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But if we were out of sight, we were out of mind. So Fatima created a special punishment for Jasmine and me. If we’d been naughty we were marched upstairs, pushed into the back bedroom and locked in. Occasionally it was both of us, but more often than not, I was alone. I think Fatima knew that Jasmine was young enough to be ‘re-educated’ effectively. She was also female, which carries its own status in Muslim culture. I was a different matter. Perhaps Fatima saw that I would not be so easily moulded. Whatever her reasons, I found myself spending hours in that locked room, staring out over the grey slate rooftops of Hawesmill and wondering what I’d done that was so wrong.
There were times when Jasmine and I clearly hadn’t done anything wrong, but were locked in the bedroom anyway. One minute we would be playing with our cousins, the next Fatima would be whisking us upstairs as the whole house erupted in frenzied activity, children and adults running and shouting everywhere. As we were rushed up, I was sometimes certain I could hear the sound of the letterbox flapping at the front door, accompanied by a woman’s voice yelling through it. When this happened, the door was never, ever opened, and yet normally a constant stream of visitors walked over that threshold at all times of the day. What was so wrong with this particular visitor that they could not be admitted?
We ourselves weren’t allowed out of the house very much. A walk to Dilawar’s shop with Fatima or Ayesha was as far as we got. There were no trips to the park, the playground or the seaside. We didn’t go into the town. Our whole life was 97 Nile Street and a couple of streets around it. We didn’t even go to school. Now I wonder why no school inspectors were on Fatima’s tail, but maybe back then they didn’t care whether Asian kids attended or not. However, we were getting an education of sorts at a house at the back of Nile Street that had been knocked through into the house next door and converted into a mosque.
Sebastopol Street was the home of the local imam and his wife. The mosque itself was only for men and older boys, so, with Jasmine, Tamam and Maisa, plus a handful of other little kids from around Hawesmill, I went along several times a week to sit in a side-room and learn the basics of Arabic, making a start on the 114 chapters of the Qu’ran. The imam’s wife took the lessons, handing out simple little textbooks which taught the ‘ABC’ in Arabic, plus other key words and phrases. As we made our first clumsy attempts at this complicated language she listened to us in silence, constantly playing with a set of worry beads. She taught us sentences that form the cornerstones of the Holy Book, for example:
Bismill
hi r-ra
m
ni r-ra
m
Al
amdu lill
hi rabbi l-’
lam
n.
which translates as:
‘In the name of God, the most beneficent, the most merciful,
All appreciation, gratefulness and thankfulness are to Allah alone, lord of the worlds.’
From an early age all Muslims know these verses from the opening of the Qu’ran, and I was no exception. I’d heard them spoken while in Pakistan. But I found it very difficult to read basic Arabic and also to get the correct pronunciation. The imam’s wife would listen to my tongue twisting all over the place and, with an expression like vinegar, hit me with a short stick she kept under the seat. She didn’t do it very hard – it was more of a tap than anything else – but it was enough to make me anxious. It also had the opposite effect to that intended: instead of learning to read and speak the verses properly, I became more word-blind and tongue-tied. From that moment on, I struggled with the Qu’ran. It would cause me no end of problems as my childhood progressed.
Chapter Three
After ten months at Fatima’s I’d become used to Dad coming and going. He would disappear for weeks on end and although I missed him at first, especially as Fatima obviously had it in for me, his absence wasn’t so noticeable day by day. What was becoming annoying was Tamam’s constant teasing about my ‘white Mum’. It was childish stuff but it hurt, especially when I was locked in the bedroom for retaliating. In there, the same old questions would go round in my mind. Where was she? Did she know we were here? When would she come for us?
The last question was the one I thought about most. As time went on and she didn’t appear, I wondered if she’d forgotten us or had found some other kids to be mum to. I must have asked Fatima loads of times about her (and, judging by Tamam’s teasing, it was obviously a topic for family discussion when we weren’t listening), but she constantly stonewalled me.
In the end, the knock on the door that saved us from a life of punishment and drudgery at Fatima’s came not from Mum but from Dad. He appeared one afternoon in late autumn, looking well-fed and satisfied with life. He stepped into 97 Nile Street with a big smile on his face and picked up me and Jasmine in one swoop.
‘I’m back, kids,’ he shouted, ‘and I won’t be going away again! I’ve got us a place to live just round the corner. We’re all going home at last.’
We squealed and shouted with happiness. I couldn’t believe Dad was back and we were leaving horrible Aunty Fatima’s.
We were full of questions, but Dad silenced us with a wave of the hand. ‘I know, I know, you want to ask everything,’ he said. ‘But first I want you to do something. There are some people outside I’d like you to meet. They’re in the car. Come on, I’ll show you.’
He took us by the hand and led us about 10 yards up the street to an old brown Datsun Sunny. A youngish shy-looking woman in a headscarf sat in the passenger seat, holding a baby. As we got up to the window she stared wide-eyed at us, then up at Dad. In the back of the car were three children who were jumping and scrabbling about like a family of monkeys. They seemed very keen to get out and yet they shrank back from the window as I leaned forward and looked in.
I turned to Dad. ‘Who are these people?’
‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is your new mum. She’s come all the way from Pakistan to look after you. Isn’t that good?’
‘So why’s she brought these kids?’
‘They’re your brother and sisters. We’re going to live together. You’ve got some new kids to play with now, eh?’
Brother and sisters? I didn’t get it. Neither could I understand why we needed a new mum. I wanted to ask about the old one, but Dad seemed so happy to see us that I decided not to make him cross by mentioning her. Jasmine and I climbed onto the back seat of the Datsun, squeezing in next to the kids, who had suddenly become strangely silent.
‘This is Abida,’ Dad said, pointing at the woman in the front seat.
She smiled gently and said, ‘Hello there,’ in Pashto. I smiled back. She seemed nice – nicer than Fatima anyway.
‘And this is Rabida,’ Dad continued, gesturing to a girl of about 12. She ignored the introduction and looked out of the window at the row of terrace houses.
‘And these little ones are Baasima, Parvaiz and Nahid. Nahid’s the baby. Children, this is Mohammed and Jasmine. Say hello, everyone.’
The younger boy and girl, Parvaiz and Baasima, just stared at us. I shuffled around on the leatherette seat, not knowing what to do. The awkward moment was broken by Dad turning the key in the ignition and revving the engine as hard as he could before pulling away up the hill and out of Nile Street. I didn’t really care who these strangers were. We’d escaped from Fatima’s; for the moment, that was all that mattered.
The car turned into Hamilton Terrace, a street or two away from Fatima’s, and stopped outside a house in the middle of the row. From the outside, number 44 looked much the same as 97 Nile Street. The inside was depressingly familiar: two small rooms and a kitchen downstairs, two little bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, plus a yard out the back. What was missing, thankfully, was Fatima’s sour face. I was very pleased about that and hardly noticed how shabby the house really was. From the beginning, despite Abida’s shyness, this felt like a happy home.
Dad started work as a jobbing builder and handyman, fixing drains, roof tiles, chimneys and window frames on houses all over Hawesmill. The condition of the properties meant work was plentiful. We were glad, not just because it brought some money in but also because Dad was around a lot more. His trips to Pakistan stopped and it slowly dawned on me that when Dad had introduced Rabida, Baasima, Parvaiz and Nahid as our ‘brother and sisters’ he had been telling us that he was their dad too. This was the family he’d left behind when he’d journeyed to England, the family that had patiently waited for him while he had married Mum and had us two.
Rabida was older than me. The others were younger. Dad had been a busy man on his trips abroad, that was obvious. I don’t know how Abida had reacted to the news of his English marriage. I expect she had taken the long-term view that one day she would come to England and take up her rightful place as Dad’s wife. I don’t know how she viewed Mum. Perhaps she thought she’d share Dad with her, as polygamy is not uncommon among Muslims. Or maybe she knew full well that Mum wouldn’t be around one day.
Dad tried his best to make this flung-together family work. When he had time off he’d take us all to a nearby park for an hour or two on the swings. It was lovely for us, because Fatima had never taken us anywhere. I can see him now, pushing me higher and higher until I could barely breathe with the thrill of it. The more I squealed, the more he laughed, the other kids pulling desperately at his trousers to make sure they got their turn. Once he piled us all into the back of the Datsun Sunny and took us to Blackpool for the day. It must have been my first visit to the seaside. I was overwhelmed by the experience. I sat at the water’s edge and dug in the sand, the sea filling up the hole as quickly as I could dig. The beach was packed with holidaymakers and daytrippers, all having fun. Above, seagulls wheeled and cried and I could almost taste the salty wind. It was one of the best days of my life so far and I didn’t want it to end.
The sleeping arrangements at Hamilton Terrace were almost as complicated as those at Nile Street, but at least Parvaiz didn’t wet the bed. Although there were a lot of us, the atmosphere around the house was nowhere near as frenetic as it had been at Fatima’s. Dad treated us all the same, as we were all his children. It was different with Abida: her own children came first every time. If they wanted an apple or a fig, they only had to ask. When Jasmine or I asked, the request was granted, but reluctantly. Now, I see that a mother naturally puts her own first, but back then I just felt that Abida was being difficult and sometimes unfair. At Eid, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan, little gifts of money or sweets are given to children by adults grateful that the long period of fasting has finished. Abida’s four children always filled their pockets with bits and pieces given to them by their mum and dad. Sadly, Jasmine and I hardly ever shared in their good fortune. Dad, I suppose, was too busy to notice, but we certainly did.
That said, some months after we moved in I asked Abida if I could call her Ami, meaning ‘Mum’. She seemed very pleased that I thought of her in this way, and from then on I called her Mum at every available opportunity. It was nice to be able to say the word after so long, though it was tinged with sadness because it made me think of my real mum. The old image of the white face and dark hair would flash through my mind and I would desperately try to remember her features. But the memory had long gone.
Finally, I started primary school. I must have been around nine by then and had missed out on a huge amount in terms of reading and writing. There would be a lot of catching up to do, but I was prepared to put the work in.
The school was old-fashioned in terms of the building. The roof leaked in winter and when the boiler packed up in freezing conditions we were always sent home. The teachers were a kindly bunch. They were mainly elderly, female and white, and did their best to educate children who had been born in Britain but whose language and culture were based elsewhere. There weren’t many white faces among my classmates. Most white families had moved out of Hawesmill long before, not wanting to live next door to ‘Pakis’. Those who did stay put wanted little or nothing to do with us but refused to be ‘forced out’, as they saw it.
I found white people fascinating. We never went into the town and didn’t know any white people, so to be near them in the classroom was very interesting, even if they hardly spoke to me. I wished they would. I would hear Tamam’s taunts about the ‘white mother’ in my head, and wonder what life was like for these kids with white mums and dads. What did they talk about? Where did they go? What did they eat? My curiosity was stirred.
I made some progress at school and still attended the mosque school in Sebastopol Street as well. Abida did her best with us all at home, but she had been raised traditionally and wanted exactly the same for her children. Her girls were all shown how to cook, clean and keep house, and Jasmine was not immune from these chores. I remember coming downstairs one morning to find she’d been up for at least an hour washing the family’s clothes by hand in the sink. She was about seven at the time.
Dad seemed happy enough with the domestic arrangements. He breezed in and out of Hamilton Terrace, usually for meals, between labouring jobs. He loved his food, relishing the oily, traditional Pakistani curries made for him by Abida. He would mop up whatever remained with thick pieces of naan bread, licking his lips as he swallowed down the last of the rice.
‘Mum is a great cook,’ he’d say, as she cleared his plate away. ‘Best food I’ve ever had.’
Abida smiled, delighted that she was making her husband happy. After all, there is no greater honour for a Muslim wife than to serve her husband according to the laws of God.
After his meal, Dad would settle back on the settee in the back room, reading his paper and smoking heavily. I very rarely saw him without a cigarette in his mouth, and the house was thick with the smell of tobacco almost all the time, especially when his male friends came round for a chat and a game of cards, just as they would’ve done back in Tajak.
One of these regular visitors was Rafiq, Abida’s brother. A skinny black-bearded man in his forties who always wore the traditional Pathan topi, or skullcap, he had left Pakistan some years previously to find work in England and had settled in Bradford with a much younger wife who had eventually walked out on him. They had had no children, so, perhaps out of shame or anger, he had left Bradford and come over the Pennines to Hawesmill. Because he was family, Dad took pity on him and welcomed him into the house. He stayed for a few nights before moving into a shared place around the corner and would come round frequently for food and company. He was a solitary brooding man with a deep voice who certainly wasn’t into entertaining us children. We seemed to irritate him hugely and I sensed that given the opportunity, he would lash out. Fortunately Dad was around almost every evening and so Rafiq had little chance to show off the temper I suspected was lurking under the surface.
Dad turned 50 in the early spring of 1985, just before I went into double figures myself. Friends and relations across the north of England were keen to see him, so one afternoon he told Jasmine and me to get our coats. We were going over to Blackburn to pick up a minibus, he explained. Then we’d come back to Hawesmill and collect Abida and the other kids, plus whoever else we could fit in, before heading off to relatives in Bradford. The Yorkshire city had a high number of Pathans living there, and those from the Attock district were either related to or friends of Dad. It would be a big get-together, with plenty of feasting and catching up.
We stood by the old Datsun, pulling impatiently at the passenger door handle. Never mind Bradford, a trip to Blackburn was a big deal, and we couldn’t wait to get going.
We waited and waited, and finally I went back into the house to hurry Dad up. I found him sitting in a chair in the front room, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Abida was fussing over him. Dad was naturally light-skinned, but he’d turned a weird sickly yellow colour.
I stood by his chair and pulled at his sleeve. ‘Come on, Dad, we want to go. Why are you sitting there? Come on, hurry up!’
He turned to me. There were dark rings under his eyes. He was sweating like mad. ‘I’m sorry, Moham,’ he said, ‘I’m not feeling so good. I don’t think I’m up to driving.’
I groaned out loud. I really wanted to go. I was sick of looking at the same four walls. I needed a change, even if it was only Blackburn and Bradford.
‘Come on, Dad,’ I pleaded. ‘You’ll be alright in a minute. We can always stop on the way. Please, Dad.’
He didn’t reply, just waved his hand in my direction. I sensed someone behind me and looked round. Rafiq was standing there, calmly taking in the scene.
‘I’ll go and get the minibus,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone to drive your car back.’
‘Thanks, Rafiq,’ Dad said, taking a sip of water from a glass. Abida wiped his forehead again. ‘Would you mind taking the kids with you? They’re desperate for a trip out and I’ve promised them. Sorry, Rafiq. They’ll be good. Won’t you?’
I was torn between wanting a trip out and not wanting to go with Rafiq. I knew it would be an uncomfortable journey, but it would be a journey all the same.
‘Yes, Dad. I promise.’
‘Good lad. Go on then, off you go. I’ll be OK by the time you get back.’
I ran out and told Jasmine the news. She scrunched up her face when she heard who was taking us, but luckily she didn’t say anything, because within a second Rafiq was out of the front door, car keys in hand. He unlocked the car and indicated that we should get into the back. By trade he was a minicab driver, and we definitely felt like a couple of fares he’d just picked up. Jasmine started chatting straight away, but a look from Rafiq through the rear-view mirror was enough to shut her up and we drove to Blackburn in complete silence.
After 30 minutes or so we arrived at a house in the Whalley Range area of the town. This was the Hawesmill of Blackburn – steep hills, streets full of Asians and not a white face in sight. Like every other in the street, the house we were going to was a small brick-fronted terrace. A gang of kids playing outside peered into the car as we pulled up.
Rafiq let us out, telling us to stand by the car. He went into the house and came out five minutes later with a grey-bearded, grave-looking older man. This man pushed past us and opened the driver’s door. He wound down the window, said a quick few words to Rafiq and was gone.
‘Follow me,’ Rafiq said and we trotted up the hill behind him. Just before the brow of the hill we turned into a scruffy backstreet where a minibus was parked. Again we were consigned to the back seat. Again the journey took place in complete silence. The van smelled of diesel and I hoped I wouldn’t be sick. If I was, I knew for sure it wouldn’t be Rafiq cleaning it up.
I tried to concentrate on getting home and the journey to Bradford with Dad. We would laugh and joke with him as we crossed the Pennines, pointing out funny things by the road and playing ‘I spy’. He’d open the windows and get rid of this horrible fuel smell. Perhaps we’d stop at a café before we reached the city. Once Rafiq was out of the way we’d be fine.
As we reached Hawesmill and pulled into Hamilton Terrace there was a group of people standing outside number 44. Abida was in the middle of a group of women, and I could see Fatima, Ayesha and Yasir, Fatima’s eldest son, standing among them.
Rafiq pulled up against the kerb. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.
Yasir came over and leaned into the open window. He saw us and silently beckoned Rafiq out. Abida was clutching her hijab, or headscarf, across her face. She looked frightened. Someone put a hand on her shoulder and whispered to her. There was something terribly wrong.
The bus’s engine was still running as Abida and Rabida got in, along with Yasir. The younger children were hustled back into the house by Fatima. Rafiq climbed back into the driver’s seat.
‘Are we off to Bradford now?’ I said. ‘Why’s Dad not coming? Is he still poorly?’
Abida took hold of my hand. ‘He’s not very well, Mohammed,’ she said. ‘Not very well at all. He’s had to go to hospital. We’re going to see how he is.’
In the front seat Yasir turned round. ‘Don’t worry, kids,’ he said, smiling. ‘He’ll be OK. He’s just a bit … hurt. We’ll see him soon. That’ll cheer him up.’
We parked close by the hospital’s A and E department and hurried through its doors, the adults looking right and left down the wards to catch a glimpse of Dad. Everyone seemed to be staring at this scared-looking bunch of foreigners in their flowing clothes, running down corridors and shouting Dad’s name.
Ahead of us, a man in a white coat saw us coming and put out his hand to stop us in our tracks. ‘Can I help you?’ he said brightly. ‘Are you looking for anyone in particular?’
The women looked at one another. They knew no English and hadn’t a clue what the white man in the white coat had said. Rafiq knew a few words, but not enough to answer the doctor, and he simply shrugged his shoulders. Fortunately Yasir’s English was good, saving us from looking like a complete bunch of village idiots.
‘We’re looking for Ahmed Khan,’ he said, ‘from Hamilton Terrace, Hawesmill. He’s 50. He’s been brought in by ambulance. How is he? Can we see him?’
The doctor looked at his clipboard and ran his finger down a list of names. ‘Please, all of you come over here,’ he said, ‘just to the side of the ward.’
Obediently we shuffled into a small office off the main corridor.
The doctor bit his lip and looked down as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Khan died half an hour ago. He had a huge heart attack.’
I caught the words but didn’t understand. Yasir paused, taking in the terrible news, then translated for Abida and the others. Immediately she started caterwauling, beating her chest and head with her shut fists. Rafiq stared out of the office door, expressionless, as Rabida wept and clung to her mother.
‘I’m sorry,’ repeated the doctor. ‘I’m afraid there was nothing we could do.’
The next hour or so was a blur of tears, screaming, shouting and grief-stricken fury. ‘Mr Khan died half an hour ago. Died … died … died …’ The doctor’s words were repeating in my head. Dad was dead. Something had happened to his heart and he’d died. We wouldn’t see him again. He’d gone, this time for good.
This couldn’t be happening. I’d never known anyone to die. It seemed a really stupid thing for Dad to do. Stupid enough for him to return home later on, when everyone had stopped crying, and apologize for being so daft. But he wasn’t going to. They said he was dead. Dead people didn’t come back.
Chapter Four
We arrived at Hamilton Terrace to find the house deserted. Rabida was sent down the street to Fatima’s with the bad news. Abida was still weeping and beating her chest. Rafiq and Yasir stood a few feet from her, not wishing to be contaminated by female grief. Muslim men have their own mourning rituals and there is little mutual comfort between the sexes, at least not in public. Jasmine and I stood on the pavement, not knowing where we belonged. Jasmine pulled at the sleeve of Abida’s jilbab, or coat, but she didn’t want to know. She was too caught up in the horrifying shock of what had happened.
Within five minutes Fatima came marching up the street, Rabida behind her, clutching the hands of the little kids we’d left in her care before we set off to the hospital. She was crying hard, but as the nearest of Dad’s relatives in this country, she was second in line to the chief mourner and therefore had work to do. The first job was to organize a very large pot of tea and find as many cups as possible.
The men, including Rafiq, Yasir and Dilawar, went into the front room and shut the door. The women trooped into the kitchen with us children. Chairs were arranged in a circle in the back room while Fatima made the tea. She put her arms around Abida and the two cried on each other’s shoulders, praying to God for Dad’s soul.
News of Dad’s death spread quickly and within quarter of an hour the little house was full of people from the surrounding streets. To us, all the women were ‘aunty’, no matter whether they were related or not. Many of these grieving ladies were gazing at Jasmine and me with pity as we stood bewildered in the back room.
‘God bless them,’ said one aunty, putting her hand on my head and pulling me to her. ‘What have they done to deserve this?’
She squeezed hard and I felt uncomfortable pressed up tight against her salwar kameez. As she released her grip, I was bundled into the folds of another mourner, who asked God to forgive us: ‘Astaghfirullah.’
‘Don’t worry, child,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘You will be fine. You will be looked after. God has willed it.’
In the far corner of the room Jasmine was getting an equal amount of attention. She was being passed from one aunty to another like a precious china doll. Our step-sisters and brother were around, and just as upset as we were, but getting nowhere near the amount of fuss.
‘Oh, Mohammed, God bless you, I’m so sorry about your father. He was a good man.’ A tubby aunty stood in front of me, her hand flat on the top of my head. She smiled sympathetically and wiped away a tear. ‘God bless you both,’ she said, ‘you poor little orphans.’
I stepped back, shocked. Orphans? How could we be? I’d heard the word in school, but had taken no notice of it. It seemed to be something that happened to people a hundred years ago. Then I realized: our Dad was dead and our Mum was … well, where was she? She certainly wasn’t here, and we hadn’t seen her for seven years. Did that mean she was dead too? Was it something they all knew about, but weren’t telling us?
Suddenly I felt very sick, and for the first time that day, my resistance crumbled and I began to cry. This had a chain reaction and soon the tiny back room was filled with women lifting their arms up to God and keening loudly with grief.
Not long after, the front-room door was opened and the men left the house. That room was also full to bursting and they’d decided to find a quieter place. Their way of mourning was to tell old stories about the deceased and make arrangements for the funeral. Under Islamic law the body must be washed, dressed in a shroud and buried as soon as possible, usually within hours of the death. As Dad’s body was to be flown back to Pakistan, however, this wasn’t possible. His funeral would be in two days, followed by immediate repatriation. In Muslim communities, individuals pay into a fund that covers funeral and travel expenses. One family looks after this money and makes all the arrangements when a person dies. The men were obviously going away to discuss this.
