Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

I rinsed the plates and stacked them to dry, thinking of what to say back. Why did Uncle get to be the one who ran our lives? He might know how things worked in Pakistan, but it wasn’t the same here. As I wiped down the bench, there was a loud knock on the door. Mama jumped. It could be him.

  ‘Quick! Get into your room.’ She flapped her apron at me.

  I wiped my hands and shuffled towards my room. The knock sounded again, insistent. Whoever it was, they knew we were inside.

  ‘Coming,’ said Mama in Urdu.

  I left my door ajar and peeked through. Ready to close it in a hurry if it was Uncle.

  ‘Oh. You. Hello,’ said Mama, in English.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Ajmal, how are you?’ It was Mrs Kaminski. She must’ve rung from outside.

  Mama held on to the front door, not opening it further.

  ‘We’re concerned we haven’t seen Azra back at school this week. Is everything all right?’

  Mama paused. ‘She’s not well. Very tired. Sleeping a lot.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ said Mrs Kaminski. ‘Can I please see her for a moment?’

  Mama shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not possible.’

  I chinked open my bedroom door. ‘Hello, Mrs Kaminski,’ I said, loud enough for her to hear.

  ‘Azra! How are you?’

  I couldn’t answer, my voice choked up. I mustn’t cry. Mustn’t cry. It wouldn’t help.

  ‘Can I just come in for a minute? I won’t stay.’ She pressed on the door and pushed past Mama, then gestured for me to sit next to her on the divan. It was pretty rude, really, but I was grateful. She sat down first, her legs awkward in a straight skirt. Mama frowned.

  ‘I think Mrs Kaminski would like some tea, Mother,’ I said in English.

  Mama twisted her apron. ‘Only if she doesn’t stay long,’ she said in Urdu. ‘I don’t want them finding her here.’

  She grimaced at Mrs Kaminski and put the kettle on.

  I perched on the edge of the divan and looked at the backs of my hands. There was still a trace of ink from the atomic shapes I’d doodled on them at camp. That seemed a long time ago.

  ‘Azra, you really don’t look well,’ said Mrs Kaminski. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  I shook my head. They didn’t need to take me to a doctor; everyone knew what was really wrong.

  Mama clinked cups in the kitchen.

  ‘I heard about your uncle coming to get you from camp,’ said Mrs Kaminski. ‘But I didn’t quite understand. What was that all about?’

  I tugged at a thread on the edge of my jumper. What could I say?

  Mama brought the teacups on a tray and placed them on the table. She sat down next to us.

  Mrs Kaminski gave a polite smile. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ajmal.’

  Mama pulled her lips tight.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Kaminski, changing the subject, ‘when might we expect you back at school?’

  I looked at Mama. She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Ummm. Perhaps I can send over the class notes, so you don’t get behind? Not long till Year Eleven final exams, can you believe it?’

  I nodded, not looking at her. I couldn’t trust myself not to cry.

  ‘And when you do feel better, we’d love to see you back in chemistry.’

  She patted my knee. Mama frowned again, and cleared her throat. Mrs Kaminski drank her tea quickly, and then stood up.

  ‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Ajmal,’ she said. ‘I’ll drop off some papers next week, so Azra doesn’t miss out. If she’s not back at school by then.’

  She turned to me. ‘Hope you feel better soon, we miss you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs K,’ I said, my voice cracking.

  Mama walked her across the room. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, holding the door open.

  Mrs Kaminski nodded, looked back at me one more time, and left.

  At dinner that evening, I could hear raised voices. I was back in my bedroom with the door locked, but I could tell that they were arguing about me.

  ‘I need her help for Ramadan,’ said Mama. ‘It’s too much to do all the food without her. And the school keeps calling. They say she needs medical permission to be away! You tell Uncle he can talk to them. I’m sick of it.’

  Rashid said something in a low voice I couldn’t hear.

  ‘You can talk!’ said Baba. ‘With the court hearing in three weeks.’

  ‘Remember there’s the passport appointment on Monday,’ said Mama. ‘And we have to get photos. Can’t we please let her out? If she goes back to school, I’m sure she’ll start eating again. She’s not looking good—I’m worried about her. She’ll get sick if she carries on like this.’

  Then there was no more talking for a while. I could hear spoons scrape on plates.

  Then Baba said, ‘I’ll talk to Zarar. If he agrees, she can go back to school once the passport application’s in. But only until Eid.’

  Passport appointment? That could only mean one thing. A trip back to Pakistan. To see whatever had been arranged with Auntie Fatima. And I was already pretty sure I knew what that was.

  XX

  Corrosion

  the oxidation of metals that occurs in the presence of air and moisture

  By the time of the passport appointment, I hadn’t been outside for ten days. I hunched against the cold gusts that blew up the street, breathing in the fresh air, smelling the earth still damp from rain. It felt like I could think more clearly.

  As Mama and I walked to collect Soraya from school, I ventured a question. One that might lead to the answer I needed.

  ‘Mama, is there any reason to get passports right now? Something we have to go to Pakistan for?’

  She looked up, startled. ‘No. Yes. Well, sort of,’ she said. Her face and neck flushed. ‘Your cousin Tarik’s getting married. In Lahore, in September. Grandma Ajmal wants everyone there. Including us. Might be the last family wedding she sees.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, as casually as I could. She sounded flustered, like she wasn’t completely telling the truth. ‘Who’s Cousin Tarik again?’

  ‘You know. Auntie Fatima’s son. An engineer.’

  At the mention of her name again my knees started to wobble.

  ‘And,’ I started, not sure if I should go on. ‘And . . . and who is he marrying?’

  Mama’s eyes flicked up to my face, then down the road, like she was calculating her answer. ‘A cousin, I think. Yes, a cousin. I’m sure that’s why Grandma wants us all there. Especially after her being so sick.’

  I swallowed. That sounded bad. Like there was more than a promise going on. Much more. There was a wedding already planned. And if it was my wedding, it was to someone I hadn’t met. Or not since I was tiny. I couldn’t believe they would do it like this. Without me having a proper say. Perhaps I was just being paranoid? Jumping to conclusions? Maybe Tarik was marrying someone else, and it wasn’t my turn? I hoped so, but I didn’t feel convinced.

  At the post office, Mama pulled out a big yellow envelope from under her arm. It was filled with our old Australian passports, Soraya’s birth certificate and English translations of Urdu documents.

  We took turns sitting on a stool in the corner and not smiling for the camera. That was easy for me, especially when I thought about what my passport was probably for.

  The post office manager had a large, square jaw and straight fair hair. ‘Which one’s the family name?’ she asked me, comparing each of the documents against the forms.

  ‘Ajmal.’

  ‘On all of them?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t look like that on the translations.’

  ‘That’s my mother’s maiden name,’ I said, pointing. ‘See it on the marriage certificate?’

  She looked through thick glasses at the document. ‘Married at seventeen?’

  I nodded, a sudden knot in my gut. Then she handed back all the papers and the photos.

  ‘These can’t be lodged without verifying the photos,’ she said. ‘Bring them back signed. There’s a list of who you can a
sk. Next!’

  Mama looked confused. I explained what needed to be done.

  ‘Too complicated!’ she said. ‘And takes too long.’

  She sighed as she slid the papers, and the little sets of photographs, back into the envelope.

  ‘I hope they’ll be ready in time,’ said Mama, stuffing the envelope into her shopping bag.

  ‘Does it really matter if they’re not?’ I said. ‘We’ve missed plenty of other weddings in Pakistan since we’ve been here.’

  Mama’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Ah. I suppose. But everyone’s expecting us for this one. Come on, Soraya,’ she said, bustling out the door. I could tell she wanted to change the subject.

  ‘Mama,’ said Soraya, holding up her hands to be swung between us, ‘do we get to go on an aeroplane?’

  Mama nodded and we lifted her off the footpath. ‘Yes, darling. Two aeroplanes.’

  Soraya widened her eyes. ‘Wow.’

  A plastic bag blew along the footpath and caught on my leg. I shook it off as a bus rumbled past. Everything outside seemed so normal. Made me feel I was overreacting, that there might be some other sensible explanation for this trip to Pakistan. But, apart from a wedding for me, I couldn’t think of a reason I could really believe in.

  ‘Nice photos,’ said Baba after dinner, holding them up to the light. ‘Shame you’re not smiling,’ he added, looking kindly at me, as if I hadn’t been locked away for a week and excluded from family meals.

  ‘You’re not allowed,’ said Soraya. ‘The lady said no smiling!’ She pulled a grim face and shook her pointed finger.

  Baba laughed. ‘Is that so?’

  Mama nodded. ‘And now we need to get them signed by someone we know to guarantee that they are really us! Why is everything so complicated? And expensive!’

  Baba slid the photos back into the envelope. ‘I’ll get someone from the mosque to sign them,’ he said. ‘Any spares?’

  ‘What for?’ I asked. I knew if I’d been promised, my aunt would want to see some recent photos of me.

  ‘For my wallet,’ said Baba. ‘It’s a while since I had new photos of my girls.’

  Mama shook her head. ‘We need the other two for visas.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Baba, ‘I can get Javid to scan them for me.’

  ‘How long till the passports are ready?’ I asked.

  I saw Mama catch Baba’s eye.

  He cleared his throat. ‘About two weeks, I think, and another two for the visas.’

  ‘And when do we go?’ I asked, pushing.

  ‘Sometime after Eid, depending on a few things,’ he said, like there was no particular urgency.

  Going on an aeroplane, sang Soraya, flying around the room with her arms wide. Going on an aeroplane.

  ‘But isn’t there a wedding?’ I asked. ‘Don’t we want to be there for that?’

  Baba shifted on the divan.

  ‘Ah, depends,’ he said. ‘We don’t know how Rashid will go at this stage. So we haven’t booked tickets yet.’

  That sounded a bit casual. Like they weren’t quite committed to going. Maybe it wasn’t a wedding for me? I was going crazy with trying to interpret these clues. But I didn’t want to ask them straight out. Not yet. I’d only just been let out of my bedroom. And I wanted to go back to school. While I still could. And work out what I could do.

  The next day was my first back at school. Grey clouds hung over the railway line, and the wind whipped across the street, but I didn’t care.

  There was no one hanging around the playground, but I knew the Muslim girls would already be there. We’d all been up before sunrise, for Ramadan breakfast and dawn prayers.

  At the door of the library, I dropped my bag. Bassima sat on a desk, swinging her legs, listening to a girl in a white scarf. By the way she waved her magazine around, I could tell it was Layla. Still talking about her wedding dress, I was pretty sure. At least she got to choose.

  I hadn’t seen Bassima since she was in hospital. Her face was thinner, and I swear she was even taller than before. When she looked up and saw me, she shrieked.

  ‘Az! So good to see you!’ She stood up gingerly and walked towards me, one hand on her belly, and buried me in a hug. ‘How are you? You don’t look good. I was so worried when you wouldn’t text back.’ She held my shoulders and searched my eyes. ‘Vanessa told me about your uncle at the camp. And then I was really worried about you. And she also told me about Scumbag Tom.’

  Scumbag Tom! So Bassima knew already.

  ‘Don’t stress,’ she said with a weary sigh. ‘I half-expected it. And you did warn me.’

  She took my hand and led me to another table. ‘Sit down,’ she instructed. ‘Lord knows I need to. When you didn’t text back, I even wondered if you’d gotten appendicitis!’

  I tried to smile, but the tears rose up and I couldn’t see clearly.

  ‘I’ll show you my scar later, to cheer you up,’ she said. ‘Here, take these.’ She pulled out a wad of tissues from the sleeve of her jumper. ‘They’re clean.’

  I blew my nose and dabbed my eyes. Two Year Nine girls walked past and stared.

  Bassima glared at them until they disappeared behind the bookshelves.

  ‘B,’ I said, my voice thick, ‘no need to terrify them.’ I piled up a mound of soggy tissues on the table.

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I enjoy it,’ she said. ‘Besides, it’s none of their bismuth.’

  ‘Group 15,’ I said. ‘Atomic number 83.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The bell rang.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling my hand. ‘It’s chem prac. Or have you had enough of that for a while?’

  I stood up and shook my head. ‘I’ve had enough of a lot of things,’ I said. ‘But chemistry’s not one of them.’

  Outside the lab, girls had already lined up, waiting for Mrs Kaminski.

  Vanessa rushed over. ‘Azra!’ she said. ‘You okay?’ Her eyes were pained, and she gave me an awkward hug. Bassima smiled at me over Vanessa’s shoulder. Normally she’d have rolled her eyes. What was going on? Don’t tell me they were actually friends?

  I nodded, extracting myself. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Excitable relatives.’

  Vanessa stepped back, eyes wide. ‘He seemed really, really mad. And Pratik needed stitches!’

  ‘Stitches! Seriously?’ I winced. I hadn’t realised he’d been cut. Though it made sense. All that broken glass on the floor.

  Bassima nodded. ‘And he had to miss his hockey semifinals. Couldn’t run properly.’

  I covered my face with my hands. It was too awful. He must hate me.

  Mrs Kaminski clacked down the corridor, her keys jingling. She unlocked the door without noticing me. When I walked into the lab, she exclaimed, ‘Azra! Welcome back!’

  ‘Hey, Mrs K,’ I said. ‘Good to be back.’

  I pulled out a stool and sat down. Bassima sat beside me.

  ‘Girls, today we’re looking at Group 7 elements. Can anyone tell me the name of the group and three characteristics?

  Vanessa put up her hand. ‘Halogens, miss. Seven electrons in the outer shell, very reactive. They react with all metals.’

  ‘Thanks, Vanessa. Today, we’ll be comparing bromine and iodine as oxidising agents. Page ninety-four of your textbooks. In pairs.’

  Bassima smacked open her textbook so I could see too.

  ‘Bassima,’ said Mrs Kaminski, ‘can you work with Vanessa, please?’

  B looked up, surprised. ‘S’pose.’

  ‘I need to speak with Azra. She’ll join you shortly. Please set up as per the diagrams.’ Mrs Kaminski beckoned me to the front. ‘A word in the prep room?’ she said in a low voice.

  Inside, she pulled up a chair for me. ‘I didn’t know whether I’d see you at school again. Had me worried.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘I’m not getting too used to it,’ I said. ‘Might only be for a while.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, looking over her glasses. ‘And then what?’

 
I sighed. ‘Not sure yet. I’ll know after Ramadan.’ How could I tell her? It wasn’t right for her to know our family business.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  I thought I knew what it was. It was a wedding. A wedding I didn’t want. But I couldn’t say it out loud. Because she wouldn’t understand. If she made a fuss, it would be bad. Embarrassing. And maybe cause more trouble with Uncle. I might not be able to come back to school again.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure exactly.’

  Her forehead creased. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know? Ring me on my mobile. Okay?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, miss. I’ve got the number.’ I couldn’t tell her I didn’t have my phone anymore.

  ‘Now, if that’s everything?’

  I didn’t say anything. It was too hard.

  ‘All right then,’ she said, like everything was sorted. ‘You can go back to the procedure.’

  When I got back, Vanessa was waving a test tube over the Bunsen burner. The brown solution bubbled.

  ‘Stinks, miss!’ she said.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mrs Kaminski, coming closer to look. ‘Off the heat. Write down your observations, and on to the next part.’

  Bassima leaned in close. ‘All right?’

  I nodded. ‘Tell you later,’ I said. It was going to be a long story.

  By recess, gusts of rain were sweeping across the windows, and the wind rattled the frames.

  ‘Library,’ said Bassima, ‘we’re not eating anyway.’

  We shuffled down the corridor behind a bunch of Year Eight girls on their way to the prayer room. Sometimes we went too, but not today. There was too much to talk about. We could make up the prayers later.

  ‘Prefects coming through,’ said Bassima in a loud voice. They turned as she charged through the gap. She wasn’t as quick since the operation, so I didn’t have to run to keep up. We dumped our bags at the door, and Bassima made a beeline for the corner desk by the window. It was the most private one in the library, so everyone wanted it. For study, or for telling secrets.

  ‘Score!’ she said. ‘Sit down. Start talking.’

  It was such a relief to be able to talk with Bassima about everything. And to see her almost back to normal after that frightening trip to the hospital. But how to begin?