes that.’

  Soraya put a tentative hand on his back. When he didn’t wriggle or bark, she crept her fingers across his fur.

  ‘Your drinks, girls,’ said Mrs Hussain, bringing them over. When Soraya stood up to take the glass, Al-Khwarizmi jumped down next to her feet.

  Mrs Hussain laughed. ‘See, he’s already worried you’re going to leave!’

  ‘New best friend!’ said Alesha.

  ‘Know what he really likes?’ Mrs Hussain asked Soraya. ‘He loves chasing a ball.’

  Soraya nodded seriously.

  ‘Like to see?’ Mrs Hussain opened a glass sliding door to the garden. Al-Khwarizmi dashed out. Soraya followed Mrs Hussain onto the patio.

  After about ten minutes, I stuck my head out the door. ‘Soraya, we’re going. Ready?’

  ‘Awww,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay with El-charisma.’

  ‘El-charisma!’ said Bassima over my shoulder. ‘I li
ke it! Al-Khwarizmi is way too serious a name. Unless you’re into maths, like my dad.’

  Soraya threw the ball again.

  ‘Last one,’ I said. ‘Alesha has a nail appointment.’

  Soraya pretended not to hear.

  Mrs Hussain called out from the kitchen, ‘I’m home today. Soraya can stay while you big girls go shopping—I don’t mind if she keeps me company.’

  I looked at Soraya. ‘Hear that, Soraya?’ I said. ‘Would you like to stay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’ll need to be good,’ I warned, ‘and not make trouble.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘I’ll play with El-charisma, and do anything Mrs Hussain says.’

  Mrs Hussain stacked glasses in the dishwasher. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘We’ll have fun.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Bassima, kissing her mother on the cheek. ‘We’ll just get our scarves on.’ She disappeared upstairs with Alesha.

  Bassima returned in a deep purple scarf that matched her sweater. Alesha wore a toffee-coloured scarf with a lace border.

  ‘Through here, Azra,’ said Alesha, motioning to a door by the stairs. We walked straight into the garage. Bassima and I climbed into the back seat as Alesha pressed a remote control to open the garage door. I knew Rashid would be impressed by the car, and the garage, and the remote, but I was glad he wasn’t here with us today. Very glad.

  A stream of cars lined up outside the car park. You could tell it was school holidays. After circling three levels, Alesha found a spot.

  ‘Finally!’ she said. ‘Thought I’d miss my appointment. I’ll text you,’ she said to Bassima. ‘Couple of hours.’

  ‘Come on, discount pharmacy,’ said Bassima. ‘I need new eyeliner. You?’

  ‘Only phone credit,’ I said. ‘And maybe something for Baba’s birthday?’

  We passed two women in patterned scarves and long dark dresses, watching a massage-chair promotion. One had a baby in a pram.

  ‘Bassima!’ a voice called. I looked around.

  ‘Bassima! Over here!’

  It was the woman with the pram.

  ‘Hey, B!’ she cried, lurching forward to hug her. ‘So good to see you!’