She Wore Red Trainers (9 page)

He was taken aback, I could see it. His face coloured up just a little and he blinked a few times – so cute! – before holding out the forms.

‘Umm, I think you're supposed to fill these in.'

‘You think?'

He coughed and ran his fingers through hair that wasn't there. ‘Uh, no, you need to fill those out for each of the
children.'

‘Ah, ok,' I nodded. Inside, I was dying of laughter, but I kept my straight face. His voice and demeanour were so
proper
! I thought of making him scramble for a pen but then I stopped myself.
Enough, Amirah, behave.
I had a pen anyway so I quickly began filling in the forms while he waited outside.

When I had finished, I went out to hand the forms to him. There were the hands, just as I remembered them. And, as he reached out, his shirt sleeve rode up and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his forearm.

Ohh
, I thought to myself,
so someone has a PAST…

‘
Jazakallah khayran
, sister,' he said, reading through what I had written. ‘So… Abdullah is it?' He looked up and saw Abdullah standing next to me, almost hiding behind my
abaya
. ‘Hey, Abdullah,
as-salamu ‘alaykum
.'

‘He's deaf,' I said, suddenly gripped by anxiety. ‘On the form, it said that there would be provision for children with impaired hearing…' All the giddiness of our exchange melted away and I remembered that I was about to leave Abdullah with a bunch of strange brothers for the first time in his life. Would they know how to handle him? Would they even be able to communicate with him? Be patient with him? Was I crazy putting him in this programme?

‘Yes, that's right, there is.' He looked embarrassed for a minute. ‘Does he sign or read lips or write notes or …'

‘All of the above,' I said proudly.

I was the one who had insisted that Abdullah learn to lip read even though he was a fantastic signer. Mum had never been good at sign language and still relied more on speaking slowly and writing notes, if things got too hectic. I had taught the others how to sign but they still got lazy sometimes.

But I could feel Abdullah shaking at my side so I turned away from Ali and knelt in front of him. I touched his chin and his big brown eyes met mine.

‘Abdullah,' I said, signing at the same time, to make sure he got me. ‘You are going to be OK. Don't be afraid. Remember Allah? He'll look after you, OK? And this nice brother here, Brother Ali, he's going to look after you, too, OK? Will you give it a try, please, just for today?'

He nodded and I smiled and pinched his dumpling cheek. ‘That's my boy.'

I straightened up, suddenly embarrassed that Mr Light Eyes had seen me in such a private moment with Abdullah. I avoided looking at him and stepped aside as he came forward to kneel in front of Abdullah.

And his voice changed, became warmer, softer. ‘Abdullah, you see that brother over there? His name is Brother Omar and he really needs some extra hands to help him set up because he's running super late. Do you think we could go over and give him a hand?'

To my amazement, I saw that he was signing! A bit rusty, true, and some of the signs and words didn't quite match, but he was signing, that was for sure. And Abdullah understood him, which was the main thing.

I couldn't help myself. ‘So
you
are the provision for deaf children? Where… how did you learn sign language?'

He ducked his head, all modest. ‘I took classes while I was in Senior School. We were twinned with a school for the deaf in Mexico and got to do some volunteer work out there, alhamdulillah.' Again, he ran his perfect hands over his head and looked around him. ‘To be honest, it feels like a lifetime ago.'

‘Mashallah,' I smiled. ‘That's beautiful. It must have been so amazing… Mexico… I've always dreamt of going there.'

He looked up, his eyes bright. ‘Really? Can you speak Spanish?'

I giggled, in spite of myself. ‘
Un poquito
– I took extra classes at school. But I'd love to learn properly one day.'

‘
Usted sera capaz de hablar español un día
, Inshallah…'

I almost fainted with pleasure at the sound of his voice and his gorgeous Spanish accent but then the Asian brother came out of the other hall and cleared his throat. ‘You got those forms, Ali?'

Ali looked over at him, clearly embarrassed. ‘Yeah, just finding out how best to communicate with little Abdullah here. He reads lips and signs, mashallah.'

Then he smiled again and flashed me a look that said ‘I'll take it from here.' I stepped back and watched as Abdullah walked off with him towards where Brother Omar was taping large sheets of paper to the floor.

Not bad,
I thought once again.
Not bad at all…

And, this time, I wasn't talking about his hotness.

No siree.

17

I have to admit, I was all over the place after Amirah left. The only thing that kept me focused was the fact that Abdullah wouldn't leave my side. It was as if the bond that he had with his sister had been magically passed on to me. He was like my little shadow.

When the rest of the kids arrived I realised how accurate my initial misgivings about coming here were. I could feel my confidence – whatever was left of it – seeping out of me as I watched the boys troop into the centre. Their faces were hard, their mannerisms aggressive, their language like the language of the thugs and rappers they were clearly trying to emulate.

I was totally taken aback. Was this the state of the Muslim youth? I found myself thanking Allah that Dad had decided to put Jamal in a maths enrichment programme at a local private school. This was no place for my little brother.

Usamah must have seen my horrified expression. ‘Don't judge them too harshly, akh,' he murmured as he passed by on his way to a group of older boys. ‘A lot of these young brothers come from broken homes, no dad at home, gangs and drugs all around them. We should be grateful they're here with us, instead of out on the streets. Try to put aside your prejudices and just be there for them. They need you to be a
big brother to them, not just another adult criticising them, making them feel worthless.'

I felt ashamed of myself then. This was the essence of working for the sake of Allah: giving of yourself for others, for the greater good, not looking for personal gratification or worldly reward. I had been reading about these ideas in the sayings of the Prophet. It took a room full of disaffected Muslim youth to show me the significance of them.

Something about that day, the way Amirah knew my name without me telling her, the challenging look on the boys' faces, the trusting look in little Abdullah's eyes, made me think that this was only the beginning of a new journey for me.

And only Allah knew where that journey was taking me.

18

I felt surprisingly calm as I hopped onto the bus to Croydon. I was sure that I had made the right decision, that Abdullah would be fine – that Ali would look after him.

He was a sweetie. Really, he was. Not many brothers could have – or would have – done what he did, getting onto Abdullah's level, drawing him out in that way. It was as if he really cared. And, if he had been faking it, Abdullah would have sussed him out straight away. Kids like him are amazingly intuitive. They just
know
when someone is genuine. They can smell fakeness a mile away. But Abdullah hadn't turned away from Ali and clung to me; he had responded to his invitation and followed him, leaving me standing there, looking after him anxiously, my heart in my mouth.

Abdullah had trusted him. I felt sure that I could, too.

Time to focus on me now, I thought, as I made my way to Croydon Library for an art class.

I had always enjoyed drawing and art lessons but I really caught the bug at my new school in my GCSE year. Between school trips to the National Gallery and lessons with Ms Fergus, my art teacher, I learned to appreciate art in its many forms and it turned out that I had a way with paints, pastels and charcoal. I tell you, when I stepped into that art room,
it was love at first sight. And it only became stronger when I started to go out and look at other artists' work. Yup, this hijabi, inner city Muslim girl was in her element among the ballet dancers of Degas, the landscapes of Monet and the abstracts of Kandinsky.

What stops me from turning my back on it is the thought of my art teacher, Ms Fergus, and how she had behaved when she saw my final piece of coursework.

You know, she stood there, in silence, for what felt like ages, looking at it. I tried to read her face; I had poured my heart and soul into that painting, all the tears, all the pain, the feelings of bitterness and regret, all went into that piece. Had it come through at all? Or was it just pretentious rubbish?

‘Amirah,' she had said at last, her voice hoarse. ‘I… I don't know what to say…'

I bowed my head, trying to blink back my tears. ‘It's OK, Miss. I understand.'

Next thing I knew, she was hugging me, rubbing my back. I just stood there like an idiot. I just didn't know what to do. I mean, it's not every day that you have a teacher go to pieces on you.

‘Amirah… it's beautiful… no, not beautiful… raw, real, powerful. That's what it is: powerful.' She turned to look at it again then reached for my hand. ‘You have a gift, Amirah, you really do. And I don't say that lightly. I hope you will be allowed to use that gift. It would be a crime to hide it from the world.' She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. Small patches of red stood out on her cheeks and I wondered what it was like to have a face that broadcast all your emotions to the world.

‘Promise me you won't give up on your art, Amirah,' she
said then, quite fiercely. ‘Promise me.'

I knew what she was talking about. It was because I was a Muslim girl, a Muslim girl who had opted for a practical but boring degree course – Business Administration – rather than pursuing art as a career. If she had been talking to Caitlin or Imogen, she wouldn't have needed to say anything. She would simply have nodded in approval as they applied for degree courses at Central Saint Martins, waiting patiently for invitations to their shows in trendy galleries in Brick Lane and Shoreditch. After all, they had parents who appreciated art and would support them. Most Muslim girls came from families where the arts were still viewed with suspicion or, sometimes, open hostility. And no one's parents were going to support their girls when they thought they would be going to college or university to draw naked people and hang around with crazy artists with tattoos and expensive drug habits.

So, studying Business Administration was my cop-out, in a way. I didn't have the luxury of doing something I loved; I had to do something practical, something I could use later on in life, something that would pay the bills. I just hoped I would get the grades I needed to secure my place. The subjects I had taken with that degree in mind, Business Studies and Economics, had been much harder than I thought they would be. Add to that the fact that I spent all my spare time in the art room, instead of reading those boring textbooks, and I had reason to make strong prayer.

Mum had laughed at me when I first started going to galleries and art markets, dragging my new BFF Rania with me. ‘Where you getting all these posh ideas from, eh?' she would tease. I never answered her. I knew she wouldn't understand. Instead, I relied on Auntie Azra to encourage me
and, sometimes, drive us out to Abbey Mill to see the artisans at work and try our hand at pottery and basket weaving. Another world, I tell you.

Of course it had to be Auntie Azra who would take us. No one else in the community really did stuff like that. As far as they were concerned, that stuff was for non-Muslims or, to be more specific, white people. As if a brown girl like me can't appreciate the work of the French impressionists!

I guess those things – that world – is too removed from most people's day to day reality. Life is tough for most people. Art is for the select few, those who have the time and energy to appreciate it. You can't appreciate beauty if you are running on empty, struggling to survive.

All the more reason to choose a different type of life.

***

By the time I got to Croydon Library, there was a group of young people standing at the main desk, filling in application forms. They looked like your typical arty types – all jeans, beaten-up trainers and wannabe dreadlocks. I glanced down at my own outfit: my favourite khaki linen
abaya
with the front pocket and Palestinian kefiyyeh around my neck, regulation black hijab and my red Converse trainers. Yeah, avant-garde enough. I didn't quite fit in, of course, but then I wasn't here to fit in. I was here to do some serious creating.

If there's one thing I've learnt in my short time on earth, it is that you don't have to look, behave or think like everyone else to achieve. Just be sincere, work hard and Allah will take care of the rest.

After we'd filled in the forms, we all filed into the function room where the course was being held. It was breathtaking. Light streamed in through the tall windows that looked out over Croydon and the surrounding area. Each chair faced an easel with a pile of papers clipped to it. I fingered the sheets.
Thick, good quality rag paper, no doubt
, I smiled to myself.
I'm going to enjoy this
.

I looked around before choosing a seat next to a petite blonde with wild, frizzy hair and silver nose ring. We exchanged smiles as we sat down.

‘Welcome, everybody,' said the woman who was now standing in front of the wall of windows. She was a tall black woman with piercing green eyes and a bright African print wrap wound around her head. ‘Can you all take a seat? There, that's it.' She smiled, a brilliant smile that seemed to light up the whole room. ‘My name is Collette Lee, I will be your tutor on this course. Let me tell you a little bit about myself: I am an artist by profession and I also teach art classes and do art therapy with children with special needs here in Croydon and in other boroughs.' As she spoke, her hands danced in the air, her silver rings flashing.