‘Amjad, our nice solicitor, told the police about Wasim’s activities,’ she said. ‘Wasim told him in complete confidence about the Iraq stuff.’
There was a long silence during which I tried to absorb what Nadia was telling me. After dabbing the potato skin leftovers on my empty plate with a spoon, I finally realised the seriousness of her revelation.
‘But we invited him into our home,’ I said. ‘To deal with Turners…’
‘Doesn’t matter now. He’s moved to Birmingham, to join a better firm.’ She got up and started clearing the dishes. ‘We can’t even send him any hate mail.’
‘But I thought they were friends. How could he give him up like that?’
She held the plates in her hand and looked straight at me.
‘Because Wasim’s a terrorist in everyone’s eyes but ours.’
16.
Nadia decided to set a routine for me every Sunday morning. I didn’t enjoy being taken out of my comfort zone but once Elisha had cooked breakfast for me – usually an overlarge and wonky–shaped omelette – I was nicely fuelled–up and gave her mother the benefit of the doubt. So at 10am for the next few months, we got into her car and drove to Hollingworth Lake. It may have been less than four miles away but it felt like forty. Generally, the pattern was the same: take a walk on the ragged beach, watch the geese gather and then find a secluded spot to sit down and eat the sandwiches Nadia had made for lunch. Occasionally, Nadia would get chips and mushy peas from Mr Thomas’s chip shop – while I continued to watch the boats sail by – but this only happened when she was chirpier than usual which wasn’t often. One time, on a busy Sunday, we were sat on a wooden bench watching the smooth contours of the waves when Nadia pulled out a folded, orange sun hat and rested it on her lap.
‘Mama used to pull this right over my head,’ she said. ‘She hated seeing my head bare.’
‘You must have been ten when you first wore it?’
‘Seven. You’re three years out.’
She pushed opened the hat with her palms. She tried to put it on her head but it was much too small for her and slipped from her clutches, landing underneath the bench. She picked it up and handed it to me.
‘When I read Gulzar’s letter, all our troubles didn’t seem that bad,’ she said. ‘Your illness, Wasim’s arrest, Salim’s shagging, Amjad’s sneakiness…It put it all in perspective.’
‘Salim and Amjad are history. I’d kick them into the sea if they were here.’
She offered her first smile of the day and got up off the bench. But she didn’t move forward, she simply stood with her arms folded. The silences from her were becoming more frequent. On average, this was a short one, followed by a mild cough.
‘I saw this woman on the news a couple of years ago,’ she said. ‘Probably Pakistani or Kashmiri…she was outside her house looking bewildered as TV crews asked her about her terrorist suspect son. She had a very bright shalwar kameez and looked odd in front of these suited men pushing mikes and tape recorders under her nose. I didn’t feel sorry for her; I pitied her because she was so powerless and vulnerable. I thought to myself: ‘Why doesn’t she say something? I’ll never be like that’. Well, fuck me do, here we are…’
She reached down and picked up a pebble. She threw it as far as she could and then sat down on the bench again. I wanted to say something but I couldn’t get the image of that woman being hounded by news crews out of my mind. She was the kind of woman I knew well. Hundreds of them came over as brides every year. Fareeda was like that woman; the only difference was she would have responded to those media hordes. Of course, she would.
‘Who’s to blame for Wasim?’ said Nadia, turning immediately to me after a long pause. ‘Me or you?’
She lowered her gaze so I knew she was being serious.
‘No–one is…come on, Nadia…’
She looked away. ‘Well, someone is because he’s one fucked–up boy…’ After a minute or so, her mobile beeped and she reached into her handbag. She scrolled down the messages. She shook her head and laughed. ‘How about the father? Salim still texts me about a pair of jeans he left here, a tube of toothpaste left there, a fucking towel and so on…some people. He might even remember his son one day.’
‘Did he visit?’
‘He’s been a few times but Wasim generally blanks him…’
She put her mobile away and looked towards the lake again. ‘Wasim never knew what he wanted,’ she said. ‘He changed his interests almost every week: one week it was boxing, then cars, then martial arts, then bodybuilding and then…well, we know the rest. I remember him coming in one day, just before his 17th birthday, doing a Black Panther salute and then punching his sister quite hard on the shoulder. It was quite scary. He seemed to like too many things but nothing very deep. I know people say these lads aren’t integrated but they’re wrong. They’re integrated all right, they’re just not immersed. Elisha’s totally immersed culturally, that’s the difference.’
She walked forward a little and smiled at an elderly couple walking past. ‘But the funny thing is while all that’s been going on, I had this stupid idea for a fashion business…’ She came back and sat on the bench. ‘…Elisha wore a hijab round the house for a while. At the time, I thought it was a plain, colourless garment and then the other day, I saw a woman wearing one with a small US flag on it and it just hit me – hijandchips.com – I could create stylish hijabs with British icons or landmarks. Some would have fish and chips on them, some would have famous buildings, some would have images of famous films. It would give these young Muslim girls another choice and a sense of belonging. The idea didn’t seem that stupid after all.’
I started to cough and laugh at the same time. ‘Hitch and chips, what kind of stupid name is that?’
‘HIJ…short for hijab!’
She was serious too, which was slightly worrying. But something else was happening while we were having this mildly flippant conversation. My eye became fixed on the beautiful red boat in the distance that was sailing away quicker than all the other boats. The more I looked at it, the more my chest and throat tingled. The air I was breathing in became crisper and fresher. I could take deeper breaths as I became almost hypnotised by the moving red boat. It then slowed down as another boat caught up and eased by its side. I turned to look at my daughter and she was watching me. I smiled and took her hand.
‘Are those chips from Mr Thomas any good?’
* * *
I could not deny it: the Hollingworth Lake Sundays, as I called them, were improving my condition – albeit slightly and with little reduction in pain. I still had to wear three layers of clothing in bed – sometimes a hat too to cover my head – and there was still the hot and cold flushes tingling across my body, particularly, on bitterly cold mornings. But the biggest difference was in mobility and breathing. I could bend down and get my shoes from under the settee, talk on the phone without getting a thumping migraine and do windmills of my arms without getting extreme pain in my chest. Elisha also helped with light stretching exercises which helped unstiffen my arms and shoulders. During this time, Dr Howarth turned up at our front door to surprise us all. He was happy with my progress but felt I should do more physiotherapy. How much could an old man do? Was it an official visit? Did specialists usually turn up on doorsteps or was it a rogue trip? He stayed for rather a long time and told me he couldn’t see me in the infirmary because he had been on a short break in Wales with his wife. It was his first holiday for eight years. They were extremely overstretched at the infirmary and he was worried about the changes his local health Trust were bringing in which included the moving of wards and possible closure of A&E. I was surprised he was so candid. It was always nice to hear fresh gossip but the less I heard about hospitals and infirmaries the better.
A few days letter I received a letter from Wasim. He said he felt guilty that he couldn’t conjure up ‘a magic potion’ to cure my health. He also gave me a detailed account of his journey to ‘Bad Mingt
on Court’ as he called it. He was escorted by a guard who was also an Oldham Athletic fan: they got on well and spoke of the so–called ‘racial segregation’ in the town which they felt had been ‘blown up out of proportion’. He also told me about his ‘school dinner’ food, the ‘shitty’ mags he was reading and the ‘ever–shrinking’ walls he had to look for ‘endless’ hours a day. He signed off with ‘all the best’ and not ‘Allah Hafiz’ which got me thinking about his state of mind and whether faith was still playing a big part in his life; there wasn’t a single reference to ‘Allah’ at all. I felt better after reading his letter but it didn’t last long when Nadia came in and told me he’d been in a fight with an inmate a few hours ago. When the hell was his trial anyway? Couldn’t they get the kangaroo hearing over with? The boy was obviously suffering. Wasim’s state of mind would provide more ammunition for the salivating national scribes and the Manchester Evening News. If I had the strength, I would spend every day in Hollingworth Lake while the trial was on.
Gradually, a six–day routine was now set for me and I was working within my limitations. The period between 8.30am, when the house went quiet because Elisha and Nadia had left for school and work, was the most difficult and restless. I tried reading the Observer, watching TV shows like Homes Under the Hammer or taking a walk in the tiny garden but none of them gave me any comfort as I waited for the clock to run down until Nadia rushed home to cook me lunch. She was often late but it was worth the wait to see her face come through that door. Some days, she didn’t have any lectures in the afternoons at all, so I felt I wasn’t being too hard on her. After lunch, I took my medication and then a peaceful nap which helped propel me to the time when Elisha came home. We did a few stretches together and got into lengthy conversations (which she always won) about discipline in schools, poor teachers and religious figures. I admired Elisha’s enthusiasm and thirst for knowledge. She claimed she had only caught this bug because she had become close friends with Hannah Reece in the past six months. Hannah wanted to be a relief worker because the ‘world was going to shit’ and she didn’t want to do the same job as her mother who was an adviser at Rochdale Job Centre. She said she would leave school at 16 and travel the world: I hoped Elisha would not do the same. These hours with my granddaughter flew by and dinner always came so soon. The only downside was Elisha provoked me into talking so much that I was ready to go to bed immediately after the meal, generally before 9pm.
But then on one frosty Autumn morning, when I could hear the hailstone smacking against the bedroom window, it all changed. I went downstairs and saw Elisha in the kitchen preparing breakfast for me. She was on half–term holidays and looked extremely relaxed. She had the radio on: a ghastly, ferocious racket fit for an invading army. I mumbled a few words but she couldn’t hear me. So I switched the radio off.
‘Oh nana jee, I was enjoying that!’ said Elisha.
‘Is your mother here?’
Elisha gestured to the back garden and turned the radio back on. I tentatively stepped forward and opened the back door. I stepped out and a swirling blend of wind and hail blew into my face causing me to stumble. Nadia was sitting on the steep steps in front of me with her back to me and hailstones nestling evenly in her shoulder–length hair. She heard the door open and turned around. She swiped her hand through her hair to shake off the flaky hail.
‘It was as cold as this on the morning Mama died,’ she said, blinking as the drops of hail fell into her eyes. ‘Even though the sun was out.’ She turned away and looked out of the garden into the tight terracing of Pilling Street with its imposing row of chimneys. ‘She was right about Salim, wasn’t she? Maybe, I should have listened to her.’ She looked up at me and smiled. ‘Should have taken my chances on Zain; first cousin marriage, genetic deformity and all that…’
I walked forward and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Come inside. It’s too cold.’
‘It’s early, I’ve got the day off. Mags and Sheena are coming round later to talk about our new business. They can warm me up.’
I sighed and was unsure of what to do next. There was room for me to sit down on the cold, harsh step but I didn’t fancy it. I looked over my shoulder and noticed Elisha gesturing to me that breakfast was nearly ready.
‘Two girls have stopped talking to me at uni,’ said Nadia, wrapping her arms round her knees and resting her head on her forearms. ‘A lecturer’s also been a bit funny; abrupt and to the point. Even Ali’s staff at the kebab shop have been staring more than usual. I’ve joined the dots. My boy’s a wrong un…’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said, sitting down awkwardly by Nadia’s side, grimacing as my knee cracked painfully. My buttocks felt as hard as the stony step.
‘People respect you a bit more, Daddy. They won’t give you gyp. They think I can take it.’
‘You’ve taken enough now. Do you want me to visit Wasim – and meet Lawrence too?’
Nadia sprung up from her relaxed, semi–lying posture. She looked at me for a few moments and then shook her head. She put her hand on mine. ‘But you’re not well enough. That’s why I’ve protected you from all of this stuff so far. I can manage. Looks like Wasim’s got an uphill battle anyway.’ She released her hand and looked down Pilling Street again. ‘Mention the ‘t’ word these days – and you’re a goner, no ifs or buts.’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ I said, grabbing her hand again. ‘He’s a changed boy. He wants to do good things for people.’
‘Daddy, you’re so naïve.’
I coughed and felt a gush of wind cutting into my neck. I let go of her hand and got up. ‘Naivety is what got you into this country in the first place.’
Nadia smiled and playfully tapped me on the leg as I departed. ‘Anyway, the trial date’s being put back all the time. Complex investigation and all that. Yeah right.’
I opened the back door and prepared to walk in.
‘I don’t think you should get involved,’ said Nadia. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’m doing this for you, not for him.’
The nights leading up to the prison visit, in terms of sleep, were niggly, scratchy affairs. I kept thinking about my failure to assess the strain and burden on my daughter. She had been going through a much tougher time than I expected. On one particular morning – in the early hours – I was so occupied by Nadia’s slight drop in standards in terms of her cooking that I staggered to the bathroom and threw up a pathetic amount of liquid while trying to deal with a searing pain just above my stomach. When I got back into bed, there was already a small pile of vomit near my pillow which I hadn’t noticed. I felt angry for punishing my body more than required.
But as so often happens, on the very same morning, Len turned up at the front door to relegate my problems so far down the chain that I questioned whether I had been sick at all. He was extremely apologetic and, in chronological detail, told me how he had come to take the wheel of his car after having a tipple at the charity cricket match. He had an unlit Woodbine and a glass of Ribena in his hand and spoke of being ‘high on a romantic cloud’ and ‘wanting to prolong the night’. He shouldn’t have bothered: I needed him so much I even let him light up the fag indoors – while I retreated as far away as possible to the corner of the sofa.
‘Come to Strangeways,’ I said, making a calculated judgement that the moral balance of power was in my favour.
Len looked surprised and rested his forearm on the mantelpiece. He took a drag of his Woodbine and looked in the mirror, pushing his cap back a little. ‘There’s something you need to know.’ He turned and looked directly at me. ‘A fella called Bernie Kershaw was in the stands at the charity cricket match. He runs a successful business called Kershaw Kip Ltd: it sells beds, sofas and furniture. Anyhow, he contacted me after the match and told me his father has died of Mesothelioma – another Turners victim. So he wanted to make a big donation and start a campaigning charity that helps local victims. He’s got a n
ame in mind too: Pride of Our Town.’
‘Good name…’
‘Well, he does that sort of stuff for a living. But that’s not all. He’s also got a long–term plan to buy up the old Turners site and bring his company to town. You know, create some jobs and all that.’
‘But it’s polluted?’
‘Even if it is, he reckons the people in town will trust him to clean it up rather than some outsiders.’
I looked doubtful and used the armrest to get up from the sofa. I walked to the dinner table and picked up my paracetamol tablet and glass of water. ‘Great. But why are you telling me?’
‘Because I’m packing up my umpiring.’
I dropped the tablet into my mouth but the dryness of my mouth led to the tiny white pill getting stuck in my throat, causing a bitter sensation and a painful bout of choking. Len walked over and ensured I got the water down in safe fashion. ‘Come on swallow, hard now.’ He helped me sit down at the dinner table and I finally got the tablets down my throat.
‘Had a good innings but I want to do something else now,’ said Len. ‘Something really helpful for the community in this town. I had a chance decades ago to be elected and it didn’t happen for us. Now I could make a real difference. This fella knows his onions. He told us there were a law lords ruling lately that said people with pleural plaques, asbestosis in other words, weren’t allowed to get compensation. This has made him a bit mad – and that’s why he’s started this campaign, just for this town.’
A Fistful of Dust Page 21