Baba was not quiet. He talked to everyone and didn't care that his English was not as good as Maman's. English people didn't know that Baba was Hadi Khorsandi. They didn't know that his poems made people laugh and cry and go 'bah bah!'.
Baba and Maman's door was always open to friends of friends of friends from Iran, cousins of acquaintances or people who had just looked Baba up and wanted to pay him a visit to talk about poetry or politics and drink vodka and whisky.
Our flat was where everybody gathered. The doorbell was always ringing and Peyvand and I would call 'Keeyeh?' – who is it? – from the hall stairs. Then whoever it was looked up and identified themselves. It was usually someone we knew such as Hosseini or Mitra or Shireen or Simin or one of the men Baba played chess with but who didn't talk to us kids much.
The flat above ours became free and Baba rented that one too and made it into his office. It had a living room and a bedroom and its bathroom was in the hallway, halfway down to the flat we lived in. Baba spent hours up there working and buzzed down on the telephone for regular orders of tea and dates.
Baba always had more formal guests who came to discuss serious things. There were all sorts of exiles now arriving in London, coming round for chai or whisky with Baba. There were ex-diplomats and politicians and bohemian actors, writers and poets who had come over to London for one reason or another.
At school, all the English kids had a bedtime. Some were really early like seven o'clock and some were quite late, like eight-thirty or nine o'clock. There was no bedtime for me and Peyvand. We played and fought amid the drinking, talking, dancing and singing. We couldn't really go to bed because it was noisy and there were usually other kids playing in our room. Sometimes I tried to sleep on the bathroom floor, but someone banged on the door when they got worried about why I was in there so long. Mitra helped my mother with the food and Baba frequently came into the kitchen to hurry them along or to complain about what Maman was making before bouncing back to the living room to make noise.
Mitra and her boyfriend Mitch moved into one of the other flats at 65 Madeley Road. When they got married, they had their reception in our flat because it was the biggest in the house. We moved the furniture around in the flat to make room for all the guests and the women made a wedding sofra with all the good things in married life symbolised with flowers and gold and fruit. Mitra sat at the sofra, all the women held a silk cloth over her hair and ground sugar on to it to sweeten the bride up.
Ida was another of our London friends who became like family. She was twenty-four, pretty, fun and giggly. She worked with Baba in the office upstairs, typing out his articles and keeping the office tidy. I loved to spend time up in the office. There were so many different types of paper and pens and staplers and rubber stamps to make pictures and patterns with, although Ida always told me off for making it untidy. She married Reza, a chubby Iranian man with a moustache, and they moved into another flat at 65 Madeley Road, the one across the hallway from ours.
Arianne, who was half Iranian and half Swiss, lived upstairs, in the flat next to Baba's office. Even though Arianne was really young, she became great friends with Madar Jaan and during Madar Jaan's lengthy stays in London, Arianne spent nearly all her free time sitting and talking with our grandmother. They watched the soap operas together and if Arianne had missed a few episodes because she was at college, Madar Jaan brought her up to speed in a flash. She followed the most intricate plotlines, even though she didn't speak English.
At home, everyone spoke Persian, even to Nick and several other English boyfriends or girlfriends, who picked it up with impressive speed.
The only thing English in our home was the television. Baba only watched a couple of things on the television with us.
You didn't need to speak very good English to watch Benny Hill. Miss Price, my teacher, said he was a 'dirty old man' but Peyvand and I never missed his show. Baba hardly ever watched TV, but he watched Benny Hill with us sometimes. There was a bit where you saw a cherry cake but then the camera went back and you saw it was a woman with a cherry between her boobs. 'Vai! I feel ill!' Maman said, but she was giggling.
Mind Your Language was the funniest programme on the TV and one of the few we never missed watching all together as a family. It was about a class and their teacher. Each person in the class was from another country and the teacher was trying to teach them English. There weren't any Iroonis in the class but there was an Indian man with a turban who said 'tousand apologies' all the time and Peyvand once laughed so much that he farted, so then I laughed so much I nearly wet myself.
In my 'News' at school one Monday morning, I said that we all watched it and Miss Price said it was 'racialist'. I didn't know what racialist was, but I knew it couldn't be a good thing because she tutted when she said it so I didn't mention it again in class.
So Baba hardly ever watched TV until Iran was all over the news and then Baba watched TV all the time.
We still spoke to our family in Iran on the phone regularly, but it was getting harder and harder to think of things to say. 'Come here children! Maman Shamsi is on the phone.'
It was still exciting, Peyvand and I still fought for the phone receiver.
Maman Shamsi showered us with sugary words of adoration. Then Baba Mokhtar did. Then all of our uncles one by one declared they would die for us: 'May God take my life for yours!'
'A hundred thousand mashallahs!'
It wasn't just our family, it is the Irooni way. We never heard simple 'We miss you! Hope to see you soon!' There was always some self-sacrifice offered.
It was hard to know how to respond. Our Farsi wasn't good enough to be as flowery and passionate back; besides, kids didn't really say those things, grown-ups did.
'What's the time over there, Maman Shamsi?' Peyvand and I would fall back on that old standard.
'May I die for that sweet voice of yours! It's three o'clock in the afternoon, azizam.'
'Where is Nadia, Dayee Mahmood?'
'May God take my soul to preserve yours! She's at your Auntie Essi's house.'
ONSTAGE
The start of the new autumn term was here and I was going into Mrs Hitchcock's class and everyone knew that she shouted her head off. Mrs Hitchcock and I had got off to a bad start at the end of last term. Ever since my success at the assembly with Spring Hallow School, I was always made to be the narrator in school plays. It was always 'Shaparak has a nice clear voice, you can be the narrator, Shaparak.' So there I was at the end-of-year play, narrating again.
The play was about Horatio Nelson. He was Andrew and Christopher Nelson's great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle. He was the man at the top of the big column in Trafalgar Square where Maman took us sometimes to feed the pigeons. Trafalgar Square was full of pigeons. There was a man selling pots of seed for ten pence and if you got one the pigeons would fly on to your hand and stand there and eat from your pot. It was amazing. Not once did a pigeon poo on me. They pooed on Peyvand all the time.
Horatio Nelson was an admiral in the navy. 'England Expects Every Man to Do His Duty!' That's what Nelson said and he wrote it in a special code on flags he hoisted up on a mast so all the sailors would know what to do. Horatio Nelson had a best friend called Hardy (which was a bit like Baba's name, Hadi) and when he was dying (he died in battle, it was very sad) he said 'Kiss me, Hardy' when they were on the HMS Victory. They won the battle, but Nelson still died.
Admiral Lord Nelson took England to victory. Our play was about how he defeated Napoleon Blownapart. Lee said it and Mark copied him but everyone believed Mark more than Lee because Lee sometimes got his willy out in class and put it on the table. Even though he did that, I still loved Lee Windsor and that was my biggest secret and I never even told Rebecca, not even when she was my best friend.
It wasn't easy in Nelson's times. We sang songs about how they were forced to be sailors and fight.
Walking in the city, the other day,
Press Gang took a fancy and stole me
away,
Took away my clothing and both my shoes,
I got the Royal Navy Blues.
Got the evil-weevil in my hardtack,
Got the cat-o'-nine-tails upon my back,
Got the kinda life I would rather lose,
I got the Royal Navy blues.
I was a narrator in the play, as usual, but I still knew all the songs by heart and wished I was a sailor.
Nelson had a girlfriend, Emma, Lady Hamilton. She was terribly beautiful but a married lady so it was a secret affair for a long time. Tanya Forward played Nelson's girlfriend and in the play she danced with Mark Johanssen-Berg who played Nelson and we all sang:
Isn't Emma a lov-er-ly sight,
Gliding around in the soft candle light,
Emma Lady Hamilton, with smile so bright!
Tanya Forward glided around the stage like a fairy. I would have loved to have played Lady Hamilton. If I'd told anyone that though, they would laugh their head off.
Mrs Hitchcock directed our play and we had all helped to build Nelson's column out of papier-mâché.
I knew that being narrator was better than a lot of other things. Nina Seymour only ever played the triangle in school plays because she was so quiet, but I was more than just a 'loud clear voice'. I wanted to act, I wanted to be onstage, right in the middle where everyone could see me, not stuck at the side reading from the piece of parchment they had made with teabag stains. I got more and more frustrated during our rehearsals, watching the sailors, the townspeople, Tanya Forward, all walking about the stage and singing their songs. I wanted people to see me! At the end of the play, our Nelson's Column was put in the middle of the stage and every single person in our year (except the narrators) had to stride around it singing:
If you're in Trafalgar Square,
At any time of day (tiddilly-om-pom)
See the pigeons in the air,
And watch them swoop and sway.
There's a pillar standing there,
And there's a statue grand,
Looking out to sea, 'tis said,
A pigeon on his head,
And on his hand. It's Nelson!
Hip Hip Horatio! Hip Hip Hooray!
That's what the people all say.
Welcome Horatio, have a flag day,
We all relied on you,
You always did your duty.
Hang out the bunting and fly out the flag,
Cheering as loud as you may, Hey!
Every Trafalgar Day each man will do his duty
Cheering Horatio Nelson this way!
I knew all the words to all the songs off by heart and yet I didn't get to sing any of them. I put up my hand.
'Yes, Shaparak?' Mrs Hitchcock wasn't my teacher yet and I had never really spoken to her before. Everyone looked at me to see what my suggestion was.
'I wondered if, at the end, I could join in with the townspeople and sing around Nelson's Column because it's a bit boring just being a narrator the whole time.'
Mrs Hitchcock stared very hard at me. Blue eyes like hers and Rebecca Thompson's were much scarier than brown eyes. With brown eyes I didn't mind so much when they stared at me, but blue eyes seemed to cut straight through me.
'Well! If Shaparak finds our play boring perhaps she ought not to be our narrator, perhaps we should have a narrator who doesn't find it boring and Shaparak wouldn't have to be in the play at all and she can stay at home tomorrow night.'
It was as if she had stabbed me in the heart.
My jaw froze and my chest tightened. I loved our play. I knew everybody's lines by heart, I knew all the songs and all the actions, I knew more about Admiral Lord Nelson than anyone else in the class. All I wanted was the chance to act with all the other townspeople instead of just reading the in-between bits. I couldn't explain any of this to Mrs Hitchcock; the tears had come.
I knew Mrs Wybrow felt sorry for me because she just looked a bit upset when I started crying. Mrs Hitchcock asked me something but shame made me deaf and my hiccupping meant I couldn't speak. Mrs Hitchcock hadn't expected this. Mrs Wybrow held my hand and took me outside to the corridor and gave me a cuddle. Snot was coming out of my nose and on to her shoulder. Mrs Wybrow stroked my hair and called me poppet and told me I was being silly, but in a nice way.
At our next rehearsal, Mrs Hitchcock announced that the narrators were to put their notes down and join in the singing around Nelson's Column. She made it sound as if it was all her idea.
I looked for Maman and Baba as I sang 'If you're in Trafalgar' at the top of my voice at the end of the play. Maman was leaning forward in her seat, smiling widely. When she saw me looking, her eyes shone and she nudged Baba, who woke up straight away and clapped. It was not clapping time and a few other mums and dads turned to stare at him. Maman gave me a little wave.
In the car on the way home Baba asked me what the play had been about and I told him all about Admiral Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton. Maman said that even though I didn't sing solo, I definitely had the best voice.
'No, Shap! Go over there! You're Iraqi.'
I poked my tongue out at Peyvand and reluctantly went to the Iraqi side of the garden with the kids who weren't Peyvand's favourites.
It was Sunday afternoon and Maman and Baba were having a lunch party. There were lots of their friends there so there were lots of us kids playing in the garden. The Iraqis were the baddies and the Iranians were, of course, the goodies.
'Pow pow pow!' Gunfire rained down on us and one by one we Iraqis fell to the ground. The Iranians won. They always did. That was the rule.
I was the only girl and I was always Iraqi.
'Not very long ago ... in a country far far away ...' Peyvand Skywalker swung from a low branch of one of the apple trees and kicked me.
'Ow! Stop it, I'm not playing any more!' I was fed up with being an Iraqi and went back up to our flat.
Most of the tenants in our flats that came and went were Iranian or Armenian, and we ended up constantly in and out of each other's flats.
Some of the tenants had children. You could say to one of these little kids that lived there 'there are Iraqis hiding at the bottom of our garden and only come out at night' and they'd believe you.
By the time the new autumn term started, I had forgiven Mrs Hitchcock for her treatment of me in the school play. I would never like her as much as I liked Mrs Wybrow or Mrs Gadd or Miss Price, but I was willing to concede that she had her good points. She was loud and she shouted, this was true, but she was also funny and laughed a lot.
At open evening, Maman told her that I did Margaret Thatcher impersonations and when we were back at school she said, 'We have a comedian in the class!' and she called me to the front of the class to do my impersonation.
I did, to a mixed reaction. Not everyone in the audience was too clued up about who Thatcher was and how she sounded so I switched tack to keep them interested, I did an impersonation of Mr Greevy the caretaker: 'Oi, youse two, get off them climbing frames!' I spoke in his old-man voice and hobbled just like Mr Greevy did. Everyone was in stitches, even Rebecca, who usually got sulky if someone else got all the attention.
Then I did Mrs Davenport. I think I got her Scottish accent perfectly: 'Settle down, everybody, you there, don't be a smart alek.' Mrs Davenport was always calling someone a 'smart alek'.
Mrs Hitchcock laughed and clapped and said, 'Shall we see if Shaparak can do me?'
I had a split second to think how to do Mrs Hitchcock. 'Ooh! I'm Mrs Hitchcock!' I said in my poshest voice. 'I want to sit down but my bum won't fit on the chair, I'm afraid it's far too fat!'
My classmates exploded. Mrs Hitchcock was not impressed and I had to stand in the corner for the rest of the day for making 'rude, personal remarks'. I didn't care though. This had been way better than making a speech to Spring Hallow school.
That day, when Maman came to pick us up from school, Mrs Hitchcock – despite my 'rude, personal remarks' – told her about my performance. 'You might
want to put her in a stage school, she's really very good.'
A stage school was a school where you learned to act and sing and be on programmes like Grange Hill and Marmalade Atkins.
'All her teachers say she's very good at acting,' Baba told guests to our home. Baba didn't really notice how I was doing at school in maths and science and stuff. He loved to hear the poems I wrote for English though, and when they said I was a good performer, it really caught his attention.
'Can I go to a stage school? Can I please! I'm no good in normal school, I can't even do my times tables. I want to be an actress!'
Maman pursed her lips. 'No. You go to a normal school, you go to university then after that be an actress, a plumber, whatever you want, but not before.'
'Why not send her to a stage school? Are they expensive?'
'Hadi,' Maman scolded Baba, rolling her eyes the way she did when she was very serious, 'don't encourage her to hang around with the arty types so young. I've had enough trouble dealing with you.'
I didn't go to stage school, but I got a part in the school play, a proper part. It was still narrating, but I was a narrator who walked around the stage and talked directly to the audience. This was even better than being Sleeping Beauty herself, because she just sang a few songs, fell asleep and then got kissed by a prince. She had hardly any lines at all.
I had spent weeks learning my narration songs. I was an 'integral part of the play', Mrs Hitchcock said.
The night before the show, I hardly slept. All the mums and dads would file in and see the play and my part was the best! Peyvand and I stayed up late whispering and giggling. There were no lessons that day. All day we rehearsed. I didn't just know my own lines and songs, I knew all of Tanya's too, just in case she got laryngitis. English children were always getting laryngitis or tonsillitis.
A Beginner's Guide to Acting English Page 23