by Bali Rai
I was about to try and calm him down but I realized that it wouldn’t work. He was fuming. Instead I told Ruby and Lisa that we were going.
‘You’d better take care,’ I said to him.
‘I will,’ he replied, his voice softer this time.
I kissed him and gave him a hug. ‘Call me in the morning, OK?’
‘Try an’ stop me.’ He grinned.
I got into the cab feeling less worried, but only slightly. As I turned to face Ruby and Lisa, Ruby gave me a dirty look.
‘I told you this would happen,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Pally’s a nice lad normally. He ain’t racist – he wouldn’t do that if it didn’t bother him … I told you,’ she repeated.
‘You know what?’ I said to her, my anger rising. ‘I don’t like you any more. You can lie to your mum on your own from now on.’
She shrugged. ‘You’ll see,’ she replied. ‘It ain’t right. That kalah is gonna get you into big trouble.’
‘Why don’t you shut your two-faced gob before I shut it for you?’ I snapped, meaning it. Ruby looked away.
Lisa whistled softly, a sign that she was embarrassed; then she shrugged and told the driver where we were going. No one spoke on the ride home.
SIMRAN
‘YOU OK?’ I asked Tyrone as we came out of the cinema the following evening.
‘Nah – that film was lame. I think my brain is meltin’.’
I punched him on the shoulder and called him an arse. ‘I meant about last night,’ I explained.
‘What’s the big deal?’
I thought about the nasty things that Pally had said to both of us and realized that it was time to talk about other people’s attitudes. I was going to have to deal with them at school anyway so it made sense to talk to my boyfriend about it first.
‘The racial stuff,’ I said, looking at him.
He nodded towards the pub next to the cinema. ‘Come – let’s go sit down,’ he told me.
I waited on a wooden bench outside as he went to get us drinks. It was eight in the evening but felt earlier and it was a lot warmer than it should have been for the time of year – you could feel the moisture in the atmosphere. There were a few other people outside too, mostly couples like us, either waiting for their films to start or having a drink on the way home. I didn’t feel too self-conscious. Tyrone looked like he was in his twenties and most people thought that I looked older than I was. That would have put us in the same age bracket as most of the couples I could see. If we actually were their age, that is.
‘Got you lemonade with a twist of lime,’ said Tyrone, knocking me out of people-watching.
‘Thanks,’ I said, stirring the slice of lime around with a straw and watching beads of condensation forming on the outside of the glass. A car engine roared in the car park.
‘Thought you might have had enough booze last night,’ he added.
‘You callin’ me a piss-head?’ I asked.
‘You drank enough.’
I grinned. ‘I’m a good Punjabi girl, me. Come from a long line of hard-drinking farmers – it’s in my blood.’
‘Must be after last night,’ said Tyrone, labouring the joke.
‘Seriously though,’ I replied, ‘you sure it didn’t bother you – all that stuff?’
‘I’d be a liar if I said no,’ he told me. ‘Them things that bwoi said were harsh an’ you ain’t even translated what he said to you in Punjabi.’
‘Trust me – you don’t want to know,’ I said.
‘Maybe I do.’
‘It was like what he said in English. He was calling you names and me a slag,’ I admitted.
‘I knew I should have smacked that wanker …’
I flicked at the straw with a forefinger. ‘What would that have done?’
‘Dunno, but that’s what I felt like doin’.’
‘It would have made things ten times worse,’ I said. ‘And when my uncles and aunts find out about you, their reaction will be bad enough.’
He ran his hand over his head before taking a swig of Coke. ‘Is it gonna be that bad?’ he asked. ‘Because if it is then maybe I ain’t worth the grief.’
I gulped when his words began to sink in. Was he trying to get rid of me? I asked him.
‘Nah – I don’t wanna get rid of you, Simmy. It’s just I don’t want you to blame me if shit goes wrong with your family.’
‘I won’t. If they stop talking to me, that’s their lookout. How would you be to blame?’
He shrugged. ‘I spoke to Azhar about it today. He told me that some Punjabi people don’t like blacks – especially the men.’
I raised my left eyebrow. ‘What does he know about being Punjabi?’ I asked.
‘That’s where his family are from – the Pakistani side. You really should learn the history of your parents’ country,’ he said.
‘They were both born here,’ I corrected him. ‘But I know what you mean. My uncles bang on about India and I don’t know anything about it.’
‘There’s elephants,’ he replied with a smile. ‘And samosas and the Kama Sutra …’
‘Trust you to think about your stomach and sex,’ I commented. ‘Can’t work out the elephants though.’
‘I used to love them when I was a kid,’ he said.
‘Aaah!’ I said, as stupidly as I could manage.
The couple at the bench next to us gave me a funny look, smiled and went back to their own conversation.
‘So, do your uncles and that … do they hate black people?’ asked Tyrone.
‘I dunno – they hate everyone. Put it this way, my brother fell out with a load of my cousins because they called his mate a nigger and other stuff.’
‘Your cousins?’ he asked.
‘Yeah – you know, the biological offspring of my uncles and aunts – you must know the concept …’
‘Now who’s taking the piss?’ he said.
‘Sorry.’
I drank some of my lemonade as we sat for a while and watched the world go by. Not that there was much of it around on a Sunday evening.
‘I know some black people who don’t like Asians either,’ he admitted.
I sighed. ‘I suppose there’s people like that in every community.’
‘Yeah, but it don’t make sense,’ said Tyrone. ‘I mean, all of us, all us ethnic minority or whatever we’re supposed to say – all our people came to this country in the same way …’
‘I suppose …’
Tyrone shook his head. ‘Ain’t no suppose about it. They was all ex-colonials and they got invited here because there was all these jobs that white people didn’t want to do. And they all got the same grief from them skinheads and right-wing politicians,’ he continued.
‘How come you know so much about it?’ I asked.
‘I kind of study it,’ he said sheepishly, as though it was a big shameful secret or something.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah – I wanna be a journalist maybe and I’m collecting pictures and stories from my family about when they came over here in the nineteen fifties. I even taped my gramps when he told me about how they used to live when they first arrived.’
In my head another massive tick went on the plus side of my perfect partner chart. Not that there was anything on the other side anyway.
‘Can I see it sometime?’ I asked, fascinated by what he was telling me.
‘Yeah. But like I was saying – mostly our older people had to stick together and that, and now us young ones are messing it up.’
I took his hand. ‘Not all of us,’ I assured him.
‘You know what I mean though,’ he said.
‘Yeah – I do.’
‘And it don’t make no sense to me because what’s colour all about anyway?’
I nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘I mean, it ain’t like we get to choose what colour we’re born. You wasn’t sitting in your mum’s belly deciding that you wanted to be
born Asian or white or whatever – like it’s a shopping trip or summat.’
‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ I admitted. ‘You’re right though … and we should really make a move. I’ve got stuff to get ready for school.’
‘Yeah – come on,’ he said, downing his drink and standing up.
‘But keep talking,’ I said to him. ‘I’m enjoying it – you haven’t mentioned football or looked at my chest once.’
‘Cheeky cow.’
I punched him on the shoulder.
LEICESTER MARKET, NOVEMBER 1979
GULBIR SINGH TOLD his son to go to the van and open it up. He watched Mandip walk off with his friend Ali in tow, and then turned to his stall, beginning to remove the stock, leaving it in piles on the bench. Once he had piled it all up he climbed onto the bench and began to dismantle the cold metal poles that made up the stall, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were nearly frozen solid.
Darkness had begun to fall and Gulbir wanted to get away before the football fans began to return to the city centre in even greater numbers than they were already. Leicester City had lost heavily and there was a sense of danger in the air. Every now and then Gulbir heard shouts go up and police sirens wail. He took down the top row of poles and then started on the second tier. From his position he could see the black man, Selwyn, beginning to close down his record stall, although he was still playing music. Three of his friends stood around with him, talking and stamping their feet to keep out the cold. He nodded at Selwyn when their eyes met and Selwyn nodded in return.
From his right, past the stalls, out on the street where he had parked his battered old van, Gulbir heard a football chant go up. He turned quickly to see three skinheads walking down the aisle between the stalls, kicking at things and pulling stock from stalls, throwing it to the ground. Gulbir felt himself tense up and searched frantically for Mandip. But he couldn’t see his son anywhere, or Ali.
‘We’ve got trouble,’ Mr Abbas called from across the aisle.
Gulbir nodded and jumped down from the bench, looking for his hockey stick. But he couldn’t see it, buried as it was underneath the stock. He looked around and saw the weary looks on the faces of the other stallholders nearby. Thinking that he might be able to ignore the skinheads, Gulbir continued dismantling his stall.
‘Oi, Abdul!’ he heard one of the skins shout.
Gulbir turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered skinhead sneering at him, a spider’s-web tattoo crawling up the left side of his neck onto the lower part of his jaw. Gulbir felt his fists clench.
‘Yeah, you – what you got for me?’ continued the skin, as his two friends began to grab at Gulbir’s stock and throw it around.
Gulbir tried to stop them but the big skinhead with the tattoo pushed him to one side. He looked up and saw Mr Abbas approaching with his cricket bat. The skinhead turned, saw Mr Abbas and let out a laugh.
‘What’s this then – a Paki army?’ he sneered.
‘Do you want us to do him?’ asked one of the other skins.
‘Looks like he wants it,’ said the tattooed skinhead.
Gulbir waited until he spoke before shoving him with his shoulder. The skinhead, taken by surprise, lost his footing and stumbled sideways a few feet. Once he’d regained his balance he turned to Gulbir.
‘You should have got a return ticket back to bongo-bongo land,’ he told him. ‘Now I’m gonna do me duty as an Englishman and send you back in a box …’
Gulbir readied himself but the three skins jumped in as one, throwing wild punches and kicks. Gulbir fell to one knee and raised his arms to protect his face and head. He felt a blow to his ribs and then another; a kick to his back. He groaned, waiting for the rest of the beating, catching a glimpse of one of the skins fighting with Mr Abbas. And then he heard them.
‘Wha’ de bumboclaat!’
He looked up and saw the three black men who’d been standing by the stall running towards him. One of the men lost his woolly hat and his hair escaped, like a nest of snakes swarming and dancing around his head. Gulbir stayed on one knee as he watched the three black men jump the skins and give them a beating. When he was free of blows, Gulbir got to his feet and joined in, along with a few more of the stallholders. Selwyn ran over too, helping Mr Abbas up, blood pouring from a cut to his forehead.
* * *
When Mandip and Ali ran after the police, back towards their fathers’ stalls, they found three badly beaten skin-heads lying on the floor, bleeding, and both their fathers arguing with the police. The three Rastamen that Mandip had seen hanging around all afternoon were handcuffed and being led to a police van, struggling all the way – so much so that it was taking three police to one man to get them into the van. Mandip ran to his dad and asked if he was OK. The police, satisfied that they had sorted things out, were now helping the skinheads to the ambulance that had been called for them.
Gulbir looked down at his son as one of the policemen made a comment about Mr Abbas, calling him a ‘lucky black bastard’ and not caring who heard.
‘I’m fine,’ Gulbir said to Mandip, with a sad smile.
Mandip looked around at the mess and began to help pick up all the stock that the skinheads had ruined, wishing that he hadn’t been hiding in the van, smoking another cigarette with Ali, when the fight had started.
INDERJIT AND PARMJIT GILL
INDERJIT TURNED HIS Audi A4 down a side street off Evington Road and pulled over to the kerb. He opened his door, leaned out and threw up.
‘Easy, bro,’ said his cousin Parmjit. ‘You drink too much?’
They’d been to a friend’s wedding and spent the entire afternoon and evening drinking lager followed by Bacardi and Coke and eating spicy tandoori chicken and thick, mouth-blistering lamb curry. Inderjit threw up twice more before he could reply.
‘That curry messed me up. Weren’t the booze …’ he insisted.
‘Want me to drive?’ asked Parmjit.
‘I think you better.’
Parmjit got out of the passenger side and half walked, half stumbled over to the driver’s door. Inderjit slid across the seats, avoiding the gear stick by lifting his legs over it, one at a time, his head spinning at the exertion.
‘Good piss-up though,’ said Parmjit.
‘Yeah, bruv – best I been to in a long time,’ agreed his cousin.
‘I’ll drive to ours – you can sleep it off there,’ suggested Parmjit.
‘Anything you say,’ replied Inderjit. ‘I just want a bed.’
‘Lightweight – you’re goin’ on like a white boy.’
‘Theery maa dhi lann,’ said Inderjit, swearing in Punjabi at his cousin’s slight on his manhood – telling him his mother had a penis.
Parmjit grinned and pulled away from the kerb as an African man walked past, shaking his head at the puddle of puke they had left behind. Parmjit turned left and left again before making a right back onto Evington Road. He put his foot down and the car sped up, sending his stomach into somersaults. But he held it down and at the bottom of the road, where it forked into two, he went right and on up Evington Lane.
They were halfway along when Parmjit saw someone he recognized out of the corner of his eye. ‘What the fuck …?’ he asked, turning left and pulling up in Mayflower Road.
‘What?’ asked Inderjit.
‘Di’n’t you see that?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I had,’ Inderjit pointed out.
‘Simran …’
‘Yeah – so what?’
‘Kissing a kalah,’ added Parmjit.
‘Get lost! She ain’t no slag.’
Parmjit pulled away from the kerb again and drove around the block. He waited at the end of Baden Road so that they wouldn’t be seen, got out of the car and peered round the corner. It was definitely Simran and she was hanging off a tall black lad who looked familiar. Parmjit went back to the car.
‘It’s definitely her!’ he said in Punjabi.
‘With a kalah?’ asked In
derjit, getting angry.
‘Not just with him – kissing him up like a fuckin’ ho.’
Inderjit started to get out of the car but Parmjit stopped him.
‘What you doin’? Let me go—’
‘No.’
Inderjit looked at his cousin like he was crazy. ‘I ain’t sittin’ here while one of our sisters brings shame on the family.’
‘What you gonna do – beat them up?’
Inderjit didn’t reply but Parmjit knew what his answer would be.
‘Let’s just get home and tell my dad,’ Parmjit suggested instead. ‘And then see how her dad reacts.’
‘But—’
‘No. If we batter dem on the street, people gonna come watch and everyone will know our business, you get me? Best we deal with it cleverer than that,’ said Parmjit.
‘I ain’t dealing wit’ nuttin’ clever – believe that!’ spat Inderjit. ‘No kalah is going to ruin one of our women.’
Parmjit held his cousin back again. ‘I don’t see her complainin’,’ he replied.
‘Fine – but drive by ’em again so I know what that kalah bastard looks like,’ said Inderjit.
Parmjit waited a moment or two before turning left and driving past the couple. They were too busy kissing to see the Audi pass by slowly.
‘That’s that kalah from football!’ said Inderjit.
‘Yeah, I know,’ replied Parmjit. ‘He’s David’s mate.’
‘You mean David lets his own sister get touch up by a nigger? Nah …’
Parmjit sped off, eager to get back home to tell his old man. If anyone knew how to deal with Simran and the rest of her mash-up family, it would be his dad.
‘You better pull over,’ said Inderjit. ‘I’m gonna be sick again.’
‘I told you it was too much booze.’
‘Ain’t the booze,’ said Inderjit, as the car slowed to a halt. ‘It’s the thought of that dirty, banana-eatin’ wanker with his hands all over our cousin.’
Parmjit felt a wave of anger as Inderjit spelled out what they’d just seen.