The Family Tree

Ehsan did. ‘Nice one,’ he said.

‘What do you think to number two?’ Saahil asked, looking up from his workbook. He noticed that Ehsan was distracted.

Following his gaze, Saahil spotted the gaunt, pale figure of Kyle, a boy they knew from primary school. He remembered the time when Kyle had stood almost nose to nose with him and snarled in his face, ‘My dad said that your granddads came over here to work in the mills and factories, they came over here to do our dirty work.’

Since the new school was overwhelmingly Asian, Saahil had noticed the same white kids had now lost their bravado. They looked uncomfortable most of the time and were still adjusting to being a minority. Kyle was one of those unlucky ones who had been shunted into the school ‘full of Pakis’. He lived in the surrounding council estate and had lost the geographical lottery, just like the rest of them.

‘Times have changed, haven’t they?’ whispered Saahil, noting that Kyle was now the only white boy in the Maths lesson. It just wasn’t in his nature to have to pretend not to exist. That would still take some getting used to.

‘Don’t think Kyle will be a problem anymore,’ Ehsan muttered. ‘What d’ya think?’

Saahil thought back to the few timid white faces he’d encountered over the past week. ‘Don’t think any of them will be.’

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr Ali stand up lazily and reach for his red pen. The marking ritual was about to begin. Their teacher would make his way around the class, hovering over each pupil like a big bug, his insect-like tentacles jabbing ticks and crosses against each student’s work.

‘Shit,’ Ehsan said. ‘We’re only on question two!’

Mr Ali spotted him. ‘Oi, turn around and face the front. I won’t tell you again!’ he yelled, sending Ehsan swivelling back round to his own desk.

When Saahil hurried out of the classroom door, Ehsan was already waiting for him. They sprinted down three flights of stairs and out of the school building. The boys headed for the main gate with the rest of the crowd, expecting Abbu’s car to have already arrived promptly at 2.55 p.m. This time though, it wasn’t there. The boys hung around for an extra fifteen minutes, growing restless as cars came and students disappeared into them.

‘Could have walked and been home by now,’ Ehsan sulked. No sooner had the words escaped his lips than Uncle Harun’s silver Toyota Corolla screeched to a halt in front of them.

‘Hurry up,’ he shouted, as Saahil and Ehsan scrambled into the car as quickly as they could. ‘I have another school run scheduled in ten minutes.’

The boys belted up as Harun set off in haste. He didn’t get very far. The taxi joined the nicely forming queue of cars that were inching their way out of the road. He sighed and dropped his shoulders.

‘That’s me late for Thomas,’ he said, referring to the school boy he was contracted to pick up and drop off home every day.

‘Where’s my Abbu?’ asked Saahil.

‘Held up. Your sister had a… ahem… accident in the car seat just as he was about to set off for you both.’

‘Well, I don’t know why you don’t just let us walk home,’ Ehsan began. ‘Then none of you would be rushing around like maniacs.’

‘You can once you’ve settled in,’ Uncle Harun replied.

‘“Settled in?”’ Ehsan mouthed to Saahil before shaking his head in disbelief.

Saahil made a face in agreement, and wondered when the fussing over the new school would stop. Uncle Harun raced out of the junction, earning him a few horn blasts from angry drivers.

‘Oh, bugger off,’ he mumbled.

‘Can Saahil come to ours?’ Ehsan asked his dad.

‘Yes, of course.’

The boys grinned at each other. Within five minutes, they were driving down the familiar sloped street of small semi-detached houses. Some were red-bricked, others were painted white. No autumn colours were present along the road, as all the houses had solid concrete gardens and brightly painted doors, red, green, blue and black. Harun swerved around potholes causing Saahil and Ehsan to bump into each other, laughing. He braked sharply.

‘Right, out you get… Quick! Quick!’

The boys scrambled out and Ehsan grabbed the house key from his father’s hand.

‘Go eat something or… something,’ Harun said. ‘Yep. Bye.’

He made to pull away before stopping to wind down the window.

‘You mum will be home at four o’clock,’ he shouted through it.

‘Okay,’ Saahil and Ehsan said together. Saahil felt stupid immediately. He wasn’t the one being addressed. It stopped him in his tracks, and he realised how much he missed being told the same thing by Abbu. That his mother would be home soon. Or home waiting for him. Saahil’s face reddened with embarrassment and he hoped Ehsan hadn’t noticed the mishap.

Uncle Harun set off down the street, disappearing behind the cars that lined the pavement. Saahil looked on as Ehsan pretended to be really interested in watching the taxi reach the end of the road. A few seconds passed by before he turned to Saahil.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Yeah… fine.’

Ehsan nodded enthusiastically without making eye contact.

‘Let’s go attack the biscuit drawer then,’ he said, throwing his arm around Saahil.

They set off together towards the red-bricked house, crossing through the wobbly fence that was missing a gate. Ehsan entered the key into the emerald green door and turned the lock. They bustled inside, Saahil’s eyes still adjusting to the newly decorated living room. Despite the pastel blue that tinged the room, there were contrasting patterns everywhere. Auntie Meena had gone to much effort to pick out the flowery wallpaper, the navy frilly curtains, the cornflower blue striped carpet and the paisley patterned settees. Saahil and Ehsan threw their bags and coats on to a heap in the middle of the floor. Without taking off their shoes, the boys headed straight for the kitchen through a sliding pine door.

The decor calmed down slightly in the kitchen which was mostly white and beige, but Saahil spotted some ivy stencilling on the tiles around the windows.

‘Did Auntie do this?’ he asked, running his fingers over it.

Ehsan nodded.

Saahil watched as his friend filled the kettle with some water. He stood on his tiptoes and arranged two mugs on the worktop. After adding teabags, he waited patiently with his arms folded as the water began to boil. He reached for the sugar canister and added generous teaspoons into each cup, spilling the tiny white particles all over the beige kitchen worktop.

‘Oops,’ he said, with a giggle.

Saahil busied himself with rummaging through the large biscuit tin. He pushed aside cream crackers and chocolate chip cookies until he found what he was looking for – a packet of Fox’s Sports shortbread biscuits. Ehsan grinned with delight and carried both cups of tea into the living room. They sat down on the settee with a thud and set the tea on the table. Ehsan tore the packet of biscuits open too eagerly causing a wonky tear down the middle. Some fell out on to the table. Saahil picked one up.

‘Hockey player,’ he said, studying the stick man carved on to the top of the biscuit.

‘Oh, I’ve already eaten mine,’ Ehsan said, his mouth full.

Saahil pulled his tea closer towards himself. It wasn’t for drinking. Its only purpose was for dunking in the biscuits. Two at a time.

Ehsan flicked through the telly and found Arthur, a new cartoon programme about a human-like aardvark and his antics with his family and friends. They knew full well that they were too old for it, but watched it anyway.

‘Don’t tell anyone we still watch this,’ Saahil reminded Ehsan.

‘I know.’

Fifteen minutes later, their episode of Arthur finished. Ehsan’s eyes were still glued to the TV as he absentmindedly reached inside the wrapper for another biscuit. He found nothing. They’d demolished them all. He flicked it away impatiently and drummed his fingers against the pine coffee table.

‘What?’ Saahil asked, but he already knew what his best friend was thinking.

‘Shall I check to see if we’ve got those orange-flavoured custard creams?’

‘Yeah!’

Ehsan hurried to the kitchen as the phone rang.

‘Grab the phone,’ he shouted back to Saahil. Saahil answered it, as he had done many times before, to find Auntie Meena’s worried voice at the end of it.

‘Are you okay, beta?’

‘Yeah, Auntie, I’m fine.’

‘Can you tell your uncle that I’m going to be home late?’

‘I will—’

‘Have you eaten?’ Meena interrupted. She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘There’s some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry. Or you can make some toast. Or a sandwich.’

Saahil felt Meena’s warmth envelop him through the telephone. He smiled as he listened to her fussing over them. Although she reminded him of his own mother, Saahil couldn’t help but notice the differences between the two women. Unlike Auntie Meena, Saahil’s mum had been from Pakistan. She had mostly worn salwar kameez, didn’t work or drive, and spoke English with an accent. Meena, on the other hand, sounded like one of his schoolteachers. She had a job as a receptionist, had her own car and wore English clothes. When his mum was alive, Saahil had often wished she could be more like Auntie Meena. He’d wished she could drive him to McDonald’s when Abbu wasn’t there, or swing her handbag over her shoulder and twirl her car keys around her fingers as confidently as Meena did. But Saahil remembered his mother always shrugging off Abbu’s suggestions of driving lessons.

‘She lacks confidence,’ Abbu would say to him later.

Saahil didn’t really understand what that meant at the time, but he had seen the same reluctance in Uncle Harun sometimes, who was also from Pakistan. The same hesitation in doing things that neither Abbu nor Meena possessed.

‘Don’t worry, Auntie, we’ve already eaten,’ Saahil reassured.

He turned and winked at Ehsan.

‘Oh good,’ Meena said. ‘Well, I’ll see you soon.’

As Saahil replaced the receiver, there was a soft thudding on the front door. Ehsan had just shoved two orange creams into his mouth and motioned for Saahil to get it. Saahil fiddled with the key before swinging it open. He looked down to find a pint-sized visitor.

‘Zee!’

Zahra stood by the door clutching Nelly the Elephant, her favourite cuddly toy. She rushed forward to get inside. Saahil helped her up the step and smoothed down her baby blue frock as she hurried past him. Abbu and Uncle Harun were wandering down the garden, chatting.

‘Come on,’ Abbu said, beckoning Saahil out of the house.

‘Oh no, you’re coming in for chai,’ Harun said, pulling Abbu by the arm.

‘We’d best get going—’

‘No, no, you’re coming in for tea.’

‘Ehsan, quick!’ whispered Saahil, turning to his best friend. Ehsan, however, had already picked the bags and coats up from the floor and tidied away the biscuit crumbs.

‘You better have loose tea leaves,’ Abbu said, closing the door behind him.

‘Shut up, you’ll get what you’re given,’ Harun retaliated.

Abbu laughed and slapped his friend on the back. Zahra had already headed for the toy box that was hidden at the side of one of the settees. She almost knocked over the floor lamp as she pulled out a tub of plasticine. She nudged Saahil to open it for her.

‘Have you both eaten?’ Harun asked them.

‘Yeah, we’re full,’ said Ehsan, hiding the empty biscuit wrappers behind his back.

Abbu followed Uncle Harun into the kitchen.

‘Semi-skimmed milk!’ Saahil heard Abbu say. He could see his father’s backside sticking up in the air as he bent down to inspect the fridge. ‘Haven’t you got whole?’

‘God, you’re turning into your mother,’ Harun replied.

Saahil leaned into Ehsan. ‘If they ask,’ he said, ‘school was absolutely fine.’

Ehsan nodded before a ferocious knocking made them both jump. Ehsan scowled. ‘Who is it now?’ he said, before heading for the door. He swung it open. Saahil recognised the man as one of the dodgy neighbours. He often saw him racing up and down the road in growling sports cars.

‘Yo, is your dad in?’ the neighbour drawled, twirling his gold neck chains around in his fingers.

‘Yeah, I’ll just go and get him…’ Ehsan said, before raising his voice. ‘Abbu, Uncle Naveed is here!’

The man at the door grimaced, flipping his cap on front to back. ‘Don’t call me “uncle” dude, call me Nav,’ he muttered, smoothing down his bomber jacket.

Harun greeted Naveed at the door in Urdu. Naveed replied in English.

‘Check out my new motor, bro!’ he said, waving his arms around in wild hip hop gestures.

‘Very nice, Masha’Allah,’ Uncle Harun said.

Abbu slid the kitchen door to a close and joined them. He craned his neck to see what all the fuss was about. Saahil watched as his father’s eyes widened at the sight of the car.

‘Come, come,’ Naveed said, practically pulling both the men out of the house. They all walked to the end of the garden. Naveed jumped into his car and revved the engine.

‘Vroom vroom, bro!’

‘It’s ugly,’ Saahil whispered to Ehsan, as they both looked at the monstrous red car parked outside the house. Ehsan nodded in agreement.

‘Check out the spoiler,’ Naveed said, caressing it with his fingers. Abbu and Uncle Harun were offering their own expert opinions. They inspected the alloys, they lifted the bonnet.

‘Come for a quick spin, yaar!’

‘No, no,’ Abbu said. ‘The kids are on their own.’

‘Oh, don’t be boring,’ Naveed shouted, slapping Abbu on the shoulder.

Abbu scratched his head before looking back towards the house. ‘You go,’ he said to Harun. ‘I’ll watch the kids.’

Uncle Harun squinted at Saahil and Ehsan as they stood in the doorway. ‘They’ll be fine – we won’t be long.’

‘No, I need to watch Zahra.’

‘I’ll whizz you around in two minutes, brother!’

‘Yeah, come on,’ Harun said. ‘What’s wrong with having a bit of fun once in a while?’

Abbu hesitated but Harun nodded encouragingly once more. Saahil saw all three heads nod in agreement. Abbu jogged back to the house.

‘Saahil, watch Zahra.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just for a quick drive.’

‘How long are you gonna be?’

‘Watch Zee, okay?’

Saahil groaned. ‘Fine,’ he sulked. Watching Zahra was getting to be a full-time job.

They looked on as both their dads got into the car like excited teenagers and sped off with an ear-splitting roar of the engine.

Ehsan turned to Saahil. ‘We’ve got five minutes. Shall we go and blast some music?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Saahil, struggling to shake off his annoyance.

Ehsan walked towards Zahra with his arms splayed open. She was sitting on the carpet, lost in her own world, mixing red clay with green, blue with yellow.

‘Leave her,’ Saahil snapped. ‘She’s playing.’

Ehsan turned to him and frowned. ‘We can’t leave her down here on her own.’

‘She’ll be fine.’

Ehsan shook his head and tried to pry the plasticine from Zahra’s little fingers. She ignored him, her small face screwed up in concentration. Ehsan held her gently by her arms but she resisted.

‘Don’t, she’ll start crying. She wants to play here,’ Saahil said again. He was already halfway up the stairs.

Reluctantly, with one glance back at Zahra, Ehsan followed. They ran upstairs and went straight to Uncle Harun’s room. That was where the cassette player was kept. The room was cluttered, with Auntie Meena’s shoe boxes piled up against the wall. Saahil knew that only one humble drawer belonged to Harun. They laughed about it often. Ehsan busied himself with finding the cassette player whilst Saahil pulled out the stool from the dressing table. Auntie Meena’s make-up was arranged methodically in colour order.

‘Found it,’ Ehsan said. He placed the stereo on the bed and turned the volume to max.

‘I used it last,’ he reassured. He pressed the play button with attitude expecting Public Enemy to blast from the player. Instead, a cheesy Bollywood love song blared from the speakers. Ehsan blocked his ears, looking mortified.

‘What the heck is this?’ he shouted.

Saahil laughed his head off and began acting out the melodramatic dance moves he’d seen in countless Bollywood movies. Ehsan guffawed but an almighty bang made them jump. Ehsan quickly stopped the music. They listened intently, ears pricked up. Another clang and the pair of them sped to the top of the stairs. The front door was open and swaying in the wind.

‘Didn’t you close it?’ Ehsan asked, whilst running down the steps.

‘I did… I thought I did.’

Saahil glanced into the living room to check on Zahra. The plasticine lay abandoned on the floor and she was nowhere to be seen. He decided to go into the kitchen to look for her, but a sound stopped him in his tracks.

‘Saahil!’

Ehsan’s cry sent shivers up Saahil’s spine. He ran to the door and his eyes focused on a bounce of black curls and a frilly blue dress. A giggle escaped Zahra’s lips as she stood waving at them from the middle of the road. An engine roared and the car carrying Abbu and Uncle Harun hurtled down the hill towards her.

Five

Saahil thought he’d never seen his Abbu like this before. He watched as his father clung on to Zahra as if his life depended on it, his eyes bloodshot and staring ahead. Zahra sucked her thumb and blinked obliviously, her head resting against Abbu’s chest. She was wrapped up in the shawl that had once belonged to Saahil’s mother. Abbu’s fingers tightened around Zahra as she snuggled closer to him, her little fist crumpling the fabric as she buried her face in the shawl’s silkiness.

At first Saahil thought he’d never seen his father this worried, this helpless. But he had. Nearly two years ago, on the night after his mother’s burial, Saahil remembered waking up, tiptoeing to his father’s room, and finding Abbu rocking back and forth with Zahra in his arms. Only this time, Zahra had grown and both her legs dangled either side of Abbu. This time, Saahil was to blame.

Two other people were also present in this nightmare. Uncle Harun paced his living room. Ehsan’s leg was pressed against Saahil’s. They were sitting together on the sofa, arms folded, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. Not even each other’s.

The commotion that had taken place just a few moments before had calmed down now, but Saahil would still be remembering the almighty screech of the car brakes for days after. The vehicle’s heavy doors were thrown open. Uncle Harun had got to Zahra first and scooped her up in his arms. Abbu checked her over quickly, repeating her name over and over again. Even Naveed stood frozen to the spot, his hands covering his mouth in shock. Then, all three heads had turned to face Saahil and Ehsan who were standing by the door.

Uncle Harun had charged towards them, roughly shoving them back into the lounge. He slammed the door shut in Naveed’s face.

‘What were you doing?’ he shouted. ‘How did she get out of the house?’

The boys bumbled their way through the questions, each forced to make up different excuses.

‘Where were you?’

‘Upstairs,’ Ehsan said.

‘No, we went into the kitchen,’ Saahil lied.

‘Why was the door unlocked?’

‘I thought I’d shut it.’

‘Didn’t you hear her?’ Harun yelled.

‘We had music on,’ Ehsan cried.

‘No, we didn’t,’ Saahil retaliated, angry with Ehsan for always having to be truthful.

The scolding continued for at least twenty minutes. Saahil kept throwing glances at Abbu, who was surprisingly quiet. He had just sat down on the settee, hugging Zahra tight. Ehsan squeezed Saahil’s arm. They huddled together, eyes cast downwards.

‘None of your stories match up,’ Harun said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That means you deliberately left your sister downstairs alone.’

Ehsan began sobbing. Saahil felt bad for not being able to comfort him. None of this was his fault. Uncle Harun started pacing again. Zahra had fallen asleep in Abbu’s arms.

‘It’s my fault, Amjad,’ Harun finally said. ‘I told you to come with me and Naveed. One of us should have stayed behind.’

Slowly, Abbu shook his head. ‘It’s no one’s fault but mine. She’s my daughter. I’m responsible for her.’

‘But you’re at my house,’ Harun insisted. ‘And anyway, she’s like my daughter too.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have come. Sometimes I forget…’ Abbu’s voice trailed off as he glanced at the boys. ‘I rely too much on Saahil to keep an eye on her when I have jobs to do. But this wasn’t a job, this was just… me being silly.’

‘Amjad—’

‘No, it’s true.’

Saahil felt a lump rise in his throat. He tried to remember the last time he had seen his Abbu do something carefree and fun. Even if it had just been taking a ride in a fancy car. Saahil couldn’t. And now because of him, Abbu felt like he was being punished for not being a perfect dad for just five minutes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Saahil managed to utter, his voice croaky. He felt all eyes shift towards him.

Uncle Harun sighed. He motioned for Saahil and Ehsan to make some space and sat down between them.

‘Just be more careful next time,’ he said, placing his arms around their shoulders. Ehsan leaned into his father. Saahil did the same but glanced again at his own dad. Abbu had stood up, placing Zahra over his shoulder. Her body was limp. She was sleeping, but Saahil dreaded to think what might have been because of his stupidity. Abbu rearranged a cushion and lay Zahra down on the settee.

‘Shall we not tell Meena about this?’ Uncle Harun asked, sheepishly. ‘She’ll bloody kill me.’

Amjad nodded. ‘Don’t tell Ammi either.’

‘Okay.’

They remained silent for a few more minutes. Harun slapped his hands together and forced a smile. ‘Now, where were we?’

‘Tea,’ Abbu sighed. They went off together into the kitchen. Saahil and Ehsan waited for them to go before rushing to sit by Zahra’s side. She was in a deep sleep, her chest rising and falling. Saahil reached out and stroked Zahra’s cheek.

Two weeks later, Saahil and Ehsan arrived at school on Monday morning. As they walked through the playground, they noticed the change in atmosphere. Everyone was making their way to lesson promptly. Heads were down. No slouching. No mismatched uniform. Police were still walking around the premises.

For the past week, a group of Year Eleven boys had run riot regularly throughout the building, setting off fire alarms and causing the entire school to evacuate. Fifteen minutes later, as the students were back and settled into class, another fire alarm would cause them to evacuate again. This happened no less than five times. Teachers despaired as they tried to catch the culprits. Pupils rejoiced with each sounding alarm, hoping the heroes who had disrupted their lessons weren’t caught.

But last week things had gone too far. During a particularly dull English lesson, the fire alarm had blasted in their ears once again. This time, though, it was no fake. A letter was sent to parents explaining what had happened. As expected, Abbu hit the roof. Saahil had listened to his frantic phone call to Uncle Harun.

‘This is outrageous!’ he shouted. ‘They set the head teacher’s car on fire.’

‘Little bastards,’ Uncle Harun replied.

Saahil clearly remembered making his way towards the fire exit on that day. The heat radiated through the window; he could feel it before he saw it. The flames had engulfed an object in the distance and teachers were circling the staff car park in a protective barrier. One of the vehicles was on fire. It was parked away from everyone else’s cars, in a specially designated spot.

‘Is that…’ Saahil had whispered to Ehsan.

‘Yeah, Dixon’s,’ he confirmed.

They’d spotted their principal being comforted by the assistant head teacher. She had her hand on his shoulder. His fingers were pinching between his eyes, against the bridge of his nose.