Beauty

by Raphael Selbourne

  Beauty

  Beauty

  Raphael Selbourne

  Tindal Street Press

  Reprinted in December 2009

  First published in September 2009

  by Tindal Street Press Ltd

  217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street, Birmingham, B9 4AA

  www.tindalstreet.co.uk

  Copyright © Raphael Selbourne 2009

  The moral right of Raphael Selbourne to be identified as

  the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or any information storage

  or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing

  from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying.

  In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright

  Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London WIP OLP.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance

  to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 0 955647 67 3

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RGI 8EX

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  To my mother, father and DB

  Beauty

  1

  Some time before dawn in Wolverhampton, Beauty Begum got up from the sofa. She stood in the middle of the living room and scratched her scalp through short hair.

  ‘Feshab,’ she muttered, and went to the bathroom.

  She used the budna to clean herself and flushed the toilet. At the sink, she washed both hands and wrists three times – Bismillah hir Rahmaanir Raheem – rinsed her mouth with water, and cleaned her nostrils, face and ears three times. After wiping her wet hands over her hair and shaking them off, she passed her forearms under the tap, and washed her feet in the bath.

  Beauty put on a clean salwar from the cupboard and looked in the mirror at the mess she had made, two months ago, of her once waist-length black hair. She’d loved her hair and would brush it for hours, alone at night, after she’d finished cleaning her uncle Mukhtar’s house in Bangladesh.

  He and his wife would tell her how dark-skinned she was and that no man other than Habib would marry her. She’d overeaten, starved and drunk dirty water to make herself ill, and cut all her hair off when it had started to fall out. Let everyone in the village think she was mad, too. Her uncle Mukhtar had phoned Beauty’s father in England; the girl was faggol, crazy, and was still refusing to be a proper wife to Habib Choudhury, the forty-five-year-old mullah of the village.

  It had been a good match. He was a Choudhury, high zat, and they were hom zat. Low.

  Beauty put her blanket and pillow in the cupboard under the stairs, and went back to the living room. After praying, she stood and looked down at the Parkfields estate from the third-floor window of the ‘Dene’ – a long, squat block of two-storey flats on a grassy mound. In the darkness outside, street lamps caught the drizzle and lit up the other blocks and the paths that led from black stairwells to half-empty car parks. Her eyes ran absently along the doorways, looking for signs of life. Between the flats, a taxi slipped past the row of shops on the road into town.

  Al-lh, where are we?

  And what kind of a name was Woolverhamtun?

  She’d been sent to Bangladesh to marry mullah Choudhury when she was fourteen, and since that first night five years ago when he’d come to her room and tried to lie on top of her and she’d screamed so loudly that he’d given up, she had managed to keep him away from her. She was still too young, his family had said, give it time. But Habib Choudhury was desperate to marry someone with a British passport and join his brother in the UK. He’d waited and waited, until finally Beauty had acted loony and her father – the old man – had come to fetch her. Convincing them she was mad had been her only way out. With her passport hidden from her and no money, where would she have run?

  When they arrived in England the old man told her that he’d moved the family from London to Wolverhampton to be nearer her mum’s relatives. By now Beauty no longer cared that they didn’t tell her anything. They hadn’t told her about the mullah.

  *

  Beauty had been outside twice since she’d been back; the first time to the shop and the Chick King – Southern Fried Chicken ’n’ Kebabs – with her little brother, Faisal. The shop, a newsagent and off-licence, rented Bollywood films, sold overpriced tins and stuff in fridges to the white people who ate that kind of thing, and was the only place in the area that did top-ups. The old white lady in front of her in the queue had put a pound on her electricity card.

  At Chick King the kebabs were quite good, not as good as in London where she had grown up, but not bad. Faisal had thought he saw her returning the Sikh guy’s smile, so she hadn’t been allowed to go there again. He’d poked her in the back all the way up to the flat and called her a magi. That night she’d thought about the Sikh’s silver bangle and the dark hair of his forearms, and hated herself for it. Maybe Faisal was right; she was like a prostitute.

  Beauty watched the lights come on in the windows of a flat in the block opposite. A door opened and a man hurried along the walkway to the stairwell, pulling his coat on as he walked.

  What a place this was! Full of white tramps and Sikhs. There were lots of hallahol as well, which was good. Black girls weren’t as scary as whites.

  There were masses of Somalis in this part of town. She liked the way the girls did their headscarves. All the other kids were Somali at the mosque where Faisal and Sharifa, her little sister, went after school. They were the only two Asian kids there. That was one good thing.

  If you go near Asians, that’s it: ‘Oh, did you hear your daughter’s going out with this one? Did you hear your son’s doing this?’

  She went through to the kitchen to drink some tea on her own before the day started. She’d have to make sure the little ones got up to pray and were ready for school. Only they weren’t so little any more. Faisal was thirteen now, and Sharifa nine. Her mother would be up at midday. Her older brother, Dulal – she always called him Bhai-sahb, brother – worked nights in a chicken processing factory; she would have time to cook for him and get his clothes ready when she got back home at four o’clock.

  If she hadn’t had to go into town to the Jobcentre course, she’d have spent the rest of the day making lunch.

  Whatever they wanna eat, so you’ve got to cook.

  She washed their clothes or cleaned the bathrooms, made dinner, did the ironing and made supper; th
en tea, tea, tea as they watched Bangla TV or twenty-four hour news into the night. When the old man went to bed she could take the blanket out of the cupboard, lie on the sofa and talk herself to sleep. She played out fights with her family, or scenes with boys whose faces she couldn’t see. Mostly, she talked to herself.

  The old man came into the kitchen dressed in his longhi. The darkness under his eyes almost reached the top of his white beard.

  ‘Sa’haytay’ne?’ she offered.

  ‘O’eh,’ he grunted, and sat at the table.

  She put the tea before him, returned to the sink so she wouldn’t have to look at his wet lips, and kept the tap running to cover the noise of him blowing and sucking his tea. She’d never liked the way his eyes followed her, but she’d stay in the kitchen until he’d finished. After that, he would smoke a cigarette in the living room while she went upstairs to wake the little ones.

  *

  If he prayed that would be something. But he’s a monster. If anyone tells him to pray he’s gonna fight. He used to beat Mum if she told him to pray, and if the big one did, he threatened to kick us out.

  At least he goes to the Mox on Fridays – that’s one thing he never misses. Not to the main one, though. He doesn’t know the town. No one teaches him. If anyone does teach him, thassit, he’s gonna blab about his family: ‘Oh, my daughter done this! My son done that!’

  Anyway, he’s not them type of people that goes to the Mox to talk to other Asians. If someone comes to the house he thinks they’re poisoning his wife or kids. So. He’s that type.

  It was still too early to get the little ones up. Beauty crept into her sister’s room and slipped into the warm bed beside her, laying her head on the thick, long hair that covered the pillow. Sharifa grumbled sleepily at the intrusion and turned away to face the wall. Beauty ignored her protests and pressed up against her. Years ago she’d changed her sister’s nappies and fed her in the night as if she’d been her own baby.

  An alarm clock rang in Faisal’s room next door and was quickly switched off. Beauty listened to her younger brother heading to the bathroom. Silence fell again.

  He must have gone back to bed.

  The door opened and his face appeared, looking irritable.

  ‘Get up, Sharifa, it’s time for namaz.’

  He pushed open the door and light from the landing fell on Beauty’s face on the pillow next to his little sister.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in here, tramp?’ he demanded.

  ‘Get lost, asshole. And stop playing with yourself through there. You won’t be able to pray.’

  He came into the room and advanced towards the bed. Sharifa had woken up and was stroking her older sister’s arm under the duvet.

  ‘Get out of her room or I’ll go and wake Bhai-sahb.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Suto-Bhai,’ said Sharifa.

  Beauty shrugged her hand off – she didn’t need her baby sister’s help. Her younger brother was getting nasty, swearing at everyone. Even at their mum. And her older brother had been distant towards her since she’d got back from Bangladesh.

  ‘Fucking tramp – get out!’ he shouted.

  Beauty got up from the bed and shoved past him at the door. The punch landed between her shoulder blades and hurt, but she didn’t cry out.

  Later, after the little ones had prayed, they sat round the breakfast table in silence. No one wanted to talk to the old man. Early in the morning his bud-bud-ding-ding accent irritated everyone. Faisal slurped cornflakes while Sharifa picked at a piece of toast, her head resting on one hand.

  It was nice back home in Bangladesh when people ate murri rice and handesh, if they had enough money for garlic and ginger. The little ones had suffered without English food. But Beauty had been born there. She hadn’t come to England until she was five and, despite everything that had happened when she was sent back at fourteen, Bangladesh – back home – was in her blood. She’d missed pizza at first. But she’d cooked for her uncle and his family for five years, and had almost forgotten what it tasted like. The little ones had come over with the old man to bring her back to England, without the mullah. Faisal had spent most of the time crying and swearing at his cousins.

  He looked up from his bowl and wiped the milk from the fluff on his top lip.

  ‘What time you coming back from that course?’ he demanded.

  ‘You know it finishes at four o’clock, so why arx?’

  ‘Just make sure you’re back by twenty-past four. Take the spare mobile from the drawer – I’m gonna call you at four o’clock. There’s no credit on it, so you can’t phone anyone. And wear a salwar,’ he said.

  ‘Who am I going to phone?’ she answered. ‘And by the way, doonsla, you’re not Bhai-sahb so don’t tell me what to wear.’

  ‘I’m not a bastard! Tell her, Abu!’ he said to his father.

  ‘Cry baby as well.’

  ‘Bas!’ the old man commanded.

  But his words no longer carried much authority, nor could he meet his elder daughter’s eye. Faisal didn’t often call him Abu any more; the boy had even called him a paki … The old man knew they blamed him for everything. His sons didn’t consult him any more on money matters and wouldn’t tell him anything – not even where the centre of town was. Beauty stole from the housekeeping to keep him in cigarettes; she felt sorry for him, despite what had happened to her.

  She looked at him now. His eyes glazed over as he stared at the box of cornflakes. His nose had become large and fleshy, the nostrils thick with black hairs.

  He’s still your flesh and blood.

  She turned her back on him to wash the plates and wind up Faisal a bit more. ‘You gotta go to the Mox after school, so you can’t phone me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell the messab. He’ll let me out to phone.’

  She knew that the imam probably would. Faisal was a clever kid. He had a balla mogoz – a good brain.

  God knows what he’s gonna do, or what he’s gonna get involved with – nobody knows.

  ‘They ain’t gonna teach a dumb tramp like you to read anyway,’ he said.

  After her brother and sister had left for school, Beauty went to Sharifa’s room where her own clothes were kept. She would rather have worn jeans, but there might be a row if she did. She didn’t mind wearing a salwar.

  I’m Asian, aynt I?

  But the idea of walking through a new town was scary.

  She picked out her pink muslin salwar, a denim jacket and her black headscarf, and spent some time getting the scarf right – tight over the ears and twisted to a ball at the back like Somali girls. Her makeup she applied sparingly – lipliner to show off her Cupid’s bow, and black eyeliner drawn to a point at the corners of her eyes; a red nose stud, and the small earrings with the paper-thin gold leaves.

  Perfect.

  She ignored her father, smoking and watching TV in the living room, and went to the kitchen to take a ten-pound note from her mother’s purse.

  What’s she got a purse for? They never let her go anywhere alone and Bhai-sahb does all the shopping.

  And I’m just another sad sitting-in-the-corner girl, aynit.

  She took two pounds for the old man’s cigarettes, and put the coins on the arm of his chair on her way past. His dark face looked away. Neither spoke as she pulled on her jacket, took a key from the hook near the front door and left the flat.

  A white boy stared as he passed her in the concrete stairwell. Beauty tugged at the edge of her scarf so that her hand covered her face.

  ‘Oright?’

  She didn’t answer.

  Friendly people here, though. As long as they aynt nosy.

  It was too early for the halla she’d seen every day, hanging around, from the living-room window. Whatever the weather he wore a long padded coat, a scarf that covered his face and a large hat with ear flaps. He drank modh from a can, and talked to people he knew as they passed.

  At the bus stop there was only a fat white man. His belly stretc
hed his shirt between the buttons, showing white flesh and curling hairs. Beauty wondered why his nose was so large and red, and how he found his mossoi when he went to make feshab. The man lifted a massive hand to light the stub of a roll-up between his lips.

  Beauty took a cigarette from the pocket of her jacket and looked around before lighting it. She could smoke here unseen from the flat, but if the old man came to the shops and saw her he’d tell Bhai-sahb, who would swear and call her a ganjuri. She risked it anyway, leaning against the window of the shelter as cars hissed past on the wet road. The smoke felt good as it caught the back of her throat.

  Across the street an old Sikh woman came out of the shop and stood at the light, waiting to cross. Beauty had time for a few more puffs before she would have to put the cigarette out. Muslim girls weren’t tramps.

  She threw the long butt away as the woman got to the halfway island, and tugged at her scarf again as the buddhi came up to peer at the timetable through thick glasses.

  A bus sped past while the woman’s back was turned. She looked around in alarm, saw Beauty and squinted at her before smiling.

  ‘Betti, tu janti’hay bus kaha jari’ay?’

  ‘Ha bus town jai’ga.’ Beauty didn’t know if all the buses went into town.

  ‘Tussi mu-je decca sa’ti hoo?’ the old lady asked.

  ‘Aunty,’ Beauty said, ‘I’m not from this place. Me yaha se nehi hoo, but me’ decca sa’ti hoo. I’ll show you.’

  The old lady thanked her. God had sent her to help an old woman, she said. She asked her where she was from and what she was doing here.

  ‘Aunty, me’ London se ai ee. I don’t really speak Sikh.’

  When the bus came she let the woman get on first. The driver had a black beard and perfectly rounded turban. He smiled at Beauty as she gave him the money.

  Just give me the ticket, egghead.

  She was sick of Asian men perving at her.

  The bus pulled off with a lurch that flung her onto an empty bench. She kissed her teeth in irritation, like the Jamaican girls in London used to do, and slid along the seat to the window. She wiped away the condensation with the sleeve of her jacket and looked out.