You're Not Proper (15 page)

A heavy, booming voice racing through the house woke me up. This was the unmistakeable roar of my granddad. It was dark outside. My room was all clean. My shoes were gone. The dirty towel was gone. My dirty underwear was off the floor. My desk was all sorted, and everything that should be hanging on the hook behind the door was hanging there and not lying on the floor.

Each time Granddad met my Dad, it was like he hadn't seen him for years. Hugging and kissing, complaining to my Dad that so-and-so's-father's cousin died in Pakistan so he should go to their house in Sheffield to give them condolences; my father would always spend ages pretending to work out who this so-and-so was. A moment or so later, there was sure to be a heated argument between father and son.

Granddad saw me as I went past the door. There was someone else in the room, but I didn't see who it was. Granddad raised his hand, but I shot into the kitchen before he could call me. The air in the kitchen was rich with the scent of fried samosas and pakoras. Below the noisy extractor, steam was coming out of three pans. Mum was putting some cups on a tray, next to a plate of freshly made kebabs.

‘Wow, Mum,' I said, taking a samosa and biting into it. I asked, ‘Why didn't you wake me up, and who's the special visitor?'

‘You were out cold, you were, and don't talk with your mouth full,' Mum said. ‘You're not a child now.' She picked up the tray with the tea, nodded to the plates, and said, ‘Bring those in.'

The samosas were so delicious, I bit into another one. To Mum's disapproving eyes, I left the half eaten one on the table and followed her into the living room. Jani from Year 11 was sat down furiously texting on his phone. His father, who sat next to him, rocked his head continuously from side to side; I used to think this meant ‘no' but it actually means ‘yes'. My granddad and Dad were arguing as they always did.

‘If it wasn't for the Americans, where would your team be, lad?' Granddad asked, flicking his thick eyebrows at me, giving me that
hellosweetiejustkeepquiet
kind of a look.

Dad slapped the side of the chair and said, ‘And look at your team, Dad, where would your lot be if wasn't for Arab money?'

Mum put the tray on the coffee table and pulled it into the room, in between Granddad and Dad. I put the plates of food on the table, giving Jani a
whatthefyoudoinghere
stare. He looked away from me and sent his text. ‘And how is my luv'ly granddaughter?' Granddad asked. ‘And how grown-up you are now.'

Dad didn't give me a chance to reply and said, ‘At least people across the world care for us. We're not merely have-beens, losers, acting-big-on-oil-money-from-Arab-fat-cats.'

‘You know what I think about football?' I said, plonking the samosa plate on the table. ‘How can anyone get excited about a load of big, sweaty men running around after a ball?'

Granddad laughed. Dad said, ‘Man U is not just a football team, it's a legend…'

Granddad whispered into Mum's ear. Mum pulled away, held me by the hand and led me out of the room. As I was leaving, Jani's Dad said, ‘Manchester United or Manchester City, we're all Muslims.'

In the kitchen, Mum said, ‘Granddad wants you to dress properly for the occasion.'

‘What occasion, Mum?'

Mum hesitated, and said, ‘You know, dear, your Granddad has come with his friend and their son.'

‘That loser, Jani, yeah,' I said. I didn't like where this was going.

‘Well, you know.' ‘Know what, Mum?'

Mum lifted the lid off a pan, waited for the steam to escape, stirred the food, and said, ‘Your granddad wants to know what you think about, about him arranging, you know, your marriage…'

‘Mum!'

Marriage, I thought. They've got to be kidding. My parents have gone mad. I don't even know if they ever really got married themselves, or just pretended they were to keep everyone happy. An arranged marriage!

‘You know what Dad calls this sort of a thing?' I asked. ‘A lucky bag job.' ‘It's not my idea,' Mum said, putting the lid back on.

‘Did you ever get married, Mum?'

‘Oh, darling, how can you say such a horrible thing,'

Mum grinned. ‘Of course we did. I still have my dress.'

‘You want me to wear it, do you?' She didn't answer.

‘I'm only fourteen.'

‘That's what I said,' Mum said, taking plates out of the cupboard. ‘Your granddad said it's just a thought for the future, not now.'

‘To that idiot!' I laughed. ‘You know what girls say…' ‘I don't need to know…'

‘Why didn't you tell me before, at least I could have dressed
properly
?' I asked.

‘Your Dad only told me last night…'

Last night, I hissed inside my head. I could throw the food away. No, spit in it. Chuck it at them. Then an idea came to me. ‘How could
you
keep it from me, Mum?' I said, turning to leave.

‘Where you going, luv?' ‘To dress properly,' ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's no big deal, Mum, honest,'

‘Oh, Karey…'

‘It's Kiran, Mum.'

I got changed as quickly as I could and came down to help Mum, wearing the shortest skirt I could find.

‘That's my girl,' Mum said, her eyes almost popping out of her head.

Mum had cooked the chicken and was making fresh rotis. I chopped some salad and spread it out on a plate. Mum filled a large serving bowl with chicken, placed it on a tray with the rotis, put the plate of salad on top of the rotis and asked me to fetch a jug of water.

I took the empty plates, walked up to the front room and peeped in through the half-open door.

My Dad and granddad were still arguing about Manchester United and City. Jani's Dad was smiling stupidly, stroking his hennaed beard. My granddad stopped talking, closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma from the food. He opened his eyes, took off his glasses, took a handkerchief out of his top pocket and started cleaning them. Holding the glasses in his left hand, he pulled the table closer to him, and said, ‘I could eat a horse and chase the jockey, I could.' Then he laughed loudly. He always said this when we put food in front of him in our house. ‘I bet you could,' I thought, ‘and probably take a bite out of the spectators as well.'

I walked in and said the loudest
As-salam alaykum
I had ever said. Jani's Dad's mouth dropped open when he saw me. My Dad looked at me and started wiping the table clean with a piece of tissue. Granddad put on his glasses, took them off and started cleaning them again. Jani was still texting.

Come on girl, I thought to myself, fill a glass of water and chuck it at him. No, better to throw something hot so it'll burn. Mum brought in a steaming bowl of chicken. I imagined pouring it down his trousers. Jani screaming down the road. Him, turning round to look at me. Me, sticking my middle finger up at him. I slumped down next to Dad, folded my arms and glared at Granddad. He looked at me, winked at my Dad, and said, ‘Young people. They have their ways, I suppose. Why don't us men go for a walk before we eat dinner?'

‘Perfect,' I thought. ‘This is the right time. As soon as Mum leaves, it all goes down his pants.' Jani didn't notice the men leaving, or me glaring at him. I waited for a bit, and said, ‘So, what's this then, you sack of farts?'

‘What's what?' Jani said, without taking his eyes off his mobile phone. ‘Put that thing down and talk to me now or…' I looked at the chicken bowl and laughed, ‘you're going to need a lot of ice.' Jani put the phone in his pocket, looked sheepishly at me, and said, ‘It's not what you think.'

‘What's not what I think?' I asked. ‘I don't want to marry you,' Jani said.

Mum stood by the door pretending not to be listening. ‘Who the hell wants to marry
you?'
I asked.

‘I mean, I didn't come here to marry you,' Jani said.

‘Why did you come at all you, idiot?' I said. ‘You know I hate you.' ‘Me Dad said he would buy me a new bike if I just came with him.'

Mum burst out laughing. I went up to Jani and whispered things no Mum should hear. His freckly face went bright red.

When the men returned, Mum and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Granddad looked shrivelled up and sunken. I could tell he felt really let down and humiliated in front of Jani's Dad. When he saw how happy we all were, he straightened and nudged my Dad, with a
seeItoldyouso
type of a nudge. My Dad frowned and rubbed his hand over his head not knowing which way to look. Jani's Dad twiddled with some prayer beads and said aloud, ‘AllahOSomething'.

The men sat down. Mum and I walked out of the living room. They ate quietly. Mum and I collected a few things from the kitchen and came back. As we got to the front room, Jani's father said, ‘Well, son, are you happy with the decision?'

Mum and I stopped where we were. There was a pause, and Jani's father said a bit louder, ‘Put that thing away. I'm talking to you.' ‘What's up, Dad?' Jani stammered.

‘Are you happy with our choice?' Jani's Dad asked.

‘Yeah, but make sure I get an extended guarantee,' Jani said. ‘Guarantee!' Jani's Dad said.

‘I want to make sure it's as good uphill as it is down,' Jani said. ‘Up. Down!' Jani's father exclaimed.

‘Don't want me gears knackering up Da…' Jani stopped mid-sentence with a gasp.

Mum stayed where she was but I walked back into the room, and said, ‘Uncle, he's only here for a bicycle. It's cheaper than a bride.' And then I walked back out again, grabbed Mum's hand and we went into the kitchen. We shut the door after us and had a really good
mumdaughter
laugh.

We were wiping our eyes when the front door slammed shut. We looked at each other and burst out laughing again. Dad came into the kitchen. He had the biggest grin on him I have ever seen. He walked past us, opened the fridge, pulled out a can of beer and went back into the living room, shaking his head incredulously.

After everyone had left, Mum asked me if I wanted to go shopping with her and Dad. I slumped on the settee instead and didn't wake up again until they came back home. I opened the door. Mum walked right past me as though I wasn't there. Dad was singing, a newspaper under his armpit. It fell on the floor. It was the Boarhead Evening News. The front page had a smiling Alex Ferguson, the Man U manager, on it. Now was my time, I thought.

I picked up the newspaper, hugged Dad, and asked, ‘Can we all please go to Pakistan for Christmas this year?'

Mum gave me a look that frightened me. She went like this once a year. Near Christmas.

‘I don't have any time this year,' Dad said, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘My friend Laila's going with her family, I could go with her and visit your village and see the relatives I have never seen.' ‘No,' Dad stood up and looked out of the window.

‘Why can't I go, Dad?' I asked. ‘I was born there, why can't I go for a visit?'

He didn't turn around. ‘Mum?'

She remained silent. She was ghostly white.

‘If it's money, I'll pay you back when I grow up,' I said.

I waited for either of them to say something back. They just looked through each other. I left them to their stares and went up to my bedroom.

By the time I got to my bedroom, Mum and Dad were shouting at each other.
It
was back. But this time it was different. I shut my door, but I could still hear them arguing. I couldn't work out what they were saying to each other, only that my name kept coming up.

Mum and Dad were always arguing since I asked if I could go to Pakistan. If they knew I was around, they would go silent and stare at each other as though they were strangers. I could see my family falling apart. I wanted to ask them why they were destroying each other. I had rights, didn't I? I was a part of this family, wasn't I? I had a say about us staying together, didn't I? I loved them and I knew, deep down, they loved each other. What was so bad that they were ripping each other apart? Why couldn't they just kiss and make up, like they used to? But I was not a part of this grown-up world and they made sure I was kept out.

Mum and Dad were not fighting like Mums and Dads fight: about shopping, cleaning, going out or watching television. Mine were fighting about something they did not want me to know. It was to do with me. Maybe because I was a Muslim now? I asked Mum this very question when she was sitting alone in the kitchen dicing the onions, over and over again. A pot of daal was boiling on the cooker behind her.

She put the knife down on the table, wiped her hands, leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. She stood up, lifted the lid off the pan, stirred the daal and switched the extractor on. It burst noisily into life, sucking the steam up into its innards.

Mum's kiss was a dry, empty kiss. Her lips had hardly touched me. It fell off my forehead as soon as she turned around.

After putting the lid back on the pan, she picked up a bulb of garlic, sat back down, placed the garlic next to her and started chopping the diced onions again.

‘You know I love you and Dad, Mum,' I said. ‘Can't you two just make it up like you used to?'

She didn't answer. I didn't think she would. I started peeling the garlic.

Placing the peeled garlic in front of her, I said, ‘It doesn't matter, I won't go to Pakistan. I just asked. It's not that important.'

Mum stopped chopping and looked at me. She turned ghostly white. The knife still in her hand. Its blade up. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. They trembled on the edges of her eyelids. One of them slid down her face. She flicked it off her cheek.

‘Mum, please,' I called out.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She pursed her lips and shook her head.

‘Is it because of Jake?' I asked. ‘I need to know what's going on Mum. He's not my boyfriend, Mum. Honest. I'm not like that. He's my mate. You know he's from WTM. Besides he's not my type.'