You're Not Proper (17 page)

A week before the Christmas holidays, Laila went to Pakistan.

The first snow of the winter fell the week after Laila left. I saw it falling through my bedroom window. I watched it fall on the rooftops, watched it fall on children throwing snowballs at each other, and watched it cover the cars and hedges. I remembered how Dad used to make me a snowman. He built the best snowman on the street. Even if the snowman was much thinner than he was, and even if it was the only one in East Boarhead with a cucumber for a nose, it was still the best. I fell asleep dreaming of my snowman.

It was bin day, and Karen's Dad was going to pass our street. I had my camera ready. It was charged and waiting on the kitchen table. I'd been meaning to take a photograph of his big, fat ugly face driving the rubbish truck. Our bins are at the back of our house. We place them outside our back gate, in a small alley, and they are taken from there. It was collection day for the black bins. But as no one could remember which day was for the green, the brown or the black, everyone followed whoever got theirs out first. Sometimes it meant most people got it wrong, and if this happened with the green ones, into which the food was meant to go, it didn't half smell, especially in the summer.

The two-legged
majja,
the buffaloes, were out. The short round Mrs Khan, our neighbour, with her big, gold earrings was nattering to two others. The
paan
-chewing Janat Choudry, with her hennaed hair and bell-shaped earrings, bigger than those of Mrs Khan, was shaking her head at the third buffalo: Asmat Jaan. She had a moustache bigger then her husband's, and was always sneaking out for a smoke.

It was really cold. I had my mittens on, but it made little difference. The buffaloes were standing close to each other. This meant there was some really juicy gossip going round otherwise they would be talking to each other from over their fences. Pulling my bin behind me, I got close enough to hear.

‘Left that
goree
, his white woman, didn't he?' Mrs Khan said, nodding to the bleeping of the rubbish truck, which was somewhere on the other side, next to the houses that backed onto ours.

‘Who?' Janat Choudry asked, with a puzzled wrinkly look.

‘Ghanzanfer's son, who lives with that white woman in West Boarhead,'

Asmat Jaan adjusted her
dupatta
across her breasts, and said, ‘They never stay with their white women.'

‘Nah,' Mrs Khan said.

‘But they can't keep their hands off them either, can they?' Janat Choudry said, lifting the lid off her bin. She spat into the bin, and added, ‘
Goreyaan
!'

‘He's going to Pakistan,' Mrs Khan said.

‘Who?' Janat Choudry asked, putting another
paan
into her mouth. ‘Ghanzanfer's son,' Asmat Jaan said, lighting a cigarette. ‘He's coming back next week with another woman.'

‘They always do,' Mrs Khan said, untangling an earring, which had got stuck in her hair.

‘When their
goreyaan
, their white women, kick them out,' Janat Khan said, chewing her
paan
.

Blowing smoke out of her nostrils, Asmat Jaan said, ‘They have the luck of fate.' ‘The
goreyaan
,' Asmat Jaan laughed. ‘They do. That they do.' ‘And we get stuck with ours,' Mrs Khan said.

The buffaloes laughed.

I asked loudly, ‘Any news you can share with me, aunties?'

Asmat Jaan let her cigarette drop to the ground, and said, ‘It's going to be cold this year.'

‘You should wrap yourself up, young girl,' Mrs Khan said. ‘Look after yourself properly,' Janat Choudry said.

‘And you're out without even your jumper,' I said.

‘Nothing'll happen to us old buffaloes,' Asmat Jaan said.

The old women laughed as I walked back into the house, clenching my fist with joy. I washed my hands and could see the words flying off on my Facebook:
Karen's Dad is off to Pakistan to get another wife. Hey Karen, Your Dad really is Lucky!! He's got a new Mum for you in Pakistan. He's bringing her back next week. Wanna see pictures. Lol.

After I put these words up on my Facebook status, I waited for Likes. I waited and waited, but not one Liked my post. I expected lots of LOLs and hahahas. But nothing. Eventually Aisha wrote: omg. Sad.

I don't know why Aisha's word
sad
so upset me. But I suddenly felt what I had done was really, really bad. I was bad. Always showing off. A big bad bully. It was me who was the sad case.

‘Allahjee
, help.' I cried, ‘Please God forgive me.'

I went back and started writing another status. I wanted to say sorry, but I just couldn't do it. I would look even more stupid then I was.

It was past 11 o'clock in the morning when I woke up the next day. I could hear Mum in the bathroom. I put on my dressing gown and went downstairs. There was a letter on the front door mat. It was from Dad. It said:
Going to Pakistan tomorrow. Will tell you all about it when I come back. My number is on the back of this paper.

I opened the front door. Footprints in the snow led from the door to the garden. The cold wrapped itself around me. I slipped into my shoes and stepped out. There was a snowman in the garden. Just like Dad used to make. With tomato eyes and a cucumber nose. I snatched my eyes off the snowman; it was already making me feel sad and angry.

I shut the door and pinned the letter from Dad onto a board near the cloak rack.

‘Come upstairs now,' Mum called. ‘Dad's gone to Pakistan,' I shouted back.

Mum went silent for a moment and then said, ‘And bring lots of bin liners with you.'

I went into the kitchen. It was a mess. The sink was full of unwashed dishes. Two pots, half-filled of food with their lids off were on the cooker. An overflowing ashtray, with half-smoked cigarettes, was on the worktop next to a dirty serving spoon.

I opened the drawer in which the bin liners were kept and took the whole bundle with me and went up to Mum. The room stank of cigarettes. It was damp and cold. The curtains were drawn. Her bedside lamp was on. She was standing in front of her open wardrobe, staring at her clothes.

She unfolded a bin bag, fanned it open, and gave it to me to hold. And then one after the other, she took her dresses out of the wardrobe and dumped them into the bag.

‘Going to buy some new ones at last, Mum?' I asked.

She ignored me. When it was full, she said, ‘Take it downstairs.'

I did. When I came back, she had filled another one and handed it to me. I took that down as well. When I went back up, she was on the phone ‘George, the curry club is dead. Finished. Tell the others.'

I left Mum, went into the living room, half expecting to see Dad sitting there, glued to the television. The silence of the room boomed around my ears.

Mum came downstairs with a bin liner in her hand and walked out of the house. She came back a few moments later, picked up another two and as she was leaving, I asked, ‘What you going to do with them, Mum?'

Without stopping to look at me, she mumbled, ‘Someone else may like them,' and left, leaving the door open after her. I got up and stood in the doorway, watching her throw the bags into the back of the car and drive away.

I don't know where the next few days went. She just smoked and got rid of most of her things.

I couldn't remember the last time I had seen her eat anything so I went into the kitchen and made her a cheese and cucumber sandwich. She was sitting on the top of the stairs, looking down at me, with empty eyes.

Walking up the stairs I held the sandwich up to her, I said, ‘Here Mum, please eat this.'

She ignored me. Putting the sandwich next to her I said, ‘Please, Mum talk to me.'

‘The bins need putting out,' Mum said.

‘Damn you, Mum,' I thought getting up. How long's this going to go on for?

I ran downstairs and went into the living room, slamming the door shut after me.

Just then I got a text from Laila:
Is it true?
I messaged her back:
What?

Go to FB,
she texted.

I rushed to my bedroom; Mum was still sitting on the stairs. I logged onto Facebook.

I went to Shamshad's FB profile and read what she had written. ‘Damn you Shamshad,' I cursed. I stomped downstairs and picked up the landline. I got the piece of paper with Dad's number from the noticeboard and dialled. Waiting for the line to connect, I looked at the time on the telephone. It was 8pm. I tried to work out what time it would be in Pakistan but gave up. I didn't care if he was asleep or awake. After a little while, a long tone started ringing. When he answered, I said, ‘Dad?'

‘Kiran, sweetie, is everything alright?' he said, sleepily.

‘You tell me.' Dad went silent.

‘You couldn't wait, eh. You're done with the
goree
, have you? Not good enough for you now, eh. Got yourself a proper one, eh.'

‘Kiran, Kiran. Listen,' Dad interrupted.

I didn't let him finish, ‘So you left your half-caste kid, eh. Not proper, am I. eh?'

‘It's not like that, I love…'

‘And that white woman you walked out on. Every day a bit of her dies. The phone was stuck to my hand. I was sweating all over. I didn't hear Mum coming. She sat on the last step close to me. ‘What's the matter?' Mum asked.

‘It's Mr Lucky. I'm talking to him in Pakistan.'

Mum went quiet. I said to Dad, ‘Go on then, what've you got to tell me.'

‘It's not what you think, Kiran. You need to know everything. And when I get back I promise you'll know. I'm doing this for you, Kiran.'

That just did it. I let rip down the telephone, ‘I hate you and never want to see you again!' I said, slamming the receiver down.

Turning to Mum, I said, ‘He's got another woman!'

She threw her shoulders up and asked, ‘What else did he say?'

‘It's not what you think, Kiran. You need to know everything. And when I get back I promise you'll know,' I said mimicking Dad. ‘I'm doing it for you,
Kiran.
'

‘You had to find out someday,' Mum said.

She went back to her bedroom. Her words were banging against the inside of my head. What did I have to know? Is this how it happens? Mums and Dads break up, just like that. Dads go off to get married again. Just like that.

The telephone rang. It was Dad.

‘There's a lot you need to know. I'm back next week. I promise I'll tell you everything. Everything! No more secrets,' he said. After a pause, he asked, ‘Can I speak to your Mum?'

‘You've really got a nerve, haven't you? Don't you dare come to our house! Do you hear?' I said, slamming the telephone down.

What should have been another boring day, with me coming home from mosque school, Mum oblivious of my arriving as she nattered on Skype, cursing some villager about her goats or the condition of her fields, became a day when my world just collapsed. Everything was a lie.

When I walked in, Mum was on Skype, but she was not talking, just staring at the screen. This was a first. She stared at my reflection in a mirror that sat on top of a chest of drawers in the room. Her eyes moved from the computer screen to me, and then back to the computer again.

‘Is everything OK, Mum?' I asked, stepping into the room, waiting for her to do one of her outbursts or shut the door in my face. But she just flicked another look at me and went back to staring at the computer.

When I got a bit closer, I felt a jolt go through my body. There was no mistaking who she was looking at. Karen's father, Lucky, was standing next to Mum's goat herder, a hard-faced, dark woman. They were looking into the camera. When I got a bit closer, Karen's Dad's face tilted towards the woman. It looked like the screen was stuck. The woman put her hand on her mouth.

‘What's up Mum?' I asked.

The woman standing behind Karen's Dad in Pakistan let out a wail. The connection was bad, cutting her voice.

A tear rolled down Mum's face.

The front door opened and shut with a loud bang. The glass chandelier hanging in the middle of the room jingled. Dad was home. And Mum hadn't turned the computer off. I didn't want all hell breaking loose.

‘What're you doing, Mum?' I whispered, moving my hand forward to turn the computer off. ‘He's home.'

Mum grabbed my hand and stopped me from turning the computer off.

She was looking at me in the mirror. There was no fear in her eyes.

In the mirror, I saw the door opening behind me. Dad was taken aback when he saw us together, standing in front of the computer. When he realised who we were looking at his eyes narrowed. His face tightened and he hissed through his nose. I stepped away from Mum, and stood pressing my back against the wall, underneath a picture frame with the word ‘Allah' written in golden Arabic lettering.

Dad looked at me and pointed to the door. I turned to leave, but Mum grabbed me by the wrist, holding me tightly. Dad's eyes burned down on Mum's hand.

He took off his black winter coat and threw it on the sofa, showering the carpet with snow. He unplugged the computer from the mains.

‘She has to know,' Mum said, loosening her grip.

‘You dare defy me,' Dad said, taking off his shoe. Mum just stood there. Her head unbowed. ‘Oh, Dad, no!' I pleaded.

‘Lower your head, woman,' Dad said, stepping towards us, the shoe in his hand raised.

Mum let go of my hand. ‘Dad, please, it's all my fault.'

‘What have we done?' Mum said, looking Dad in the face.

Dad brought his hand down to hit Mum. I just snapped and ran at him screaming, ‘You will never do that again. It's a crime against Allah and it's a crime against Mum and it's a crime against me.'