by Bali Rai
‘More like small willies versus small willies,’ I replied.
Lisa giggled and turned back to her food.
‘It’s that Desi Posse again. I’m sure the Punjabi lad is one of them …’ I said.
‘The ones involved in that big fight? I thought they’d been kicked out.’
‘Not all of them – haven’t you seen the graffiti in the girls’ toilets? Even the Punjabi girls are getting involved.’
‘Yeah – but why are they getting involved? I heard some young lads the other day talking about the Desi Posse like they were heroes.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know why,’ I told her. ‘But there’s definitely something going on.’
‘Stupid …’ said Lisa, forking a big pile of mash into her mouth.
She was right too. The Desi Posse were beginning to cause trouble with everyone and I just didn’t understand it. A lot of the Punjabi girls at school were getting involved, talking about their own Desi Girls Crew, and drawing ‘DP’ onto their books and stuff. At first I’d just thought it was bit of harmless fun but it was getting past that now. I didn’t know it at the time but the events of the next few months – the events in my own life – were going to send the Desi Posse and their nasty, violent prejudices over the edge.
I didn’t manage to catch up with Ruby until after school. She was standing where she always did, waiting for her lift home. One of her brothers or her dad dropped her off and picked her up every day so she never got to hang out with the rest of us down the shops. She never walked home with us either and I knew she didn’t like it.
‘Hey!’ I called out to her when I saw her by the railings.
‘Do you want a lift back?’ she asked me. ‘My jailers should be here any minute.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m going to walk back with the others,’ I said. ‘I wish you could too …’
‘So do I,’ said Ruby, looking sad.
‘Let’s tell them you’re coming over to ours tomorrow,’ I suggested. ‘That way you can.’
Ruby thought about it. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask my dad—’
‘Don’t ask him,’ I said. ‘Just tell him – we are family, remember?’
Ruby shrugged and her shoulder bones looked like they might poke out of her jumper. ‘Don’t always help where I’m concerned,’ she told me.
‘Just do it and I’ll tell Mum when I get in. That way she can call your mum and it’s all sorted, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied, although she didn’t look too convinced. ‘What did you want to talk to me about anyway?’
‘Just stuff,’ I told her. ‘Got this boy after me and I was hoping to get your opinion on it, but we can chat about that tomorrow.’
I saw Parmjit, Ruby’s eldest brother, pull up in some shiny flash car.
‘Your ride’s here,’ I said, nodding in the direction of the car.
‘Better go then,’ she said, looking at me strangely.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘This guy …?’
‘What about him?’
‘Is he the black lad that some other girls told me about earlier?’
I looked at her in shock. I was about to ask her who had told her but she didn’t let me.
‘Because if it is – I don’t wanna know. You’re gonna get into serious trouble, Simmy.’
‘But—’ I began, only for Ruby to cut me off.
‘It isn’t right,’ she said, as her brother leaned on the horn of his car impatiently. ‘Call me later.’ She turned to get into the car.
‘You bet I will,’ I snapped back.
I was fuming. Not only did I want to know who had told her, with my suspicions stopping at Priti; I also wanted to know why she was being all moralistic about it. I watched my cousin drive off and stomped back over to Lisa in a foul mood.
I was so pissed off that I called Ruby the moment I got in. She told me she was going up to her room and I heard her close the door behind her.
‘It’s just wrong,’ she told me when she next spoke.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The whole thing – he’s a kalah. Do you know what that means?’
‘No – what does it mean?’ I asked, getting angrier the longer I spoke to her but trying not to let it show too much.
‘It means he’s just after one thing – and it ain’t worth the trouble.’
‘One thing? So all black lads are the same, then?’
‘Yeah, if I’m going to be honest,’ Ruby said.
I couldn’t contain myself. ‘What the hell do you know about it? How many black lads you been out with?’
‘That’s not the point,’ she said defensively.
‘Yes it is – you’re making judgements about a whole race of people based on what?’
‘It’s not racist,’ she told me. ‘It’s about us being different …’
I tuned out for a while as she banged on, sick of hearing the same excuses for prejudice over and over again. When I tuned back in she was still off on one.
‘… not worth the shit you’ll get from the family. No one’s gonna accept it – not even your old man—’
‘What do you know?’ I asked her. ‘Just because your dad’s like that don’t make my dad the same.’
‘Well, do what you like then,’ she told me. ‘But it won’t work out right and you’ll just get a reputation—’
‘For what exactly?’ I asked.
‘For going out with kaleh – no Desi lad is gonna touch you afterwards.’
‘That’s just so fucking stupid,’ I told her. ‘What am I – a piece of meat? That kind of thinking died with the Stone Age.’
‘I’m just being honest – look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you after school tomorrow anyway – we can talk about it then.’
I sat and thought for a moment and didn’t reply. My mind was turning over and over what she’d been saying and I was confused about what to do. And then my mouth decided for me.
‘Tomorrow’s off,’ I told her. ‘I forgot—I’m going out …’
‘Oh! What about another night?’ she asked, not reading between the lines.
‘I’ll call you,’ I said, snapping my phone shut on her.
I jumped off my bed and looked at myself in the mirror. Who was I going to be? Was I going to let other people decide my life for me or was I going to stand up for myself? I grinned at my reflection. Like I had any choice in the matter. I sat back down on my bed, picked up my phone and composed a text. When it was done, I sat and looked at it for a while. Then I shut my eyes, prayed for the best and sent it …
Later still I decided to tell Paula all about what was happening. Even though I didn’t see her as often as I saw Lisa she was still one of my best friends and I wanted to find out what she thought, being black herself, about Tyrone and me. I was hoping for a positive response but what I got nearly knocked me off my feet.
‘Describe this Tyrone to me,’ she asked me over the phone.
‘Huh?’
She giggled. ‘Go on, Simmy –what does he look like?’
I waited a few moments, trying to get him right in my head, but Paula beat me to it. As I listened in amazement she described Tyrone perfectly.
‘You know him?’ I asked stupidly. It was obvious she did.
‘Er, yeah!’ she replied, and I could tell she was smiling on the other end of the phone.
‘Am I missing something, Paula?’
‘Only that he’s my cousin, you silly moo,’ she said, laughing.
‘What?’
‘My cousin – the son of my mother’s sister – you know that weird concept – family an’ all that.’
‘No way!’ I sat back on my bed, half of me smiling, the other nearly crying, although why I’ll never know.
‘Why would I lie about it?’ Paula asked.
‘I don’t suppose you would,’ I admitted.
‘You wanna come over tomorrow to talk about it?’ she offered.
‘You better believe it,�
�� I replied.
When the conversation was over I got up and paced my room. I couldn’t believe what Paula had told me. I hadn’t told David either, and he was best mates with Dean, who turned out to be the cousin of the boy I fancied. It was too much for me and I just had to call Lisa. Again. She answered on the second ring.
‘Will you leave me alone, you witch!’ she said.
LEICESTER MARKET, NOVEMBER 1979
GULBIR SINGH CAREFULLY sidestepped the gang of Mods hanging around at the entrance to the Malcolm Arcade, wary of the food he was carrying back to his market stall. One of the white boys, wearing a green parka coat and grey Sta-Press trousers with a sharp crease that looked like it could cut you, gave Gulbir a sneering look and asked him if he was related to Gunga Din. Gulbir ignored him and walked on, through the opposite arcade and back into the market, stopping at the kerb to let a blue Transit van pass by. The food and tea he was holding kept his hands warm in the biting cold wind.
Back at the stall he thanked Mr Abbas for looking after things.
‘No problem,’ replied Mr Abbas in Punjabi.
‘How is the family?’ asked Gulbir.
‘Inshallah – they are well,’ said Mr Abbas, as his son Ali appeared at his side.
‘There’s a man who wants to buy some things,’ the boy told his father in English.
‘Saleyah! Speak the language of your ancestors,’ his father replied.
‘No, no, bhai-ji,’ said Gulbir Singh. ‘Let the boy speak English – he will need it to get on in this country.’
‘Maybe you are right,’ agreed Mr Abbas.
Gulbir walked around the rails and into his stall, where his own son was sitting reading Look-In magazine.
‘You brought food?’ asked Mandip. ‘But Mum made us food …’
‘Sssh!’ replied Gulbir, putting his left index finger to his lips. ‘We can eat the other things later …’
‘Did you get sausages and beans?’ Mandip asked excitedly, happy to be sharing a secret with his dad.
Gulbir nodded and set the trays down on the stall bench, moving a pile of star-shaped price cards to one side.
‘Just as you like it,’ he told his son, who beamed at him.
‘Where have Malkit and Rajbir gone today?’ asked Mandip.
‘Your brothers are at a market in Great Yarmouth,’ replied his dad.
‘When I’m as old as them will I have my own stall?’ asked Mandip.
‘If God wills it,’ said Gulbir before taking a mouthful of sausage and egg.
By two in the afternoon, as the weather turned even colder, Gulbir realized that the number of gangs walking past the stall was growing. The football game started at three and the time for being extra cautious had arrived. Across from the stall, down past the huge pub that sat in the middle of the market square, a group of twenty or so skinheads had gathered. Gulbir watched as they stood around, drinking from cans of lager and swearing at passers-by, regardless of their colour. He saw the familiar face of Bhajno Kaur, the wife of his good friend Tarsem Singh, walking her two children past the gang. Sensing that they would need his help he shouted across to Mr Abbas.
‘Bhai – get your cricket bat ready …’ he told him.
‘Why?’
Gulbir nodded at the gang and, just past them, the Asian woman and her children. ‘Just in case,’ he added to Mr Abbas, who nodded his understanding.
Mrs Kaur walked upright, shielding her children from the gang by walking between them. Suddenly an arc of lager sailed in her direction and she flinched. Her daughter saw what had happened and started to cry but Mrs Kaur took her hand and pulled her on, her son following behind. Gulbir felt his stomach tighten and the blood begin to boil in his head. He went into his stall, grabbed the old hockey stick that he kept for protection and walked back into the market. From where he was standing he heard Mrs Kaur swearing at the skinheads, who laughed at her and called her dirty things.
‘Come!’ shouted Mr Abbas. ‘Let us get her—’
‘One minute,’ replied Gulbir, holding up his hand to stop his friend from charging forward.
They watched as the owner of a fruit and veg stall, a white man, approached Mrs Kaur. He led her towards his stall, where his wife used a tea towel to clean her up. The man turned to the gang, walking up to one of the skinheads. He leaned forward and spoke to him and for a moment the skinhead squared his shoulders and clenched his fists, raring up to fight. But when the stallholder pointed back towards the stalls and the skinhead saw eight or nine other stallholders ready to defend their friend, his hands relaxed and his shoulders fell. He said something to his gang and they sloped away, heads down, like the children they were. Gulbir told Mr Abbas that he was going to make sure Mrs Kaur was OK.
‘She’s Tarsem’s wife, is she not?’ asked Mr Abbas.
‘Yes, she is,’ replied Gulbir before turning to his son. ‘Keep an eye on the stall and if you see any more NF, tell Uncle Abbas …’
‘Yes, Daddy-ji,’ replied Mandip.
He watched his father walk off to check on the woman and her children. From the opposite corner, at the entrance to the indoor area, he heard the deep rumble of a bass line and the beginnings of a reggae song, played by the black man who owned the record stall. He looked over and saw three tall black men standing round the stall, wearing round woolly hats that covered their thick, long, serpent-like twists of hair. Mandip knew that they were Rastas – Mikey had told him – but he still felt a pang of fear. He didn’t know why – they just looked so different to everyone else. But then one of them turned and saw him staring and the man flashed a big smile and called out to him.
‘Hail, mi likkle idren!’
Mandip glanced away quickly before looking back. The Rastaman smiled again and lit a big long cigarette. Behind him Mandip heard someone approach. He turned to see Ali.
‘Your dad gone over there?’ asked Mr Abbas’s son.
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Ali, walking into Mandip’s dad’s stall. Mandip followed.
Inside, with the rows of clothes hanging from the metal racks hiding them from the outside, Ali pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He straightened it out and then took a box of matches from another pocket.
‘Where did you get that?’ asked Mandip, as Ali, who was four years older than him, lit up.
Ali grinned. ‘My dad – here, try it …’
Mandip shook his head.
‘Go on! It ain’t going to kill you, you chicken.’
Mandip hesitated for a moment before he took the burning stick from his friend. He put it to his mouth and did what he had seen Ali do. The smoke was thick and strong and it made him choke. He spluttered and coughed, dropping the cigarette as his eyes started to water. Ali broke into laughter, rescuing the tab from the floor.
‘You need to practise,’ he told Mandip, taking a drag.
Through the coughing and the watery eyes, Mandip nodded as he heard a popular tune begin filtering out of the huge bass bins of the reggae stall.
SIMRAN
‘TOOK YER TIME, sister,’ Tyrone said, as we sat in a coffee shop in town.
‘I was on time,’ I said, smiling because I knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. And because I knew something about him, thanks to Paula, that he didn’t.
‘About callin’ me,’ he said.
‘I knew what you were saying – I was just playin’ …’
‘Man – you can rhyme an’ all.’ He grinned.
‘That was quite good, wasn’t it?’
He looked into my eyes and smiled, and I felt my knees go weak like I was in some lame Hollywood chick flick. I blushed. He was so beautiful. Big brown eyes that reflected the light and skin like the purest milk chocolate, with not a blemish on it. I started to get a bit paranoid about the two small pimples on my chin, so small that you’d need a microscope to detect them.
‘It wasn’t bad,’ he said, catching me in my daydream.
‘What?’ I asked, staring into his eyes.<
br />
‘The rhyme, sister. Might make a rapper out of you yet …’
‘But I don’t want to be a rapper,’ I told him. ‘I want to be a forensic scientist.’
He gave me a funny look. ‘A forensic scientist?’ he repeated.
‘That’s what I said, boy.’
Tyrone looked away and then back at me. ‘I don’t like bein’ called boy.’
‘OK then – I’ll call you girl.’
‘Whatever,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with “boy” anyway?’ I asked him.
‘I just hate it. I’m called that all the time at school, you get me. The other lads get called by their first names and I get called boy,’ he explained.
‘Surely not all the time?’
‘Yep – ever since I was a kid. It winds me up …’ he added.
‘OK – from now on I won’t call you boy – ever.’
He took a sip of his mochaccino before he spoke again, not realizing that he’d left himself with a froth moustache.
‘So why a forensic scientist?’
I smiled and pulled a tissue out of my bag, leaning across the table. For a moment Tyrone looked a bit scared, but as I wiped his moustache away he grinned.
‘Easy, sister! Not in public – we’ll get a room,’ he joked.
‘You wish,’ I said, sitting back and screwing up the tissue. I put it down by my coffee cup.
‘So stop changing the subject.’
I looked at him and smiled. ‘You never seen CSI?’
‘That thing with all the dead people bein’ cut up and shit? Yeah – I seen it …’
‘Well, I want to be one of them,’ I said.
‘A cut-up dead person?’
‘No, you shithead, a forensic scientist. The person doing the investigating,’ I explained.
‘Eh! That’s nasty … Now why would someone as fine as you want to go getting involved in some weird shit like that?’ he asked.
‘It’s not weird,’ I protested. ‘It’s a science like any other, only a bit more interesting. Imagine finding out how someone was killed just by what his or her body is telling you? It’s cool …’