Beauty

by Raphael Selbourne

  For now it was OK.

  Aynit.

  They weren’t doing anything wrong, apart from sitting in a room together. Why should she feel guilty about that?

  I don’t.

  He was a good man, you could tell. He looked like a typical scary white bloke, but she felt safe knowing he was there. He seemed to understand, and didn’t ask too many questions. And he’d had a bad life. Did all white people do things like him? Did they all have families like that?

  Beauty felt sorry for him. His father had left him when he was only six years old. How could a man abandon his child? And his stepdad drank alcohol and beat him, the first time when he was eight after the police brought him home. He’d climbed into a place for broken cars. By the time he was sixteen he’d stolen over a hundred.

  She couldn’t tell if he was proud or sorry. He looked embarrassed, but there was a cheeky smile on his face. Beauty didn’t mind. Was it his fault? He’d had no father and his mother didn’t care for him. Still, he should have known it was wrong when he got older.

  He’d stopped now, he said.

  She asked him about prison, too. He told her how he’d been in just about every jail north of Birmingham, constantly moved around, rarely able to settle for more than a few weeks at a time; how the main thing inside was to keep busy and work, do all the courses you could; and how he’d warned the guards not to put him in a cell with any queers. Anything but that. Often they put him in with Asians. That’s how he’d learned how to say rude things in Bengali.

  Ami tamar …

  Beauty slipped the scarf from her head, closed her eyes and smiled at his accent and the thought that she had made a white friend, one like him …

  … and saw his flat stomach, the bones disappearing into his jeans, the tightness of his muscles as he carried the washing machine …

  Fa ranná. That is not good.

  But was it really so bad to think about it?

  Think about what?

  ‘This is a fucking zinna!’

  Who said that?

  ‘You fucking slapper.’

  There was milk on her brother’s lip.

  ‘How many you done today, bitch?’

  A white man’s eyes stared straight into her.

  ‘There is no God.’

  Toba, toba astaghfirullah.

  What kind of a devil is he?

  ‘You’re free to choose.’

  ‘Hello love, have you come for the job?’

  The lady’s hand was so light.

  ‘You’ll come back and talk to me, won’t you, dear?’

  ‘It’s all wroten before.’

  ‘Beauty!’

  The girls smoke cigarettes, and laugh. They don’t care.

  ‘That is a wicked nayum.’

  How free they must feel!

  ‘Are you still a virgin?’

  28

  Beauty woke up and knew where she was for the first time since she’d left home. She washed as best she could and left the house to go to work. It was early, but she wanted to be there on time. She was pleased to be going to help the old people at the home. They had no children to do it. And it took her mind off her own thoughts.

  At the park in Graiseley a few white people were already out with their dogs. She passed the green-domed mosque on the corner of Dunstall Road and Waterloo Road, and from the bus stop watched the Pakistani men walk in slowly through the gates.

  I aynt never been in a Mox.

  Neither had her mum.

  It was early when she got to the care home. The manager, Janet, was a nice lady. Fattish, with a friendly round face. Beauty liked her. No one had given her a form to fill in, or asked her about her reading yet. She would tell the manager today about her problem, and that she was doing something about it. If the white bloke was able to help her.

  Most of the armchairs in the main sitting room were empty, but the lady with the curly white hair, who had spoken kindly to her on the first day, beckoned her over to the corner where she was watching television.

  ‘Hello again, dear. Have you come to look after us?’

  Beauty went to sit by her until Maria came to tell her what to do. The lady turned back to the silver-haired man and overweight woman on the screen.

  ‘… your son, Chris, was put into care when he was nine years old. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct, Jeremy, yes. He threatened to burglarize me.’

  ‘Chris is coming out of prison next week. He’s hired private security guards to protect himself from you. Can you tell us a little bit about that?’

  The lady shook her head.

  ‘Three children with different men, and she wasn’t married to a single one of ’em,’ she said, leaning towards Beauty. ‘Things didn’t use to be like that,’ she sighed. ‘We had sweethearts and they’d do the right thing. None of this living together. I bet you’re not doing that, are you, dear?’

  She patted Beauty’s hand on the armrest between them.

  Maria burst into the room, flushed and out of breath.

  ‘Oright, Ethel?’ she shouted. ‘Beauty, am y’ coomin’ for a fag? Lemme giw for a pee first, I’m boostin’.’

  Beauty waited for her to go before she answered Ethel.

  ‘Asian girls don’t do them stuff.’

  You’re living with a white bloke.

  That was different though, wasn’t it?

  The tall old man with the stick appeared in the doorway and walked slowly to an armchair opposite Beauty and Ethel. He tugged at the knees of his trousers and sat down.

  ‘Morning,’ he said to both women and opened the newspaper.

  Beauty tried to smile.

  ‘I was just saying, Norris –’ Ethel called across the room to him, ‘– young people nowadays? It’s shocking how they live.’

  The man looked up. ‘Damn right,’ he said, looking at Beauty. ‘This country’s gone to the dogs.’

  Ethel whispered to her not to worry. Norris was a grumpy old so-and-so and a bit deaf. But he was right, she said, about most things, and he kept everyone informed about what was going on in the world.

  But the things the staff got up to! Their language!

  ‘They talk to each other in front of us like we’re not there.’ It was enough to make your ears curl with embarrassment, the things they said.

  Beauty nodded. Things had changed, the lady said. They didn’t used to do them things – having different mens ’n’ that.

  ‘But we don’t like to complain, do we, Norris?’

  Norris turned a page and looked up when he realized he’d been addressed. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said we don’t like to complain!’

  ‘I bloody do!’

  Ethel whispered to Beauty that he’d been a hero during the War.

  What war?

  He’d fought in Singapore, Burma, India, North Africa and Italy, killed a Japanese soldier with his bare hands and had a chestful of medals for bravery. Fifty-six years he’d been married, but had no children.

  Beauty stole quick glances at him as he lowered the newspaper to turn the pages; at his short white hair, thick eyebrows and long nose. He had a kind face, she decided.

  Norris Winterton caught her looking at him and winked.

  He killed someone.

  She was sure he’d had a good reason. And he was an old man, so respect to him.

  *

  Maria re-appeared, uniformed in a white tunic and blue trousers.

  ‘Morning, Norris!’ she shouted.

  She nodded to Beauty. ‘You coomin’ then?’

  Maria sat down next to her on the bench in the garden. Beauty liked the girl’s cheerfulness, but she looked tired today.

  ‘How’s it giwin’?’ Maria asked. And could she scrounge a cigarette?

  Beauty offered her the packet. ‘You OK?’

  ‘No, I fookin’ ay! I’m pissed off,’ Maria said.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Me boyfriend’s a fookin’ useless twat, that’s wh
y. He jooss sits rowund the howuss all day gerrin’ fookin’ stowund with ’is mates. The place is a fookin’ tip when I gerr’ome from work. And another thing …’ She lowered her voice. ‘I was savin’ up for a boob job, you know. To boost me self-esteem?’ Maria looked down at her chest. ‘I’ll be tucking ’em into me trousers soowun,’ she added. ‘But he’s only gone and spent the money on a fookin’ noine bar a hash.’

  She’d had enough of him, she said. Apart from not working and spending her money, he never wanted to do anything or go anywhere. He came to bed late every night, and when they did, you know, do it, it was over really quickly. ‘D’you know woddamean?’

  Beauty didn’t, but nodded.

  If her boyfriend didn’t work why didn’t she kick him out? Not that she should have been living with him.

  Why not? And what are you doing?

  ‘I would not put up with that,’ she said. It was all she could think of to say.

  The day passed quickly. Beauty followed Maria – ‘shadowing’, they called it – and liked the work. Some of the residents needed help with everything. Beauty had looked after her grandmother in Bangladesh when her mum went back to England so she knew what to do. They had special ways here to lift and turn people over in bed, and a big metal thing to lower them into the bath.

  When the shift ended she sat next to Ethel and had a cup of tea while everybody watched Midlands Today. She didn’t want to leave. It was comfortable in the sitting room, and it felt right being there to help these old people. Beauty had always expected to take care of a mother-in-law, but now that that dream had ended, looking after Ethel and the other ladies was a good thing to do. And she hadn’t thought about herself all day.

  The bus was warm and the windows steamed up. She looked at the older white people around her and wondered if they too had done things like Norris.

  He killed a Japanese.

  Is that like Chinese?

  And how come old white people were so different from the young ones? Asians shook their heads, too, about how the world was changing. Nowadays no one knew if their kids were going to grow up gangsters. Gunda, sharabi. Drinking and taking drugs.

  Or worse.

  Tabligs.

  Beauty got off the bus and walked through the town centre. The streets were full of people going home. Young men in suits, Asian boys with gelled hair and razor-thin lines of beard, and bored-looking white blokes came out of closing shops and banks. No one seemed to take any notice of her. Did she look like a normal person now? She was on her way home from work, like them.

  Home?

  She passed the long queues at the bus stops on Darlington Street and glanced at the Asian girls in long black trousers, Sikh mostly and some Hindus, judging by their jewellery, with tong-straightened hair and too much pale foundation.

  Why do they paint themselves white?

  They were having a normal life. Why shouldn’t she?

  I’m Muslim.

  So what? I can’t live?

  And so what if she had problems at home? So did these girls. White people, too.

  I aynt feeling sorry for myself.

  ‘Yo!’

  Beauty started and looked up at the black-clad figure of Delford Johnston. He had a scabby cut under one eye.

  ‘Asalaam alaikum,’ he said seriously.

  The dangerous one.

  She mumbled the return greeting and made to step round him.

  ‘Don’t go, my beauty! Come on, I’ll let you buy me a drink.’

  He needed the money for another pint. Until his missus arrived. He held open the door of the pub from which he had appeared.

  It was dark in there and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. Beauty looked at Delford’s unfocused eyes.

  He’s drunk!

  ‘I aynt your beauty. Thass my name. And a Muslim shouldn’t drink.’

  Delford brushed her words away with a gold-sovereigned hand. He knew how to handle her type. Fiery ones needed smothering and smiles.

  ‘You can’t live your whole life like that, you know. Come on, I’ll look after you. You don’t know who you’re with.’

  Two other tall black men touched fists with Delford on their way into the pub.

  ‘Yo, Delford. Safe.’

  ‘Respect.’

  ‘Ya cool, dred?’

  As the door closed he called to them in a heavy Jamaican accent: ‘No boda gan yam all a dem food dere! Me gonna broke your backside pon da pou-ul table!’

  Delford turned round, laughing heartily, but Beauty had gone. He looked over the tops of the passing heads, and kissed his teeth in disappointment.

  What a little cracker she was!

  Beauty hurried along the crowded pavement and turned left into Waterloo Road, glad to have got away.

  Gunda, aynit. Drinking, too.

  She wasn’t frightened of him. He was too old-looking.

  But what kind of a Muslim was he?

  He aynt. He’s a convert.

  So was my mum’s grandfather.

  And the old man’s great-grandfather.

  They were Hindus once … toba, toba. Who am I to say the black guy aynt a Muslim? Am I?

  It’s in my blood.

  But how could it be? What did that mean?

  He aynt a good Muslim if he’s drinking modh.

  ‘You can’t live your whole life like that.’

  There were fewer people as she walked away from the town centre. A young woman in a jilbab was coming towards her. Was she going home from work too?

  Probably married, aynit.

  These days, some husbands liked their wives to work. Not all men were monsters.

  Or did this girl have trouble at home too?

  Bas! Everyone’s got problems. You’re nothing special.

  Look at them old people in the home. They never had no children to look after them. Feel sorry for them.

  Beauty passed the orange struts and stands of the football stadium and a bronze statue of a man in shorts kicking a football. As the two women passed one another, their eyes met briefly.

  29

  Peter spotted Beauty in Dunstall Road on his way home from work. He pulled into Prole Street, parked outside his house and waited for her. An idea had formed since he’d last seen her. Something that might help them both. If she agreed, it would keep him entertained for a good while and away from the internet, while the benefits for Beauty were obvious, weren’t they? How would that primitive next door ever help her? How long could she live with the offensive smell which came from his house? And where would Beauty meet an interesting and good-looking chap like himself?

  But he recalled the onan-athon of the previous evening with a twinge of shame at the potentially disturbing turn his online searches had taken: Ass-filled-Arab-Chicks.com – dead-eyed Moroccan women oblivious to their mock-tent surroundings and the prodding males; Headscarf Hotties fellating hirsute Middle Easterners; Burka Babes. Exciting while he lasted, the post-orgasm clean-up was depressing; the image of the bruised skin of Casablancan heroin addicts remained with him as he lay in bed exhausted. More alarming had been his unsuccessful attempt to find pictures of educated Iranian women doctors in degrading poses.

  Peter checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, ruffled his hair and undid another button of his shirt.

  Never again, he promised himself, and so far he had managed to avoid the psychological implications of his fantasies. He was embarking on a noble project. It was up to him to save Beauty, to drag her from the darkness of religious superstition. Only then would she be free.

  Beauty walked quickly, her head down. As she approached the house a car door opened in front of her, blocking the pavement.

  Peter James Hemmings put out a well-polished half-brogue and a beige moleskin-trousered leg.

  Beauty didn’t look up and moved round the obstacle.

  ‘Hi!’ Peter said, appraising the tight-fitting kameez under her jacket and the … headscarf. ‘I didn’t see you there. How are things?’

/>   The leather soles of his shoes crunched grit on the pavement.

  Beauty stopped. ‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ she said. Across the street she watched a car reverse into a space, the engine racing noisily. A Pakistani woman got out to lift her young daughter from the back seat and noticed her talking to a white bloke. The child stared at Beauty over her mother’s shoulder. Beauty stared back, and thanked Allah they weren’t nosy Bengalis.

  Yes, she said, loud enough for the woman to hear, she would accept Peter’s offer of a cup of tea. She poked her tongue out at the child.

  Let the Paki neighbours think what they wanted. Were they so holy inside?

  Peter went into the kitchen to make tea.

  Beauty stood in his front room. Through the net curtains, she watched the Pakistani woman emptying shopping bags from her car and wished she hadn’t come. Asians seeing you go into two different white blokes’ houses wasn’t good.

  Why? What are we doing? Just talking.

  And she didn’t mind that part. Weren’t there things she wanted and needed to know about? Like what else white people thought if they didn’t believe in God.

  Toba, toba astaghfirullah.

  Anyway, nothing this bloke could say would change her mind.

  But if you sit in a man’s house he’s gonna get the wrong idea, aynit.

  Peter poured the tea in silence and passed Beauty a side-plate across the table. He watched her chew a small piece of biscuit, her hand in front of her mouth, and wondered how to begin. He needed to enthral her with his interesting and handsomely earnest conversation, not scare her again with his godlessness. Her lack of exposure to the light of reason made her a delicate flower. Too much sun, and she might wither.

  ‘How is everything?’ he asked.

  ‘OK, I guess.’

  ‘The work placement?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How’s Mark?’

  How was she supposed to know?

  ‘He’s fine, I guess.’

  ‘Your brothers?’

  ‘I aynt seen them.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  The image of her two brothers faded, and Beauty looked at the white man in his smart clothes.